The Viscount Always Knocks Twice by Grace Callaway

Chapter Three

Guilt, Violet discovered to her dismay, had a way of disrupting one’s concentration. God knew that she didn’t need further intrusions upon her focus, yet thoughts of Carlisle assailed her in the week following the Yuletide ball. Never a sound sleeper, she tossed and turned more than usual at night. Her appetite was diminished. During her daily activities—lessons, shopping expeditions, even rides through the park—she found herself wrestling with her conscience.

Was what happened my fault… when he was being such a boor?

Her sense of fair play invariably won out. For no matter how arrogant and condescending Carlisle had been, he didn’t deserve the ridicule he now faced.

Every gossip and tattle rag in Town seemed obsessed with his downfall. He’d become the butt of jokes—in fact “The Butt of a Joke” was the caption used over a caricature of the viscount sitting on his derriere in a fountain, knees splayed, being drenched by a torrent of champagne. Other similar cartoons included How to Make a Splash in Society and Pride Goeth Before a Fall. Worse yet, the lampoons depicted Carlisle as a scowling giant, his rough-hewn features viciously exaggerated.

Every time Violet encountered the consequences of her impulsivity, her insides twisted. Act in haste, repent in leisure as Mama had been wont to say. She was ten when her mother died, and at times like this she missed the other more than ever. For Mama had been the one person who’d truly understood Vi’s nature; she’d never lost her patience or gotten exasperated with her middle child’s antics.

Heavens, my girl, you’re like a pot about to boil over, Marjorie Kent would say with a warm twinkle in her eyes. Let’s put that steam to work, shall we?

Then she’d send Violet off to do some chore. After weeding the garden or milking the family cow, Vi would always feel better.

But Mama wasn’t here now, and Violet was so ashamed of what she’d done that she couldn’t bring herself to confide in her other family members. The thought of their reaction—the I-told-you-so looks and lectures, not to mention the increased chaperonage—bolstered her motivation to keep the matter under wraps. Which made her feel even guiltier.

When Emma had asked about the telltale red champagne splattered on Vi’s skirts, Vi had mumbled some shoddy excuse, saying that she’d walked by the scene of the accident. Even though Em let the matter drop, Vi’s distress manifested itself in worse than usual distraction, which her sister and the others, not knowing the true cause, remarked upon with growing annoyance.

Never a favored pupil amongst her tutors, she was even less focused than usual during her weekly lessons. She made poor Monsieur Le Roche tear at his wispy hair, and she feared he’d be bald before she learned to conjugate a French verb. She fared no better at her music lesson: Master Fromm had stormed out, declaring that he would have better luck teaching a pig to play the pianoforte.

He was probably right… although she would have liked to have seen him attempt the latter. Just for novelty’s sake. With a private snicker, she’d wondered who would be more annoyed at the undertaking: Master Fromm or the swine?

By week’s end, Violet’s natural equilibrium returned. Bit by bit, her guilt had eased; the gossip about Carlisle had begun to die down, replaced by some newer, juicier tidbit, and she told herself that what was done was done. She couldn’t undo her actions, and, thus, there was but one solution. She would offer Carlisle her most sincere apologies whenever they next met.

And that, she concluded with a mental dusting of her hands, would be that.

Her spirits were further lifted by a visit. She and her youngest sister Polly raced down the stairwell to greet their sister-in-law Marianne, niece Primrose, and Miss Billings, a family friend. Emma had refreshments served in the main salon, a room with a soaring ceiling and lush green furnishings. They all took seats around the coffee table and accepted cups of fragrant tea from Emma. Vi also helped herself to a plate of iced cakes from Gunter’s, her favorite confectionary.

“Lud, Violet, how can you eat like that and never gain an ounce?” Marianne said. A stunning silver blonde, Ambrose’s wife patted a hand over her own willowy form, impeccably displayed in a promenade dress of dove grey silk. “I daresay I would resemble one of those hot-air balloons they launch at Vauxhall if I had your appetite.”

“I’m hungry,” Violet said around a mouthful of marzipan-covered sponge.

