Furthermore, she was fairly certain that affectionate nursemaids did not result in consumptives miraculously finding themselves cured—indeed, if physical devotion had any effect at all on an invalid, she thought it likely some enterprising woman would have already had the brilliant idea of creating a combined brothel and hospital.

All of these logical questions, however, paled in importance compared to her strongest, most instinctive reaction: that she would rather have actual consumption than be forced to live under the same roof as her mother for even one night.

She could not, however, say that to her husband. Her husband, who was watching her with an uncharacteristically attentive look in his eye. She narrowed her eyes at him in return.

“What an . . . unexpected idea,” she offered.

He nodded. “I know you’ve had your differences with her, but who better than the woman who raised you to attend you in your moment of need?”

She smiled sweetly at him. “I’m afraid my childhood nurse lives in Somerset now, darling.”

James waved a hand dismissively. “I’m not saying your mother was the most attentive parent, but this seems like a perfect opportunity to let her make up for lost time.”

“I don’t think . . .” Violet began, but a sound that would surely haunt her nightmares came emanating from the corridor just outside her bedroom: her mother’s voice, outside her bedroom door.

“Where is my daughter?” the countess demanded; Violet would have thought it rather obvious where to find an invalid, but it occurred to her that her mother likely didn’t know where her bedchamber was—Violet could count on one hand the number of times Lady Worthington had visited Curzon Street since Violet’s marriage.

She must have received some sort of murmured direction from whichever beleaguered servant had the misfortune to be accompanying her, for a moment later the door was flung open and Lady Worthington stood in the doorway, looking for all the world as though she expected a round of applause for this performance of Loving Parent Rushing to Offspring’s Bedside.

Violet groaned internally.

“What was that noise?” her mother demanded; apparently, that groan had not been internal at all. “I’ve never heard her make that noise before; surely it must be a symptom of her illness.”

“Are you feeling any great discomfort?” James asked Violet solicitously, leaning over her to place a hand on her not-so-fevered brow. “As you will see, I took the liberty of inviting your mother to come attend to you. I would have asked you before doing so, but I thought that you would attempt to downplay the severity of your illness, so as not to put Lady Worthington to any trouble.” His voice was solemn, but his eyes were teasing. And in that instant, he made her suspect that he knew.

She could not, of course, accuse him of anything within her mother’s hearing. Instead, she said, “I hardly think I need such a fuss made.”

James cupped her cheek and turned to look at Lady Worthington, who had made her way to Violet’s bedside and was looking at Violet’s rather tousled hair with an expression of vague distaste. “This is what I meant,” he said to her mother. “My Violet. My flower. So courageous in the face of grievous illness.”

Lady Worthington sniffed. “Audley, please don’t become maudlin, or I may find myself in need of a physician as well.” She looked at Violet, frowning. “You look flushed. Are you feverish?”

“I wish,” Violet said honestly. “That might indicate that this was naught but a horrible nightmare.”

“She must be feverish,” Lady Worthington said to James.

“She clearly requires constant attention,” James said earnestly. “I have been, naturally, as attentive as I can manage, but I thought a feminine presence . . .” He trailed off.

“Indeed,” Lady Worthington said curtly, with the air of someone resolving herself to tackle an unpleasant task. “A sickbed is no place for a man, Audley. Leave it to me.”

“Of course.” James leaned forward to press a kiss to Violet’s brow. “I will leave you in your mother’s loving care.”

I will murder you in your sleep for this, Violet attempted to say with her eyes as he gave her a limpid, loving, thoroughly sickening look. His lovesick smile slipped for a second, replaced momentarily by an entirely self-satisfied grin, and in that instant she knew two things beyond a doubt.

One, her eyes’ message had been received.

Two, he undoubtedly knew that she wasn’t ill.

Eight

It had, James reflected over a late luncheon the next afternoon, been a remarkably enjoyable day. The day before, he’d had to work very hard on several occasions to stifle his laughter at the expressions on Violet’s face—which had ranged from incredulous to murderous—but on the whole, he’d put on a rather impressive performance. When he finally left his wife in her mother’s care the previous afternoon, she’d been propped up by enough pillows to support an entire family, under a layer of bedclothes thick enough to ward off a Russian winter. Her mother had been patting her gingerly on the shoulder with an air of long-suffering weariness that implied that she expected to shortly be sainted for this effort. He wondered how long it had taken for Violet to convince her mother to leave—he had seen no sign of the countess at the dinner or breakfast tables, and an inquiry of Wooton confirmed that the countess had not occupied the room James had ordered prepared for her.