He helped her into it, feeling a little guilty about all the sharp words that had passed between them recently. She could be meddling and tiresome, but she was still his mother, after all.
She settled herself in the seat and Roland climbed in after her. The carriage set off.
He said, “We will be back at the house soon.”
The dowager suddenly sat up and took on an entirely different mien. “It is a miracle. I am very suddenly well,” she said.
The scheme the dowager had just enacted came to him in a flash. She had faked the whole performance and was not the least bit ill.
She was a far better actress than Lady Rawley and her friends.
“Yes, I see you understand me,” she said.
“You must stop this ridiculous interference at once,” Roland said.
The dowager shrugged, as if he’d said nothing at all.
“What was it you said to Lady Viola just before the performance started?”
“Nothing of consequence, as she is of no consequence.”
“I will warn you once more—continue on with your rudeness to Lady Viola and you will find yourself back in the dower house before you can blink. Furthermore, if you press me far enough, you will find your time in the dower house grim indeed, as invitations to the main house will dwindle to nothing. It will be a lonely existence, as you are not well-loved in the neighborhood.”
The dowager stared at him. “I do not believe London is doing anything wonderful for your temperament.”
His temperament? She made comment onhistemperament?
Perhaps she was right, as Roland was very close to losing his temper just now. He took in a long, slow breath. Arguing with the lady never produced any particular results.
No, he would have to be more clever, more strategic.
She could not do anything substantial to ruin his chances with Lady Viola. She only had her words. She had no power to stop him from doing what he wished to do. He was free to continue his pursuit and she could not always know where he would be.
In fact, he would move his calendar to his bedchamber so that she would never know where he would be. He would put a second, false calendar in its place. She’d already had one look at it, so its entries must be similar, but wrong. He would move the dates for parties and routs a day forward, so she always arrived twenty-four hours too late. He would invent parties. He would leave at odd times. He would dodge her until he could get her into a carriage back to Dorset.
He would not be stopped or bend on this matter.
“You are very quiet, Baderston,” the dowager said. “I do not like it.”
Roland smiled. She had no idea what else she would not like that was to shortly come her way. He would send her on one long and never-ending goose chase.
If that was not sufficient, he would send her back to Dorset.
Chapter Seven
Viola jogged upthe stairs to her bedchamber with Miss Mayton on her heels. Even in her aunt’s moment of glory, having just emerged victorious from her stint as Beatrice inMuch Ado About Nothing, the dear lady had instantly perceived that all was not well.
In the carriage, Viola had admitted that she was discomfited, but asked not to be pressed to relay the cause until she could be at home with her sisters. It was not a tale she would prefer to tell twice.
Her sisters were in her bedchamber waiting for her. Cordelia sat up and Juliet laid down her pencil on seeing the door open.
“We stayed awake,” Cordelia said. “I spent the past hour imagining Lady Rawley’s theatrical evening.”
“And I spent the hour trying to think up an ode to it,” Juliet said. “Though, so little rhymes with Rawley! The closest I’ve got to is doily.”
“Viola,” Cordelia said, “what is the matter? You look distressed. Did the play not come off?”
“Oh no, the play came off wonderfully,” Viola said. “Miss Mayton was a triumph as Beatrice. But there were other things that happened…”
