by Jane Feather
Serena kissed her cheek. “I am happy to play that part.” She pulled the bell rope for Flanagan. “Go home and rest, so that you will be at your best this evening.”
Abigail went into a peal of laughter. “Oh, you sound just like Mama, but you are not in the least like Mama.”
“For which I am profoundly grateful,” Serena murmured, turning as the butler entered the parlor. “Flanagan, Miss Sutton is leaving.”
“Very good, my lady. Miss Sutton’s barouche is still at the door, and her maid is waiting in the hall.” Flanagan held the door wide for Abigail, who went past him with a jaunty farewell wave for Serena.
She followed Flanagan to the hall and was crossing to the door when General Heyward came into the house from the street, slapping his riding crop against his boot. He was frowning, his face a mask of sullen anger, but it cleared miraculously as he saw Abigail.
“Why, my dear Miss Sutton.” He bowed over her hand. “What a delight for the eyes. Such rare beauty. Such an honor to welcome you under my roof. Tell me what brings you here.” He held on to her hand, his fingers closing more tightly as she made a tentative effort to free it.
“I have been calling on Lady Serena, sir,” she said, dropping a quick curtsy. “But Mama will be expecting me any minute. I cannot stay.” She managed to get her hand back. “I give you good day, sir.” She sketched another hasty curtsy and hurried to the door, her maid following.
Heyward stared at the closed door for several minutes, his expression unreadable, his eyes unfocused. Then he turned on his heel and went into the library. He rarely found himself nonplussed, but he felt the edge of desperation more sharply now than he had ever felt it before. He had run into Lord Burford that morning, and his lordship had been unpleasantly pointed about the mortgages. His lordship had informed the general that the loan had always been a temporary one, and since Heyward didn’t seem able to put up the price to buy them back, then he was left with little choice but to call them in.
General Heyward could think only of what Serena had told him, that Burford had offered to give her the mortgages if she agreed to his protection. It seemed that the earl had been intending to double-cross him all along. The conversation had filled him with a deep and terrible rage, fueled by the knowledge of impending disaster, and he had barely managed two words in response. To make matters worse, the earl had gone on his way smiling benignly, as if it had been a perfectly ordinary conversation.
Heyward now poured himself a brandy, staring into the fire. Serena was a lost cause. He knew that now. By resorting to violence, he had burned his boats. Even if he could manage to deliver her to Burford drugged and trussed like a hen ready for the pot, the earl would have none of it. He wanted a mistress who was conscious and willing, at least on the surface. Serena would never be that. He could throw her out to find her own way on the streets, and there would be some satisfaction in that, but he needed her at the tables. They could pack up and flee his debts at dead of night, as they’d done so many times before, but he was getting too old for that game.
No, he had to fall back on his only other option, marriage to the Sutton heiress. He didn’t think the girl would fall readily into his hand, but her mother would do his wooing for him, and he was fairly confident that he could win over the father, who already treated him like a familiar friend and seemed flattered by the general’s attentions. Serena was in the girl’s confidence; at least there, she’d obeyed him without question. It was time to mend fences with his stepdaughter, he decided. He needed to keep her sweet while he pursued the little Sutton.
He set down his brandy goblet and made his way up to Serena’s parlor.
After Abigail had left, Serena sank back onto her chair, resting her head against the back. It seemed likely that with a little more maneuvering, Abigail might soon be safely wed to Jonas Wedgwood. For some reason, it didn’t fill her with expected elation. Such a marriage would ensure her own freedom, but now she wasn’t sure what that freedom meant or why she wanted it. What was she to do with it, all alone?
She felt like throwing something, and at the tap on her door, she turned her head irritably against the chair and demanded, “Who is it?”
“Your father.” The general spoke as he opened the door. “May I come in, my dear?”
“Would you stay out if I said no?” She made no attempt to rise as he came in and shut the door.
“This is my house. I have the right to go where I please,” he informed her, keeping his voice level with a supreme effort.
Serena merely closed her eyes with an infinitesimal shrug. She felt him come close to her chair and barely concealed her shudder. But she was determined not to speak first.
He looked down at her for a moment before saying, “Come now, my dear, let us call a truce. I forgive you for your ingratitude and disobedience, so let us speak of it no more.”
Serena felt the urge to laugh hysterically. He forgave her? “Indeed, sir, I am sure I’m suitable grateful. And I daresay the bruises will fade in time.” She kept her eyes closed, her head averted.
“It was unfortunate that it came to that,” he said with some difficulty. “I exercised a father’s right to a daughter’s obedience. I did no more than was called for.”
“Really?” Her tone was one of indifference.
Her continued silence made him uncharacteristically nervous. What if she refused to take her part at the tables, refused to continue cultivating the Suttons? He couldn’t batter her into submission, not when she needed to be in public to play those parts.
“I understand there’s to be a dinner party at the Suttons’ this evening,” he said with an encouraging smile.
“So I believe, sir.”
“You will be present.”
“If you can manage without me in the salons.”
