Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Viola sat at the breakfast table in her nightgown, cross-legged in her chair, scribbling away furiously.
The story was finally flowing. She had reached the part where the heroine discovered the body hidden in the abbey.
Except what did the woman die of, and how?
And was her husband the murderer? Did he perhaps murder his previous wife?
Or wait, this was better: a lover? Or maybe—
“I said, you appear to be quite engrossed in your writing,” a crisp voice cut into her thoughts.
Viola looked up blankly. Sebastian sat across from her. His plate was empty. His coffee cup sat at his elbow. The morning post lay open beside him, already read. He appeared to have been watching her for quite some time with an expression caught somewhere between curiosity and amusement.
When had he appeared? When she had come to the dining room an hour earlier, she had been quite alone.
“What is it you are writing?” He eyed her papers curiously.
Her hand instinctively covered her writing. “Ah. Uh. Nothing in particular. I’m just trying my hand at a story.”
“It must be quite fascinating, seeing that you are so immersed in it.”
“Yes, certainly.” Viola cleared her throat and tucked several strands of hair behind her ear.
Only now she realised she wasn’t even wearing a morning coat; her hair was hanging curtain-like about her face and she had no idea where her slippers had gone.
She untucked her bent knees and set her feet on the ground, and straightened her shoulders.
Then she picked up a piece of sugar and popped it into her mouth, sucked on it thoughtfully for a while, then took a sip of her tea.
Sebastian’s mouth twitched.
“Say,” Viola said after she swallowed. “If you were to kill a woman, say your wife, or your lover, but I think probably your wife, how would you go about doing it? Would you bludgeon her to death, or would you use something more subtle, like poison, or would you choke her in her sleep with your neckcloth?”
Sebastian, who was just taking a sip of his coffee, spluttered. He picked up his napkin and coughed into it violently.
“Alternatively, he could try to wall her up in the dungeon, which is a most elegant way to kill someone, though probably the slowest way to die. But I see you are entirely overcome with this question, so don’t feel pressured to answer,” she said kindly.
“And here I thought we might discuss the weather. Is that what you are writing? On the various gruesome ways in which a husband might kill his wife?”
“No need to look so scandalised. I daresay it happens, and more often than we would like to think.” She tapped a finger on the newspaper in front of her.
Sebastian picked it up and glanced at the headline with a frown. “Grisly Murder in St Giles: Husband Kills Wife.”
He shook his head. “Must he kill her in the first place?”
“Alternatively, he could clap her into a lunatic asylum—” She broke off.
She was going to continue saying, “But I have used that plot device in one of my earlier books so I can’t use it again,” but she couldn’t exactly say that, could she?
Not without revealing her identity as the most scandalous writer of this decade, Selina Sable.
And that she could never do. Not to Sebastian.
What would he do if he were to find out?
Banish her to Westwood Hall? Divorce her?
No, that, he’d vowed, he’d never do. She wondered what, ultimately, would prove worse for his reputation: a divorce, or the discovery that his wife was an infamous author of depraved tales.
Now that was something interesting to ponder on.
“You meant to say?” He lifted an eyebrow, encouraging her to finish her sentence.
“Lunatic asylum,” she repeated lamely, not knowing how to end the sentence. “Speaking of which.” She took off her spectacles, which had slid to the tip of her nose. “What are you going to do about them?”
“Now that is an unanticipated change of topic.” He set down his cup with a frown. “Why all this interest in lunatic asylums to begin with? Particularly the ones in Ireland.”
Viola shifted in her chair. “I know someone who has been confined to one. She writes to me, and her story moves me.” That was absolutely true. “She also tells me about the harrowing conditions inside that institution. It happens to be in Dublin.”
His hand stilled on the newspaper.
She tapped her pencil on the table in an impatient staccato.
Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “We are not unaware of the conditions. They are regrettable. But reform is already underway. Legislation has been passed, committees appointed, funds allocated.” He delivered this with the ease of a man who had said it many times before.
“The mills grind slowly. But they grind.”
Viola nodded. “How very reassuring. I shall write to Mrs Burns and tell her that relief is on its way. In good time. When the mills have finished grinding.” She set down her pencil.
