Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Viola, truly, would go mad if she had to endure yet another hour of the musical evening to which Cousin Georgiana had dragged her. The soprano was singing out of tune, and the beat seemed to be off as well.
Normally, Viola didn’t mind listening to music as it allowed her to daydream and to continue plotting her next book.
But tonight, it didn’t work.
She couldn’t focus on the music.
She hadn’t seen Sebastian since she’d visited Parliament, for he’d come home long after she’d fallen asleep, and he rose again before she awoke.
If she hadn’t seen the dent in his pillow the next morning, she would have concluded that he hadn’t returned at all.
But then, last night, she ever so vaguely remembered someone lifting her from the desk in the study and placing her in bed, and her burrowing her nose into a warm, comforting, breathing pillow that smelled of bergamot and musk.
Someone might have stroked a few strands of hair away from her face and placed a kiss on her lips, and she might have burrowed in for more.
But in the morning, it felt like nothing more than a dream. She woke languid and warm until she found the bed empty and an aching sense of loneliness gripped her.
She’d intended to ask him what he had meant by mentioning her in Parliament. But at breakfast, the butler informed her that Mr Fane had already left for Westminster to attend a committee meeting, and that he had hastily drunk a cup of coffee before leaving.
When she called on Cousin Georgiana somewhat later, she informed her she would take her to the Brookshurst musicale.
“It is a most exclusive gathering,” she said, lowering her voice. “And while the music is not renowned to be the best, it is advisable to attend and be seen. All the most important heads of the Season will be there. It will do us good to be noticed.”
Viola, however, had no desire whatsoever to be noticed. Nor did she care much for the music.
Worse still, Cousin Georgiana was entirely correct. Absolutely everyone was there.
Peregrine sauntered into the room first, wearing a cheeky grin and acknowledging Viola’s presence with a surreptitious wink that made her stomach sink.
He was followed, to her dismay, by Sebastian, who paused briefly at the doorway before being promptly absorbed by a knot of gentlemen eager for his attention.
She braced herself for another evening of having to ignore the presence of her husband.
Viola sighed.
And then there was the ever-present Mr Mainwaring.
Viola repressed a groan.
He had sidled up to her the moment she entered the room and claimed the chair next to her, as though by unquestionable right.
He then proceeded to speak to her throughout the entire concert, commenting on the performance of the musicians, the composition itself, and pointing out passages he admired or disliked.
She found this highly irritating, not least because she disagreed with him on every count.
Sebastian was seated ahead of her in the front row. Once, he turned his head and caught her looking.
Her heart gave a violent lurch, then stuttered against her ribs.
His gaze flicked to Mainwaring. His jaw tightened. He narrowed his eyes, scowled faintly, then turned back to the stage.
Oh my.
It could not be, could it?
Sebastian was jealous.
The realisation sent a small, treacherous thrill through her.
Mr Mainwaring leaned toward her again, whispering loudly, “The violin is quite out of tune.”
“Yes. As everyone knows,” she could not resist replying, leaning away from him and turning her head.
Her gaze collided with Peregrine’s.
He was sprawled in a chair by the fireplace, arms crossed, watching her intently.
Viola raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
He jerked his head toward the refreshment room. Rising slowly, he crossed the room and disappeared through the door.
After a few minutes, Viola murmured an excuse to Mainwaring, rose, and followed.
The refreshment room contained a buffet laid out with platters of petit fours, finger foods, and tiered trays bearing an array of dainty cakes.
Peregrine was leaning over one such tray, helping himself to a cream pastry. “Delicious,” he remarked, taking a bite. “You should try these.”
Viola glanced swiftly about the room and found it empty. “Do you have news?”
“The usual,” he replied lightly. “The publisher is pressing me for the next manuscript. When shall you finally have something ready to show them?”
“I still require time.”
He wiped his fingers on a napkin. “The clock is ticking.”
She waved the remark aside. “Rather than adding to my burdens, you would be of far greater help if you secured me access to the School of Anatomy.”
Peregrine pursed his lips and shook his head. “You know very well they do not permit women to attend a public dissection. It is quite improper. Have you considered the public anatomy museum? It has a separate entrance for ladies and is thought to be far more genteel.”
Viola shook her head. “I must see a live dissection of a cadaver. Do you believe your influence might stretch so far as to secure me a ticket? And if you could assist me in obtaining male attire, I would be most obliged.”
“Is this truly necessary?”
