Seductive Starts

by Courtney Milan

  He looked safe. An utterly ridiculous thing to think, of course. Still, Serena held his eyes, smiled, and gave the fellow a polite, dismissive nod.

  He crossed the street toward her.

  He was as unremarkable as the shrubbery that edged the square. He had a nondescript face, so familiar that it might have belonged to anyone. He gave her a friendly, unassuming smile.

  She did not respond in kind. She wasn’t nice, she wasn’t easy, and she was done being a target. She gave him a pointed look—a raise of her eyebrow that signified don’t you impinge on my time.

  A man as ordinary as this one should have flinched from her expression. But this one came right up to her bench and, without so much as asking her leave, sat next to her.

  “Nice day,” he commented.

  His voice was like his face: not too high and not too deep. His accent was not the drawl of aristocratic syllables trained to lazy perfection, but a hint of something from the north.

  “Is it?” It wasn’t—not when she’d been sitting outside long enough to turn her nose red. Not when an unfamiliar man sat next to her and started a conversation.

  She turned to frown at him.

  He was watching her with a quizzical little smile. “I believe there is no good way to continue.”

  She sighed. “You’ve come for gossip, haven’t you?”

  “You could say that.” He tensed, and then met her eyes. “It’s Hugo Marshall, by the way.” He tossed the introduction out, and then leaned back, as if waiting for her response.

  Was he an important man? She remembered the servants scattering as he’d approached. Maybe he was a solicitor, who might carry tales. Or a butler, who enforced rules. He looked rather young to be a Mayfair butler, but whatever he was, he wasn’t going away.

  She would have preferred a woman to start the gossip—she found it easier to talk to women. But perhaps this fellow would do.

  “Miss Serena Barton,” she finally offered. “I suppose everyone wants to know why I’m here.”

  He shrugged, and gave her another one of those pleasant smiles. “I have no interest in everyone,” he responded smoothly. “But I do wish you’d satisfy my individual curiosity. The accounts I have heard are quite garbled.”

  She had no intention of satisfying anything of his. She’d been cut deep by her own silence—cut to the point of shame. Now it was her turn to wield that knife.

  The Duke of Clermont had told her to stay quiet. So she would.

  “Accounts? What accounts?” she asked.

  “I’ve heard you’re Clermont’s former mistress.”

  She raised a single eyebrow at that. Silence could cut both ways—for instance, when one failed to repudiate rumors that might cause damage. She wished Clermont much joy of her silence.

  He tapped his fingers against the arm of the bench, holding her gaze. “I’ve heard you’re a governess, and that Clermont promised you a position looking after his unborn child. When he reneged, you took to sitting outside here to shame him for not honoring his contracts.”

  That was so absurd that she couldn’t stop herself from laughing.

  He simply sighed. “No,” he said. “Of course not.”

  If gossip was running to breach of contract, she needed a new strategy. But Serena simply smoothed her skirts over her knees. “My,” she said. “Do keep talking. What else?”

  He pushed his gloved hands together and looked down. “I’ve heard that Clermont forced himself on you.” This last came out in a low growl.

  Serena repressed a shiver. She didn’t flinch—not even from the shadow that passed over her at that. “You believe all of this?”

  “I believe none of it, not without proof. Tell me what really happened, Miss Barton, and perhaps I can help.”

  She’d told the duke everything that morning. He’d laughed and told her to take herself off and keep quiet. It was the second time he’d demanded her silence. So she’d promised to return it to him—silence, accusing silence. Weeks and weeks of it, sitting practically on his doorstep with everyone wondering. If the gossip threatened to reach his wife, he’d have to take responsibility.

  She regarded Mr. Marshall now. For all his smiling affability, he was direct. He’d simply jumped into the matter and asked her right out. By the way he was watching her, he expected an answer.

  On a second inspection, she decided he was not as ordinary as she’d supposed. His nose had been broken. It had also been set, but not very well, and so there was a bump in the middle of it. And while he wasn’t fat, he was broader across the shoulders than any butler she’d seen.

