Winter Rose
Marlborough House, London
Several hours later
"It is a disgrace!"
Sir William Bywell thumped his fist upon the delicate Louis XIV side table. His bristling chin crackled with indignation. Pale eyes, rheumy from the lingering sting of cigar smoke, narrowed on the smooth face of his companion.
A look of horror spasmed the pallid face of Hepworth's American spouse. Ignored by both her husband and the surrounding company for much of the preceding dinner, she took advantage of the free-and-easy atmosphere of the drawing room to test her conversational skills against the least intimidating member of the party. In the genial and portly Sir William, Clarice Hepworth thought she perceived a fellow pariah. She summoned her courage and the information she had gleaned from the morning newspapers to venture a comment on the recent formation of the Irish Home Rule League.
The Duchess of Argyll tittered behind her gloved hand. "Goodness, what a goose that creature is! Doesn't she know Bywell is daggers drawn with those people? They say he fears for his seat in the House if this Shaw character gets any head of steam."
Violet studied the stammering blonde above the rim of her fan. One copper eyebrow raised. "Bywell is the fool if he cannot muster his forces against that rabble. His seat has been a rotten borough since the Domesday book."
"La, Countess, I wonder at your knowledge!" The two noblewomen looked up as a cloud of perfume enveloped them from high.
Lady Bywell, a voluptuous woman who made the most of her attributes in a low-cut lilac gown, fluttered a peacock fan against the snowy mounds of her bosom. The gesture, drawing the eye to Lady Bywell's famous creamy skin and bountiful figure, was designed to attract the attention of the masculine half of the drawing room. In this object, the lady succeeded admirably, having already received compliments from the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Argyll in quick succession.
The Earl of Grantham had not been so quick. But then, Violet reflected in bitter irony, her husband had greater leisure to peruse the fleshy charms of Lady Bywell in their own, private, time together.
Above the luxuriant feathers, two black eyes gleamed with feral delight. "I declare, I can barely suffer to pick up a book. I fear I am sadly out of touch compared to Lady Hepworth and your own good self." She paused and tapped the stem of her fan against her full ruby lips. "But then, modern women have such progressive views, do they not?"
Violet was not quite sure which particular insult in that poisonous little speech she resented more: to be labelled in the same category as the unfortunate Clarice Hepworth, the laughing stock of London; or the implication that to be modern and progressive was an inherent crime.
Her mother had expressed similar views to Jacqueline Bywell. If there was one promise Violet had made, it was never, never to duplicate her mother.
"Indeed, Lady Bywell." A casual flick of the wrist and her own fan was unfurled. The gilded paper glittered like a shield in the soft candlelight. "So refreshing, don't you think? More interesting than the stale, out-dated views of the older generation."
The woman standing above the young Countess could not repress a flush of anger. At six years Violet's senior and rapidly approaching middle-age, the shaft hit close to home for Lady Bywell.
"More interesting? La, what a unique view, Countess!" The titter flew as fast as her beating fan. "I dare say, in some quarters. But in the general run?"
"Surely you are aware, Lady Bywell, that I take pride in not placing my behaviour with the lowest common denominator."
The Duchess did not need to gasp. Violet knew she had taken her taunts too far. Two spots of anger appeared under Jacqueline Bywell's liberal application of rouge. The sloe-dark eyes narrowed in feline rage. If before Violet had a rival, it was beyond doubt that she know had an enemy.
Well. The young Countess inhaled the drawing room's stale air. The flicker of Hepworth's waistcoat caught her eye. It would not be the first.
"My Lord Grantham?" Jacqueline's eyes never left Violet's face even as the kittenish purr gurgled through the room.
Violet's fingers tightened on the stem of her fan so strongly, she was in danger of ripping the delicate paper. As eager as one of his hounds, her husband of eight years strolled from the clump of gentlemen gathered about the Prince of Wales to the siren call of Lady Bywell's tones. To the stranger, his face was a bland, polite mask. To Violet, it was as plain as a fly rolling in a pot of marmalade.