“The difficulty, of course, being that she may well be dead before that happy day arrives. And I confess I find it hard to call something legislation when it legislates nothing. Promises much. But ultimately delivers nothing.” She shrugged.
“And here I thought you were uninterested in politics,” he said softly. “How entirely wrong I have been.”
She blinked at him, surprised. “I am uninterested in politics. I am, I assure you, decidedly, completely and entirely unpolitical.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he leaned back in his chair, watching her. “On the contrary. You are one of the most political creatures I have ever known. I may have even married a radical.”
“Oh, pooh. I am as radical as that plant over there.” Then her eyes fell on the clock on the wall and she was startled. “Goodness, it’s late! I must ready myself to go—” She interrupted herself and began to gather her papers.
“Go where?”
Newgate. To investigate hangings. Maybe even watch one live.
But something told her he might disapprove.
She waved a hand. “Meet someone. Cousin Georgiana. For shopping. Yes.” She had another meeting with Lady Penworthy and the Secret Book Club afterwards as well.
He lifted a cream card between two fingers. “This is an invitation to supper at Hatherleigh’s. It specifically requests your presence. Tonight.”
“Supper at the Hatherleighs’.” She blinked. It sounded dreary. “Must I really?”
His smile was thin. “I do think it would be good to appear in society as a happily married couple. Shall I answer that invitation in the affirmative?”
“Oh, botheration.” She went to the door, then returned to the table to pick up her spectacles, and once again turned towards the door.
“So do I have the pleasure of taking you there?” Sebastian called after her.
“If you absolutely must.” She popped her head in again. “But I tell you, it will be a disaster,” she prophesied.
The Hatherleigh Supper was a yearly event at which Tories gathered to polish their laurels, congratulate themselves on being Tories, bemoan Whig policies, and strategise for the upcoming general election.
Sebastian looked exceptionally fine in his evening wear; his black coat moulded to his broad shoulders, his cravat crisp and white. She herself did not look half bad, she thought, her flyaway hair tamed into a tidy braided coiffure, the midnight blue silk drifting around her, smooth and weightless.
There had been an odd look in Sebastian’s eyes that might have been appreciation, for he opened and closed his mouth twice, as though at a loss for words.
And just when she was about to congratulate herself, happily and with no small sense of triumph, that she had finally managed to impress him and rendered The Slayer speechless, he uttered a curt, “You’ll do. ”
The words left her with the same sinking disappointment she had felt on her eighteenth birthday, when she had gone to such trouble to dress in her finest, hoping, just once, to appear pretty in his eyes.
He had barely looked her over then, before dismissing her in his usual curt manner.
She had returned to her room, torn the dress from her body, and vowed never again to attempt to make herself pretty for him.
Well, look at her now. She really hadn’t changed one whit, had she? This fluttery feeling in her stomach, and this hammering in her heart every time he but looked at her. She was still as hopelessly na?ve and ridiculously infatuated with him as she’d been.
And he…entirely oblivious to her feelings.
Viola sighed.
Her hand smoothed the silky material beneath her fingers. She supposed she could try as much as she wanted; he’d never see her as beautiful.
Why did that bother her so much ?
Sebastian helped her out of the carriage and gripped her hand a moment longer than was necessary, as if he were reluctant to release her. He let go when Lady Hatherleigh approached them, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.
“Fane. It is an honour, as always. And finally, with your wife.” She eyed her up and down.
“I vow; this mythical creature does exist! You can’t imagine how many betting books he’s filled, as all of London was fairly convinced he’d invented you to escape the matchmaking mamas!
But here you are.” She inserted herself between her and Fane. “You must tell me all about yourself.”
Thus, they were separated. Lady Hatherleigh introduced her to an elderly gentleman with heavy-lidded eyes who droned on and on about grain prices.
She nodded and smiled, and smiled and nodded, until her eyes glazed over.
They were joined by a second gentleman. She edged herself out of the conversation, took a glass of champagne and sipped it gratefully.
“Lady Viola?” a male voice said behind her.
She turned to find a stern-looking gentleman gazing at her, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked vaguely familiar, but then, so did every second face she encountered here. She supposed it would come to her in time.