All her promises, that was, except one.
As soon as Christian’s rowboat safely cleared the cove, she stashed the lamp behind a boulder and hastened up the beach path. She took the long way around the village, racing the dawn over pastures and fallow fields. With a pang of regret, she dropped her woolen cloak into a stream. She wouldn’t be able to explain it later.
As she neared the back garden of Summerfield, raised voices reached her ears. No doubt they were turning the manor inside-out, searching for her and the mysterious stranger.
How was she going to slip back inside unnoticed? What possible excuse could she invent?
If she’d had days or weeks or even a few hours, she might have been able to formulate a plan. But she didn’t even have seconds. A rear door swung open with a bone-chilling whoosh.
Two militiamen. Any moment, they would see her.
Violet made her body go limp. She dropped flat to the snow-dusted ground.
And there she remained for an agonizingly cold quarter-hour or more, until the men found her. If only she’d collapsed a little closer to the house!
But find her they did. Eventually. She allowed herself to be carried inside. She looked her best friends right in the eye and merrily dished them up falsehoods for breakfast.
She’d been drugged, she told them. Just like Mr. Fosbury. Only she’d managed to stay conscious long enough to follow the stranger outside. She’d tracked him as far as the back garden, and there she’d collapsed.
No, she hadn’t gained any clues to his identity.
No, she had no idea what he might have wanted or where he might have gone.
Yes, it was a remarkable thing that she wasn’t a human icicle, after lying in the frost all those hours. She might have frozen to death. A Christmas miracle, she supposed.
Lord Rycliff was most displeased with Fosbury, and rather harshly berated the tavern-keeper for his lapse in vigilance. Violet felt a slight twinge of guilt on his account.
Still, she did not breathe a word.
The militiamen searched the coastline and countryside, but never found any trace of the mysterious intruder—nothing but a smugglers’ lamp stashed behind a boulder, down in the cove. That seemed an explanation in and of itself. Clearly, the mysterious stranger had been some associate of Bright’s. Or an enemy. Either way, it was a matter for the Excise.
As he was hauled off, Bright did some wild raving about a slatternly girl breaking into his shop. But considering how he’d been discovered—reeking of spirits and tangled in a compromising position with a dress form—most were inclined to believe he’d mistaken Nellie. The poor, stuffed dear had been ruined in more ways than one.
The militia handed Bright to the magistrate, Violet went home to London, and that was the end of the excitement.
Violet carried on with her life. On Twelfth Night, they dined with the Pierce family next door. She inquired politely after Christian’s health and listened to the duke describe his youngest son’s adventures in the West Indies. She spent much of February shopping with Christian’s sister for a whole new wardrobe, patiently listening to all her advice on attracting eligible beaux. Just as she’d vowed, Violet never spoke of that night to anyone in her family, or his.
She kept all her promises. Save one.
Try as she might, Violet could not behave as if the night had never occurred. The effects of it shivered through her life in a dozen small, barely perceptible ways.
She spoke her mind a bit more often. Her tastes ran to daring styles and colors when she visited the modiste. She was bolder, more confident.
How could she not be? Others looked at her and saw Miss Violet Winterbottom, late-blooming wallflower. But beneath the disguise, she knew herself to be Lady Christian Pierce, seductress and secret agent.
From the first ball of the Season, her increased confidence drew interested gazes from gentlemen and several complimentary remarks from her mother’s friends. Her mother credited the healthful atmosphere of Spindle Cove, and both Lady Melforth and Mrs. Busk expressed a particular wish to send their own patience-trying daughters on holiday.
Good, Violet thought, smiling to herself. Very good. She didn’t know that the girls would find husbands there, but they just might find themselves.
Before she knew it, it was April. When word reached England of Napoleon’s surrender at Versailles, all London rejoiced. And from that day forward, Violet’s nerves were strung tight as bowstrings. She spent far too much time sitting in the front parlor, gazing out at the square. By night, she watched for any light in his darkened chambers.
At the Beaufetheringstone ball, Violet even found herself scanning the crowd for his dark, wavy hair and roguish smile.