her mama from having peacock feathers added to it and she wore a simple pearl necklace like the other young women in white who appeared to be about her age, even if the pearls were perfectly matched and clasped with a first-rate diamond. ‘I don’t mind a jot, Mama. I don’t care if I’m a wallflower.’
‘Violets may grow in the shade, but they’re never wallflowers.’ Her father patted her shoulder as he stood and made an elaborate bow to his wife.
They made their way to the dance floor. The orchestra struck up another waltz. Her father took her mother in his arms.
The sensation of being held in the arms of the man who had caught her when she fell from the balcony came back to her. She’d relived it more than once, that sense of safety and danger, too, with his lips so close to hers. He’d even appeared in her dreams the night before, shouting something at her from the garden below as she leaned out of the first-floor window of a big house she didn’t recognise.
She wondered what it would be like to dance with a man, held like that. She wasn’t likely to find out. Tonight, she wasn’t even going to dance.
Never mind. She jerked up her chin.
She’d made her secret decision long ago, when she first became a suffragette. Of course, she hadn’t confided in her parents, any more than she’d told them about her suffragette activities. They wouldn’t understand. But she would stick to her decision. She would put aside those hopes and dreams, her own desires, for the greater good. For the Cause.
Violet could so clearly recall the moment the Cause had seized her, body and soul. She had read about the suffragettes in The Times newspaper, which she much preferred to the fashion papers. A thrill of excitement had run through her as she learned about the women fighting to be allowed to vote, led by Emmeline Pankhurst. Like Violet, Mrs Pankhurst came from Manchester, in the north of England. ‘Deeds, not words,’ she urged her followers.
‘Deeds, not words’, Violet repeated to herself. In her own way, she’d vowed, she would make a difference, add her daring deeds to the Cause. She might not be able to join suffragette rallies, or go to meetings, or march in the streets, as she longed to. Her parents would never allow it. But she kept sewing her banners. No one would stop her.
‘You keep your promises.’ A deep voice came back to her. The man on the street had sensed she was someone who would keep true to her word and her deeds. She had sensed the same in him, too.
Her parents twirled past. Her father was surprisingly light on his feet and her mother was smiling now, to Violet’s relief. She did so want her parents’ happiness.
Sometimes she wished they had stayed in Manchester. They were happier there in their large house a few miles outside the town. But her mama wanted Violet to have everything and so did her papa, and that meant moving to London for the Season. They believed there were more opportunities.
Dancing lessons. Elocution lessons. French lessons. Riding lessons. Music lessons. To please her parents she took them all and it left precious little time to herself. So she sewed her banners and carried out her plans at night.
Deeds, not words.
On the way into the ballroom, she’d spotted another excellent target. Two targets, to be precise.
Violet rubbed her thighs together and heard the rustle of silk.
* * *
Adam Beaufort stared across the ballroom.
There could be no doubt. He narrowed his eyes as he studied the young woman who sat in the alcove opposite. She was accompanied, until they took to the dance floor, by an older man and woman, the man attired in a well-cut evening suit that nevertheless appeared to be straining at the buttons and the woman in canary-yellow satin.
He moved slightly behind the half-closed velvet curtain. He could see the young woman, but she couldn’t see him. Yes. It was the climbing suffragette. Her hair had been loosened by her tumble when he’d last seen her and instead of a ball gown she’d been clad in smooth, slippery stuff that he could still seem to touch in his hands. Beneath it her flesh had been warm and soft.
He took the covert opportunity to examine her more closely. Her hair was a glossy chestnut colour that reminded him of a horse he’d ridden as a child, when the stables had been full at Beauley Manor. Most of the horses had been sold off now. Her white gown was understated, in contrast with her mother’s, for he presumed the pair to be her parents. Its simplicity showed off her fine complexion that was possibly her best feature.
Yes, she was pretty. Though he might not have remembered her if he hadn’t caught her in his arms.
He grinned to himself.
He’d been uninterested at the ball until he spotted her. The same faces, the same gossip. He couldn’t think why he’d consented to come. But it was preferable to sitting at his desk and going through the family papers and accounts yet again, hoping the numbers would add up differently.
‘Who is that in the alcove opposite?’ he asked.
His mother lifted her lorgnette. ‘I have no idea.’
‘No one we would know,’ said Arabella.
Adam winced. Arabella could sound snobbish and sharp, but he knew that his elder sister often sounded sharp when she was anxious and she was anxious now. She was intelligent, too. She’d guessed the extent of their financial straits, even though he’d shouldered the burden alone. There was no point in alarming them until it was absolutely necessary, though he guessed both Arabella and Jane had some notion. They’d seen him work on the estate accounts night after night, ever since their father died.
‘Wait.’ His mother peered through her eyeglass. ‘She comes from somewhere in the north. Her father is Reginald Coombes. He makes some kind of confectionery. She’s the sole heiress, I believe.’
‘Oh, gosh,’ said Jane. ‘That must be Coombes Chocolates. They’re delicious.’
A sweet heiress. Adam chuckled inwardly. Well, well.
‘She’s wearing a lovely dress,’ Jane said rather wistfully. ‘It’s so much nicer than mine. I’m surprised no one wants to dance with her.’
Jane was wearing a debutante hand-me-down of Arabella’s, bless her heart. A couple of extra inches of white trimming that almost matched had been added at the hem. Arabella wore a gown in a shade of mustard that did nothing for her complexion or thin figure, the unfortunate fabric a bargain buy at the haberdasher’s. She hadn’t attracted many partners, either.
‘You’re a Beaufort,’ his mother said to Jane. ‘It doesn’t matter what you wear.’
‘I think it might, Mama,’ said Jane, with a sigh.
Indeed, being dressed in rags might matter, Adam thought grimly. He dreaded breaking the news of the extent of their diminished means to his mother and sisters. Telling them exactly what was left of the family fortune—precisely nothing—wasn’t something he looked forward to.
Adam studied Reginald Coombes. Short and stout, he possessed the same bright blue eyes as his daughter. The mother, a blonde whose prettiness was almost overwhelmed by her yellow satin and more diamonds than Adam had ever seen on one person, gazed at her husband with obvious affection. It touched him that they seemed happier
