by Gwyn Cready
When the last carriage rattled by, he took a step into the street only to have a hand come down on his shoulder.
“What are ye doing here?” Duncan demanded.
“Jesus! Just how small is Edinburgh? How did you know where to find me? I’ve already run into Undine.”
Duncan chuckled. “’Tis nothing magical, I assure you. I’ve been following you since you left. To ensure your safety. Serafina is quite dear to me. But then I began to wonder why a man tasked with her safety would abandon her at the ship.”
“At what point do I earn your trust? Once I’ve actually given my life for her?”
“’Twould be a good start.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint. I have no plans to die or leave, at least for the time being. And, for the record, Serafina did not get abandoned. I was dismissed in no uncertain terms. She said she would handle Edward on her own.”
“Och.”
“Tell me about it.”
“And what do you mean, you have no plans to leave?”
“I mean—” Gerard paused. He wasn’t quite sure what Duncan would think of a drunken wedding to Serafina, but he doubted the notion would be warmly embraced. Besides, he wasn’t one hundred percent confident it had happened. “There’s a glitch. The spell to return isn’t working. And I intend to stay for a bit.”
The grip on his shoulder tightened. “How?”
“How what?”
“In what manner are ye to stay? Are ye to be Serafina’s lover? If so, what would be her motivation to bed ye if you’re leaving?”
Gerard could think of several answers but none that wouldn’t get him punched in the nose.
“As in all things,” he said, “I’ll leave it to Sera to choose. She appears to have no trouble knowing her mind.”
Duncan grunted. “It’s no’ a great answer. But I’ll accept it.” He released his hand.
Gerard straightened his frock coat. He longed for the freedom of a sark and kilt, not to mention the chance to operate with a little less Big Brother and Big Sister looking over his shoulder.
“Let me ask you something,” Gerard said. “What do men look for in a chemise?”
“A naked woman.”
“I mean while they’re wearing them—the women, that is. What do you like to see?”
“I think you’re supposed to keep your eyes up here, my friend.” Duncan gestured to his face. “’Tis no’ gentlemanly to be looking below.”
“So you don’t care a whit about what Abby looks like in hers. She could be wearing your grandma’s nightie, and it would all be the same to you?”
“Well, when ye put it like that…” Duncan ran a hand through his hair. “Let’s see. I do rather like them being…” He rubbed his thumb against his fingers, looking for the right word.
“Silky?”
“Aye. But that’s not what I’m thinking of.”
“See-through?”
“Och, no. Mystery is seduction’s friend. Floaty. Loose. Not too clingy. I like the fabric to just brush the contours of—” He stopped, horrified, and his neck flooded with color. “You get the idea.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, and ease of removal.” He mimed the tug of a small bow. “A nice well-engineered release, aye?”
“All right. That was helpful. Thank you, I intend to construct the world’s sexiest chemise for Serafina. For her to sell,” he added quickly, seeing the storm rising on Duncan’s face.
“That asshole didn’t leave her much, did he?”
“Serafina says the whole thing’s worth fifty pounds.”
Duncan shrugged. “She could scrape by on that for a good many years.”
“I don’t want her to scrape by. I want her to own her own ship.”
“Well, she won’t do that on fifty pounds,” Duncan said. “Nor a hundred or even two.”
“I know. I just want to do everything I can for her.”
Duncan shifted. “Can I give you some advice?”
“Sure,” Gerard said. “As long as it doesn’t involve your fists.”
“If you’re going to leave, do it now. It does neither of ye any good to dangle.”
Gerard knew he wanted to stay, but did he want to stay forever? “Thanks. You’re right. Hey, I’ve got some advice for you too.”
“Oh?”
“If you’re going to get married, do it now. It does neither of you any good to dangle.”
Duncan chuckled, then the chuckle died away. “Abby’s…stubborn.”
“She wants you. Any fool can see it. Make her put a ring on it, eh?”
“Thanks. You’re right.”
The bell of a nearby church rang out the quarter hour.
“Shit. I gotta run,” Gerard said, jabbing a thumb toward the tailor.
“Hey, I can buy you a little more time. I’m on my way to the docks to see about shipping some of our whiskey. Can I pick up Serafina for you?”
“Er…”
“It’s no’ a trick question. You don’t lose any points.”
“Whew! Then yes. That’d be great. I’ll catch you back at the inn,” he said and began to cross the street.
“Hey,” Duncan said, and Gerard turned.
“Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth, I’d like to see you stay.”
“To be best man?”
Duncan put his fist out. Gerard bumped it.
Forty
“Where’s Gerard?” Serafina asked, her gut tightening.
“What? You’re no’ glad to see me?” Duncan offered his arm, and she took it hesitantly.
“Is he all right?” she asked.
“I think he’s in some bit o’ pain, aye, but nothing that canna be easily fixed.”
Serafina stopped, heart clenched. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
Duncan nudged her gently into walking. “What’s wrong, my friend, is that he has some conflicting ideas about his future.”
