of Lily’s bedroom was just as feminine—the pale sea green walls decorated with delicate white plasterwork, the windows hung with rose silk, the furniture upholstered with soft velvet. Now that he thought of it, the brief glimpse he’d caught of Lily’s house had been very different from this—dark, rich, and almost masculine. It was as if she had saved her private room for all the feminine indulgence she hadn’t allowed herself elsewhere.
As the last chime sounded, the bedroom door opened. The butler. Burton, she had called him.
“Good morning, sir,” Burton said impassively. “I trust you had a restful night?”
Alex glowered at him.
After Lily had left him, he had been alone with nothing but silent hours ahead. Until then he’d made a habit of filling every
waking moment with distractions. Work, sporting, social amusements, drinking, women, countless ways he had devised to
avoid being alone with his thoughts. Unwittingly Lily had forced him to face what he was most afraid of. In the quiet darkness,
he hadn’t been able to stop the memories from swooping down on him like vultures, tearing at his heart.
At first it had all been a jumble—anger, passion, regret, grief. No one would ever know what he had gone through in those
hours of confinement. No one would ever need to know. All that was important was that the jumble had somehow sorted itself out, and things had become clear in his mind. He would never see Caroline in another woman’s face again. She was part of his past, and he would leave her there. No more grief, no ghosts. And as for Lily … He devoted a good deal of thought to what he was going to do about her. Sometime during the early morning hours he’d drifted into a sleep of pure, dark velvet.
The butler came to the bedside bearing a small knife. “Shall I, sir?” Burton inquired, gesturing to his bound arms.
Alex gave him an incredulous look. “Oh, by all means,” he replied in a sarcastic show of politeness. Deftly the butler sawed
at the finely woven rope. Alex grimaced as his right arm was released. He brought it to his chest, flexing the aching muscles
with a quiet groan, and watched as Burton went around the bed to the other side.
Silently Alex had to admit that Burton was impressive. He had the most authentically butlerish appearance Alex had ever seen. He wore a beautifully trimmed beard, and a look of intelligence and authority. All this wrapped in a package of impeccable deference. It took aplomb to approach this situation with dignity, and yet Burton was untying him from the bed in the same stoic manner with which he might have poured tea or brushed a hat.
Burton’s brows twitched in what might have been dismay as he saw Alex’s blistered wrists. “My lord, I will bring a salve for
your arms.”
“No,” Alex growled. “You’ve done quite enough.”
“Yes, sir.”
Painfully Alex drew himself to a sitting position, flexing his cramped limbs. “Where is she this morning?”
“If you’re referring to Miss Lawson, sir, I have no knowledge of her whereabouts. However, I have been instructed to remind
you that Master Henry is at Mr. Craven’s establishment.”
“If anything’s happened to him, I’ll hold you every bit as responsible as Miss Lawson.”
Burton looked unruffled. “Yes, sir.”
Alex shook his head in amazement. “You’d help her with murder if she asked, wouldn’t you?”
“She hasn’t requested it, sir.”
“Yet,” Alex muttered. “But if she did?”
“As my employer, Miss Lawson is entitled to my absolute loyalty.” Burton regarded Alex politely. “Would you care for a paper,
my lord? Coffee? Tea, perhaps. For breakfast we can provide—”
“To begin with, you can stop behaving as if this is a commonplace occurrence … or is it? Could it be the usual thing for you to offer breakfast to guests who’ve been tied hand and foot to Lily Lawson’s bed?”
Burton considered the question carefully, as if reluctant to betray Lily’s privacy. “You are the first, Lord Raiford,” he finally admitted.
“What a hell of an honor.” Alex put a hand to his sore head and probed gingerly. There was a tender bump a few inches
above his ear. “I’ll take a headache powder. She owes me that, to start with.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And have my driver bring my carriage around—unless you and Miss Lawson have him bound to a stable rack or hitching
post somewhere.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Burton—that’s your name, isn’t it? How long have you been working for Miss Lawson?”
“Since she returned to London, my lord.”