“Of course … of course. No difficulty at all, my dear. I shall dine quietly beforehand and close the main salon.” He rubbed his hands together in an effort to impart perfect comfort with the solution. “And you must enjoy yourself, Serena. Play the Society lady … nothing to concern you tonight except to have a pleasant evening among charming company.”
“You are too kind, sir.” Her tone was flat, uninviting, and he stood for a moment, still rubbing his hands until they fell to his sides as the silence continued.
“Well, I’ll leave you, then. I’m sure you have things to do.”
“I must consult with Cook about the menu for supper this evening.” She still kept her eyes closed, her head resting against the back of the chair, and after a few seconds, she heard the door close on his departure.
There was some satisfaction to be gleaned from that encounter, and she felt for the first time that she just might have gained the upper hand. He had overreached himself the previous evening and had put himself at a disadvantage, and Serena had every intention of making the most of that disadvantage. In any other circumstances, she would have viewed her position with unholy glee, but now it was like salt and ashes on her tongue.
Downstairs, General Heyward called for his horse again. The animal had barely reached the mews before the footman brought the message. The groom, who’d been looking forward to a pint of porter and a meat pasty for his midday meal, cursed an inconsiderate master and led the weary horse back to the front door. Heyward had attempted to assuage his rage and frustration with Lord Burford that morning by riding the horse into the ground in Windsor Park, and the groom was muttering that for two pins, he’d give the general a piece of his mind and tell him to ride shank’s pony instead. The general was spared the caustic advice, as unfortunately, the groom didn’t have two pins, or perhaps fortunately. He’d be out on his ear telling General Sir George Heyward to use his own legs for once.
“You’ll be wantin’ me, sir?” he inquired as the general emerged from the house.
“No.” Heyward took the reins and mounted heavily. He was not wearing spurs, but he kicked the beast into movement with unnecessary force. The groom sent a copious gobbet of spi
ttle to splat onto the cobbles in the general’s wake.
Heyward rode to Bruton Street, rearranging his expression into one of benign and gentlemanly friendship. He tethered the animal to the railing at the front door of the Suttons’ house and banged the knocker. It was answered instantly by the butler, who offered an impassive bow as he stood aside to admit the visitor. “I’ll ascertain whether Mr. Sutton is at home, sir.”
“Do so, and hurry up about it.” The general stood tapping his whip against his boots while the butler walked in stately fashion to the door at the rear of the hall. He knocked once and opened the door, stepping softly within.
A minute later, he reappeared. “Mr. Sutton will be pleased to see you, General. Will you step this way …” He held the library door open.
Heyward marched past him, a smile fixed to his lips. “Ah, Sutton, happy to find you home.” His voice had a jovial boom to it, and his hand was outstretched in greeting.
“Welcome … welcome, m’dear fellow.” William rose from behind a heavy mahogany desk and greeted his visitor warmly. “I’m always to be found at home in the morning … like to take care of business first thing. Time enough for pleasure once the books are settled and m’mind’s at ease, don’t you know.”
“Ah, you are a man after my own heart,” the general stated, giving his host’s shoulder a hearty buffet. “Get the business out of the way … tedious though it may be.”
“Ah, well, I must confess I don’t find it in the least tedious,” William confided. “’Tis meat and drink, m’dear fellow. Meat and drink.”
Heyward smiled. “Each to his own, dear sir, each to his own.”
“Well, I’ve never been a gentleman of leisure … can’t see the point of it somehow … wine, General, or ale? I’m partial to a drop of strong ale myself at this time of day.”
The general concealed a well-bred shudder. “Wine, sir, if you please. I never developed a taste for ale.”
William looked a little dubious at this confession. It was his opinion that every right-thinking man understood the pleasures to be had in a morning tankard of golden ale. He poured claret for the general and filled a pewter tankard from a jug for himself. He passed the glass to his guest. “So, sit down, sir … be at your ease. To what do I owe the pleasure this morning?”
Heyward sat down, raised his glass in a silent toast, sipped, and then said, “I’ll come straight to the point, Sutton. I would like to offer for your daughter. I like to think that my affection for her must be no secret?” He tilted his head in question, a smile of deep sincerity hovering on his lips.
William did not instantly reply. He sipped his ale, seeming to stare off into the middle distance. The general felt his hackles rise. He had expected instant pleasure. General Sir George Heyward was offering to marry a tradesman’s daughter. How could the man hesitate for so much as a second?
“Well, sir,” William said finally. “I’m sure Abigail will be honored. But ’tis not for me to give an answer for her.”
“Oh, come, sir, you jest, surely.” Heyward could hardly believe his ears. “I have every hope of securing Miss Sutton’s affections … indeed, if I may say so without sounding like a coxcomb, I do believe I may already have done so.”
“Then, if that is the case, sir, we may consider the matter settled,” William said before adding, “Once, of course, we have settled the small matters of business that need not trouble the dear child.”
“Of course, sir, that goes without saying.”
