Chapter 8 #2
It had always turned into a game of who gave in first.
She would eat the teapot warmer if she gave in first. Grinding her teeth, she flipped the page and read on bravely, not really taking in any words.
After a while, he folded his newspaper together and set it aside.
Ha! She’d won that round. Triumphantly, she lowered her book and snapped it shut and met his gaze with a smug expression on her face.
He smiled, faintly contemptuous. “Not reading Mrs Radcliffe, it appears. You have moved on to Mrs Sable. Who, I heard, is even worse.”
“Worse?” Viola sat up, stung.
“Even more of a sensationalist, if that is possible.”
“Indeed,” she replied airily. “And that is a good thing. She writes better than Mrs Radcliffe. Infinitely.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
Viola threw a quick prayer of thanks to heaven that he did not.
She wondered, somewhat uneasily, whether she should tell him.
The thought of how he would react once she outed herself as Selina Sable, of how his face would contort with that appalled expression that he so frequently wore whenever she did something that he did not understand, mixed with contempt, possibly scorn—that made her shut her mouth again quickly.
She would keep quiet for now. It wasn’t the right time to tell him.
“So, you will really stay here the entire Season. I mean, in this house.”
“For as long as renovations are conducted at the other house, yes. I trust you have no objections?”
“Well. Naturally, I have objections. I was here first, and now I have to share the house with you.” And the bed. “It is rather unexpected to find you here.”
“Life is full of unexpected surprises, isn’t it?
” he said pleasantly. “You must learn to share. I daresay you will hardly see me, as I will be very busy in the coming months. And you, of course, may go about your own life. As we agreed. Never fear, I have no intention of curtailing that freedom you so vociferously demanded. Just continue your life as you always have. You shall hardly notice I am here.”
She took another sip of her tea and burned her tongue. Ah yes. She did demand that. In her letters. Rather vociferously.
Speaking of letters, the butler came in with a salver, with piles of letters on it. “The mail, sir.”
“Excellent. Put them here.” Sebastian appeared visibly relieved that he had something else to divert his attention.
Viola buttered a slice of bread, watching him furtively as he went through his mail.
She watched with increasing astonishment as the butler brought in yet another tray, equally piled with mail.
“Are these all for him?”
“Well, yes, my lady.”
It occurred to her that Sebastian must have informed the servants in the meantime about their matrimonial state.
She did not know whether that was good; good, of course, because it wouldn’t be at all the thing if Mr Fane were to cohabit with Lady Viola, spinster.
So, he must have told them. Or had they known all along?
Were the servants bribed to keep silent?
It would be the only explanation. A brief suspicion crossed her mind that maybe he’d planned it all.
Closed the house on St James’s Square to have it renovated.
Timing his arrival here at the same time as hers…
What if the butler had informed him that Lady Viola had enquired about coming to London and staying in his grandmother’s townhouse?
But why would he do that? Her mind was in a whirl.
She’d have to interrogate the butler later.
Scowling, she picked up the newspaper, which Sebastian had set aside.
To her surprise, she discovered it was full of him.
The Chief Secretary for Ireland addressed the House on the matter of the Consolidated Fund Act and its implications for the Treasury’s quarterly allocations...
She blinked.
She turned the page.
... commended by the Prime Minister for his handling of the Select Committee on the State of Ireland, widely regarded as the most consequential appointment of the session...
There again.
...praised for his speech on the Irish Poor Relief Bill and the allocation of emergency grain stores...
Three pages of news filled by the Honourable Mr Sebastian Fane.
It was really quite incredible.
She’d had no inkling of his consequence. He appeared to be famous.
Here he was, the man in person, sitting right across from her, slicing his letters open with a swift, efficient movement with his letter opener. His profile in sharp relief, he looked awfully intimidating as he perused his mail.
She cleared her throat.
“You, er, uh.”
“Yes?” he said, without looking up from his letter.
“What you are doing these days appears to be somewhat important. Is it not?” She plucked at her bread.
He lowered his letter and met her gaze steadily. “Somewhat important.”
“I see.” She waved a hand at the newspaper. “They say you are an Irish chief of some sort.”
A vague glimmer of amusement passed through his eyes, but it was so quick she might have imagined it. “An Irish chief of some sort.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Don’t tell me that is news to you?”
“Of course not!” She wasn’t that ignorant.
Not really. Of course, she’d known in the end he’d not pursued a career in law but had turned towards politics.
She’d known, also, that he was in Ireland more often than not, after all she’d written to the butler and kept meticulous track of when he was in Dublin and when in London so she could use the townhouse—all to no avail, as it turned out.
But she’d never bothered to discover the details as to what exactly it was that he was doing.
And she certainly had not known how important his work was.
Maybe the problem was that she detested politics and never touched any newspapers if she could help it.
Great-Aunt Augusta had only subscribed to the local newspapers that focused on the Edinburgh social scene, not London.
She really ought to make some attempt to understand what on earth it was that he was doing.