A future that, for me, ends in a little over twenty-four hours—one night, one day. A thousand nights and days wouldn’t be enough, and we have left but one of each. “We’re not one of the lucky ones. You and Abby…well, your spell allowed you to be together.” She fought the thickness coming to her throat. “I shouldn’t have tinkered with Undine’s herbs. The things I did made it impossible for him to stay.”
“He says there’s a glitch, that he will be able to stay, at least for the present.”
“In truth?” Her happiness raced a dozen paces ahead of her thoughts.
“Aye, but there’s another obstacle.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t know your feelings.”
“Duncan, I don’t know how he could be confused…after what we’ve…what has transpired,” she finished primly, aware of the poor model of morality she must represent.
He laughed. “I’m sorry. I shouldna laugh, but women tend to think things are much clearer than men do—when men think about them at all. You’re verra different than Abby. She wears her emotions like a spray of diamonds she wants you to notice. There’s no mistaking if she likes ye, and God knows, there’s no mistaking if she doesn’t.”
He blew out a puff of air, evidently remembering times when the latter condition might have applied to him.
“You’re more like me,” Duncan added tenderly. “We keep our feelings to ourselves—at least the kinds that make us feel vulnerable, temper not included.”
She laughed. “No, never that. But, Duncan, why, when I have no idea if we can be together, would I cause us both such heartache? Isn’t it better for me to just hold my tongue?”
“That dam’s crumbled, Serafina. There’s no getting the water back. And I’m a firm believer that despite the spell, there’s no power stronger than two people in love. It’s going to hurt, but you have to do
everything you can to fight it. It’s the only way you’ll be able to live with yourself.”
Duncan was right, though she could hardly bear to think about exposing herself to the pain of seeing Gerard at the inn, let alone admitting to herself she loved him.
“When did you become such a strong supporter of Gerard Innes? I thought ye didna like him.”
“Och, not at all. He’s rather interesting to have around.” He gave her a sidelong look and raised a ruddy brow. “Would it have mattered if I hadn’t liked him?”
“Not a whit.”
He laughed. “That’s my Serafina.”
Forty-one
Having done what he needed to do at the tailor shop, Gerard hurried along the thoroughfare, hoping to find Serafina at the inn to share the news about the spell, and though something niggled at him about celebrating a pardon that may in fact be based on an incorrect assumption, he pushed the thought away.
As he crossed Cockburn, something caught his eye, and he turned. The couple who had been so unaccountably cruel to Serafina were stepping into a carriage with their boys. When it pulled away, he saw the same elderly woman at the second-floor window. Her gaze lit upon him for a long moment, and she acknowledged him with a nod before retreating from view.
He couldn’t explain what made him head for the arched door except that there had been something in the elderly woman’s happiness upon seeing Serafina earlier and her acknowledgement of him just now that made him believe he might be able to help Serafina.
He lifted the enormous acron-shaped knocker and rapped the door. A frail male servant, not much younger than the woman upstairs, answered the door.
“I have a message for Mrs. Turnbull,” Gerard said. “May I see her?”
The man nodded and held out his hand.
“It’s not written down. I’d like to give it to her in person.”
“She’s been ill and is not accepting callers. If you’d like, I can fetch a pencil and paper?”
“No, no. That’s not necessary. Please just tell her that a friend of hers, a woman she saw earlier, misses her and sends her love to her and her grandsons.”
“Crawford?”
The quavering voice—a woman’s—came from the upper floor.
“Will you pardon me?” The man ushered Gerard in and closed the doors before scurrying up the stairs. Thick Oriental rugs muffled the sounds of the carriages outside, ebony and gilt tables lined the hall, and a cascade of previous owners glowered at him from massive portraits lining the staircase wall. Gerard smoothed his ruffled hair and straightened his frock coat. A moment later, the servant returned.
“Mrs. Turnbull will see you,” he said. “This is most unusual, and I would ask for her sake you make your stay brief.”
Gerard was escorted upstairs to a small sitting room. Despite an abundance of light streaming into the south-facing rooms, Edward’s brother had deposited his ailing mother in a room that was both dark and chilly. The evening wasn’t cold, but Mrs. Turnbull was wrapped in a wool robe and a tiny fire flickered in the hearth. She wasn’t as old as he’d originally thought. Sixty, perhaps, but that probably passed for ancient in the eighteenth century. It was clear she was being ravaged by some disease—her color was gray, and deep lines etched her cheeks. This was a woman counting her remaining time in months or weeks, not years. She clutched a lace handkerchief.
“I should not have invited you in, Mr…?” She gestured to a chair and he sat.
“Innes.”
“Innes. My son would not be pleased with your presence.” She coughed hard several times and wiped her mouth.
“I won’t stay long. I just wanted to give you a message from the woman you saw outside earlier.”
“Serafina Fallon.” Her milky eyes held his gaze.
“Aye. She heard from your grandsons that you were quite ill, and she wanted to tell you how dear you and the boys are to her, and how much your kindness meant when she was involved with your son.”
Mrs. Turnbull did not acknowledge his statement, but the muscles in her jaw moved, and he knew it had touched her.
