Diana raised one expressive eyebrow.

“We crossed paths on the road, you see. In Kent. We happened to be at the same coaching inn. He was rather surprised, shall we say, to see me, and not terribly pleased when he learned Penvale had written to me of his injury.”

“Men,” Diana pronounced, shaking her head.

“Quite,” Violet said, taking a sip of her tea but barely tasting it. She wished it were socially acceptable for a lady to invite one’s friends over for an afternoon brandy instead. She didn’t even particularly like brandy, though she had partaken of it a couple of times with James in private, early in their marriage. However, she thought it likely that a splash of brandy would soothe her far more than tea at the moment.

“My point, however,” she continued, “is that I’ve had enough.” She sat up straighter in her chair, stiffening her spine in acknowledgment of her own proclamation. “I cannot bear to live like this any longer.”

“You can come live with me,” Diana offered at once. “I’ve an enormous house all to myself. I think the servants all find me rather pathetic.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Violet said, and Diana slumped. “But I plan to take action. If James thinks so little of my place in his life that he believes I don’t have the right to know whether he’s alive or dead, then I think it’s only fair to let him know what that feels like.”

“What do you mean?” Emily asked, lowering her teacup.

“I’m going to turn the tables on him,” Violet announced. She had given this plan a great deal of thought in the hours before Diana and Emily had arrived. “Let’s see how he likes it when I take ill and he doesn’t learn about it immediately.” She took a sip of tea with great satisfaction, as Diana and Emily exchanged a covert look of skepticism.

“Violet,” said Emily slowly, clearly pondering how best to phrase whatever was to come next. “Don’t you think that you and Lord James”—Emily was always very conscious of titles—“might be overdue for a conversation?”

“I cannot think of anything that sounds less appealing.” Violet avoided both her friends’ eyes under the guise of carefully selecting a scone from the tea service.

“I agree with Emily,” Diana said unexpectedly. “It’s been four years of this nonsense, and I’ve held my tongue”—Violet snorted—“for the most part,” Diana added hastily, “but if you’ve now stooped to the level of childish tricks, then I think this has gone on quite long enough.”

“You don’t understand—” Violet began, but Diana cut her off.

“Of course we don’t,” she said severely. “Because you’ve never told us anything about what this foolish argument was about in the first place.”

This was, in fact, the truth. In the days following that horrible morning, Violet had been too distraught to say much of anything to her friends. She’d been sleeping in her own bedchamber for the first time in her marriage, and she missed James’s warm presence beside her in the bed at night. She missed his surprise midday arrivals at the house, the feeling of his strong arms unexpectedly sliding around her as she sat reading or writing in the library, the scratch of stubble as he pressed a warm kiss to her neck. She missed the heat of his kisses, the feel of his bare skin sliding against her own.

She had even missed their arguments, infuriating as they were. Marriage to James was many things, but placid was not always one of them. They had quarreled frequently during their first year of wedded bliss—so frequently she thought bitterly in those long days immediately after their separation, that she ought to have seen this coming. And yet, they had always made up—often in spectacularly enjoyable fashion. Until now.

In short, she was miserable. And by the time she became slightly less miserable, and began to just get on with it, she had no desire to discuss the events of that day. Every time she thought about it she felt hurt and betrayed all over again, the sting of James’s lack of trust in her, his inability to overcome the first instance of his faith in her being tested, as biting as it had been on that first morning, and the thought of sharing the story of their argument sounded as appealing as pouring lemon juice onto a paper cut. Meaning that no one—not her two closest friends, not her mother (perish the thought), no one—knew the reasons for her falling-out with James. Except, she supposed, for James’s father. He’d likely worked it out quite easily. But since she, like James, made it a practice to have as little contact with the duke as possible, it was never a subject that had been broached.

“I don’t wish to discuss it,” Violet said, her voice sounding stiff even to her own ears.

“But, Violet, it’s been four years now,” Diana protested. “If you’d just tell us what the bastard’s done, I should feel much better able to adjust my own behavior accordingly. I never know whether I should be moderately cold or if I should give him the cut direct. I shall feel wretched if he’s done something beyond the pale and I’ve been making polite conversation with him for years.”

“Carry on with your conversations,” Violet said, cutting off Diana’s flow of chatter once the latter paused for breath. Avoiding Diana’s hawkish gaze, she instead looked at Emily, who was surveying her with a peculiar expression on her face, one that she hoped very much wasn’t pity.