“A scarlet cloak,” mused the earl. “Surely one of the ladies has a suitable one?”
Viola hoped so. By good luck they ran into Miss Penworth on her way to the music room. She was very talented on the pianoforte, and Bridget had assigned her the task of choosing and playing dramatic music for the play. Viola had lost all reserve by now, and spurred by Lord Winterton’s suggestion, she asked Miss Penworth if she or any of the young ladies had brought a red cloak. Fortune smiled on her; the young woman had brought such a cloak, and promised to send it to the drawing room.
“Thank you,” said Viola fervently. “I hope Lady Bridget’s play does no harm to it.”
Miss Penworth laughed. “I’ve known Bridget all my life,” she confided. “If it does, I am already well aware that His Grace will replace the cloak. He replaced my doll when Bridget drowned it in the lake, two bonnets lost to escapades planned by Bridget, and more hair ribbons than either of us could count.”
Viola breathed a sigh of relief as they left Miss Penworth to her practicing. “Two down, three to go.”
“What’s next?” the earl wanted to know.
“A crown, a large book, and an iron chain.” She shook her head. “A chain! Perhaps in the stables?”
They paused before a window overlooking the park in front of the house. The snow had stopped and the sun had come out, but the scene was no less daunting. It looked like a foot of snow drifted over the grounds, with only a few tamped paths through the glittering whiteness. Getting to the stables, down near the lake, would be cold and slippery.
“Perhaps in the attics?” The earl cocked his head toward her, his eyes dancing and a wry smile on his lips. “Or the dungeons?”
“There is an armory, but no dungeons I know of.” She tapped one finger on her lips, thinking.
“Dare I ask why a chain is required?” The earl appeared in no hurry to keep searching. He clasped his hands behind him and stood watching her. “It seems an odd item in a farce.”
And that is why Bridget wants it, Viola thought. “There was mention of a ghost—two ghosts,” she amended. “One will be the dead king—hence the crown—and one will be . . . another ghost.” His lips curved. Against her will, Viola’s did the same. “I’ve absolutely no idea why she wants a chain,” she confessed.
“Is that the weak, infirm, dead king I’m to portray?” he asked, as if dreading the answer.
She tried to stop it, she really did; but a gasp of laughter escaped her, then another. “I’m terribly afraid so,” she said, her voice shaking.
Winterton sighed and hung his head as Viola bit her lips to keep the laughter bottled inside her. “At least I’m to be a weak, infirm, and ultimately dead monarch. Having been here a few days, I now know it could have been so much worse. A dead night-soil man, or a pickpocket.”
“Well. Yes.” Viola tried to speak normally. “But the king leaves a crown for the prince, while a pickpocket . . .”
“That depends on his skill at picking pockets, don’t you think?” The earl grinned impishly. “He might leave a ruby the size of a hen’s egg.”
She laughed again. “Or a tatty old handkerchief.”
“Ah, but it’s the chance of something more exciting that renders it interesting. I think Lady Bridget would agree with me.”
Viola shook her head, but still smiled. “No doubt. Bridget would write a scene having him pick the pocket of a mikado or a rajah, as simple as you please, in the heart of Westminster.”
“A rajah! Now that would be an interesting role.” The earl’s face lit up. “I’ve been talking to young Mr. Jones about India, as he intends to take a diplomatic post there.”
“Does he?” Viola hadn’t heard that about Mr. Jones, only that he was friends with the scoundrel Frye and therefore must be hateful, according to Alexandra. She also claimed he’d said something very unkind about Serena, but from Viola’s observations, he hadn’t meant it.
“Yes. He asked for my advice on the journey there. I gather Newton has told everyone I’ve traveled to every corner of the globe, and can’t bear to set foot in England.” He said the last with a grimace.
“Have you?” Viola blushed when he looked at her in surprise. “That is, I did hear that you are a great traveler. I’ve never been out of England, and can’t imagine what it’s like in India.”
“Do you long to see the world?” he asked, sounding interested.
She thought for a moment. “A little,” she replied at last. “Yes, I suppose I do. I never had the chance of it.” A clock chimed in the room behind them, making her guiltily aware that she was doing nothing, just standing in the corridor talking to the earl. “Shall we see if there is a suitable large book in the library?”
“Of course.”
“It’s not true that I can’t bear to set foot in England,” he said abruptly as they walked. “I’ve been home for almost a year now.”
“So long,” she murmured.
“So few people truly get to see the world,” he went on, almost as if trying to persuade her. “There are places so vastly different from England, one can hardly describe them. People so different than Englishmen. Art and food and music. I would hate to spend my entire life without seeing anything other than the village I was born in, perhaps a few other villages, and then only London for exotic sights.”
That rather perfectly described Viola’s own life. “How very fortunate that you were able to see more.” She opened the doors of the library. Bridget had completed most of her play, so everyone was off rehearsing in other rooms. The library was quiet and empty.
“I do feel fortunate.” The earl went to the French windows, opened the drapes, and gazed out at the snow. The wind had died, and the view was dazzling. “Those who have the means and the ability and the desire to travel ought to do so, to bring those far corners of the world home to those who stay.”
“So it’s your duty?” She smiled to take the sting off the words, but he still shot her a sharp glance. Viola put up her hands. “I don’t judge, my lord. You have the means and the desire; therefore it’s entirely your choice whether you stay or not.”
“Wouldn’t you go, if you could?”
Her smile turned wistful. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Everyone dear to me is here in England. It hasn’t felt like a great loss to remain home.”
He recoiled as if struck. “I didn’t mean it’s a loss to stay home.”
“And I didn’t mean it’s an indulgence to travel.” She hesitated. “Lord Newton is young. Life seems to pass so slowly when you’re young. You feel you will go mad if you can’t escape the ordinary drudgery of home and family. It’s only when you’re a bit older that you realize how easy it is to lose those things, sometimes without noticing until it’s too late.
“I expect he’s told everyone you’re impatient to be gone because he would like to explore the world—at least a bit of it beyond England’s shores—and because of his father’s death he cannot. He sees you as free to do as you please, and if he were free to do as he pleased, he would be on the first packet to France.” She stopped at his expression. “That is only my guess at his feelings.”