‘Until now?’ Jonathan raised an eyebrow. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. Not really. An interesting conversation in the Blue Corridor.’
‘It would have to be a very interesting conversation to stand out amidst the debauchery of the Blue Corridor.’
‘It was. Both for the content and the characters.’
‘Who were the actors in our latest play?’
‘A certain titled gentleman, and a certain widow considered the epitome of respectability. I always knew they were acquaintances, but I never knew how familiar.’
‘And exactly how familiar are they?’
‘Not familiar enough to cause a scandal in a public place, but it’s evident that at least one of them wants to.’
‘Ah, widows. The most cunning of the lot.’
‘Not the widow. The titled gentleman.’
‘Really? Hmm.’ Jonathan took another sip of wine. ‘That’s unusual. They’re normally looking for more willing prey.’
‘As ignorant as I am of the workings of predators and prey, Mr. Harper, it doesn’t strike me as that sort of rapport.’
‘If they were speaking in the Blue Corridor, I’m afraid it was exactly that sort of the rapport.’
‘I’m not sure.’ Sarah looked intently at the fire, letting the flames comfort her. ‘You didn’t see them.’
She didn’t know quite what had made her stop at the beginning of the Blue Corridor and listen to Serafine Winters conversing with the Duke of Wenford. Something about the way they looked at one another—there was a depth to their mutual gaze, a richness that Sarah had never seen between people preparing for a casual encounter. The widow was quieter, yes, and certainly putting up a pretence at coolness—but when it came to the duke…
‘I think we have a romance in the costume of sin, Mr. Harper.’ She paused, resting her chin on one hand. ‘A very fine romance.’
‘Romance at the Grand Hotel? Impossible.’ Jonathan chuckled as he poured a little more wine into his glass. ‘Now enjoy this brief period of respite, before you’re called upon to organise tomorrow.’
‘And if I am called upon to assist in the flowering of said romance?’
‘Do nothing that would get you sacked. But given how essential you are to the running of this place, that leaves you with plenty of options.’
‘I won’t meddle. I’m not a meddlesome person.’
‘Of course not.’ Jonathan raised an eyebrow. ‘But if someone were to ask you to meddle…’
‘Then I’d meddle to the best of my ability.’
‘Absolutely. I’d expect nothing less.’
After his conversation with Serafine Winters, Richard Oaks was walking on air. No, more than that–he had walked on air after every conversation they had ever shared, however brief or perfunctory. Now, after the highly-charged exchange in the Blue Corridor, he was flying.
He floated back into the billiard room, and promptly won fifty pounds with a series of shots that had the whole room cheering. Taking the money with a wink, avoiding the giggling women around the edge of the room like a plague, he was soon walking back to his palatial set of rooms on the top floor with a dizzy, foolish smile on his face.
Serafine Winters was seeking pleasure. There really was a vixen beneath that placid, respectable manner after all—he had always seen it in her, simmering beneath those black gowns and tense, icily polite manner. The freedom in her words to him, the excitement he sensed in her tone as she spoke with him, had his cock hard and aching as he stumbled over the threshold of his room.
He looked out of the window, forcing himself to concentrate on commonplace things until his body had returned to a decent state. This was not the time to lose himself in pleasure; if he waited, storing up every ounce of passionate attention for the moment when he finally managed to seduce Serafine, the pleasure would be all the sweeter.
‘Ice.’ He muttered to himself, staring at the gas-lamps and chattering people beneath them. ‘Snow, rain, cold things…’
When he finally felt more in control of his faculties, he rang the bell for the servants’ hall. Wilson, his valet, had taken to spending an abominably long time there in the evenings–either the food was good or the company was, and Wilson had never been one for company. Richard sat back in his armchair, trying not to let his mind wander to thoughts of Serafine until Wilson finally arrived.
‘Forgive me, sir.’ Wilson entered the room hurriedly, clearly out of breath. Those stairs are formidable.’
‘Only because you keep eating every pudding they make down there. I’m going to have to put you out to pasture when we return to the country.’
