Moving on, he saw his brother Cade, Cade’s wife, Meg, his younger sister Mallory and her new husband, Adam, Earl of Gresham—an old friend of the family’s whom he’d known since they were both very young men.
Mallory laughed just then and smiled up at Adam, her eyes shining with undisguised love. Adam smiled back, his own adoration—that frankly bordered on the besotted—clear for all to see. Drake was glad Mallory was so happy, particularly after the heartache she’d suffered not so long ago.
Honestly, though, he mused, he was beginning to feel a bit outnumbered, what with all of his older siblings and one of his little sisters falling in love and getting married. Even Jack, the wildest, most rakish Byron brother of them all—assuming one discounted the twins, Leo and Lawrence, who at twenty were working hard to outstrip Jack’s well-earned reputation—had traded in his freedom for a ring and vows of true love.
In fact, Jack wasn’t in London at all right now, having opted to skip the Season to be with his wife, Grace, their daughter Nicola and new baby, Virginia “Ginny,” at their home in Kent. Based on the last letter he’d had from Jack, his brother seemed to prefer the quiet, rural existence he shared with his new family. Apparently the raucous, fast-paced city life he used to enjoy with such exuberant excess was now little more than a vague, unmourned memory.
Certainly Drake wished all his married siblings the best and liked his sisters-in-law and brother-in-law very much. Yet he couldn’t help but fear it was giving his mother ideas concerning him. If he wasn’t careful, he’d soon find himself wed as well.
Not if I have a say in the matter, he thought, stopping to procure a lemonade for Claire and a glass of wine for himself.
He’d just taken a drink when his mother appeared at his elbow, Claire drifting away with a friendly waggle of her fingers.
“Drake, you came!” exclaimed Ava Byron, in an echo of her daughter-in-law’s earlier remark. Her clear green eyes, that were very much like his own, sparkled with youthful exuberance and delight. Truthfully, if she wasn’t the mother of eight children—only one of whom was still young enough to be in the schoolroom—no one would believe she had passed her fiftieth year. With barely a few strands of grey in her light brown hair and scarcely a line on her face, she was still one of the most beautiful women in the room.
“I told you I’d be here,” he said, leaning over to press a kiss her cheek. “You and Claire ought to have more faith.”
“We have plenty of faith, but we both know you well enough to realize how . . .” She paused, clearly in search of a word that wouldn’t offend. “ . . . preoccupied you sometimes become with your work.”
“Forgetful, you mean. Well, not today. Otherwise, you told me that I was in danger of becoming dull.”
Ava smiled. “You could never be dull. You’re a Byron! But you do seem to spend a very great deal of time locked inside that workshop of yours. You need to be out among people. You need to mingle more.”
He sent her a penetrating look, a prickle of warning running down his back. “As hostesses, it’s your and Claire’s job to mingle. I’m just here to eat and drink, speak to a select few people, then go home.”
“And I know just the people with whom you should speak.”
“Mama,” he said, the prickle sending up a definite alarm this time. “What are you up to? You’re not trying to matchmake, are you?”
Ava looked offended. “Of course not. And I’m not up to anything. You know me better than that.”
He nodded, relaxing slightly.
“But an old acquaintance of mine, Lord Saxon, does happen to be here. He’s a widower, and he has brought his daughter with him. It’s her very first Season, and she’s a rather shy girl, in spite of her pretty face.”
“Mother—” He scowled.
“—You don’t have to pay court to her. Just engage her in a little conversation, perhaps offer to escort her into nuncheon.”
“I’m not escorting her anywhere, and nuncheon is out of the question.”
“Just make her acquaintance then. And be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” he said on a rumbling growl.
Ava sent him another look. “Nicer than that.”
He swallowed a sigh of resignation. “Fine. I’ll be good. Lead on, and don’t blame me afterward if she wishes we’d never met.”