  But he was giving her an encouraging smile, and the warning prickle in her palms had faded to almost nothing. He was safe. Gossipy, perhaps, but safe.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Marshall,” she said. “I really will not say.”

  “Oh?” He looked mildly puzzled. “You won’t tell even me?”

  “I don’t dare.” She gave him another smile. “I do apologize for piquing your curiosity, but I’ll be unable to oblige it. Good day.”

  He took off his hat and rubbed his brown hair. “Is there some need for secrecy? I’ll meet you in the dead of night, if that’s what it takes to resolve the matter. I was hoping this would be simple.”

  Her smile froze. “No,” she heard herself say distinctly. “These days, I only meet in sunlight. I don’t mean to be so circumspect, but if I air my grievances to the public, it is possible that I could be charged with defamation of character. I must be careful.” That was the right note to strike with the gossips—imply that she had the capacity to blacken the duke’s name, without ever listing specifics.

  But he didn’t speculate. He leaned back, and the iron bench creaked. “You think Clermont would have you brought up for talking to me?”

  “Oh, surely not Clermont himself. But his man… Who knows what he might do to keep the duke’s secret?”

  “His man,” Mr. Marshall repeated, setting his hat next to him on the bench. “You won’t talk to me because you’re frightened of Clermont’s man.”

  “Surely you’ve heard of him. They call him the Wolf of Clermont.”

  “They—what?” He pulled back.

  “The Wolf of Clermont,” she repeated. “The duke hires him to get things done, things that an ordinary man, fettered by a conscience, would not do.”

  He stared at her for a few moments. Then, ever so slowly, Mr. Marshall picked up his hat once more and turned it in his hands. “Ah,” he said. “That Wolf of Clermont. You’re acquainted with the fellow?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  He made a polite sound of disbelief.

  “From the gossip papers only,” she explained. “I’ve never met him, of course. But he has the blackest of reputations. He was a pugilist before he took over the duke’s affairs, and from what I’ve heard, he’s handled His Grace’s matters with all the aplomb that one could expect from a man who made his living prizefighting. They say that he’s utterly ruthless. I can see him now: some squat, stocky man, all shoulders, no neck.”

  “All shoulders,” he repeated softly. “No neck.” His own hand rose, as if of its own accord, to touch his cravat. “Fascinating.”

  “But if you work near here, surely you must have seen him. Do I have the right of it?”

  He gave her another one of his friendly smiles.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “You’ve described him precisely. If I were you, I’d not want to set myself opposite him. I’d think long and hard about that. And as you’re not talking…” He picked up his hat and set it on his head. “I’ll wish you a good day, Miss Barton. And much luck.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he replied. “If you’re in opposition to the Wolf of Clermont, luck won’t do you any good. It will just make his chase interesting.”

  Chapter Two

  ONCE AGAIN, SERENA’S SISTER had not left home all day.

  Serena could tell because Frederica’s cloak and gloves were still gathering dus
t on the small table in the entry. A bit of a stretch, to call this haphazardly walled-off section of hallway an “entry.” The word brought to mind marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and liveried butlers who whisked hats and gloves away.

  Here, there was only the rickety wood table and yellowing whitewash of an old house, once grand, now little better than tenement housing for women who had slipped into the depths of genteel poverty. The air was cold and musty.

  Nonetheless, Serena removed her own cloak and gloves and set them next to Freddy’s, and then peered into the adjoining chamber. She could scarcely make out the silhouettes of furniture in the unlit room. Oil and candles were dear, when one scraped by on fifteen pounds a year.

  Freddy sat before the window, holding her sewing up so that the faint illumination from the street lamp shone on her work. Serena had been told she looked like her sister, but Freddy’s skin was pale and her hair was orange, like their mother; Serena took her darker hair and skin from their father. If there was a resemblance, she’d never seen it.

