by Jane Feather
Serena, on the other hand, was chilled to the bone. “No,” she said flatly. “I won’t do it.”
“Daughter, you will.” All pretense of amity left his expression. “You will do your filial duty.”
“You are not my father, General Heyward.” With a supreme effort, Serena remained in her chair as he strode towards her, his fists clenched, his face scarlet with choler.
“You will do as I say. You have not a penny to your name. If I throw you out on the streets, which I promise you I will not hesitate to do, how will you live? You’ll be selling yourself behind the columns of the Piazza before the year is out.”
His spittle showered her face, and with a disdainful movement, she wiped the back of her hand across her face, rising gracefully from her chair as she did so. “If I must prostitute myself, I will do it on my own terms,” she declared. “I will not be sold to Burford. And believe me, General, if you make the slightest attempt to touch me, I will kill you.” Her voice was deadly quiet, her violet eyes glacial.
She moved sideways suddenly, unlocking a drawer in the secretaire. When she turned back to him, she held a small silver-mounted pistol in her hand. He could be in no doubt about the seriousness of the threat.
Heyward stared at the weapon. “Where did you get that?”
“That is no concern of yours, sir. What is your concern is the certainty that I will use it if you ever so much as attempt to do to me again what you did in Brussels.”
His nostrils flared, and shock filled his eyes. He stared at her, then down at the pistol. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She lifted the pistol and relished the moment when he drew back involuntarily, a flicker of fear crossing his face. “You lie … but I, sir, do not. I will kill you.”
“You’d hang?” He almost spat the question.
“For that … willingly,” she answered. “Believe me.”
And he did. For the moment stymied, General Heyward glared at his stepdaughter, then stalked from the room, slamming the door behind with such vigor a picture fell off the wall.
Serena bent to pick it up. She returned it to its hook, straightening it, every movement consciously deliberate, almost in slow motion as if she were inhabiting a dream, except that it was a nightmare.
Last year in Brussels … one bitterly cold winter night …
She could still taste the food on the dinner table that night, still taste the wine on her tongue, the strangely bitter aftertaste that had puzzled her. She had said nothing, because she and the general were the guests of one of their most regular gaming clients, a Spanish grandee, with a neat spade beard and piercing black eyes that never left Serena. For three days, he had flirted with her, and she had returned the compliment automatically; it was part of the business. It brought the gamesters back to the faro tables, as much for her violet eyes as for the cards she dealt.
His gaze that night had made her unusually uncomfortable, but she had shaken it off. Their fellow guests were congenial, if rather rowdy, as the levels in the wine bottles got lower. If they noticed the strange aftertaste, they gave no sign of it, and after a while, Serena decided she must be imagining it. She drank more than usual that night; it helped her to ignore her discomfort at the Spaniard’s hungry gaze.
She vaguely remembered being bundled into the coach to take her back to the rented house the general had taken, where the gaming hell for the moment thrived. She still vaguely remembered her maid helping her to bed, playfully chiding her for being the worse for wear, something that had never happened before. She didn’t remember falling asleep. But she did remember waking up.
It had been as terrifying as it had been strange, that feeling of living in a fog, of being unable to move or react but aware of every sensation. The memory still filled her with a bone-deep horror. At first, she had only been aware of something pulling her, stretching her, moving her legs apart, stretching her arms above her head. There had been no voices. But the Spaniard’s face hung over hers; she could smell the wine on his breath, taste it when he smothered her mouth with his own. She had wanted to fight, to move her head sideways, to kick out, but she was immobilized, paralyzed by something. He had entered her, she had felt every movement, every short, quick stab, and then he had left her body.
It was the general who had pulled the sheet back over her, keeping his eyes averted. The bed curtains had fallen back into place, and she had been alone again, and the red mists of oblivion had taken her once more.
She had awoken late in the morning, her head splitting, nausea heavy in her belly, bile in her throat, the nightmare as vivid as if she had lived it, not dreamt it. And then the full horror swamped her as her body told her she had indeed lived every moment of it.
