it was all at risk. The factory. Her papa’s health. Her mama’s happiness. The cost of being a suffragette had proved far greater than she had ever imagined.
She stared at the tin of chocolates. Its outline blurred before her eyes.
‘Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them,’ she reminded herself.
The scent of cocoa and flowers wafted up as she opened the lid and held it out towards Adam Beaufort. ‘Would you like a chocolate fondant?’
He appeared startled, then smiled. ‘Perhaps later. I’m afraid my nanny drummed into me that sweets before luncheon were the road to ruin.’
Violet smiled back, the threat of tears retreating. He had a knack of lightening the mood of a situation.
She popped a violet cream into her mouth. The familiar taste, with its dark, almost spicy chocolate, the sugar-coated violet petal on top and the contrasting smoothness of the sweet fondant inside, gave her a surge of vigour.
Replacing the tin on the table, she ran her finger over the embossed picture of roses, violets, lavender and pansies. Her mother had confided once that they had planned a whole nursery full of children, the girls to be named after the flowers that had made their fortune and the first boy, her mother had said, would be named Reginald, after her papa. Those other children had never come. Violet hadn’t felt lonely on her own, so she’d not missed sisters and brothers. She’d never known that her father felt the loss of a son so keenly. Not until today.
Her papa didn’t have the heir he wanted. Instead, he had a daughter who had brought disrepute to the family name.
A pain stabbed at her heart.
She glanced at Adam Beaufort. His back half-turned, he stared out the window, seeming to sense she needed time to collect her thoughts. The noon sunshine coming in from between the velvet curtains outlined his profile. His jaw was strong, but there was no cruelty in it. Perhaps she ought to feel intimidated being alone with him, one of the most eligible men in London society, but she didn’t. She never dreamed she’d find herself in the drawing room discussing marriage with him. She wondered if she ought to pinch herself to check she was awake.
The cherub clock chimed. Yes, she was awake. Adam Beaufort was standing by the window in real life, not in a dream, staring out into that peculiar soft London sunshine that made the streets and buildings shine like marigolds. In spite of their lack of welcome by society, in some ways Violet had enjoyed being in the capital. She’d walked to Parliament Square and listened to Big Ben while gazing at the Houses of Parliament, dreaming of laws that might be changed inside its hallowed walls.
Votes for Women! Now her papa had forbidden her to be a suffragette, all that must be stopped. She couldn’t defy him now. She had already caused enough distress.
Yet the thought of giving up the Cause...
Violet moved towards to Adam Beaufort. ‘Shall we have some plain speaking?’
He turned to face her. There was no doubting his smile this time. His teeth gleamed white. ‘Do you speak any other way, Miss Coombes?’
‘I prefer it,’ she admitted. ‘I would very much like to hear more of your plan.’
His grin widened. ‘It isn’t a plan I’ve refined yet, as you may have realised. I haven’t been following you in the dark of night, plotting to catch you from balconies. And it’s not the reason I asked you to dance at the ball.’
‘Oh.’ Violet felt more pleased than she expected at his saying so. The sense of being safe with him returned.
‘It was an idea that came to me when I heard of your trouble. A moment of inspiration. Or perhaps it is an ill-conceived notion, something we ought to forget I ever mentioned.’
‘Oh, no,’ Violet said quickly. ‘I’d very much like to explore your suggestion.’
Adam Beaufort inclined his head. ‘Certainly.’
Violet took some air from deep in her chest, as far as her corset would allow. The breathlessness she’d experienced when he first proposed had returned, but she forced her voice to firmness. ‘Would you propose marriage to me if I didn’t have a fortune?’
‘If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all...’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’ (1842)
‘You wish to know if I want to marry you for your money.’
Violet lifted her chin. ‘Yes.’
The sun gleamed through the window as Adam Beaufort made a low whistle. ‘That certainly is plain speaking, Miss Coombes.’
‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ Violet said quickly. She had no wish to offend him.
‘Not at all. Since you prefer plain speaking, let me be completely frank with you.’ He gave Violet a wry smile. ‘If you didn’t have a fortune, it would rather defeat the purpose of my proposal.’
Violet bit her lip. ‘Of course.’
How odd, she thought to herself. Part of her minded his admitting it. She pushed the sensation away. Of course her fortune was her attraction to him.
His smile disappeared as he spoke again. The youthfulness she’d noted earlier vanished. ‘If you will allow me to explain, there’s more you need to know. At the ball, we each spoke of our fathers. I told you then that my father, in contrast to yours, was not a hard-working man.’
Violet nodded. The philosophy of self-help was not embraced by everyone with the same enthusiasm as Reginald Coombes.
‘That’s an understatement,’ Adam went on. ‘My family, as you know, have a manor house in Kent. It requires a great deal of upkeep. For the past few years, I have watched it begin to disintegrate before my eyes.’
He moved away from her, his fists clenched. ‘I knew my father was letting the manor run down. The house itself, and the surrounding properties, where we have tenants who rely on us. Since my father’s death, I’ve discovered that isn’t the worst of it. The manor, and our house in London, have been mortgaged many times over. It isn’t merely that my father was not a good householder, Miss Coombes. He has lost all our family’s money and, worse, accrued debts of amounts that I can barely perceive. We are beyond being financially embarrassed. The Beaufort family is ruined.’
Violet gasped in shock. ‘How is that possible?’
‘Gambling.’ Adam said curtly. ‘The night I saw you on the balcony, I had been at a private meeting at my father’s club. The scene of the crime, so to speak.’
‘I thought you considered me the criminal that night,’ Violet commented with a smile, trying to lighten the moment. He looked so desperately burdened. Her heart gave a squeeze of sympathy.
‘Your actions were beyond the law, certainly. You were on private property. My property, if I can still call it that, considering the size of the mortgage on it. But I don’t consider you a criminal. You’re standing up for your beliefs.’ He smiled briefly. ‘Or climbing up for them, I should say.’
Violet chuckled, then grew serious. ‘So that night at the club...’
‘The night I encountered you on the balcony, I’d found out the extent of the damage. It was all quite civilised, over dinner and port. But that didn’t disguise the gravity of the situation. The gambling notes came out, with my father’s signature scrawled on them. He lost vast sums night after night at the card table. I was angry that it had been allowed to continue. But a gentleman’s word is his bond and my father had given his word that he was good for the money. On one of the gambling notes, he’d written “Beauley Manor.”’ A muscle moved in his