Page 2 of Brigand

“Bah. Whatever it is, serves her right.”

“For what?” Violet’s brow quirked. Not that she couldn’tfathom why Agnes had incurred the boys’ wrath. She was just curious as to whichparticular offense Hortense was referring.

“For refusing to take you in when you were in desperatestraits.”

Ah. That. Violet cleared her throat. “I’m sure she had herreasons.”

“No doubt,” Hortense grunted. “All of them selfish.”

Agnes was old. And grumpy and, yes, a bit selfish. But itwas her home. Who could blame her for not wanting it overrun with ragamuffins?Relations or not.

“Well, no matter. I’m happy with the way things worked out.I do adore Edward.”

“He is…tolerable, I suppose.” Her aunt’s voice was gruff butViolet suspected she made it so to mask a tender emotion. Hortense was pricklyas a hedgehog but only because she was soft and mushy on the inside and neededto protect herself.

“I found him quite nice.”

“He’s hardly nice.” This, Hortense muttered under herbreath, but Violet heard. Edward Wyeth, Duke of Moncrieff, was a notoriousrake. And like her brothers, very much a hellion as well.

Violet shot her a look. “He took us in, dear. Lock, stockand barrel.” Violet, her six brothers and Kaitlin. Oh, and Aunt Hortense as achaperone. None of whom her English cousin had ever met. They had descendedupon him with nary a warning and completely upended his household.

And he had let them.

Another snort. “As though he had a choice.”

“He had a choice. He could have turned us out on thestreet.” Thank God he had not.

“He’s a duke. There are appearances to keep up.”

“Edward doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who gives a figfor appearances.”

Hortense harrumphed. She whacked the head off a poorunsuspecting rose with her cane. “Every man of Quality does.”

Heavens. There was probably a juicy story in that outburst.Aunt Hortense was a font of juicy stories. Violet filed it away for a futureinterrogation. “Well, I like him. He’s been so kind despite…everything.” He’deven allowed Kaitlin to stay at his home in London—where she would besafe—while the rest of the family hared up to Scotland to attend a “dying” AuntAgnes. Oh yes. She owed Edward a great deal.

“As I said…tolerable.” Hortense tried to sound diffident butViolet caught a hint of satisfaction in her tone. Though why she should carewhat Violet thought of a distant relation was beyond her. Then again, themachinations of Aunt Hortense’s mind were often beyond her. “Because of him,you will finally have your season.”

“I should be excited about that, I suppose.”

Hortense gored her with a gimlet glare. “You should.”

“It just seems so…”

“So what?”

Violet shrugged. “I don’t know. Contrived?”

Hortense shrugged. “All of the best associations are.”

“Sequestering all the eligible partis in Town forthree months. Forcing them to dance and socialize and sniff around for asuitable mate like hounds on a hunt…”

“Don’t forget dry cakes and watery lemonade.”

“Naturally.” Violet turned away, pretended to study a bloomas they passed. But really, she felt the need to hide her face from her aunt’seagle eye. Yes, a season seemed artificial and forced. An unnatural way tochoose a mate. Falling in love should be a natural thing. Something that simplyhappened when one found the right man.

Her heart lurched at a memory.

She had found the right man—or the right boy, at least—andlost him.