The Countess Conspiracy (2 page)

I
N A FEW MINUTES,
everything grew worse.

At the end of the lecture, Violet maneuvered her way through the crowd, gently nudging other people aside. The crowds grew larger and more unruly at every passing event. The first few months of Sebastian’s career, he had been a curiosity—a man who wrote about inherited traits and occasionally defended Charles Darwin. There had been a few half-hearted complaints from bystanders, but nothing extravagant.

Then he’d published that paper on the peppered moth, purporting to demonstrate Darwin’s theory of evolution in action.

Violet sighed. He was respected by half the world and utterly despised by the rest. With every passing year, the ugly murmurs at his lectures grew. They buzzed angrily around her now, as if she’d landed in a wasps’ nest of ignorance.

She found her way to the front. Oliver Marshall, the friend who had sat beside her earlier, had made his way up already. Sebastian was surrounded.

Sebastian had always been surrounded by large groups, ever since he’d become an adult.

Half the crowd around him was female—unusual at most scientific talks, but hardly out of the ordinary for him.

Violet sometimes wondered if people thought of
her
that way—as a female who had been trying to attract Sebastian’s attention for years. As if she, too, waited for his eyes to fall on her, waiting for him to see her and only her. Her sister teased her on that score often enough.

If matters had been otherwise, perhaps she might have been. But she was what she was, and there was no point crying over milk that had long since gone rancid. Instead, she pushed her way into his inner circle.

From her seat near the middle of the hall, his features had been a comforting blur. Now she could make out his expression, and she felt subtly alarmed.

He didn’t look well. His cheeks were flushed; his eyes, usually dark and sparkling with humor, had gone flat. The expressive tilt of his mouth had flattened to grave seriousness. He looked like he had a fever.

“You’re wrong,” a big man was saying. He towered over Sebastian, his meaty fists curled at his sides like two ham hocks. “You’re a self-important bag of wind. Every natural philosopher since Newton has been damned. Damned, I tell you.”

A few years ago, Sebastian would have laughed off such an outrageous statement. Now, he simply looked at the fellow. “Thank you very much,” he said, as if by rote. As if he’d memorized the words, and now threw them out like a false lure, hoping to distract the man long enough to make his way out. “That means so much to me.”

“Why, you insolent cur!” The big man took a step forward.

Violet let out a great breath and slid in front of the fellow, taking hold of Sebastian’s sleeve.
Look at me. Look at me. It will all be better if you just look at me.

He turned toward her, but as he did, the last trace of false humor slipped from his face.

Violet had been friends with Sebastian a long time. She’d thought she knew him. That he cheerily waved off the public strain of constant criticism, that he thought nothing of that stream of insults and threats. She
had
to think that, or she’d never have put him under such a strain.

In that instant, she realized how wrong she had been.

Violet swallowed. “Sebastian,” she said, fumbling for words.

“What?” he snarled.

“You were brilliant.” She looked into his eyes, wishing she could make everything better. “Utterly bril—”

Something flared in his eyes—something dark and furious.

It had been the wrong thing to say. She knew it the moment the words came out of her mouth. How must she have sounded to him? Awful. Self-congratulatory.

They were surrounded by a crowd. His knuckles grew white at his side, and he lifted his nose in the air.

“Fuck you, Violet.” His voice was a low, savage growl. “Fuck. You.”

They’d been in this conspiracy for so long that sometimes even Violet forgot the truth. She remembered it now. She felt it in every cell of her being.

That sense of invisibility vanished. Violet sometimes thought that her position in society was something like a fallen log in the middle of a forest: She might not be picturesque, but at least she was accepted as part of the landscape. So long as she stayed still, nobody would discover the truth.

Right now, Sebastian glared at her—utterly livid, as if he were about to take a hatchet to that log. To expose its rotten core to the world, to show them that inside, Violet was a dark, awful, filthy thing, infested by many-legged creatures. If he spoke one word more, everyone would know.

She never would have thought that Sebastian would betray her. But this stranger glaring at her through Sebastian’s eyes? She had no idea what he might do.

Her hands grew cold. She could almost see that nightmare playing out before them. He would spill out the truth in front of everyone. Newspapers would trumpet it within the day; she’d be ruined by noon tomorrow, cast out completely.

The vast crowd seemed nothing but shadows around her. She could scarcely breathe.
Filthy,
she could hear people whispering.
Reprobate.
Her gorge rose. Violet would be ruined, and she would take her mother, her sister, her nieces and nephews with her.

Sebastian’s nostrils flared, and he turned away from her to talk to another man, leaving everything he could have said hidden safely behind silence.

Violet couldn’t help herself. She gasped in relief. She was safe. And so long as no one ever found out, she’d stay that way.

T
HE MORNING SUN BEAT DOWN VICIOUSLY,
slicing into Sebastian’s eyes as he looked out over the garden. The rose arbor caught those early rays of sunlight, and the beds of dew-spangled flowers glistened in response. It was damnably pretty. He might even have enjoyed it, were it not for the persistent throb of his head.

If he hadn’t known better, he’d have imagined he was suffering from the ill effects of drink. Except he hadn’t had anything stronger than tea in the last forty-eight hours. No, something else plagued him, and unlike a few bottles of wine, it could not be fixed by an efficacious potion.

