On his way out of the room he’d caught Price on the stairs with a stack of books in her hand, so he’d guessed that Violet was running some sort of elaborate scheme to continue her library cataloguing project from the confines of her bedchamber—it must have driven her mad to have her mother’s visit interrupt her progress. In some ways, this was an improvement—at least now he could enter the library at any hour of the day without worrying about finding her there, filling the room with her scent, biting her lip in concentration as she scribbled away at her catalogue, her face as beautiful as it always was when she was deep in thought.

He’d been half expecting to find her up at dawn, or at least by the time he left for an early meeting with his man of business about a pending sale of a stallion. He shut himself away in his study for several hours with a neglected pile of correspondence, both stables related and personal, and when he grew peckish and rang for a footman to ask for a tray to be sent in, he learned that Violet still had not made an appearance outside of her bedchamber.

He allowed himself a brief moment of surprise as he accepted the tray placed before him on his desk, wondering at her lingering in bed, but promptly decided that she must have calculated that she could not reemerge, bright-eyed and in the full flush of health, without rousing his suspicions. He told himself that this was all the better—his trick had worked so well that she had now taken to punishing herself—but he could not deny the small voice within him that noted that tormenting Violet was considerably more entertaining when he was actually in her company.

He took a bite of bread—upon which he promptly choked, when Violet entered the room.

“Good afternoon, darling,” she said sunnily, sinking into the chair facing his desk. She was dressed in a riding habit of midnight blue, her dark hair pulled neatly back from her face into some sort of elaborate braided concoction at her nape. She looked beautiful—and perfectly healthy.

His eyes narrowed.

Violet seemed not to notice. “Did you sleep well?” She reached forward and, without so much as a by-your-leave, poured a cup of tea, which she nudged toward him.

James, being rather occupied with the task of forcing air back into his lungs, took a moment to reply.

“Very,” he finally managed, taking a healthy gulp of tea and watching as she prepared a cup for herself. He was amused to note that her inability to pour tea without at least a splash or two winding up in the saucer remained unchanged. “What are you—”

“Oh, I’m feeling much improved this afternoon,” she said cheerfully, stirring sugar into her tea. The sound of the spoon against china was loud in the otherwise silent room. “My mother’s visit really worked wonders—you were entirely correct in that regard. I can scarcely believe what a miraculous recovery I have made. But then, this is how Briggs said it might be, you see.”

“Did he?”

“Oh, yes.” She beamed at him, and he averted his eyes. Her face was radiant when she smiled, and he sternly reminded himself not to be distracted by a pair of sparkling eyes and uneven dimples—he had made that mistake five years earlier, and all he had gotten in exchange was a brief window of happiness, followed by a long period of regret. “One day bedridden, the next up and about as though nothing were at all the matter.”

Despite the knowledge that she was lying to his face, James was nevertheless amused. She seemed to be taking an awful gamble that he knew nothing at all about the symptoms of consumption—which, admittedly, he didn’t, but he’d never heard anything about the wild fluctuation in health associated with the disease.

“Interesting.” He drew the word out slowly. “You know, darling, I can’t help but think this isn’t at all consistent with what I’ve read of consumption in the past.” Which was nothing. But she didn’t need to know that.

“Oh, James.” She waved an airy hand as though he were being entirely foolish—was he imagining it, or did she seem more alert than normal? “I’m certain Dr. Briggs knows more about it than you do—or would you like to summon your own physician for a second opinion?”

She blinked at him innocently.

His eyes narrowed. What the bloody hell was going on? Did she know that he knew? But how could she possibly?—he’d only learned the truth for certain the previous day, and she’d not seen anyone but him and her mother in the interim.

Belatedly realizing that she was still awaiting his reply, he said slowly, “Yes, perhaps we shall. I’m certain Dr. Worth would like to make a thorough examination of you.” And why, oh why, did discussion of a physician visiting Violet have to send such utterly lewd images into his mind? Never had the word examination sounded so . . . obscene. Clearly he was going slightly mad from lack of female contact.

Or, he amended hastily, entirely too much female contact of the non-nude variety.

“Anytime you wish, James,” Violet said, raising an eyebrow as if they were playing chess and she was awaiting his countermove—which James had a sudden feeling was remarkably close to the truth.

Feeling it best to tread on safer ground, he asked, “When did your mother depart?”

“Yesterday afternoon, not too long after she arrived,” Violet said, a note of satisfaction in her voice.

“How did you manage that?” he asked, impressed despite himself—Lady Worthington did not strike him as a woman easily dismissed.