“You’re always hungry.” Perched next to Marianne on the settee, Em shook her head, her brunette curls gleaming. “When it comes to food, your stomach brings to mind the Pit of Tartarus from Greek lore.”

Vi had never been good at the classics. “What’s the Pit of Tartarus?”

“A bottomless abyss,” Marianne said dryly, and everyone laughed.

Violet gave a good-natured shrug. One couldn’t take offense when something was true. Polishing off a buttery lemon tart, she said, “If they had these in Tartarus, I’d jump right in. You really ought to try one.”

“Mama and I are off to Madame Rousseau’s for a fitting afterward, so I shan’t risk it,” said Primrose, Marianne’s eighteen-year-old daughter. “With the descending waistlines this Season, gowns aren’t nearly as forgiving, and no amount of tight lacing will erase a plate of cakes.”

Rosie, as the girl was affectionately known, had inherited not only her mother’s fair beauty but also the other’s wit and self-confidence. Since Marianne’s marriage to Ambrose a decade earlier, the Kents had considered Rosie one of their own. She’d formed a particular connection with Polly, who was the same age. The two girls presently shared a chaise, their arms linked and pale muslin skirts overlapping like petals of a single flower.

“You always look beautiful, Rosie,” Polly said with quiet sincerity.

Rosie’s jade-colored eyes danced. “You’re a dear for saying that, but I’d rather not be squeezed like a sausage into a corset if I can help it.”

“I’ll have a cake.” The pink ruffles on Gabriella Billings’ bodice fluttered as she shrugged. “Since I’m a sausage anyway, I have nothing to lose.”

“That’s not true, Gabby. You’re lovely,” Emma protested.

“I have freckles and hair the color of carrots…”

Violet was distracted by the arrival of Tabitha, Em’s grey striped cat. Ever since an unfortunate slingshot incident, Vi had been trying to get back into the feline’s good graces. She held out a bit of cake as a peace offering; Tabby turned her nose up at it and curled up next to Em.

“… what harm is a piece of cake going to do?” Gabby finished.

Hearing the word “cake,” Vi obligingly passed the silver tray of confections to her friend.

“Violet.” Emma gave her a chiding glance.

“What?”

“Cake isn’t the point.”

To Vi, cake was always the point. With the tray held out, she said, puzzled, “It isn’t?”

“Gabby is concerned about her looks,” Em said pointedly.

“Oh.” Vi looked at Gabby. With her ginger curls and bright blue eyes, the other girl looked like a friendly wood sprite. She was one of the few truly nice girls Vi had met in London, and that gave her undisputable appeal in Vi’s book. “Why? You’re pretty.”

“You’re ever so kind.” Gabby’s smile was tremulous. Using the silver tongs, she selected a slice of black currant cake (an excellent choice—Vi could vouch from experience). “I’m sorry to carry on like this. I think my nerves are frazzled because I’ll be hosting my first house party in just a week.” She ate a forkful of cake, mumbling, “I hope I do it correctly.”

“Generosity and kindness are the marks of any successful hostess. And you, my dear Gabby,” Marianne said, “have both in spades. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I wish that were true. Father has spared no expense for the fete. He purchased a whole new wardrobe for me and jewels to match.”

“I read about your jewels in the papers; the auction at Rundell’s was quite a to-do, wasn’t it? Were those divine pearls part of the collection?” Rosie said brightly.

Touching the lustrous strand around her neck, Gabby gave a glum nod. “You should see the sapphire necklace. It was owned by a comtesse of something or another, and I feel like an utter imposter wearing it. But the jewels are the least of it. Father’s had an amphitheatre built to showcase the entertainment. He’s hired The Great Nicoletti to perform magic tricks, and there’s a troupe coming from Astley’s—”

“Astley’s?” Violet’s mind had drifted off during the jewelry discussion, but now she bolted upright. “As in the Astley’s Amphitheatre?”

“The one and only. Madame Monique and others will be performing.”

“Gadzooks,” Violet breathed.

