Her heart gave a violent lurch, then stuttered against her ribs.
His gaze flicked to Mainwaring. His jaw tightened. He narrowed his eyes, scowled faintly, then turned back to the stage.
Oh my.
It could not be, could it?
Sebastian was jealous.
The realisation sent a small, treacherous thrill through her.
Mr Mainwaring leaned toward her again, whispering loudly, “The violin is quite out of tune.”
“Yes. As everyone knows,” she could not resist replying, leaning away from him and turning her head.
Her gaze collided with Peregrine’s.
He was sprawled in a chair by the fireplace, arms crossed, watching her intently.
Viola raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
He jerked his head toward the refreshment room. Rising slowly, he crossed the room and disappeared through the door.
After a few minutes, Viola murmured an excuse to Mainwaring, rose, and followed.
The refreshment room contained a buffet laid out with platters of petit fours, finger foods, and tiered trays bearing an array of dainty cakes.
Peregrine was leaning over one such tray, helping himself to a cream pastry. “Delicious,” he remarked, taking a bite. “You should try these.”
Viola glanced swiftly about the room and found it empty. “Do you have news?”
“The usual,” he replied lightly. “The publisher is pressing me for the next manuscript. When shall you finally have something ready to show them?”
“I still require time.”
He wiped his fingers on a napkin. “The clock is ticking.”
She waved the remark aside. “Rather than adding to my burdens, you would be of far greater help if you secured me access to the School of Anatomy.”
Peregrine pursed his lips and shook his head. “You know very well they do not permit women to attend a public dissection. It is quite improper. Have you considered the public anatomy museum? It has a separate entrance for ladies and is thought to be far more genteel.”
Viola shook her head. “I must see a live dissection of a cadaver. Do you believe your influence might stretch so far as to secure me a ticket? And if you could assist me in obtaining male attire, I would be most obliged.”
“Is this truly necessary?”
“Yes.” She set her mouth in a stubborn line. “If you wish me to complete the next book with any speed, you must help me get the information I require.”
Peregrine uttered a dramatic sigh. “Very well. I shall see what can be done. But you are requesting the impossible.” He then drew a slim packet of letters from his pocket and handed it to her. “From the insane asylum in Dublin,” he added pointedly. “That woman continues to write.”
A small smile curved Viola’s lips. “Mrs Burns.” She tucked the letters into her reticule. “She is my most faithful reader.”
“That may be so,” Peregrine said, “but I question the wisdom of corresponding with her. She is confined to Bedlam, after all. It would hardly do to be associated with such a person.”
“Mrs Burns has been nothing but kind and thoughtful,” Viola replied coolly. “Her letters are a joy. And she describes conditions so dreadful that they compel me to act.”
Peregrine groaned. “Do not remind me. Most of your royalties vanish into that abyss, and not even under your own name, but anonymously. It pains me here,” he pressed a hand to his heart, “and here,” he slapped his forehead, “to contemplate it.”
Viola stiffened. “It is my money, and I may do with it as I please. And I would like to reform the conditions of that asylum. I want you to double the donation.”