“Well, whatever your salary, I’ll double it if you’ll come work for me.”
“Thank you, Lord Raiford. However, I must respectfully decline.”
Alex stared at him curiously. “Why? God knows Lily must put you through hell. Knowing her, I suspect this isn’t the worst escapade she’s ever involved you in.”
“I’m afraid it isn’t, my lord.”
“Then why stay?”
“Miss Lawson is an … unusual woman.”
“Some call it eccentric,” Alex said dryly. “Tell me what she’s done to merit such loyalty.”
Burton’s impassive facade seemed to fade, just for a moment, and there was something almost like fondness in his eyes.
“Miss Lawson has a compassionate heart, my lord, and a remarkable lack of prejudice. When she arrived in London two years ago, I was in a rather difficult situation, working for an employer who was often inebriated and abusive. Once, while intoxicated, he inflicted a wound on my side with a shaving razor. Another time he summoned me to his room and waved a loaded pistol in front of my face, threatening to shoot me.”
“Hell.” Alex regarded him with surprise.
“Why didn’t you find employment elsewhere? A butler of your caliber—”
“I am half Irish, my lord,” Burton said quietly. “Most employers require that their highly placed servants belong to the Church
of England, which I do not. That and my Irish heritage—though not readily apparent—deem me unacceptable to butler most decent English families. Therefore I was trapped in a most intolerable situation. Upon hearing of my dilemna, Miss Lawson offered to employ me at a higher salary than the one I was earning, although she knew I would have worked for much less.”
“I see.”
“Perhaps you begin to, my lord.” Burton hesitated and continued in a low tone, as if against his better judgment. “Miss Lawson decided I needed to be rescued. Once she takes such an idea into her head there is no way to stop her. She has ‘rescued’ many people, though no one seems to realize that she is the one most in need of—” Suddenly he stopped and cleared his throat.
“I have discoursed quite enough, my lord. Forgive me. Perhaps you’ll reconsider the idea of coff-”
“What were you going to say? That Lily’s in need of rescuing? From what? From whom?”
Burton looked at him blankly, as if he were speaking a foreign language. “Shall I bring this morning’s edition of the Times
along with your headache powder, my lord?”
*
Henry perched at the long table in the cavernous kitchen, watching in fascination as Monsieur Labarge and the army of apron—
clad servants worked on a bewildering array of projects. Fragrant sauces and mysterious concoctions bubbled in pots on the cast-iron stove. An entire wall was covered with a staggering collection of shining pots, pans, and molds, an assortment
Labarge referred to as his batterie de cuisine.
The chef strode about the room in the manner of a military commander, gesturing with knives, spoons, whatever utensil
happened to be in his hand. His towering white hat tilted at alarming angles in response to his vigorous movements. He
barked at the second chef, who was making a sauce far too heavy for a dis
h of fish wrapped in pastry, and at assistant bakers who had allowed the rolls to brown a shade too dark. The nne, upturned ends of his mustache quivered in wrath as he saw that one of the vegetable maids was cutting the carrots too fine. In sudden, bewildering changes of mood, Labarge would shove tempting dishes in front of Henry and beam approvingly as Henry gobbled up the savory feast. “Ah, le jeune gentilhomme, mange, mange … our young gentleman must try some of this … and this … c’est bien, oui?”
“Very good,” Henry said enthusiastically, around a mouthful of pastry dotted with fruit and lemon cream. “May I have some
more of those brown things with the sauce?”
With fatherly pride, the chef brought him a second plate of tiny veal strips sauteed with brandy butter, onions, and mushroom sauce. “The first recipe I learned as a boy, helping mon pere prepare supper for le comte,” he reminisced.
“This is even better than the meals we have at Raiford Park,” Henry said.
Monsieur Labarge responded with many uncomplimentary remarks about English food, calling it flavorless garbage that he
would not even feed to a dog. This, on the other hand, was French cuisine, as superior to English food as cake was to stale
bread. Wisely, Henry nodded in agreement and kept eating.