The young Countess scarcely attended to the Duchess of Argyll's murmured excuse, the rustle of her departing skirts. Loyalty could not be expected in matrimonial matters. God knows, the Duchess had her own problems with which to contend. Argyll's gambling debts were saved from being scandal fodder for the periodicals only by the dint of his blood connection to the Lord Chancellor.
"Lady Bywell. How may I be of service?"
"My lord, you must help me. I have been recounting to dear Lady Grantham that amusing anecdote you mentioned last night…" The dark eyes flicked to Violet's face to see if the implication dawned on her nemesis.
Last night. Violet saw the unconscious smile on her husband's face, the softening of tense jaw muscles at the memory. Her feet itched to stamp on Jacqueline Bywell's smirking face. Her cheeks burned in humiliation but she would not lower her chin in the face of this woman's insult. For insult it was. They both knew that Patrick Crawley had not returned to Grantham House last night.
It took every ounce of self-control to remain on the chaise-lounge, calmly plying her fan. But she had been raised in a school of discipline and self-control was her watchword.
"…Last night." Lady Bywell continued. "But I am so unutterably stupid, I have forgotten all the details. I fear dear Lady Grantham is out of all patience with me."
"How unfair, Violet." The words were cool. He expended more passion summoning one of his damnable dogs.
"Perhaps now your presence is amply provided, Grantham, Lady Bywell can conclude her epic? I see Sir William is becoming restless."
"William will remain." Lady Bywell stated, her voice flat with indifference. A beat later, it had resumed its girlish coo. "It was about dear Alfie, do you recall?"
"I collect, Lady Bywell, you refer to his Grace, the Duke of Edinburgh?" Did a generous bosom entitle the woman to use and abuse the Christian name of every titled gentleman in the vicinity?
"Why, of course."
"How extraordinary." Violet marvelled in false wonder. "To hear a Prince of the Blood so… casually addressed."
"Violet."
"Yes, Grantham?"
He did not continue.
"Alfie was mentioning some of the curious customs these Russians have. Diving into the ice, imagine! Naked." The word emerged in a horrified whisper.
"I imagine such an image remained seared in your mind, Lady Bywell."
The dark beauty glared at the pale face set serenely beneath her. "You are not shocked, Lady Grantham?"
"I imagine the Russian people have a marvellous resistance to the common cold. Other than that, the customs practiced in Muscovy are beyond my particular control, I fancy."
"Perhaps not for much longer?"
"I beg your pardon?" Her voice cut as icy as a Russian Winter.
Innocent surprise sat ill on such a painted face. "Grantham? You have not mentioned it?"
"Have not mentioned what?" Violet snapped, her patience for this game of cat-and-mouse running thin.
For the first time, Grantham appeared uncomfortable. He gave his white satin waistcoat a tug, a futile gesture to cover the hint of his paunch. "Really, Jacqueline, this is hardly the place."
"But we cannot allow the Countess to be the last to know."
"No, we cannot, Grantham." Violet rose to her feet, a waterfall of silk petticoats falling around her legs. Standing, she was nearly nose-to-nose with her saturnine husband and topped his impudent mistress by several inches.
Taking advantage of her height to stare in disdain down her aquiline nose at the coquette, Violet demanded once more. "Mentioned what, Grantham?"
"Violet, you are causing a scene." Patrick hissed, taking hold of her bare elbow. "Sit down."
From behind her husband's bulk, Violet saw a medley of curious eyes turn in the direction of their little tête-à-tête. Hepworth had so abandoned the pursuit of ambition as to stand enthralled by the public sunder of the Grantham alliance. She turned back to her husband's angry gaze.
"A woman's privilege, Patrick. And that of a wife. Now remove your hand and, pray, enlighten me as to this vital piece of information that Lady Bywell is unable to spit out."
The Earl licked his lips. But he removed his hand. "Very well. Since you will not wait a more appropriate time." A caricature of a smile enveloped his face. "I have the delight to inform you - indeed, the entire company present - that the marriage contract between Prince Alfred and the Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna has been finalised. I have been accorded the privilege of standing as groomsman and you, my dear, will spend the New Year of 1874 in the Winter Palace of St Petersburg."
He leaned in. A harsh whisper brushed the shell of Violet's ear. "And believe me, Violet, when I assure you that, in this particular matter, you cannot refuse."