  “Good evening, dear,” Freddy said absently, as she worked her needle through the cloth.

  Serena came to stand behind her. “Good evening.” She set her hands on her sister’s shoulders, and gave her a light squeeze. “You’ve been working on this all day, haven’t you? Your shoulders are so stiff.”

  “Just a few moments longer.”

  “You’ll ruin your eyesight, sewing in this failing light.”

  “Mmm.” Freddy made another precise stitch.

  She was piecing together another quilt of interlocking rings. She didn’t sell her work—that would have made her a laborer, and ladies, as Freddy so often explained, did not labor. Instead, Freddy gave her quilts away to charitable organizations. Almost half her extra income went to scraps and second-quality yarn for the deserving poor. More than half her time was spent knitting scarves and sewing blankets for babies. It didn’t seem quite fair to Serena; without stirring from her rooms, her elder sister managed to make her feel both exhausted and inadequate.

  Serena sighed.

  “You don’t have to do this, Freddy. Why do you force yourself to it?”

  “Don’t call me Freddy. You know I hate that name.” Freddy laid down her work. “You don’t have to do this, either. Serena, you know I love you, but this is not what we were born to do. Why must you bother Clermont? He hurt you once; why give him the chance to do so again?”

  An image of a dark room tucked under the eaves darted into Serena’s head. She could see Clermont ducking through the too-short doorway, could hear the sound of the door shutting behind him.

  She shivered.

  She wanted proof that she wasn’t the sort to cower in the corner, no matter what had happened to her. She wanted to conquer that complex burden of shame and confusion and anger.

  Serena set her hand over her still-flat belly. She had enough to contend with as it was.

  “I want justice.” The words were flat in her mouth, and yet sharp, so sharp. “I want to show that he can’t win.” Her fingers curled with want. “That he can’t just—”

  Freddy sniffed dismissively. “We’ve enough to survive on,” she said as if money were a substitute for fair play. “Stay with me. I always said you should. But no; you had to run off governessing, when we were left with the sort of competence that could see us through our lives, if we economized.”

  “We were left fifteen pounds a year,” Serena protested. Enough to avoid starvation; enough to have a roof over their heads. But every year, costs went up. It hadn’t taken much forethought to see that in twenty years, expenses would outrun income.

  “But,” Freddy said, continuing with the lecture, “you had to want more. You’ve always wanted more. And see where it’s left you? You can’t eat justice.”

  No. But at least she wouldn’t choke on it. Serena unclenched the fist she’d made at her side.

  “By the by,” Freddy said more casually, “where has it left you?”

  “Without a position,” Serena snapped. “With no hope of a character reference.”

  “All your fine plans,” Freddy said, half scolding, half comforting, “and they’ve come to naught. Best not to dream, dear. If you don’t, there’s nothing that can be taken from you.”

  Pure cowardice, that. Freddy fretted when she had to cross the street to purchase milk. When she’d gone to meet Serena at the yard where the stagecoach had left her, she’d been white-lipped and trembling. She’d complained of pains in her chest all the way home. Freddy didn’t handle change well, and nothing changed so often as the world outside her door.

  There was a reason that Serena had signed away her portion of their father’s bequest. Freddy could not have survived on her half, and she was incapable of making up the shortfall.

  “All of your fine plans,” Freddy repeated gently, “and here you are. With nothing. Less than nothing.”

  “No,” she said thickly. “Not…not nothing.”

  “With nightmares and a babe on the way.”

  Serena kept her eyes wide open. Her hands trembled; she forced them to stillness, pushing them against her skirts until they grew steady. She imagined the spark of life growing inside her, gestating next to her bitter fury. Sometimes, she feared that all of that cold, trembling anger would eat her child alive. Not after I win. Then I’ll be safe, and I’ll never be hurt again.

  “I told you already,” she said. To her own ear, her voice seemed to come from very far away. “I don’t have nightmares. I don’t have time to be frightened of anything.”