Excitement blazed through her. She adored Astley’s—and Monique Le Magnifique, the famed French acrobat, was her ultimate idol. “That’s smashing news! I cannot wait to meet Madame Monique. Do you think she’ll share the secrets behind how to stand on a moving horse or how to balance on a tightrope—”

“Have a seat, dear,” Marianne said mildly, “and let Gabby finish.”

Violet hadn’t realized that she’d risen. She sat again, her heart thumping. Meeting Madame Monique in the flesh. Absolutely brilliant! Through the years, she’d practiced countless moves inspired by the acrobat; she wondered if the diva would mind giving her some tips.

“… Father wants me to be a success ever so much, but the fact is I’m just a wallflower,” Gabby was saying. “What if nobody deigns to come to my party?”

Understanding suddenly perforated Violet’s delight. Gabby’s father was a banker whose fortune came from clients who were, well, a bit unsavory. In fact, while the Kents adored Gabby, they were not fans of Mr. Billings, whom they’d first met during the course of a murder investigation. With his wealth, Billings could purchase his daughter’s entrée into the upper echelons, but acceptance was another matter altogether.

The banker’s background and lack of blue blood made him and his daughter parvenus in the eyes of the ton, who treated them with barely disguised scorn. In fact, some cruel wit had saddled Gabby with the title of “Paper Princess” due to her papa’s trade in banknotes. Like Violet, Gabby knew what it was like to be an outsider.

Vi summoned a teasing grin for her friend. “What are we—chestnuts? We Kents will be there in full regalia to support you. Even Thea and Tremont will be coming, although they’ll arrive a bit late.”

Thea, the second eldest Kent sister, had recently married the Marquess of Tremont. Given the adventures that had brought the pair together, they’d opted to spend their honeymoon rusticating at Tremont’s country seat.

“We wouldn’t miss your fete for the world,” Rosie chimed in. “We adore parties.”

“Society is agog to see what has been done to Traverstoke since the Earl of Woldier sold it to your father,” Marianne said. “I predict you’ll be bursting at the seams with houseguests, albeit curious ones.”

“I don’t care if they’re curious—only that they come. I’m so grateful to all of you. I’m terribly afraid of disappointing Father: he wants so badly for me to make a splash.”

“Be careful what you wish for.” Eyes sparkling with mischief, Rosie said, “Or haven’t you heard about the most recent splash in Society?”

Violet’s stomach plummeted. Crumbs. Not this again.

“You mean Viscount Carlisle?” Gabby said, an odd note in her voice.

Rosie’s golden ringlets bobbed as she nodded, giggling.

“It’s not funny. It isn’t Christian to laugh at another’s misfortune,” Vi blurted.

All eyes turned to her.

Em blinked. “Well, I suppose that’s true. But usually you’re the first one to laugh at the ridiculous, Violet.”

“Carlisle’s not ridiculous. He just slipped and fell…” Violet’s face heated; she bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from revealing more.

“I didn’t say he was ridiculous, just the fact that a grown man managed to tumble into a fountain.” Emma’s head tipped to the side, her clear brown gaze narrowing. “You weren’t somehow… involved in the incident, were you? At the time, we were looking all over for you, and you were nowhere to be found.”

Vi didn’t like the keen look in her sister’s eyes. Before becoming a duchess, Em had aspired to join Kent and Associates, Ambrose’s private enquiry firm. In fact, it was during the course of Em’s first investigation that she had captured Strathaven’s eye and his heart. Even now, with her husband’s permission—and, on occasion, without his knowledge—she participated in the odd case.

Vi tried not to squirm. “Like I said before, I witnessed some of it, but I didn’t linger.” I hightailed it out of there as fast as I could. “I just don’t think it’s fair to laugh at the man.”

Marianne’s lips thinned with distaste. “I wouldn’t think you’d defend Carlisle, of all people. After the abominable rumors he started—why, Ambrose had half a mind to call him out.”