She scratched her nose, leaving a trail of strawberry jam on its tip, and picked up her teacup.
He studied her for a moment thoughtfully, then set his letters aside. “Since we are speaking of the matter. Let me inform you that parliamentary elections are coming up in June. They are of paramount importance.”
“Not to me,” she muttered into her teacup. “But I am certain it must be terribly important to you.”
He frowned as though she had just revealed she did not know the earth revolved around the sun.
“A general election determines the composition of the House of Commons. The party that commands a majority forms the government and the King appoints the Prime Minister.” He’d slipped into that insufferable schoolmaster tone one used when speaking to an ignorant child, which only had the effect of infuriating her.
“The outcome will determine who holds power, which policies are pursued, and which bills become law. Whether we address the crisis in Ireland with relief or repression. Whether Catholic emancipation advances or stalls for another decade. Whether thousands live or die.”
Her eyes grew round. “You are saying it could literally end up being a matter of life or death.”
“For the people in Ireland, certainly.”
She swallowed. She hadn’t regarded it in this light.
“I accept your disinterest in these matters. This isn’t your world, and neither should it be. However—” His eyes turned to narrow slits. “Neither flippancy nor lightness is justified if you don’t fully understand the gravity behind the matter and what is at stake. The consequence is immense.”
She felt the reproach in his words and sat up, stung.
“I would never make light of—”
“Good.”
She snapped her mouth shut.
“Lord Liverpool has held the government together for six years. If he loses his majority, everything changes. Alliances. Appointments. Priorities.” He turned the letter opener in his fingers.
“Men who have spent years working toward stability may find themselves out of office overnight. Men like me. A man in my position must be above reproach.”
He really was good at speaking.
She really stood no chance.
Scowling, she set down the teacup with a hard clink.
“I quite understand what you are implying, Mr Fane.” Sarcasm laced her tone.
“I wonder. Do you, indeed?”
She met his eyes full on. “What you are saying is that for a man like you, of such tremendous consequence, with such a far-reaching reputation, and with the upcoming election of such paramount significance, having an ignorant, unfashionable wife like me is a liability. An embarrassment.” She leaned forward and whispered.
“A secret wife. Oh my. What will they say?”
“I see we understand each other perfectly,” he lashed back. “I have worked too long and too hard on my career to be undone by careless talk at a dinner party. Or by a wife who treats the fate of nations as tedious breakfast conversation. It would be a disaster if you were to do so in public.”
Viola leaned back and placed a hand on her heart.
“Have no fear, sir. I have no intention of publicly acknowledging our connection. Ever. I have not done so in nine years, and I certainly shall not begin now.” She lifted her chin.
“As far as society is concerned, I am Lady Viola Leigh, spinster. A woman of independence, visiting the city on private business. No one needs to ever know I am your wife. In fact, I insist upon upholding our agreement.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”
“We will simply continue doing as we did before. We may be married, but we lead separate lives. I shall keep my distance from you. We shall not be seen together. If we encounter one another in public, we shall be strangers.” She was warming to the idea now, her voice gaining force.
“It is the perfect arrangement. You may continue your important political career without the inconvenience of a wife, and I may continue my life without the inconvenience of a husband.”
A beat of silence.
“Quite so,” he said softly.
Just that.
Then he simply returned to his letters.
Viola glumly reached for her toast and discovered she had lost her appetite.
Just then, the butler entered with yet another tray of letters. “They keep coming, sir.” He apologised and set the tray in front of him.
Sebastian took the mail and sorted it into three piles.
“Why are you doing that?” She waved a hand at the three piles.
“One pile is for my secretary to answer, one which I’ll respond to myself, and the third is personal.”
“My letters, no doubt, ended up in the first pile.” Mr Fane desires no further correspondence on this subject…
The words hurt now as much as they did then. That day, he’d utterly destroyed her with his words.
His eyes were intense. “Not at all. I distinctly recall having an entirely separate pile for those.” He paused. “I’d called it the Lola-pile. Except your letters were so few I could hardly count them on one hand.”
She choked on her tea and coughed.
He got up. “Take them to the study,” he told the butler, then pulled out his pocket watch. “I’ll be off to Parliament afterwards. I wish you a good day.” With a curt nod in her direction, he left.
Viola remained behind, glumly digesting what she’d learned.
One. They were to continue with their sham marriage. She would do her best to play the dotty spinster in public, and he would ignore her whenever they met.
So far, so good.
Two. She was inadvertently married to an immensely successful, important, brilliant, popular politician who had much on the line with the upcoming election.
Three. She was a liability to her husband.
And because of that, she had complete power over him. More than she would have liked.
She jumped up and paced the room, wringing her hands.
For if the public ever discovered that Lady Viola Fane, wife of the Chief Secretary for Ireland, was, in truth, Mrs Selina Sable, writer of lurid romances...
She drew a shaky breath.
She could destroy him.
Utterly.