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      ‘I’m sorry, Papa. I’m sorry, Mama. I’ll do anything to set it right.’

      ‘It’s too late,’ her mama sobbed. ‘Nothing can be done.’

      A discreet knock came at the drawing room door. The butler entered.

      ‘What is it?’ her father asked. Having servants still made him nervous, Violet knew. At the chocolate factory her papa was the man in charge, but she often suspected both he and her mama’s preference would be to have only family at home, as it had been in the beginning.

      ‘Forgive the interruption, sir. But a gentleman has called and I thought you’d like to know.’

      He held out a silver tray. On it was a small white card, edged with black.

      Her father took the card. ‘Adam Beaufort, Esquire,’ he read aloud.

      ‘What?’ Her mama sat bolt upright.

      Violet’s pulse skipped a beat.

      ‘What does he want?’ her father asked.

      ‘He didn’t say, sir,’ replied the butler. ‘But he’s in the hall. I took the liberty.’

      On the chaise her mother frantically began to tidy her hair. She seized a small looking glass and dabbed at her tear-stained face with her handkerchief. ‘Tell him to come in.’

      ‘Do you know what he wants?’ her father asked Violet.

      In bewilderment she shook her head. ‘No.’

      She brushed back her own hair from her forehead. Wisps had escaped while on horseback and she was still in her blue-velvet riding habit.

      The drawing room door opened.

      * * *

      Adam Beaufort took a step back as he entered the Coombes’s drawing room.

      He’d never seen a room like it. Every inch of the vast room was decorated. Gilt-edged paintings of pink-cheeked children and pretty country maids jostled for space on the flock-papered walls. China ornaments, again with a bucolic theme, took up every table top, apart from those crammed with silver trinkets, lamps and ferns in jardinières. The furniture was red-brown mahogany, the soft furnishings skirted, trimmed and flounced so that the room had a peculiar cushioned effect.

      On a velvet chaise longue sat Violet’s mother, whom he’d last seen attired in canary-yellow satin. She now wore a pink gown with many ruffles that didn’t manage to obscure the dazzling diamonds around her neck, wrists and fingers. He winced at the thought of what some society ladies would say at the sight of such diamonds worn before evening.

      By the fire, Violet’s father stood robustly, belly thrust out in a loud, checked waistcoat. Yet the pair lacked the happiness that had been so apparent on their faces while dancing the night before.

      Adam frowned.

      ‘Mr Coombes.’ He addressed the man by the fireplace, with a slight inclination of his head. ‘Forgive my intrusion. I’m Adam Beaufort. How do you do?’

      Reginald Coombes offered his hand. His handshake was firm. ‘I saw you dancing with my daughter last night. Most obliging of you.’

      ‘Indeed it was, Mr Beaufort,’ said Mrs Coombes faintly.

      Adam bowed to her before turning to Violet, who stood silent, a still figure in sapphire-blue velvet by the fire. He couldn’t help notice how it sculpted her curvaceous figure. But her face was white and strained.

      ‘It was my pleasure,’ Adam said smoothly. ‘It’s unfortunate I didn’t have the opportunity for a second dance with Miss Coombes.’

      He sent her a brief smile.

      There was the faintest movement around her lips in return, but that was all.

      Adam’s frown deepened. He felt oddly responsible for the whole fiasco. If he’d pulled the banners down in time...

      ‘Mr Coombes.’ He addressed Violet’s father. ‘I’ve come about the incident at the ball last night.’

      ‘You know about that?’ Mrs Coombes squeaked.

      ‘Most of London knows about it,’ Adam said bluntly. ‘It didn’t help that you sewed your monogram on the banner,’ he added to Violet.

      ‘Your monogram?’ Reginald Coombes looked from one to the other.

      Wordlessly Violet reached into a sewing basket and drew out a banner. It unfurled like a streamer in purple, green and white. She passed it to her father.

      He stared at the tiny bloom embroidered in the corner, his fist clenched.

      ‘So that’s what happened to all the purple silk,’ Violet’s mother said in wonderment.

      ‘How many banners are there?’ Violet’s father demanded.

      ‘Half a dozen.’ Her throat was bare, white and swan-like as she swallowed. ‘Perhaps more.’

      Her father hurled the banner into the fire.

      ‘Papa!’ Violet’s cry tore through Adam’s skin.

      ‘That’s the last one you’ll ever make,’ Reginald Coombes said fiercely. ‘Do you understand, Violet? This has got to stop.’

      She made no answer. Her fingertips lifted to that pale throat, her gaze staying on the silk as it curled and burned. The scorched scent of it filled Adam’s nostrils.

      ‘Will you give up this cause, as you call it?’ her father demanded.

      ‘I can’t,’ she whispered.

      ‘Can’t?’ her father repeated, incredulous. His bright blue eyes were out on stalks.

      ‘I won’t hang any more banners.’ Violet lifted her chin. ‘But I can’t give up the Cause. It’s in me. It’s what I believe. I don’t know if I can change that.’

      Adam studied her. Her head was high, her hands clenched. He had to admire her. There was no question of her convictions. He guessed her parents knew nothing of the extent of her activities. They’d have been appalled to have seen her climbing his balcony, teetering on the edge. At least he’d stopped her from such dangerous endeavours.

      Reginald Coombes’s chin thrust out, just the same as his daughter’s. Adam wondered if he realised how alike they were. ‘I forbid this nonsense. Do you hear?’

      His daughter’s eyes flashed vivid blue. ‘Being a suffragette isn’t nonsense.’

      ‘The shame of it. It’s a scandal,’ her mother cried.

      ‘It’s not a scandal,’ Violet scoffed, but her voice wavered.

      ‘Forgive me, Miss Coombes, I’m afraid it is.’ Adam intervened. He had no choice but to break it to her. ‘The scandal is all over London. I did my best to halt it, but I didn’t succeed. Doubtless it’s being discussed in every polite drawing room from Mayfair to Kensington. I understand it has reached the palace, though not yet the ears of the King.’

      Violet’s mother released a muffled shriek. She appeared about to faint.

      ‘Where are your smelling salts, Adeline?’ her husband demanded.

      ‘The silver box,’ she puffed, using her handkerchief as a fan.

      Violet’s father scrabbled among the multitude of silver boxes and china ornaments on the mahogany table and administered the salts. Once again Adam felt moved by the couple’s devotion to each other. It was rarer than they probably knew. And they loved their daughter, too. It was obvious, in spite of the current situation.

      ‘Everyone is overreacting. It’s ridiculous for there to be such an outcry,’ Violet said, low, but her voice was shaky. ‘It was a protest. A deed for the Cause. Not a crime.’

      Adam shrugged. ‘Perhaps

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