She had not left her room for three days. Her stepfather had sent messages, had knocked on her locked door, had pleaded, and had demanded entrance. She had ignored him. When she had emerged on the fourth day, she had said nothing about that night. He had at first been puzzled, uneasy as her silence continued, and then had become visibly relieved, as if he could believe that she had truly not been aware of the violation. The drug that had paralyzed her body had also made her insensible. And Serena was prepared to let him believe that, until the time she decided to tell him.
That time had just come. And now, as she returned to the hard, metallic reality of the present, she wondered if she had wasted the perfect card, but in her heart, she knew she had not. He would not have drugged her so easily this time, but there were other ways to render her insensible, to give Burford what he hungered for. And that must never happen again.
And it mustn’t happen to Abigail, either. If the general made Abigail his wife, he could as easily sell her to the highest bidder as he had done his stepdaughter, and Abigail was not equipped to look after herself. Serena was fairly certain the girl was unlikely to succumb to the general’s attentions. Indeed, how should she; the man was old enough to be her grandfather. But, encouraged by her mother, she could be flattered by them and find it difficult to hold her own in his company. She needed protection, and there was only Serena to provide it. She could not walk away until she knew the young woman was safely out of the general’s clutches.
There had to be a way to do that without alerting Mr. Sutton. For a start, he’d find it almost impossible to believe in the general’s motives as described by Serena. After all, Serena had seemed openly to encourage her stepfather’s interest in Abigail. Why would she suddenly turn against him? And if she did manage to persuade him of the truth, his reaction was all too easy to foretell. Abigail’s dream of a London Season and a good marriage would be dust and ashes.
Another suitor was the answer. If Abigail fell in love with an impeccable parti who would satisfy even Mrs. Sutton’s high aspirations, then the general would be left out in the cold, and he need never know of his stepdaughter’s part in the business. But how to find the perfect suitor?
Sebastian’s image came unbidden to her mind. Abigail and her mother had already expressed an interest in him. They were having a dinner party for the express purpose of entertaining him. Was there a way to use that? If Sebastian could be persuaded at least to show some interest in the ingénue, it would give Serena some much-needed breathing space to find an alternative. But quite apart from the difficulty in finding a convincing reason for asking it, how could she possibly expect any kind of a favor from Sebastian after the farce of their last meeting? It had cleared neither ground nor air, merely accentuated the vast chasm between them.
It seemed obvious that Sebastian’s life in the last three years had followed the inevitable path of a young aristocrat. Once he’d recovered from the hurt and anger at her betrayal, he had picked up the threads of his life with barely a pause. She could see that just by looking at him. The diffidence of a green young man in his early twenties had been replaced with the poise and self-assurance of a man sure of who and what he was in his own world. As for herself, she had been barely twenty during those months of love, and
now, although she was barely twenty-three, she felt as if the last three years had sucked all the promise out of life, leaving her only a barren future. She had nothing to offer Sebastian now. And why should he even consider offering her anything?
She put the pistol back into the drawer of the secretaire, locking it with the key she kept on a fob tucked into a hidden pocket in her skirt.
A knock at the door brought Flanagan with a sealed letter on a silver tray. “A messenger brought this, Lady Serena.” He presented the tray with a bow.
“Thank you, Flanagan.” She took it, staring down at the handwriting. It was as if her thoughts had somehow materialized in this folded sheet of vellum.
“The messenger awaits an answer, my lady.”
“Yes,” she said vaguely, still looking at the sheet. Only Sebastian enlivened his bold, plain script with little curlicues when the mood took him. It had always made her smile. But what was he doing writing to her now? Well, she wouldn’t find out by staring at a sealed paper. “Ask him to wait.”
“Very well, ma’am.” Flanagan left, and Serena slit the wafer with her paper knife. She unfolded the single sheet.
Will you come to Stratton Street at three o’clock this afternoon? Take a closed carriage and no one on the street will notice you. S.S.