No apothecary on earth could cure reality.

He’d known where he was heading from the beginning. Violet was in her greenhouse; when he rounded the shrubbery, he saw her sitting on a stool, peering at an array of little pots of soil. She’d hooked her boots around the legs of the stool. Even from here, he could hear her humming happily to herself.

Sebastian felt sick to his stomach.

That was no reason to flout proper procedure. The outer door to Violet’s greenhouse opened onto a glassed-in entryway. He took off his shoes and replaced his jacket with a gardening smock. He checked himself and the air thoroughly; no bees in sight.

She didn’t look up when he opened the second door, nor when he pushed through the layers of gauze that kept insects out. She didn’t look up when he crossed over to her. She was concentrating so fiercely on those little clay pots in front of her, a magnifying glass in one hand, that she hadn’t even heard him come in.

God. Even after what he’d said to her last night, the way he’d run off, leaving her in the lurch, she looked so cheerful sitting there. He was going to ruin it all.

He’d agreed to this charade years ago, when he hadn’t understood what would happen. When it had just meant signing his name and listening to Violet talk, two things that had seemed like no effort at all.

“Violet,” he said softly.

No response.

“Violet,” he repeated, this time a little louder.

He could see her coming back into an awareness of herself—blinking rapidly, slowly setting down the glass she was holding before turning to him.

“Sebastian!” she said. There was a pleased note in her voice. She’d forgiven him for last night, then. But the smile she gave him slowly died as she saw the look on his face. “Sebastian? Is everything all right?”

“I should apologize,” he blurted out. “God knows I should apologize. I should never have spoken to you that way, and especially not in public.”

She waved this off. “I should have known better. I should have thought of the strain you’re under. Really, Sebastian, after everything we’ve done for each other, a few harsh words hardly signify. Now, there was something I needed to tell you.” She frowned and tapped her lips. “Let’s see…”

“Violet. Don’t get distracted. Listen to me.”

She turned back to him.

Nobody else thought Violet pretty. He had never understood that. Yes, her nose was too big. Her mouth was too wide. Her eyes were set a little too far apart for classical standards of beauty. He could see those things, but somehow they’d never mattered. Of all the people in the world, Violet was the closest to him, and that made her precious in ways he didn’t want to consider right now. She was his dearest friend, and he was about to rip her apart.

“Is something amiss?” she asked carefully. “Or—rather—” She cleared her throat. “I know something is amiss. How can we fix it?”

He held up his hands in surrender to the entire world. “Violet, I can’t do this anymore. I’m done living a fraud.”

Her face went utterly blank. Her hand reached out, falling on her magnifying glass, clutching it to her chest.

Sebastian felt heartsick. “Violet.”

There was nobody he knew better, nobody in the world he cared for more. Her skin had turned ashen. She sat looking at him, totally devoid of expression. He’d seen her like that once before. He’d never imagined he would be the one who made her look that way again.

“Violet, you know I would do anything for you.”

She made a curious sound in her throat, half sob, half choke. “Don’t do this. Sebastian, we can figure out—”

“I’ve tried,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry, Violet, but this is the end.”

He was breaking her, but then, he’d come to the end of even his ability to perform. He smiled sadly and looked around her greenhouse. At the shelves and shelves, filled with little pots, each one labeled. At the beds of plants in various stages from tiny clusters of leaves to brilliant green growth. At the bookshelf in the corner, holding twenty leather-bound volumes of notes. He looked over all the evidence that he kept waiting for everyone else to discover. Finally, he looked at Violet—at the woman he had known all his life and loved for half of it.

“I will be your friend. Your confidante. I’ll be a helping hand when you need one. I will do anything for you, but there is one thing I will never do again.” He drew a deep breath. “I will never again present your work as my own.”

Her magnifying glass slipped from her fingers and landed on the paving stones beneath her chair. But it was strong—like Violet—and it didn’t shatter.

He reached down and picked it up. “Here,” he said, handing it back to her. “You’ll need this.”

Chapter Two

T
HREE HOURS LATER,
V
IOLET
found herself dawdling outside Sebastian’s home.

In the years in which they’d worked together, they had found a hundred ways to meet without exciting comment. When they were in Cambridge, meeting was relatively easy: their houses were a mere mile apart, a twenty-minute walk along a wooded path. Thick trees hid their passage from gossip. Violet’s greenhouse was shielded from the prying eyes of servants by a tall shrubbery, while the path to his study was obscured by a maze of head-high boxwoods that allowed her to come and go without knocking at his door.

She waited now within that maze, marshaling her breath and her nerves. She had to make this right, had to try and figure out a way to continue. But she could remember the look on his face, that look of sad determination, and she didn’t know how to change that.

She sat on a stone bench and kicked the crushed white stone of the path in frustration. If she just laid out everything in order, there had to be a solution. A proper, reasonable solution.

Stone crunched; she looked up in consternation.

It was Sebastian. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, but even in his shirtsleeves, that serious expression made him seem formal. He had one hand in his waistcoat pocket and he was watching her with an unreadable expression.