‘Is there something you needed?’
‘Nothing. Conversation—gossip, to tell you the truth. The sort of gossip you can’t tell anyone at all.’
‘I think that’s called a secret.’
‘Fine. I have a secret for you.’
Wilson, a valet of many years, had grown used to more staid masters before Richard had plucked him from his secure, slightly boring station and shown him the world. Now that he had helped smuggle aristocrats out of France, helped drink all the brandy in half of London’s pubs and helped smuggle an endless array of married women out of Richard’s window, his view of the world was a good deal more complex and well-rounded than what it had been before falling into Richard’s employ. ‘You seem happy, your Grace. The secret must be a good one.’
‘I am. Happier than I’ve been in a good long while. And I don’t think you’ll ever guess why–not even if you’re put to the coals.’
Wilson kept his face impassive. Richard was almost sure he had the complete measure of his valet, but the man could still surprise him. ‘You’ve won money.’
‘That’s of no consequence. Money attracts money–it sees the money I already have in my pocket, and is struck with the irresistible desire to join its fellows. I left half of that billiard room empty-handed, and they cheered me on anyway.’
‘Ever the modest gentleman, your Grace.’
‘Spare me your morality, and have another guess as to why I’m so happy.’
Wilson paused for a moment, looking Richard up and down with a cool, appraising gaze that he never would have dared give to any of his previous employers. ‘A lady.’
‘Aha! We begin to draw close to the crux of the matter. Now what lady could possibly–’
‘Serafine Winters. The widow.’
Richard’s face fell. ‘Come now. You’re not meant to guess immediately–you’ve rather spoiled it.’
‘I don’t see how I was meant to guess more slowly.’
‘You really must try and placate me more often, Wilson. I understand the vast majority of valets placate their masters every day.’
‘Don’t pretend you’d prefer a smirking servant who only says yes and only tells you how clever you are, your Grace.’ Wilson shrugged. ‘If you’re happy about a lady, the lady is the widow. Is she here?’
‘I’m happy about any other number of ladies on any given day.’
‘Yes. Other ladies.’ Wilson waved his hand, giving the distinct impression that said ladies were no more substantial than thistledown. ‘But Serafine takes up most of your time.’
‘No, she doesn’t. She takes up a minuscule portion of my time–that’s the damned irritating thing!’
‘And you spend a lot of time considering the problem.’ Wilson folded his arms. ‘So she takes up most of your time, even without being physically present.’
‘That’s a strange way of looking at the matter.’
‘Is she here in the hotel?’
‘Yes. She’s taken rooms in the most respectable side, along with all the women who choose this place to go and buy cloaks and bonnets.’
‘How strange. I’ve never heard of her coming to London to buy articles before.’
‘And why would you have heard of her?’ Richard frowned. ‘Only one of us is allowed to have an interest in her movements.’
‘Servants talk. Peter W
inters only ever hired the most stern, parochial maids–I wondered how his widow managed to convince one of them that a trip to the metropolis wouldn’t bring sin down upon their heads.’
‘She’ll have used some cunning scheme.’ Richard smiled, a dozen assorted memories of Serafine swimming to the surface. She was always ready with a convenient story, the perfect explanation–and just when you thought you were safe, she’d casually give a dazzling quip or make a stunning observation. What was more, said quips and observations only ever seemed to come to the surface when he was close by–he’d never heard others describe her as a wit, which meant she wasn’t exploiting her talents with just anyone. ‘She’s very intelligent.’
‘I’m sure.’ Wilson began to fold one of Richard’s shirts, his voice taking on a mildly hectoring tone. ‘And she’s also on the other side of the hotel.’
‘But I found her in the Blue Corridor.’
Wilson stopped folding, his brow furrowed. ‘Truly?’
‘Oh, yes. In the flesh.’
‘Ah.’ With a slight shake of his head, Wilson resumed folding. ‘Then she isn’t here for bonnets.’
‘I would say not.’ Richard smiled. ‘So it’s damned convenient that I’m here as well, wouldn’t you say?’