Sebastianne collapsed into the wide chair in the housekeeper’s room—her room she supposed now that she had officially assumed her new duties. The chamber was small, yet tidy, an interesting combination of office and sitting area that was located in the basement. Here she could prepare marketing lists of goods and foodstuffs, reconcile the household accounts and speak to any staff who needed a word in private. The room was also the place where the senior staff—Mr. Stowe, Mrs. Tremble and Mr. Waxman—should he decide to join them—removed each day to enjoy their dessert, coffee and a glass of sherry once the servants’ dinner was finished.
After her tour with Mr. Stowe, she’d assumed she might be able to sneak in a few minutes here and there to search for the cipher. With Lord Drake out of the house for the afternoon and evening, it seemed an excellent opportunity. But to her great frustration, she couldn’t find a moment to spare amid the myriad tasks that settled upon her shoulders. First, there were Parker and Cobbs to be satisfied, the housemaids hovering with clear expectation that she would want to inspect their work. Aware that this task was indeed part of her job, she walked through each room, checking for cleanliness and order. All the rooms, that is, except Lord Drake’s workroom.
“We’re not to go in there without his lordship’s express permission and never when he’s out of the house,” Parker volunteered in a confidential tone. “Says we disarrange things even though they’re all a jumble to start. But he has a system, he says, and it’s not to be meddled with.”
Cobbs nodded her agreement with solemn assurance.
“Yelled at me something frightful one time when I first started,” Parker continued. “All’s I did was straighten a pile of his papers, and you’d think I’d tossed ’em all on the hot grate the way he carried on. Says I cost him an entire week’s work, but I don’t see as how I could have.”
Sebastianne did, though, thinking of her father’s seemingly hap-dash way of organizing his own space. He too had a system that was incomprehensible to everyone—everyone but her. Over the years, when she hadn’t been busy taking care of the family household, she’d served as his assistant. As such, she’d learned mathematics from him even though females were traditionally discouraged from studying such a masculine discipline. But Papa had always been proud, encouraging her to learn in spite of her mother’s gentle admonitions that such knowledge would only lead to trouble.
Ironic that her mother had been right though not for the reasons either of them had imagined at the time. Fateful that Mama, who died when Sebastianne was only fifteen, had unwittingly provided her with the other essential skill she needed in order to perpetrate her current charade. For if her mother had not been British, Sebastianne would never have known how to speak English so flawlessly that everyone would assume she was a native born and bred.
Half–born and bred, she corrected, thinking of her dual heritage and her resulting affinity for languages. In addition to French and English, she was fluent in Spanish and Italian, with enough German and Russian to make do. But she had a pretense to maintain, she reminded herself, aware that she must remember to appear as British as possible at all times.
Linking her hands behind her back, she forced her memories aside, struggling as she did to quiet the churning in her stomach over knowing herself a cheat. For no matter what choices she made now, she was destined to hurt and betray someone. Better those for whom she did not care, she reasoned, than those she loved.
Without warning, Drake Byron’s face popped into her mind. Her pulse sped faster as she thought of his angular features and clear gre
en eyes, which were so honest and insightful, so captivating and breathlessly male. It would be easy for a woman to lose herself in eyes like those. Easy to forget herself and her true purpose.
Bah! she told herself, coming back to the present.
With an imperceptible shake of her head, she sternly banished the image, calling herself a ridiculous widgeon.
“If we are not to enter his lordship’s workroom,” Sebastianne said, returning to the discussion at hand, “then how is the chamber ever cleaned?”
“Oh, he lets us in every so often to do a dusting and polish,” Parker volunteered. “So long as we don’t move anything, he’s fine enough. Mrs. Beatty used to wait until he went out, then sneak in and clean.”
But despite her own wish that she could “sneak in,” Sebastianne found her afternoon far too busy to play spy. Instead, after her inspection of the housemaid’s work, she went to the linen cupboard to sort and arrange the contents—removing a few sheets that needed mending.