Just as Henry was forced to set his fork down because his stomach was uncomfortably full, Worthy came to the kitchen
entrance. “Master Henry,” he said gravely, “your brother has arrived. He has made some, er, vigorous statements of concern
for you. I think it best if you show yourself at once. Come with me, if you please.”
“Oh.” Henry’s cornflower blue eyes turned round with dismay. He covered his mouth with his palm, suppressing a burp, and
sighed as he looked around the kitchen. The staff regarded him sympathetically. “It will be a long time before I’ll be able to
come back,” Henry said sadly. “Years.”
Monsieur Labarge looked distressed, his thin mustache twitching as he thought rapidly. “Lord Raiford, he has the grand temper, non? Perhaps we shall first offer him poularde a la Periguex … or saumon Monpellier …” The chef paused and considered other delicacies he could prepare, confident that his culinary masterpieces would placate the most savage humor.
“No,” Henry said ruefully, knowing that even Labarge’s offering of truffled chicken or salmon in herb sauce wouldn’t soothe
Alex. “I don’t think that would work. But thank you, monsieur. This was worth any punishment. I’d spend a month in Newgate
for one of those sponge cakes with the coffee cream—or that green souffle thing.”
Obviously moved, Labarge clasped Henry’s shoulders, kissed both cheeks, and delivered a short speech in French, which Henry couldn’t understand. He finished by exclaiming, “Quel jeune homme magnifique—such a boy this is!”
“Come, Henry.” Worthy gestured to the boy. They left the kitchen and walked through the dining rooms. Before they circled to
the entrance hall, Worthy felt compelled to make a short speech of his own. “Henry … I suppose you’ve heard that a gentleman always behaves with discretion. Especially when it comes to discussing matters of, er … activity with the fair sex.”
“Yes,” Henry said in a perplexed manner. He stared up at Worthy with a slight frown. “Does that mean I shouldn’t tell my
brother about the girls Mr. Craven introduced me to last night?”
“Unless … you feel there is a particular reason for him to know?”
Henry shook his head. “I can’t think of a single reason.”
“Good.” Worthy gave a great sigh of relief.
Contrary to Henry’s expectations, Alex was not wearing a thunderous scowl. Actually he seemed rather calm as he stood in
the entrance hall, his hands shoved casually in the pockets of his coat. His clothes were rumpled and his face was covered with heavy stubble. Henry wasn’t accustomed to seeing his brother in such disarray. But strangely, Alex looked more relaxed than he had in a long time. There was something rather unsettling about his eyes, a gleam of silver fire, and a devil-may-care expression on his face. Henry frowned, wondering what had happened to him. And why he had appeared this morning, instead of arriving to take him back home last night.
“Alex,” he said, “it was all my fault. I should never have gone without telling you, but I—”
Alex took him by the shoulders, surveying him critically. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I had a splendid supper last night. I learned to play cribbage with Mr. Craven. I went to bed early.”
Assured of his well-being, Alex gave him a piercing stare. “We’re going to have a talk, Henry. About responsibility.”
The boy nodded dutifully, perceiving that it was going to be a long ride home.
“My lord,” Worthy interjected, “on behalf of Mr. Craven and our staff, I would like to say that your brother is an exceptionally well-mannered lad. I have never seen Mr. Craven—not to mention our temperamental chef—so charmed by one person.”
“It’s a God-given talent. Henry mastered the art of flattery at a young age.” Alex glanced at his younger brother, who wore
a sheepish smile, and then back at the factotum. “Worthy, is Miss Lawson here?”
“No, my lord.”
Alex wondered if he were lying. Lily might be in Craven’s bed right now. He felt a stab of possessive jealousy. “Then where
might I expect to find her?”
“I would expect Miss Lawson to be here for the next few nights, my lord, either in the card rooms or at the hazard table.
Certainly she’ll be in attendance at our masked assembly on Saturday.” Worthy lifted his brows and peered at him through his round spectacles. “Shall I give her a message, my lord?”