‘You intend to be her–well. Her bonnet?’
‘That I do.’ Richard stretched out, a warm satisfaction filling his bones. ‘I think the widow will make a very fine wife.’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘What?’
‘What did you say?’
‘That the widow will make a very fine conquest. Why?’
Wilson paused. ‘Are you sure that’s what you said?’
Richard carefully went over the sentence he had intended to say, finding no impediment whatsoever. ‘Of course! Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly developed an excess of morality where widows are concerned.’
‘No. Of course not.’ Wilson’s face looked very odd. It was as if the man was trying to contain a smile, and only half-successfully. ‘I’m sure she’ll be perfect for whatever intentions you have.’
‘Conquest, Wilson. Conquest.’
‘Yes, sir. Quite.’
Nothing felt quite as silly as buying dresses after the day Serafine had undergone. Martha’s strange insubordination in the afternoon, followed by that fiery exchange of compliments and secrets with Richard Oaks–why, it was a miracle she had slept at all. But slept she had, waking in the morning with a fresh, happy excitement that was unusual in the extreme.
Martha had done her best to puncture that excitement over the course of several visits to modistes. The open rebellion of the previous day had subsided into a sullen, begrudging obedience that almost felt worse, but Serafine didn’t let it alter her newly discovered cheerfulness. Even after her maid had been acid about every colour, trim and sleeve of the gowns Serafine had purchased, even after she’d done all but roll her eyes at the outlandish price Serafine had paid for them, the surreptitious excitement remained.
As afternoon lengthened into a cool, fragrant evening, she sat at her desk and attempted to compose a letter. Martha, who had found every excuse possible to both remain in Serafine’s rooms and irritate her with every passing comment, finished a lengthy and unnecessary dusting of the hotel’s ornaments on the bedside table with an exaggerated sigh. ‘One simply cannot trust the cleaning in any establishment, ma’am.’
‘I’m sure, Martha.’
‘That’s what the master said. For true cleanliness, one must rely exclusively on one’s own staff. He was very clear about that.’
‘Yes, Martha.’ If it wasn’t for Martha’s habit of sprinkling Peter’s pearls of wisdom into even the smallest of daily conversations, she would feel less as if she were being slowly suffocated. ‘He did.’
‘He was a wise master, and a good man.’ Martha folded her arms, feather duster still in hand. ‘His sister still hasn’t come out of half-mourning, you know.’
Serafine put her pen down, a stray blob of ink staining the wood. Once again, Martha was stepping outside of the bounds dictated by her station. London was making the woman bolder, and the effects were most unpleasant. ‘And what precisely is that small comment meant to signify?’
‘Nothing, ma’am. I am merely relaying information.’ Martha pursed her lips, evidently struggling with words left unsaid before finally giving in. ‘Such sober grey gowns she wears. Very dignified—almost queenly.’
‘And is this meant to present a contrast to the gowns I purchased today?’
‘No, ma’am. It was merely to—to call attention to the somewhat festive shades that you have chosen. Peach, rose—the gold one with puffed sleeves—’
‘Isn’t the evening service at St. Michaels beginning presently?’ A cowardly tactic, attempting distraction, but approaching the subject that Martha clearly wanted to discuss was quite the last thing she wished to do. It felt like overturning a bucket of fisherman’s worms by accident: a shocking, unpleasant experience that left one feeling soiled. ‘Did you manage to visit it yesterday?’
‘Yes, ma’am. As I told you.’ Although Martha’s tone signalled her reluctance to let the matter drop, she placed the duster on the bedside table. ‘But I wouldn’t wish to miss the evening prayers. It sets one up for the night.’
‘Quite. I shall go to St. Luke’s.’ Serafine lied with as much boldness as she could muster, still wary of Martha. If the maid didn’t believe her, she at least gave no outward sign of it. ‘Enjoy the service.’
‘Thank you.’ Martha curtseyed, her voice almost normal. Still, the queer look in her eyes set Serafine’s teeth on edge. ‘If you require anything after I return, ma’am, you need only ring the bell for me.’
