by Jane Feather
“Oh, Mama, what should I wear?” Abigail was jumping with excitement. “I shall go and choose straight away. Becky shall help me. Do you think the blue velvet with the overskirt of sky-blue gauze? ’Tis exactly the color of my eyes, the seamstress said so. And I could wear the blue straw hat with the gauze veil … or perhaps the jonquil muslin … or d’you think that will be too light for the evening?”
“Do stop rattling on, child.” Marianne attempted to repress this exuberance. “’Tis only a visit to the theatre on some evening. No one will see you, you’re not going into Society.”
Abigail stopped bouncing. “People will see me, Mama. Everyone is on show at the theatre. I know ’tis not like going to a ball, but it is my first real outing, and I know people will notice me. People always notice me,” she added with a slightly complacent smile.
“You’re a pretty enough child, I grant you,” her mother said, “but ’tis most unbecoming in a girl to draw attention to her beauty. Now, sit down and get on with your work.”
Abigail hesitated, then obeyed. She had won one victory, the most important one. It would be politic now to rest on her laurels.
“So, have you talked to the girl yet?” The Earl of Burford stood, hands behind his back, in front of the fire in the library at Pickering Place.
General Heyward poured claret into two glasses before answering. He brought one over to the earl. “Not as yet.” He raised his glass in a silent toast that was not returned.
“When d’you propose telling her, then?” His lordship took a sip of wine. “I tell you, Heyward, I’m not prepared to wait forever. I want the girl now, not when she’s lost all her freshness. I thought she was looking peaky the other night at the tables.”
“I assure you that Serena is perfectly well, Lord Burford.” The general’s tone was a little haughty. “I will talk to her when I have the mortgages in hand.”
The earl gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Indeed? And you think I’m fool enough to pay up before I’ve sampled the goods?”
“You will not sample them else, my lord.” General Heyward was a gambler through and through. He watched his visitor carefully through hooded eyes, judging how far he could go before the earl called his bluff.
“And what if the girl’s not willing?” Burford changed tack, sipping his wine with a critical frown. “Not bad, this … not bad at all. One thing I’ll say for you, Heyward, you keep a good cellar.”
The general looked gratified but answered the question with a vague gesture. “Serena will do as she’s told, Lord Burford. You may rest assured.”
His lordship merely grunted. “Let’s to business.”
“By all means.” The general waved to a chair. “Shall we be comfortable?”
The earl sat down, stretching his rather stubby legs clad in fashionably striped stockings to the fire, twisting the stem of his glass between his fingers. “So the terms of our agreement … I have exclusive rights to your stepdaughter for as long as it pleases me. In exchange, I will return to you the mortgages that I hold on this property, giving you free and clear title.”
“Exactly, my lord.” The general’s eyes gleamed. He leaned forward a little in his chair. “I suggest as earnest money that you burn in my presence the smaller of the two mortgages, for nine hundred guineas, I believe, and then I make Serena available to you. Once you have … uh … consummated your liaison, shall we say, then you will destroy the larger of the two … that for ten thousand guineas. After that, Serena will be yours for as long as she pleases you.”
The earl considered this, still twirling his now empty glass between his fingers. The general reached for the decanter on the table beside him, leaned forward, and refilled his guest’s glass.
“Talk to her first,” Burford stated finally. “When you can assure me that she understands the situation … the bargain … then I will destroy the first mortgage. After one week, if she remains cooperative, I will destroy the second.”
General Heyward closed his eyes as he rested his head against the chair back. There were ways to compel Serena initially to the earl’s bed, but whether she cooperated afterwards was a rather different proposition. After a moment, he opened his eyes. The earl was watching his deliberations with a cynical curl of his lip.
“I believe, Burford, that ensuring my stepdaughter’s cooperation once I have delivered her to you should be your responsibility,” the general said. “I will not be present, after all.”
“Do you doubt her willing cooperation?” the earl asked sharply.
“That depends very much on you, my lord,” the general returned deliberately. “As I have said, I will guarantee her cooperation as far as the bedchamber door. The rest will be up to you.”
The earl set down his glass and stood up. “I will send word when I am ready to make a decision.” He moved to the door. “Good day to you, Heyward.”
The general was on his feet now, ready to usher his visitor from the house. He was fairly certain he had won the concessions he wanted but not positive. However, he must play the cards to the end. “I will await your word, sir.” He bowed the earl from the room.
Serena was approaching the house with her maid as the earl emerged from the front door, half turned to complete his farewells to the general who stood just inside. Her skin crawled as she saw him, and she wondered if she could turn tail and duck into a side street before he saw her, but it was too late. He had turned from the door before she could decide which way to go.
“Why, Lady Serena, well met, indeed.” He came down the steps and waited for her to reach him.
He bowed, and she curtsied in return with a murmured, “My lord,” hoping to move quickly past him and into the house. But he blocked the steps up to the door, one foot on the bottom step, one hand resting on the iron railing, smiling at her with an appraising air that made her feel slightly sick. It was as if he were assessing the qualities of a filly at Tattersalls.