“Yes. Tell her to be prepared for the next round.” With that ominous statement, Alex bid the factotum good-bye and strode
out of Craven’s, Henry trotting close at his heels.
*
When Alex arrived at Raiford Park and strode into the mansion, he was immediately aware of the quiet alarm that permeated
the air.
Henry was also sensitive to the invisible cloud of gloom. Wonderingly he looked around the silent house. “It feels like someone died!”
The sounds of subdued sniffling heralded the appearance of Lady Totty. She crept down the grand staircase, her cherubic
face drawn tight with dismay. She looked at Alex as though she suspected he might rush forward and do her bodily harm.
“M-my lord,” she quavered, and burst into tears. “She’s gone! My darling Penny is gone! Don’t blame my poor innocent child,
the fault is mine. All rec-recriminations should be laid solely at my feet! Oh, dear, oh dear …”
A comical mixture of dismay and alarm crossed Alex’s features. “Lady Totty …” He searched his pockets for a handkerchief.
He glanced at Henry, who shrugged helplessly.
“Should I get her some water?” Henry asked sotto voce.
“Tea,” Totty sobbed. “Strong tea, with a splash of milk. And a touch of sugar. Just a touch, mind you.” As Henry scurried
away, Totty continued her hiccuping soliloquy. “Oh, what am I to do? … I think I’ve g-gone a little mad! How shall I begin to explain …”
“No explanations are necessary.” Alex found a handkerchief and offered it to her. He patted her plump back in a clumsily
soothing gesture. “I’m aware of the situation—Penelope, Zachary, the elopement, all of it. It’s too late to assign blame, Lady
Totty. Don’t distress yourself.”
“By the time I found the note and roused George to follow them they were long gone.” Totty blew her nose daintily. “Even
now he is trying to locate them. Perhaps there is still time…”
“No.” He produced a benign smile. “Penelope was far too good for me. I assure you, Viscount Stamford will prove to be a worthier
husband.”
“I don’t agree at all,” Totty said unhappily. “Oh, Lord Raiford, if only you had been here last night. I fear your absence may
have encouraged them in this terrible folly.” Her round blue eyes, swimming with tears, pleaded for an explanation.
“I was … unavoidably detained,” Alex replied, rubbing his head ruefully.
“This has all been Wilhemina’s doing,” Totty fretted.
He looked at her intently. “How so?”
“If she hadn’t come here and put ideas into their heads …”
Suddenly Alex felt a smile pull at the corners of his mouth. “I believe the ideas were already there,” he said gently. “If we set
aside our emotions, Lady Totty, I think we might recognize that Penelope and Viscount Stamford are an ideally suited pair.”
“But Zachary is nothing compared to you!” Totty burst out impatiently, wiping her eyes. “And now … now you are no longer
to be our son-in-law!”
“Apparently not.”
“Oh, my.” Totty sighed dejectedly. “With all my heart I wish … if only I had a third daughter to offer you!”
Alex stared at her blankly. Then he began to make an odd choking noise. Afraid he had succumbed to an apoplectic fit, Totty watched in horror as he sank down to the steps, sitting with his head clasped in his hands. His whole frame shook, and he
breathed in ragged gasps. Gradually she realized he was laughing. Laughing. Her jaw dropped, her mouth forming a lopsided oval. “My lord?”
“God.” Alex nearly toppled over. “A third. No. Two is quite enough. Sweet Jesus. Lily’s worth ten if she’s worth anything!”
Totty regarded him with mounting alarm, clearly wondering if the turn of events had unhinged him. “Lord Raiford,” she said weakly, “I don’t think anyone would blame you for … forgetting yourself. However, I believe … I will take my tea in the
parlor … a-and allow you some privacy.” She hurried away, her plump elbows churning like cogwheels.
“Thank you,” Alex managed to say, struggling to control himself. A few deep breaths and he was silent, though an open smile remained on his face. He wondered if he was all right. Oh, yes. There was a feeling of lightness inside him, a rampant surge of elation he couldn’t describe. It left him a little unsteady, restless, like a schoolboy on holiday. The feeling demanded action.
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