handed her wrap to a footman and promptly vanished, no doubt within calling distance should he be needed. The butler was the very soul of discretion. Regardless, Violet suspected he and any number of other servants were observing them from some unseen location.
“I usually have a glass of brandy in the library before bed,” James said in an offhand manner. “Would you care to join me?”
“I’m afraid I’ve had a very long day. I would prefer to retire for the night.” She smiled politely and turned toward the stairs. Coward, a voice whispered in the back of her head. A civilized brandy in the comfort of Uncle Richard’s library would be the perfect opportunity for calm, rational discussion. Regardless, she simply wasn’t ready. She’d assumed she wouldn’t see him until they met in the solicitor’s office. She never imagined she’d see him, dance with him, tonight.
“I had hoped we could talk.”
She turned back to him. “Now?” She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“It just seems like an opportune time. That’s all.” He paused. “We’ve never really talked.”
“No, we haven’t.” And whose fault is that? She bit back the words and heaved a weary sigh. “It’s been almost six years, James. Surely whatever you have to say can wait another day.”
He gazed at her for a long moment then nodded. “Of course.” He paused. “That was very nice of you. Encouraging Westmont to dance with those girls.”
“I am very nice.” Her gaze met his. “And I know how they feel.”
“Yes, I suppose you do.” He looked as if he wanted to say something else, then thought better of it. “Good night, Violet.”
“Good night, James.” She nodded and started up the grand staircase, refusing to look back at him. She knew he watched her, felt his gaze on her as if his eyes were burning into her back.
Her room was at the farthest end of the hall from his. Aside from a single night, she and James had never before slept under the same roof. That thought alone was enough to keep her from getting so much as a wink of sleep. Add to that, Uncle Richard’s mysterious final wishes and her own desire to at last resolve things between them and move on with their lives and anything approximating true rest was impossible.
Beyond all else, she couldn’t get James’s comment out of her head. Was he truly ready to face his past mistakes? Did those mistakes include her?
And how on earth did he intend to atone for that?
“AND SHE’S BACK,” Ophelia Higginbotham said under her breath and resisted the urge to slide under the covers and pull them up over her head.
“How are you feeling, Effie?” Persephone Fitzhew-Wellmore sailed into the room like a ray of unrelenting sunshine. She glanced at Lady Guinevere Blodgett, sitting nearby in Effie’s bedroom and currently perusing the obituary section of the Times as she had done every day in recent years. “How is she?”
Gwen didn’t look up from the page. After all, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been asked the question every time Poppy entered the room. “Much better I think.”
“I am.” Effie nodded in her healthiest manner. “Oh, I am indeed. I feel much, much better. Why, I daresay I’ll be out of bed in no time.”
“I doubt that.” Poppy’s brow furrowed and she eyed the other woman closely. “I think you look extremely pale. Doesn’t she, Gwen?”
“Oh my, yes,” Gwen murmured.
“There, you see? Gwen agrees with me,” Poppy said firmly. “They’ll be no more discussion about it. Although you may read today’s post if you feel up to it.” She set a small stack of correspondence on the tray on Effie’s lap.
“And I do.” Effie voice rang with eagerness. Even invoices would be a respite from the endless boredom of being waited on hand and foot. Still, it couldn’t be helped.
“We’ll see how you feel tomorrow.” Poppy shook her head in a chastising manner. “This is your third relapse of whatever illness has been plaguing you.” She paused. “Perhaps we should have Dr. Wrenfield—”
“No,” Gwen and Effie said at the same time.
“You know how Effie hates to be a bother,” Gwen said quickly. “Besides, the doctor has been here once already and was unable to identify the true nature of her illness.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t here when he called,” Poppy said. “Perhaps if I were to give him my observations, it might help him in determining what the problem is.”
“I really can’t afford another visit,” Effie added.
It was the one thing Poppy couldn’t argue with.
Finances were more and more distressing for the three widows. Their husbands had all died within the past few years—Gwen’s Sir Charles and Poppy’s Malcomb three years ago, followed the next year by Effie’s dear William. The men, who had all lived lives of adventure and exploration and excitement, had been felled by the most ordinary of circumstances—Sir Charles had succumbed to a recurrent bout of malaria, Malcomb passed on in his chair in front of the fire so peacefully it took Poppy several hours to realize he had indeed left this life and Effie’s dear William, having had a long and illustrious career in Her Majesty’s army without scarcely a scrape, fell from a ladder he shouldn’t have been on in the first place. It was scant comfort to Effie that she’d told him not to climb the blasted ladder.
While they were excellent husbands—even if they were scarcely ever present, which, depending upon one’s point of view, might have contributed to their long and happy marriages—they’d not given enough thought to providing for their wives’ financial futures in the event of their demise. Gwen suspected, as they had survived any number of perilous adventures, they never imagined their days would be cut short in the relative safety of home. The end result of their lack of foresight was that their widows were slowly and inevitably running out of funds. The three friends had each saved some money through the years, and Effie did have a small military pension, but they estimated it would not be long before they would all be penniless. Being penniless as well as in one’s seventies was not a pleasant prospect.
“Of course.” Poppy sighed. “We really have to do something about that.” She straightened her shoulders. “For now I shall see if your cook has the broth ready.”
“Oh, goody.” Effie forced a cheery smile. “Broth.”
“You’re fortunate your cook is so skilled at broth.” Poppy cast Effie an encouraging smile and took her leave.
“Mm-mm, more broth,” Gwen said softly, the corners of her mouth twitching in an effort to hold back a laugh.
“I hate broth.” Effie let out a resigned breath. “This won’t be nearly as funny next week when you’re the one in bed.”
Gwen lowered the paper. “Oh, no. We agreed there should be at least two to three weeks between illnesses so as not to arouse her suspicions.”
