Page 39 of Again, Scoundrel

For the next week, Violet stayed at home while her mother, aunt, and cousin visited the modiste, paid social calls, and attended salons and musicales. The women of Chester House accepted every invitation made to them in an effort to assuage any doubts as to Catherine’s reputation and to circulate her as much as possible in society.

Their efforts seemed to be working to great effect, as the receiving room was full of hothouse flowers and calling cards for her cousin.

Violet, much to her surprise, found herself bored senseless. Not that she relished balls and outings with the ton, but the dullness of seclusion was too much for her. She was not made to sit still and read, unless it was an engrossing medical text, but she had carried only one of those across the Atlantic and had finished it through twice-over already.

She couldn’t stand embroidery and didn’t play the pianoforte, so she found herself wandering aimlessly from room to room, making idle conversation with the servants until she realized she was getting in the way of their duties and making them uncomfortable to boot.

In New York, she’d spent her days much as she pleased, working with the nursing brigades, studying with other medical professionals—physicians and surgeons and nurses and midwives—anyone who would speak with her and share their knowledge. She read all the latest texts on disease theory and occasionally wrote her own treatises that she stored away in her desk.

One of those, a study on the correlation between emotional agitation and asthma, had helped her tremendously with Miss Jenson’s episode. She’d seen the correlation in her patients in New York, so she’d known right away that it was Miss Jenson’s mother who was making the asthma attack worse.

And when she wasn’t working, Violet rode or took long walks through the city. She was meant to do things, to move. Not be kept inside like some fragile porcelain ornament.

But unfortunately, the women didn’t keep a stable at Chester House, and long walks alone were frowned upon. Her mother had repeatedly warned her that she didn’t have the liberty to act here as she did at home, that London’s rules of behavior for young women were much stricter than New York’s, and that safeguarding Catherine’s reputation so that she received an offer was the highest priority.

All of which meant that Violet was lonely. Fortunately, the Scot in the park had offered something to occupy her time. Discreetly, of course. So, when her mother, aunt, and cousin left on yet another round of calls, Violet went to her reticule and searched out the card he’d left with her.

She felt a brief pang of guilt that she would go without Catherine, but there was nothing she could do about that. Catherine certainly couldn’t engage in any activity that might put her reputation and future betrothal at risk.

The Scot’s sister did her work on Wednesdays, Violet remembered. Today was Tuesday. She’d leave tomorrow as early as possible.

Meanwhile, at Nowhere…

Alistair sat across the booth from McGann and stared at him incredulously. “I will not marry Violet Goodwin,” he said matter-of-factly. “The plan was for me to raise money through my ties to the peerage and you to marry into it. Not me.”

McGann eyed him over his glass of whisky. “You ruined the plan, Crawford, and you know it. You cannot introduce me to her now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I can.”

“Are you daft, man? If you’d wished me to marry the lass, you should have kept your hands to yourself. She’ll not take an introduction from you now. Not if her life depended on it.”

Alistair bristled at McGann’s insinuation. He was right, of course, that by laying his hands—and his lips—on Violet, he’d scuttled any right he had to introduce her to McGann. But the Scot didn’t know that.

Alistair clasped his hands in front of him and refused Esmee’s offer of a whisky.

“I thought Miss Goodwin was hurt,” he finally said. “That’s all it was.”

“You really are a fool, then. There’s something between you and the lass. You ought not to deny it.”

Alistair didn’t reply.

“Look,” McGann said. “If we’re to be partners, which we’ve already agreed to, we’ll have to be honest with one another. And you’re either not being honest with me or you’re not being honest with yourself. How you feel about that lass was written all over your face. ‘Twas not the look of a man who does not care. ‘Twas the look of a man who cares too much.”

“I’m not marrying her,” Alistair said. “But I swear I will raise the money elsewhere.” He paused. “If you don’t want the introduction to Violet, that is your decision to make. But do let me know how you plan to raise your half of the funding.”

McGann just shrugged. “No need for your introduction now. I’ve taken care of that myself. But never let me hear you say I did not give you the chance, Crawford. I’ll not have you moaning about it later.”

Alistair arched his eyebrow. “Moaning about what, exactly?”

“Come around tomorrow and we’ll work out a plan. I’ve invited the lass here on Thursday.”

“You invited Miss Goodwin HERE?”

“Aye, I did. I could not leave it to you to get the job done after the Waverly Ball debacle, could I? But don’t worry about Miss Goodwin. She’ll be in fine hands.”

“I’ll know what your game is, McGann.”

“I’m not playing one. Tomorrow, Crawford. We’ll meet with my sister and work out what comes next.”