  At her last position, the Wolvertons had obtained a microscope for their children’s instruction in the natural world. They’d magnified everything. Sometimes, the memory that played itself through her dreams seemed like those enlarged images. The edges danced, overhung with the chromatic effect of a dark, shadowing halo. She felt as if she were looking at something very small, something very far away. So distant that it almost wasn’t happening.

  She had felt so helpless then, so utterly without recourse. She should have screamed. She should have bashed the duke over the head. She should have fought. In her memory of that night, her own silence mocked her most of all.

  She hadn’t screamed, and because she hadn’t, she’d felt silent ever since.

  Freddy simply sighed. “When you’re ready to give up,” she said, “I’ll be here. But I don’t know what you hope to accomplish, except to bring that horrid wolf-man down on both our heads.”

  This, at least, Serena could answer. “I have it on the best of authority,” she said, “that he’s a thickheaded fellow. All brawn and no brains. When it comes down to it, I’ll simply outsmart him.”

  “Oh, dear.” Freddy leaned over and tapped Serena’s cheek. “When you fail, I’ll be here to pick up the pieces. As usual.”

  HUGO HAD MORE THAN enough to do the following day. Nonetheless, thoughts of the governess followed him throughout his work. He sent out a man to discover what had really happened between his employer and Miss Serena Barton at Wolverton Hall. If she wouldn’t tell him and Clermont wouldn’t say, he’d have to find out on his own.

  He spent the morning attempting to banish thoughts of her—of that chestnut hair, bound into a loose knot, waiting to become unpinned. Her eyes were gray and still, like water too long undisturbed. Her hands had been quiet—unmoving.

  By the afternoon, he gave up the cause of work as hopeless and wandered to the window. He’d caught glimpses of her sitting on her bench all morning. Now, she sat still as a statue, scarcely moving, scarcely breathing, and yet somehow completely alive.

  She wasn’t what he would have called pretty. Handsome, yes. And there was something about her eyes… He shook his head; her appearance was hardly relevant.

  He’d been testing her yesterday, mentioning rape. It was…horrifyingly possible. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if she’d confirmed his fears. He’d done a great many things on Clermont’s behalf, but he’d never hurt a woman. Even his wounded
conscience had its limits.

  But she’d not even flinched when he’d said the word. She hadn’t reacted to anything at all.

  And therein lay his second problem. When he’d introduced himself, he’d assumed that she would recognize his name. But she had apparently gleaned his reputation entirely through gossip columns, and they only ever referred to him as the Wolf of Clermont. There was no reason anyone who had just arrived in London would know his name.

  He should have corrected her misapprehension.

  He hadn’t, and he wasn’t sure why. Just an instinct. For all the duke’s blasé reassurances, he suspected that whatever was at the heart of this quarrel was a scandal—and one that could undo all of Hugo’s fine work. He couldn’t fix the problem if he didn’t know what he was facing, and if she worked herself up into a fear of him, he might never learn the truth—not until he saw it on the front page of a newspaper.

  Still, he didn’t like lying. Not even by implication.

  “Whatever you are up to, Miss Barton,” he whispered, “you will not cost me my five hundred pounds. I have worked too hard for it.”

  Fifty yards on the other side of the pane of glass, she swung her head, startling him with the sudden movement. He stepped back—but she was only watching a bird that had landed on the ground in front of her.

  With a sigh, Hugo pushed the rest of his papers aside. No sense wasting any more time wondering, when he could be finding out.

  He exited the house via the servants’ door, tromped back through the mews, and then back ’round to the street. Miss Barton was still sitting there when he crossed into the square. She gave him a smile, this one a little warmer than the one he’d received yesterday.

  There was something about her that drew his eye.

  “Mr. Marshall,” she said. “I did say you wouldn’t be successful in your quest for gossip, did I not?”

  “You wound me.” He didn’t smile, and her own expression fluttered uncertainly. “You assume that I only have interest in gossip, when in fact, I might just be searching out your company for the sheer pleasure of it.”