Sebastian had never been reckless with her reputation, Serena reflected. Indeed, he’d been more careful of it than she herself. Nothing had changed, it seemed. Why did he want to see her? Hadn’t they said everything that could possibly be said between them?
But almost without volition, she took a sheet of vellum and wrote simply: At three o’clock, then. She folded and sealed it, then rang for Flanagan.
He took the note, and Serena went into her bedchamber. Regardless of why Sebastian needed to see her, pride—and vanity, she had to admit—insisted that she show herself at her best. The dark red silk was all very well, it suited her coloring as her stepfather had pointed out, but she had a sudden loathing for the gown. If he had complimented her on it, then she would never wear it again. She rang for Bridget as she tugged impatiently at the laces.
“Lord love us, Lady Serena, whatever’s the matter with the gown. Is it stained?” Bridget in consternation hurried across to her. “You’ll break the laces going at them like that.”
“Oh, I want it off, Bridget, ’tis uncomfortable.” Serena walked to the armoire as Bridget struggled with the laces.
“Oh, hold still, my lady, do,” Bridget pleaded, following her at the end of a lace.
“I wish for something lighter, more frivolous.” Serena riffled through the rich ranks of silks, muslins, velvets, damasks. “Ah, this, I think.” She drew out a heather-colored silk, embroidered with delicate garlands of red roses, each with a tiny amethyst embedded in its center. “Is this not pretty, Bridget?”
“Very, my lady.” Bridget was smothered in the folds of dark red silk as she divested Serena of the gown. She laid it over a chair and turned her full attention to her mistress. “Are you going visiting, m’lady?”
“As it happens,” Serena said, smoothing the folds of her cambric petticoat. “Just a small hoop, Bridget.”
Bridget tied the small hoop at Serena’s waist and then helped her into the gown, arranging the silk skirt over the pannier so that it swayed elegantly but not with extravagant width around her hips.
Serena examined her reflection in the cheval glass. Sebastian had always liked simplicity. He dressed himself without frills, and while he admired fashion, he had preferred to see Serena dressed in its less extravagant extremes. Since that suited her own tastes, she had been more than happy to accede to his wishes. The soft heather of the gown was a perfect contrast with her dark hair and a wonderful complement to her eyes. The décolletage was edged with a lace ruff that, while it did nothing to conceal the swell of her breasts, kept her nipples hidden. Something she preferred in the afternoon, although she generally acceded to prevailing fashion at the tables.
Not, of course, that she was in the least interested in dressing to please Sebastian, only to please herself.
“That’ll do, Bridget,” she pronounced finally. “The black felt hat and black woolen cloak, if you please.”
Bridget brought the garments over, and Serena adjusted the hat; it had a wide brim that covered much of her face. The cloak was voluminous and could be drawn up at the neck.
“Lord love us, m’lady, you looks a bit like a highwayman,” Bridget declared as her mistress swathed herself in the cloak. “All you needs is the mask.”
Serena smiled. “’Tis cold out, Bridget. I’ve no wish to catch a chill. Run downstairs and ask Flanagan to summon a hackney for me.”
Bridget bobbed a curtsy and hurried away. Serena followed her more slowly, and by the time she reached the hall, the hackney was waiting in the street.
She gave the jarvey the address as she climbed into the sour-smelling interior and sat forward on the edge of the seat, unwilling to touch the greasy leather squabs lining the bench any more than was absolutely necessary. It was too cold, the wind too sharp and brisk, to lift the leather curtain at the window aperture, so she took shallow breaths and prayed that the air was not infected with the breath of previous riders. Fortunately, it was not far to Stratton Street, and within ten minutes, the carriage drew up outside the narrow row house where Sebastian and his brother lived.
She opened the door and stepped down to the street, twitching her skirts aside so that they didn’t drag in the filthy water of the kennel. She paid the jarvey and raised her hand to the door knocker. But the door opened before she could even touch it, and she found herself whisked inside, the door firmly closed at her back.