“Yes.” She set her mouth in a stubborn line. “If you wish me to complete the next book with any speed, you must help me get the information I require.”
Peregrine uttered a dramatic sigh. “Very well. I shall see what can be done. But you are requesting the impossible.” He then drew a slim packet of letters from his pocket and handed it to her. “From the insane asylum in Dublin,” he added pointedly. “That woman continues to write.”
A small smile curved Viola’s lips. “Mrs Burns.” She tucked the letters into her reticule. “She is my most faithful reader.”
“That may be so,” Peregrine said, “but I question the wisdom of corresponding with her. She is confined to Bedlam, after all. It would hardly do to be associated with such a person.”
“Mrs Burns has been nothing but kind and thoughtful,” Viola replied coolly. “Her letters are a joy. And she describes conditions so dreadful that they compel me to act.”
Peregrine groaned. “Do not remind me. Most of your royalties vanish into that abyss, and not even under your own name, but anonymously. It pains me here,” he pressed a hand to his heart, “and here,” he slapped his forehead, “to contemplate it.”
Viola stiffened. “It is my money, and I may do with it as I please. And I would like to reform the conditions of that asylum. I want you to double the donation.”
“It is folly.”
“It is none of your concern. And speaking of meddling—”
The door opened.
Both she and Peregrine turned sharply to see a figure standing in the doorway.
“Oh, Mr Mainwaring,” Viola said breathlessly, a hand fluttering to her throat. “You startled me.”
“I wondered where you had gone,” Mainwaring said, leaving the door ajar as he cast Peregrine a suspicious look. “Intermission is about to begin.”
He stepped closer to Viola. “Is this gentleman troubling you? If so, you need only say the word, and I shall see him removed.”
“Removed?” Peregrine echoed sharply. “My dear sir, I have no notion who you are—”
“My name is Mainwaring. Theophilius Fergus Mainwaring,” he declared. “And what I want is for you to unhand Lady Viola, as she clearly does not wish for your company.”
“Not at all, Mr Mainwaring,” Viola began, but Peregrine cut in.
“I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. “I am not assaulting Lady Viola to warrant such rudeness. I do not suffer insults lightly.”
Mainwaring ignored him. He seized Viola’s arm and tugged her toward him. “Come away with me, Lady Viola.”
“Hands off, Mainwaring,” Peregrine snapped, grasping her other arm and pulling her back.
Viola found herself literally torn between the two men, with each of them pulling on an arm.
None of them had noticed that intermission had begun, that the door now stood wide open, and that they had gained a very attentive audience, one that appeared far more engaged by this spectacle than by the concert itself.
“I shall call you out in earnest,” Peregrine hissed.
“It would be my pleasure,” Mainwaring retorted, “once you release Lady Viola.”
“I shall do so once you release her first.”
“Now, see here—”
“Both of you,” a cold voice cut in, “will release Lady Viola at once.”
All heads turned.
Sebastian stood in the doorway, his expression hard and furious.
“You again,” Mainwaring muttered.
“And what claim do you have upon her?” Peregrine demanded.
“Clearly more than either of you,” Sebastian stepped toward them.
Mainwaring scowled. “And why is that?”
There was a brief, charged pause. Sebastian’s gaze, had it been an actual sword, would have slain him on the spot.
“Lady Viola is my wife.”
A murmur rippled through the room.
Viola gasped. Oh dear, oh dear! This hadn’t been planned at all. What now? She looked from one face to another. Sebastian’s furious one, Mainwaring’s bewildered one, and Peregrine’s slack-jawed one.
Both men dropped their hands instantly, and Viola rubbed her shoulders.
“Wife?” Peregrine echoed, pointing from her to Sebastian and back again. “You are married…to Fane?”
All heads turned towards her.
Viola swallowed. “Well…I…uh…truth be told…as a matter of fact…” She met Sebastian’s unwavering gaze.
Was she supposed to admit it? Deny it? She cleared her throat and decided that in this case, honesty was the best course of action.
“It may indeed be possible that we’re, uh, actually, in fact…
married.” She cleared her throat. “Some time ago.” Best not to mention the accidental part.
The audience had pressed into the room, whispering and murmuring.
Wonderful. They’d provided the scandal sheets with abundant fodder for tomorrow’s issue.
Viola clasped her hands together, twisting them tightly. It was a disaster.
Cousin Georgiana elbowed her way through the crowd. “But Viola! This is impossible. Surely there must be some mistake!”