‘Yes, Martha.’ Serafine nodded, already hating the obedience that had crept into her voice. It had always been the easiest course of action to obey Martha during the early years of her marriage—her experience and confidence had been an invaluable resource when Serafine hadn’t known how to plan a menu, let alone a household. Now, with the thousandth small acquiescence after years of the same, her lack of power as Peter’s widow was becoming more evident by the minute. ‘I will.’
Martha smiled as if she knew exactly what Serafine was thinking. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’
Only after the maid had been absent from the room for quite some time did Serafine allow herself the long, full-bodied luxury of a sigh. Relaxing in her chair, pushing aside the letter that had never quite managed to be written, she considered the most important question of the night. Namely, just what she should drink before attempting to be scandalous again.
Whisky was unacceptable for a woman of good sense to drink, and brandy was out of the question. Claret would need to be ordered; she rang the bell for the kitchens, murmuring the order to the first footman that appeared at the door without bothering with even a thought of dinner. She couldn’t face the Blue Corridor sober again; the place frightened her as much as it excited her, as did the rest of her errand.
Her meeting with Richard Oaks had her questioning everything, rethinking each decision that had brought her to this point. Thinking time without alcohol felt like the very opposite of good sense.
Why did the man have to tease her so? He’d done it ever since their first meeting, insisting upon treating her as if she were a romantic prospect, almost daring Peter to notice him. Of course, her late husband never had noticed–and even if he had, his response would have been lukewarm at best–but it had been awkward beyond measure. Even more awkward once she’d realised, with a shock that was as painful as it was exciting, that she welcomed his attentions. She enjoyed the pretence at romance, at being wanted, even if it only ever took place in public and very probably at her expense.
A pathetic thing to admit, even to herself in the privacy of her Grand Hotel bedroom. Serafine sighed, rubbing her brow with her hand as she considered her wardrobe.
What sort of dress would be suitable for another slow walk down that scandalous corridor? She was almost tempted
to choose the same dress that she had worn the previous night. Richard’s gaze had lingered so lovingly over her body… but no. She wasn’t going to meet the man again, however much he pretended to want nothing else.
He would have moved on to someone different by now. Someone younger, prettier, more interesting–someone less embarrassing for him to be seen with in a genuine fashion. An excellent outcome, truly better for the both of them, and–and she would probably stop feeling irritated about it if that damned claret ever arrived.
As if the Grand Hotel had read her thoughts, there was a knock at the door. Serafine, hardly bothering to arrange her tattered house gown in a more attractive fashion, mentally rehearsed the argument she was sure to have with Martha concerning the propriety of drinking claret alone in one’s room. ‘Come.’
The door opened. Serafine sat stock-still, hardly daring to move an inch as Richard walked into the room.
How on earth had he found out which room she was staying in? Bribing a servant, no doubt–oh, this really was the suspicious sort of establishment that Martha had warned her about. The sort of establishment that she had eagerly wanted, right up until this exact moment of exquisite, horrible embarrassment.
He was holding a bottle of claret. Serafine closed her eyes, steeling herself for an excruciating conversation, even as her core flowered with a potent awareness of the man standing just a little way away from her.
She rose, curtseying with impeccable formality. ‘Your Grace.’
‘You almost manage to look unsurprised. What formidable froideur.’
‘One can’t fall to pieces at the first unexpected disaster.’
Richard laughed as he feigned a wince. ‘You’ve sharpened your linguistic knives since yesterday, I see.’
‘And yet you hope to catch me unprepared.’
‘You asked for claret, did you not?’ Richard held the bottle up to the light. ‘I took the liberty of replacing it with a better vintage.’
Serafine forced herself to reply normally, even as a deep part of herself quivered. ‘You doubt my tastes?’
‘No. Your tastes are excellent. But I am far more of an inveterate drinker than you, and know this year to have been a better one for claret.’
The Widow and Her Duke: The Grand Hotel: Book One Page 3