“So where have you been this fine morning?” he inquired with an attempt at a genial smile. “A pleasant stroll, I trust.” He saw the parcels her maid was carrying. “Ah, shopping, I see. Something delectable to enhance your exquisite figure.”
It was an offensive comment, something no gentleman would say to a lady, and it conveyed exactly what he thought of Serena’s position in his world. With supreme effort, she held her tongue and stared at him in haughty silence before she turned to her maid as if the general were not standing there, leering at her. “Take the parcels to my bedchamber, Bridget. You may go before me.”
His lordship was obliged to step aside for the maid, who hurried up the steps to the door. Without a word, Serena swept past him in her wake and vanished into the hall, leaving him standing on the pavement.
She realized she was shaking a little as she attained the calm safety of the house and was ill prepared to face her stepfather, who was about to reenter the library. He turned as she came in. “Ah, Serena, did you meet Lord Burford on the street?”
“Briefly, sir.” She hurried to the staircase.
“I trust you were courteous,” he demanded curtly. “Need I remind you that his lordship holds the mortgages on this property?”
“No, sir. You have no need to remind me of that fact. His lordship makes it clear on every occasion how much we are his debtors. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do abovestairs.” She hurried up the stairs without waiting for a response.
Heyward watched her go, a speculative frown on his brow. She was so unlike her mother, made of much stronger material, but that was what made her such a good partner in the business. She was competent, a clever gambler, good with figures, careful with household expenditures. He really did not wish to antagonize her. She must understand how her cooperation in this rather distasteful business was absolutely necessary if they were to carry this enterprise off. If necessary, he would compel her obedience. Burford wanted her, and Burford must have her. But he couldn’t help hoping that compulsion would not be necessary.
Se
bastian heard the front door bang, heralding his brother’s return from whatever scintillating dinner at the Royal Society he had been attending. He put aside the book he had been reading with rather less than wholehearted concentration and waited for Perry to enter the parlor.
“What ho, Seb.” Perry greeted him cheerfully as he came in, his cheeks reddened by the cold wind blasting the streets. “You having a quiet evening? Not like you.” He threw his cloak and gloves onto a chair and came to the fire, rubbing his hands. “Nippy out there.”
“Warm in here, though,” his twin pointed out. “Have you supped? There’s an excellent pheasant pie if you fancy it.” He waved towards the sideboard, where covered dishes stood. “Jasper brought back four braces of pheasants from Blackwater after his visit there last week, and Mrs. Hogarth made these excellent pies. Our considerate brother sent one over for us to enjoy.”
“Did he have good shooting?” Perry lifted the lids on the dishes, deciding he’d postpone supper for a while, although the pie did look toothsome. He poured wine and sat down opposite his brother.
“Apparently. But he’s concerned about maintaining the coverts in the North Wood. They need money spent on ’em, and the revenues from the timber are lower than usual.”
“Mm.” Peregrine kicked a fallen log back into the hearth. “No getting away from the fact that Blackwater is in need of a sizable injection of capital. I wonder if Jasper’s getting impatient with us. After all, he’s done his bit to satisfy the terms of Bradley’s will.”
“If he is, he said nothing … gave no indication of it.” Sebastian cocked his head at his brother. “Any progress on your bride hunt?”
Peregrine shrugged. “I don’t know yet … maybe … but ’tis early days. How about you?”
Sebastian frowned, looking for words to express a feeling that he hadn’t quite identified even to himself. But his brother was always a reliable sounding board. “To tell the truth, Perry, I can’t seem to summon much enthusiasm for the quest anymore.”
“Oh? Any particular reason?” Perry’s eyes sharpened. He’d lay odds Lady Serena Carmichael’s reappearance had something to do with it.
Sebastian didn’t answer at once. He leaned forward to add another log to the fire, poking the wood to create a bright burst of flame. That morning’s confrontation with Serena had thrown him off balance in a way that he had not expected. It had brought all the old feelings to the fore again, his hurt, his anger, but stronger than either were the sweeter memories of their long-ago passion. Just seeing her had stirred into a wave-tossed tempest the calm waters into which he had finally steered himself.
His head was too full of Serena to allow room for another woman. And yet he knew family obligations meant that he must play his part in the bargain with his brothers. The family as a whole was more important than any individual’s inclinations. But how could he pursue a bride who would answer Viscount Bradley’s criteria if he couldn’t get Serena out of his head? But of course, he couldn’t renege on the bargain. His brothers were depending upon him.
He became aware that his twin was regarding him quizzically but with a slightly anxious air. “Serena’s reappearance, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, is complicating matters,” he said, hoping the vagueness would satisfy Perry.
“How so?” Perry repeated.
Sebastian shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know, Perry. I can’t forgive her, and yet when I see her, she just … oh, I don’t know how to put it.” He shook his head again. “She just seems to fill me up.”
Peregrine absorbed this in silence for a moment, then uncurled his long lean frame from the chair. “I think I shall sample the pheasant pie now.” He cut himself a hearty slice and returned to his fireside chair. “So, is the Lady Serena as beautiful as ever?” he mumbled through a mouthful of flaky pastry and succulent bird.