Returning belowstairs, she’d been greeted by Mrs. Tremble, who pointed out that there were deliveries from the butcher’s boy and the greengrocer that required checking to make sure they were of good quality and the right weight and measure.
“Ye never know when one of the tradesmen will turn cheat,” the cook advised with a sage nod. Having dealt with her own share of unscrupulous merchants in her time, Sebastianne could only agree.
At supper, in spite of being given a reprieve on overseeing the arrangement of Lord Drake’s meal at table, she’d still been expected to carve the roast joint of beef for the servants. It had proven a daunting experience that had made her hands shake. Apparently, she did well enough, however, quiet with relief as she ate her first evening meal among the staff.
Afterward, she hoped she could retire for the day, but more work awaited. Since she was responsible for the management of the larder and stillroom, it was her job to grind the spices, sift and measure out the sugar, and stone the fruits and raisins, among other tasks. And to her silent dismay, once she had finished with that, there was a large basketful of clothes and linens in need of mending—the fine sewing also her duty to perform.
Leaning her head back as she sat in the housekeeper’s room, she wondered if she had the strength to walk up the four flights of stairs to her bedchamber. Closing her eyes, she let the long, tiring day wash over her, her mind as exhausted as her body.
She came awake with a start some while later, unsure of the time. Peering at the clock on her desk, she saw that it was a few minutes past two in the morning.
She cupped a hand over an eye-watering yawn and she tried to shake off her drowsiness. Unless she wanted to spend the rest of the night in this chair and risk waking up stiff in the morning, she supposed she had best go to her bedroom. A scant few hours remained before she would have to begin a new day and start her duties all over again.
Still, with everyone else slumbering, maybe this would be the perfect time to do a bit of searching?
Dare I try?
Taking up a candle, she made her way silently from the room.
“G’night, milord,” Morton called quietly from where he sat perched atop the coachbox.
Lifting a hand, Drake gave a friendly wave, then started up the steps to the front door. He listened to the fading clip-clop of the horses’ hooves on the dark, silent street as he slipped his fingers inside his waistcoat. Digging briefly inside its silk-lined pocket, he located the house key he carried for just such occasions and applied it to the lock.
He knew the servants would all be abed since he’d long ago dispensed with the practice of keeping a footman stationed at the door until his arrival. What was the point in making one of them stay up half the night when even he didn’t know what time he would return?
Even Waxman, who was dedicated to a fault, had stopped waiting up for him years ago. Instead, he’d adopted the habit of laying out fresh towels, Drake’s robe and setting a tin of water on the hearth to stay warm for Drake’s use whenever he came in for the evening.
Smothering a yawn, he went inside, then turned to lock the door behind him. The pleasant quiet wrapped around him like a coverlet, cool and dark, the house peaceful in its stillness.
It was just what he wanted after the hot, bright gleam of Vanessa’s town house, with its red silk walls, crystal chandeliers and profusion of gilded mirrors. Then there were the large, ornate cages she kept throughout the house, filled with a variety of chirping yellow canaries and the jewel-toned songbirds that she adored with unabashed affection.
Not that he didn’t enjoy her lush abode, with its comfortable sofas, perfumed sheets and soft feather mattress. Even so, when it came to sleeping, he preferred to do so in his own bed.
“Are you sure you won’t stay the night?” Vanessa had murmured from where she lay against the rumpled bedclothes, her creamy white arms stretched above her head in a way that emphasized the ripe curve of her full, pink-tipped breasts.
He shook his head and reached for the shirt he’d tossed to the floor in a passionate haze not long after his arrival. “It’s late and time I went home.”
“If you prefer.” She stretched like a cat, allowing one of her rounded thighs to shift so that he could easily see everything he was passing up. “Then again, it’s not as if you’ve a wife waiting for you at home. If you let me, I promise I’ll make you glad you stayed.”