“That is Miss Fallon’s message for you,” he said. “I have a different one: I consider your family’s treatment of Miss Fallon abominable. I am at least as wealthy as your son, and I was raised to be respectful and polite no matter what a person’s status was in relation to mine and, in fact, to be more respectful the larger the disparity. Even if I hadn’t been raised that way, I would have learned it by observing others who have been more thoughtfully taught. And for the record,” he said as he stood, “Miss Fallon does not know I’m here, and she would be even less pleased with my presence than your son. I’m sorry to have intruded on your evening.” He reached for the door.
“Wait.”
She gestured him back to the chair. He sat and waited.
She coughed again, so hard Gerard thought he might have to call the servant. When she quieted, she said, “Are you Serafina’s fiancé?”
“No, I’m her friend.”
“I’m very glad she has one. I’m hoping you will continue your generous service on her behalf and bring her a message from me.”
Gerard didn’t nod. His willingness to deliver the message would depend entirely on what the message was.
“Serafina has a special place in my heart,” the woman continued. “She nursed me through my first illness. Night and day, she was at my side. Of course, that was before the unpleasantness.”
“Before she moved into your son’s home and bed?”
Mrs. Turnbull pressed her lips into a line. “Aye. Mr. Innes, I know my son is a knave and worse. But whether you or I agree, in this world, a woman bears the responsibility for her actions with a knave. Serafina made her choice—”
Gerard began to rise.
“—but I want to undo the wrong that’s been done to her.”
“How?”
“Are you aware Edward is still in love with her?”
“I’ve heard that, yes.”
“Are you aware he intends to propose to her?”
And already has. “It doesn’t surprise me.”
“He’s no prize, I admit, and he has squandered his fortune with poor investments.”
“His fortune and hers.”
“But he does love her in his own way,” Mrs. Turnbull said. “I don’t have a lot of money, Mr. Innes, but what I have is mine and I can do what I want with it. I’ve promised Edward he will inherit my money when I die on the condition he marries Serafina. I have arranged for a tenth of that to go directly to her as his wife. Edward will not be able to touch it. I hope this will help her in some small way. As Mrs. Edward Turnbull, she will never have to live in squalor again.”
Gerard bristled. He hated that anyone would judge Serafina’s situation, whether or not the judgment was true. He also doubted that the ten or twenty pounds this bequest represented would do much to change Serafina’s life—and he felt certain Edward would spend the rest in a matter of weeks.
“You are kind to think of her,” he said. “I have no doubt she’ll be touched.”
“Then you’ll take the offer to her? Will you let her know I’ve not forgotten her kindness?”
“I will do that.”
“Mr. Innes, tell me honestly. Do you think she’ll accept my son’s offer?”
Gerard weighed falsely raising the woman’s hopes against the possibility that, knowing with certainty a marriage between Serafina and her son would not occur, she might find a better place to leave her money.
“In truth, I do not,” he said. “Edward asked Serafina to marry him yesterday. She declined.”
Mrs. Turnbull’s frail shoulders sagged.
“But she’ll be deeply touched to hear of your feelings for her. I know it’ll ease her burden considerably. And, as Miss Fallon’s friend, I personally thank you for trying to m
ake amends.”
The woman did not speak. After a moment, Gerard said, “I know you must be tired. I’ll let myself out.”
With a deep wheeze, the woman stood and made her way unsteadily to the table beside her bed and returned with something in her hand.
“Take this to her,” she said, coughing. “It’s a gift from me.”
Gerard held out his palm. In it, she placed a stickpin topped by a silver thistle.
“My husband gave me this. Serafina always admired it.”
“Would you not prefer it to go to your daughter-in-law or perhaps a future granddaughter?”
The woman made a tart laugh. “My daughter-in-law declared it too old-fashioned for her taste. And as for granddaughters, I will not live to see them. I should prefer it go to someone who might remember me with fondness.”
Gerard tucked it into his coat pocket. “She’ll wear it with great happiness, I know.”
Mrs. Turnbull thanked him and asked if he could let himself out.
Gerard knew the stickpin would thrill Serafina, and he was glad to be the person to deliver it. As he descended the stairs, he debated whether to tell her of Mrs. Turnbull’s conditional bequest. Serafina had declined Edward’s offer of marriage on the grounds of not loving him—pretty important grounds, he thought—and Gerard doubted the addition of a tenth of Mrs. Turnbull’s modest estate would change her mind. But a more overriding consideration, at least to Gerard, was that revealing the existence of Mrs. Turnbull’s conditional bequest would render Edward’s passionate confession of love for Serafina into an unflattering and manipulative gesture meant only to win him his mother’s bequest.
Gerard decided he couldn’t hurt Serafina like that, as much as Edward might deserve having his gesture exposed for what it was. Crawford emerged from the dining room, just as Gerard reached the entryway.
“Good news,” Gerard said. “You needn’t tell your master I’ve dirtied his halls. I’ll be gone before he returns.”
The man’s brows rose. “Mr. Henry Turnbull, you mean? He’s not my master, sir. Nor will he be coming back this evening. He and his family are returning to their home in York.”