“Yes, but in a different way,” Sebastian responded, still feeling for words. “She’s older, of course, but there’s something else I can’t put my finger on. Something about her eyes. A sadness, I think it is. As if something’s been extinguished.” He sighed deeply. “When I see it, Perry, I forget to be angry with her. I can’t help wondering what happened in the last three years to cause that.”
Perry swallowed his mouthful. “Why don’t you ask her?”
“Because I do not want to get entangled again,” his twin declared vehemently. “I can’t afford to, Perry. I thought I was over her, over the whole business, and now I don’t know if I am. But I do know that she’s not good for me. And,” he added grimly, “she’s certainly not good for this bride quest we’re on.”
“I can see the problem,” Perry said through another mouthful of pie. “But not the solution, I’m afraid.”
“No, well, I’ll think of something.” Sebastian sipped his wine, feeling a little better. It was always a relief to confide in Perry, who never failed to respond in exactly the right way, even if he had no answer to his twin’s dilemma.
Perry accepted the subject as closed, at least for the present. “This pie is vintage Mrs. Hogarth, isn’t it? I do miss her cooking. Mrs. Croft does not have the same touch somehow.”
Sebastian smiled. “We can always wangle a dinner invitation to Upper Brook Street. Clarissa’s always pleased to see us.”
“True enough. Will you tell Jasper about your bind?” Perry raised an eyebrow and was not surprised when his twin shook his head. “Wise of you,” he agreed.
“No point stirring the waters unnecessarily,” Sebastian responded. “And I’m sure it’ll resolve itself soon enough.”
Peregrine was not as sanguine as his brother, but he kept his own counsel. It was the devil’s own work that had brought Serena Carmichael back into Seb’s life, and the devil worked his own mischief.
Sebastian lay wakeful that night, unable to find a comfortable position in the deep feather bed. The chamber grew colder as the fire died down, and wind gusted against the panes, making them rattle. He was not accustomed to insomnia, ordinarily falling asleep within moments of putting his head on the pillow, and he found himself growing increasingly irritable as the hours crept past, and he lay listening to the rattling windows and the creaks and groans of the house.
He knew what the problem was, of course. Wretched Serena. He couldn’t get her out of his head. Those huge violet eyes, shadowed with some hidden distress, the tiny lines of tension around her eyes and mouth. The Serena he had known three years ago had seemed so much more carefree, even impulsive on occasion, but he couldn’t imagine the Serena of this morning giving in to impulse. She had struck him as constantly on the watch for something, alert to the possibility of danger like a rabbit in the middle of an exposed field. Why? What had happened in the last three years?
Why don’t you ask her?
He had dismissed Perry’s suggestion out of hand, but Sebastian recognized that cowardice had been behind his reflexive response. He was afraid to be drawn in again. Afraid of being hurt … or, rather, of opening himself to hurt.
And yet, as he threw himself onto his other side, flinging his legs wide in an effort to find a cool space, he knew that he had no choice. He would never find peace if he didn’t somehow understand what had happened to change Serena. And maybe if he discovered that, he might finally understand why she had betrayed their love in the first place.
Chapter Seven
General Heyward found Serena sitting at her secretaire in her parlor. “Ah, I’m glad to find you in, my dear.” He beamed at her, closing the door behind him. “How fetching you look, as always. That particular shade of dark red suits you very well. But then, you have always known how to dress, to be at the forefront of fashion … just like your poor dear mother.”
Serena made no comment, merely set aside her quill, rose to her feet with a small curtsy, then resumed her seat. “You wished to see me, sir.”
“Yes … yes, indeed.” He rubbed his hands together as if about to announce a wonderful treat. “In truth, my dear, we have some urgent business to
discuss.”
“Oh?” She raised her eyebrows. “Something to do with the accounts? Is something wrong?”
“No … no, nothing like that. You have them right as always, my dear. Such a clever puss … such a head for figures.” His beam grew even brighter, if that was possible.
Serena thought it made him look like a gargoyle, it was such an unlikely expression on the pouchy cheeks and doughy features, and it came nowhere near his eyes, which remained as small, hard, and suspiciously calculating as ever. It was a beam that made her very uneasy.
He sat down on the chaise, then stood up again, pacing from fire to window, hands behind his back. “The fact is, my dear, the business is rather unpleasant.”
That came as no surprise to Serena. She remained seated, her hands clasped lightly in her lap, and waited.
“Lord Burford, you see,” he said, sounding almost apologetic, which astonished her. “He holds the mortgages on this house, as you know.”
“Yes.” She was determined to give him no encouragement for whatever was to come next.
“Yes … two of them.”
She inclined her head in silent acknowledgment.
“Well, I’ll come straight to the point. Burford is prepared to cancel them both.”
“In exchange for what?” Serena asked coldly, a little shard of ice behind her ribs. “Or is his lordship perhaps suffering from an attack of generosity?”
“Don’t be absurd, Serena.” The old Heyward broke through the congenial and conciliatory surface. “Burford wouldn’t give anyone the parings of his nails.”
“So what does he want?” she demanded bluntly, even though she knew. That little shard of ice was digging deeper.
“You, daughter. He wants you.” The general took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow as if he found the parlor unusually warm.