“No one will have seen you,” Sebastian said. “Let me have your cloak.” He was standing behind her, reaching over her shoulders to unfasten the clasp at her throat even as she tried to take in her surroundings.
Serena almost laughed. It was so typical of Sebastian; he never wasted energy, never used two words where one would do, and never hesitated when it came to action. She needed to remove her cloak, and he was doing just that with well-remembered efficiency. She let him take it from her and hang it on a hook while she drew off her gloves. He took those and laid them on the bench below the hook and then stood back and looked at her, a question in his blue eyes.
“Will you take off your hat? I’d like to feel you were going to stay awhile.”
“Why?” She frowned at him. “Why do you want to see me, Sebastian?”
He reached out a hand and gently placed a finger over her lips. “Let’s agree to say nothing that’s provocative or aggressive, Serena. I don’t wish to quarrel with you again.”
She took a breath, conscious of the warmth of his finger on her lips, and suddenly had the absurd urge to suck his finger into her mouth, to stroke it with her tongue, graze it with her teeth, as she had so often done in their lovemaking. She caught a surprised flash in his eye and understood that the shared memory was as vivid for him at that moment as it was for her.
She turned her head a little so that his finger fell away, and she untied the ribbons of her hat. Sebastian took it from her, setting it down with her gloves. Then he took her hands in his, regarding her with his head to one side, a quizzical gleam in his blue eyes.
“Thank you for coming.”
“I couldn’t seem to help myself,” she responded with a tiny shrug. “Will you not tell me why you wanted to see me?”
His fingers enclosed her hand in a warm, firm clasp, and time fell away. They were back where they once had been, and Serena felt herself slipping into a strange trance. She wanted nothing more than this, even though the rational part of her mind screamed that it was madness, would only plunge them into more grief and heartache than they’d already endured.
“Come to the fire. Your hands are cold.” He put an arm around her shoulders, easing her through a door into a warm, firelit, candle-bright parlor. “We will be more comfortable here.”
Serena looked around, trying
to recapture her sense of control. She had never visited the house before. In their past, she and Sebastian had rented a small room in an inn on King Street for their rendezvous. For all that it was spotlessly clean, the parlor was clearly a room inhabited by bachelors. No embroidered cushions, curtains that were a little short for the windows, no flowers, dried or fresh, no little ornaments or feminine trinkets around. There was a faint musky smell, a hint of leather and sweat in the air mingling with wood smoke and candle wax. Nothing unpleasant, but it smelled as she imagined a gentlemen’s club would smell.
“Where’s your brother? I thought you shared the house with him.” Her voice sounded amazingly normal, perfectly matter-of-fact.
“Oh, Perry’s out and about,” he said easily, following her lead. “He has his own circle of friends. Strange birds they are, scientists and philosophers, poets and men who write pamphlets for the edification of the ignorant.” He shook his head with a faint self-deprecating smile. “I’m certain Perry puts me firmly in the latter category.”
“I only met him a few times,” Serena said. “You’re so startlingly alike; once or twice, when I saw him without you, I was convinced he was you.”
Sebastian inclined his head with a smile. “Most people, apart from our older brother, have that problem. But there are little differences. Perry has a widow’s peak.” He touched his brow.
“So do you,” Serena pointed out.
“His is more pronounced. And my nose is longer.”
Serena laughed. “Is that all that distinguishes you from each other?”
“Physically, yes. But in every other respect, we’re chalk and cheese.” Sebastian patted a cushion on a sofa. “Won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you.” Serena sat down. The cushion at her back was hard and scratchy, pieces of horsehair protruding through the fabric.
“Tea?” Sebastian asked. “Or coffee, if you’d prefer.” He yanked on the bellpull by the mantelpiece.
“Tea, thank you.” Serena looked up at him as he stood hovering over her, a puzzled frown in his eye. “Why am I here, Sebastian?”