“So did Strathaven,” Em said, “but doing so would have damaged Vi’s reputation further. It was best to ignore the whole thing and let it blow over. Which it has, thank heavens. Otherwise His Grace would have had Carlisle’s head on a spike—and I would have encouraged it.”

“You always were a bloodthirsty thing, pet,” a deep masculine voice said.

Strathaven entered the room. He was tall, dark, and wickedly handsome, his debonair image somewhat marred by the dark-haired baby girl in the crook of his arm. With a chubby fist wrapped around one end of His Grace’s cravat, little Olivia tugged with stubborn insistence, cheerfully drooling all the while.

“Speaking of bloodthirsty, Livy is murdering your cravat.” Emma held out her arms. “You’d best give the little imp to me.”

As Strathaven handed over the babe, his knuckles brushed with casual intimacy against his wife’s cheek. “I thought she might be lonely so I got her from the nursery.”

“Lonely? With the army of nursemaids you hired to look after her?” Emma slanted a mischievous look at her husband and said in conspiratorial tones to their daughter, “Who was the lonely one, poppet—you or Papa?”

Livy flashed a toothless grin. An instant later, she grabbed at Emma’s bodice.

“Ma ma ma,” she said.

“By God, she’s talking.” Strathaven looked thunderstruck—as if his offspring had just recited a sonnet.

“She’s hungry,” Emma said ruefully. “I had better get Her Highness fed.”

“On that note, Rosie and I must be off as well, or we’ll be late for our fitting.” Marianne rose, her daughter following suit. “We look forward to your party, Gabby.”

The Strathavens and Kents departed, leaving Violet with Polly and Gabby.

“I wish someone would look at me the way His Grace looks at your sister,” Gabby said wistfully into the quiet room.

“He loves her very much,” Polly agreed. “I always knew he did, even before…” She trailed off, biting her lip.

“Before what?” Gabby asked.

Seeing her sister’s flustered expression, Vi knew that Polly didn’t want to reveal her uncanny ability to read other people’s emotions. Back in Chudleigh Crest, Polly’s acuity had led others to consider her a bit “strange,” something she feared more than anything.

“Seeing as we Kents always marry for love,” Vi said hastily, “it wasn’t hard to guess that Emma and Strathaven would wind up a love match.”

Polly sent her a grateful look.

“A love match. I see.” Gabby sighed.

An odd pang struck Vi. She’d spoken the truth: Kents did marry for love, and, consequently, she’d been surrounded by passionate couples all her life. Yet why hadn’t she encountered love’s magic? She’d spent a good deal of time in the company of boys, but she’d never felt that mysterious—and supposedly irresistible—pull of attraction.

Quite frankly, she’d never understood what all the fuss was about.

Out of nowhere, Carlisle intruded upon her mind’s eye. His stern, rugged features… his large and unyielding physique. Sensation washed over her: the rush of being contained by his rigid strength, his manly scent filling her nose, his breath coasting warmly over her ear…

Gadzooks, what’s the matter with you?Why are you thinking such things? Bewildered, she realized that her pulse was racing—as if she’d run a race or climbed a tree.

“I have some bad news to share,” Gabby announced. “About Carlisle.”

Vi twitched. “Um, pardon?”

“He’ll be at my party.”

Butter and jam, Carlisle and I are going to be trapped together in the same house… for an entire week? Horror flooded Vi.

“What is more, Father says that I must be extra nice to him. Nice—after what he said about you, Violet! And I’ve heard that Carlisle is a large, stodgy, and intimidating man.” Gabby shuddered. “Not the sort that I’d want to be nice to at all.”

Vi cleared her throat. “Maybe you can avoid him?” Like I’ll be doing.

“Father will be watching like a hawk. No, I need a better plan—reinforcements.” Gabby brightened. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Polly said at once. “What do you want us to do?”

“If you see me with him, you must come rescue me,” Gabby pleaded. “Promise me you will? Pinkie swear on it?”

“What are friends for?” Polly hooked her little finger with Gabby’s.

“Violet?” Gabby’s eyes beseeched her.

Parsnips. This’ll be interesting.

She muttered, “All right,” and sealed the vow.