“By this afternoon. Begin.”
Violet picked up the pen.
They wrote. Cranbrook dictated the wording for each—identical in content, varied in warmth, because the degree of cordiality in an invitation was a weapon as precise as a bayonet. Some received “the pleasure of your company.” Others received “the honour of your presence.” The Patronesses received “with great anticipation.” The duke of Cromwell received “the pleasure of your company,” because overfamiliarity with an enemy would read as grovelling.
While they wrote, the older duchess rearranged the supper plan. A ball of this size would not have a formal seating chart. Guests would dance, circulate, and take supper when they pleased. But the supper room required a principal table for the most distinguished guests, and the placement at that table was as fraught as any state dinner.
Cranbrook rearranged the supper plan with the same ruthlessness she had applied to the guest list. The principal table was laid for twelve in her head before Violet had finished her sixtieth card.
They worked through the morning. Violet’s hand cramped around the pen by the sixtieth card. By the hundredth, the ache ran from her fingers to her wrist to her forearm. She set the pen down and flexed her hand.
“The cramp will pass,” Cranbrook said without looking up. “The slight of uninvitedtonwill not.”
Violet picked up the pen. It was nearly half past eleven when the knock came. She was blotting the hundred and fifty-second card when Kit appeared at the door. He stood in the frame with his hat in his hands and his face blank. Something was wrong.
“Your Grace. A word.”
She set the pen down and rose to her feet.
“Whatever you need to say, say it here,” Cranbrook barked. “We have work to do, young man.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Violet said, and went to him at the door.
“The duke is unwell,” Kit said. “His valet checked on him at eleven. He has not risen. He has a high fever and cannot keep his eyes open.”
Violet’s hand flew to her mouth. “Where is he?”
“Your chamber.”
She was already moving. She heard Cranbrook behind her. “I will summon my physician.” And then she was running with her skirts gathered in both fists.
She opened her bedroom door. Henry was in her bed with Mrs Greer applying cold compress on his forehead. The covers were tangled around his legs, and his shirt was damp with sweat. His skin was grey and his lips were dry and colourless. When she pressed her hand to his forehead, the heat of it shocked her. His eyes were closed and he did not respond to touch.
“Henry.” She stroked his face lightly. “Henry, open your eyes.”
His lids moved, barely, with a slit of white beneath them. Then they closed again. A sound came from his throat, low and guttural.
She sat on the edge of the bed and pressed her fingers to the pulse at his neck. It was there. Rapid and shallow, but there. She pulled back the covers and looked at his body: his legs, his arms, his hands. The skin on his forearms was mottled. His fingernails had a bluish tint.
She sat back and forced herself to think. Last evening, he had come through the connecting door. He had taken the brush from her hand. He had been warm but not so warm that it alarmed her. There had been no perspiration, no shaking. He had been fine.
Except… there had been langour when he entered. His shoulders had dropped. She’d seen the slight unsteadiness whenhe crossed the room. She had assumed he had been drinking. There had been no brandy or wine on his breath.
He had been ill, not drunk. And she had not seen it because his hands were in her hair and his mouth was on her neck.
Poison.
She stood up and rushed to his chamber. His room was neat, the bed made. She looked at the bedside table. No teacup. No glass. She opened the drawers. Nothing but books.
She called for Mrs Greer who was still in the other room. “Your Grace?”
“Who prepares the duke’s tea in the morning?”
“His valet, Your Grace. The tray comes up from the kitchen, and Mr Fenton pours.”
“Sarah Baker has no part in it? She does not bring the tray or enter his room in the morning?”
“Sarah? Of course not, Your Grace. The duke’s morning routine is handled entirely by Mr Fenton. She has no business in the duke’s chambers.”
