Upon her marriage, Violet had been able to engage in these activities openly within her own home, this small amount of freedom almost dizzying at first. James had been greatly amused to learn of her wide and varied interests, and had on more than one occasion offered to attempt to publish her poetry for her, but she had declined.

“It’s not rubbish, but it’s not brilliant, either,” she had explained to him once. “I think I’m far too interested in too many things to excel at one single pursuit.”

He had smiled at her, touching his hand to her cheek, but she could see he didn’t truly understand—he, with his brilliant mind for mathematics, could not comprehend a mind like Violet’s, built for dabbling.

In any case, she had, on more than one occasion over the past four years, spared a moment’s gratitude for her ceaseless and wide-ranging curiosity; it was what had kept her sane in a marriage that had become so dissatisfying.

In the first year of her marriage, of course, it hadn’t mattered much. James had been home quite frequently then, sometimes stopping by in the middle of the day for no other reason than to see her. Now, he spent much of his day out of the house—she gathered, from fragments of conversation she overheard, that he had frequent meetings with his man of business about the finances of the stables at Audley House, and she assumed he was as reluctant as he had ever been to delegate any of that responsibility. He still journeyed to Kent frequently—sometimes at a rate of once or twice a week, depending on what was afoot at the stables at a particular time of year. Once, it would have bothered her; now, of course, it scarcely made much difference, since even when he was home, he was often locked away in his study for hours on end, attending to the never-ending series of tasks that required his attention as a landowner and the holder of a fortune in horseflesh. At least, she assumed that was what he was doing. It wasn’t as though he ever told her himself.

This thought served to reignite some of her anger of the previous afternoon, as she recalled once again the feeling of looking up as she stepped out the door of the Blue Dove to see him standing there, perfectly healthy, staring at her with an expression of shock that she was certain must have mirrored her own. It was bad enough that it hadn’t even occurred to Penvale to write to tell her of James’s improved condition—although, she was forced to admit, she had dashed off in such a hurry after receiving his first note that she likely would have missed it. But that her husband—her husband!—had seemed disgruntled that Penvale had written at all . . . It was . . . well . . .

Intolerable.

Yes, it was intolerable. And Violet wasn’t going to stand for it any longer.

She turned to her writing desk, which was set before one of the windows, and retrieved a blank sheet of paper and a pen and ink. She scrawled a hasty note, then made a copy of it on another sheet of paper, and threw down her pen.

Turning on her heel, she swept out of the library, startling a footman who was passing.

“John!” she said, holding out the two missives. “See that these are delivered to Lady Templeton and Lady Emily Turner with all necessary haste.” He bowed and made as if to turn. “And John,” she added, causing him to freeze in his tracks, “see that Mrs. Willis has a particularly fine tea prepared this afternoon. We shall be three, and we shall be hungry.”

As Violet had expected, both Diana and Emily were exceedingly prompt in their arrival that afternoon. They entered the drawing room within moments of one another with similarly inquisitive expressions.

“Please, take a seat,” Violet said, standing to greet them. “And thank you for responding to my urgent summons.”

“It’s not as though I had much else to do,” Diana said, honestly if not flatteringly. She smoothed the skirts of her green afternoon gown before sinking with her usual languor onto a settee.

“I cherish your friendship as well,” Violet said sweetly. She paused as Anna, one of the maids, entered with a lavish tea service. “Thank you, Anna, that will be all—and would you be so good as to close the door on your way out?” This done, Violet leaned forward to pour.

“Violet, what on earth is this all about?” Diana asked impatiently the moment the door snicked shut. “I am judging based on your attire that you haven’t joined me in the ranks of widows?”

Violet shot a reproving glance at Diana, who was wont to take the idea of a dead husband rather more lightly than was perhaps proper.

“No,” Violet said, splashing tea into the saucer of the first cup. Emily wordlessly reached over and removed the teapot from her grip. She proceeded to pour three cups. “James has apparently made a full recovery from his accident.”

“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” Emily asked, handing around the other two teacups before taking a sip of the unadulterated contents of her own cup.

“No,” Violet said grumpily, doling milk and sugar into the other two cups.

“You would look lovely in black, though,” Diana said, before quailing under Emily’s glare. Emily had a glare that proved remarkably effective on the rare occasions she employed it.

“As I was saying,” Violet said, and Diana fell silent, “I’m a bit . . .” She trailed off, searching for the most appropriate adjective. Selecting one at random, she continued. “. . . perturbed to learn that my own dear husband is irritated by the fact that his wife was alerted to his possible deathblow.”