He’d laughed and pressed a languid kiss to her palm. “I’m sure you would, since you’ve already made me glad several times tonight. But I have work.”
“Yes, your work,” she said in an understanding tone. “I know how important it is to you.”
“You’re right. It is.” He stepped into his trousers, fastening them before taking up his discarded cravat.
Long moments passed in silence, Vanessa reaching to pull the sheet over herself before she reclined once more against the pillows. “You know, Drake, I wonder if there will ever be a woman who is more important to you than your work?”
“Do you?” He raised a considering brow.
“Hmm, yes,” she continued. “I just wonder if the woman exists who could drag you away from all the notions and numbers that dance around in that brilliant head of yours? Someone so special she would have the power to make you forget everything and everyone but her?”
He paused, studying her, aware the question must be an academic one since Vanessa had told him on more than one occasion that she had no interest in a permanent relationship and none whatsoever in marriage. As a wealthy widow, she enjoyed her freedom, in bed and out. It was why the two of them fit together so well. No ties. No strings. Just pleasure and easy, undemanding friendship.
Now she wanted to amuse herself by speculating about some hypothetical great love who would mean the world to him, mean even more to him than his family or his work.
Absurd.
Suddenly, Anne Greenway leapt into his mind. Her shapely figure, gentle smile and rich autumn-hued tresses that looked as if they’d been dusted with gleaming faerie silver beckoned within his imagination.
How curious that he would think of her. How impossible when there could be nothing between them.
Ever.
Giving himself an inward shake, he banished her from his thoughts.
Setting a last knot into his neckcloth, he came back to the bed and leaned over. “Speaking as a mathematician, I would have to say that the odds of my ever being hopelessly in love are slim to none, particularly since I’m not much given to romantic fancy.” Smiling, he kissed her. “Besides, why would I need a woman like that when I have you?”
Clearly appeased, she’d laughed again and flung off the sheet. A few kisses later, she persuaded him to stay just a little while longer after all.
But he was glad to be home again now, glad to know he would be sleeping well sated in his own comfortable, solitary bed. Smothering another yawn, he
started toward the staircase.
Just then, he noticed a narrow pool of light gleaming at the end of the hallway and stopped. Who could be awake at this hour? he wondered.
“Hallo?” he called softly. “Who’s there?”
A soft gasp broke the quiet, the candlelight flickering wildly.
Peering through the shadows, he pondered the subtle exclamation. “Mrs. Greenway? Is that you?”
A long pause descended before the brush-brush of leather soles came whispering against the polished floorboards and over the long Aubusson hall runner. Slowly, her figure grew more distinct as she drew nearer, light from the candle she held revealing the rapid rise and fall of her chest. “M-my lord? I d-didn’t realize you had arrived home. You startled me.”
“Then we share the same dilemma since you surprised me as well. What on earth are you doing wandering around the house at this hour?”
An expression that looked curiously like guilt spread over her features before she smoothed it away. “I . . . I . . .”
“Yes?” he drawled, even more intrigued now to hear her answer.
Her eyes gleamed faintly in the mellow light. “I hope you won’t think badly of me, but I fell asleep in the housekeeper’s room downstairs. I only just awakened and was on my way to bed.”
Whatever suspicions had been forming in his head vanished, fresh surprise moving to replace them. “Has your first day been so tiring then? I trust your duties aren’t of such an onerous nature that you cannot find time to retire for the evening?”
“N-no, not at all. The tasks, they are just a bit unfamiliar, you see and . . .” Her voice trailed off, a tiny frown settling across her russet colored brow. “That is to say I am merely learning the rhythm of the house and had much to do. There is no need for concern. I am managing quite ably.”
“I am sure you are, but there is no point in wearing yourself out. In future, you are to retire at a far more reasonable hour since it won’t do having you exhaust yourself. Whatever work remains at day’s end can wait until the morrow, I am certain.”
The Bed and the Bachelor Page 4