This was tricky ground. Somehow, Heyward had to prove his solvency to this astute man of business, while at the same time extricating a large dowry to be paid to him the instant the marriage took place. He hoped that William Sutton understood that he would be selling his daughter in exchange for her advanced social position. He must surely be aware that no aristocrat or gentleman of breeding would consider taking a wife from trade circles, unless there was more than adequate compensation. But now was not the time to point this out.
“I am most deeply fond of your daughter, sir.” He smiled again. “Such a lovely girl, so beautiful, so accomplished in her conversation, and her harp playing is truly talented.”
William cleared his throat. He was a very fond papa, but even he couldn’t quite believe in this catalogue of his daughter’s fine qualities. When it came to her conversation, he had to admit he sometimes found it hard to stay awake, and as for her performance on the harp, he had serious reservations about whether he hadn’t wasted his money on her teacher. But Marianne had insisted, so he assumed it had been necessary. But who was he to quibble with a suitor’s idealized view of the child?
“Well, as to that, sir, Abigail is a darling girl, the apple of my eye … never met a girl to hold a candle to her,” he declared. “Tell you what, I’ll talk it over with her mother, and then we’ll see.”
This was not quite what the general had hoped to hear. He took a sip of claret. “I had hoped for a moment with Miss Sutton, sir … and Mrs. Sutton, of course.”
“Of course. My daughter would not see a gentleman unchaperoned.” William sounded surprised that his visitor had felt the addendum necessary. He pushed back his chair. “No time like the present, eh? Let us go upstairs and visit the ladies. I heard Abigail come in half an hour past. She was visiting Lady Serena, I’m told.”
“I had the good fortune to meet her in the hall just as she was leaving,” the general said, rising with his host.
“Her mama wishes her to rest this afternoon to prepare for her first dinner party this evening,” William said with another fond smile. “Can’t think why ’tis so important the child should be in best looks for mere dinner-table talk, but when m’lady wife decrees it, then it must happen.” He chuckled and led the way upstairs to the ladies’ parlor.
He entered without ceremony, speaking as he did so. “My dear, I have brought Sir George Heyward to visit. Most anxious he is to see Abigail.” He looked around. “Where is the dear child?”
“She’s changing her dress, Mr. Sutton.” Marianne extended her hand to the general and nodded a seated bow as befitted a matron receiving a gentleman. “General, ’tis a pleasure, I’m sure.”
He bowed over her hand, raising it to his lips for a kiss in the air above her knuckles. “You look charming, ma’am, if I may be so bold.”
Marianne patted the elegant scrap of a lace cap on her graying hair. “Why, thank you, sir. You are too kind.”
“’Tis not hard to see where your daughter gets her looks,” Heyward said.
Marianne tittered a little. “You flatter me, dear sir. Pray, sit down.” She cast a glance at her husband, who was watching the proceedings with a somewhat sardonic glimmer in his eye. “Mr. Sutton, will you call for wine for our guest?”
“Of course, my dear.” William pulled the bell rope.
Abigail was coming from her bedchamber as Morrison was carrying the decanter and glasses to her mother’s parlor. “Oh, do we have visitors, Morrison?”
“General Sir George Heyward, Miss Sutton. He is with Mr. Sutton and your mother.”
“Oh.” Abigail’s nose wrinkled. There had been a time in Brussels when she had quite liked the general’s flattering attentions, but her views had changed since her arrival in London. She didn’t feel like listening to his fulsome compliments this morning and turned back to her bedchamber. “Will you tell my mother I have some letters to write, Morrison? I will come down for luncheon.”
“Yes, Miss Sutton.” Morrison raised an eyebrow and continued to the parlor. He had met many a General Heyward in his career as butler and had smelled the rat in this one from the first meeting in Brussels. He was more than happy to assist his young mistress’s attempts to keep out of the man’s way.
He set the tray on the sideboard and spoke softly to Mrs. Sutton. “Miss Sutton, ma’am, begs to be excused. She had some letters to write.”
Marianne nodded. “Thank you, Morrison.” She waved him away. “I’m afraid Abigail won’t be joining us, General. She has so
me correspondence to take care of.”
Heyward looked disappointed but accepted the glass of wine and began to talk of the projected visit to the theatre, which had still not materialized. In truth, he was finding it hard to lay hands on a suitable box at Covent Garden. He had hoped that one of his friends or clients who played at his tables would lend him a box for one night, but it was proving difficult to pin down any of the gentlemen so endowed. “I haven’t found a play that you would consider suitable, ma’am,” he now said. “Miss Sutton’s delicate sensibilities must be taken into account. And of course, the entertainment must be of a classical nature, as you yourself said.” He dabbed his lips with a scented handkerchief. “I wouldn’t suggest anything else.”
“Of course not, sir.” Marianne placidly set her needle into her tambour frame. “We shall wait for the perfect play.”
After a decent interval, Heyward made his farewells and departed Bruton Street, more annoyed than satisfied with his progress so far. He had failed to see Abigail, he had not met the kind of overwhelming acceptance he had expected from William, and, while he thought that Marianne could be persuaded to support his suit, he was under no illusions that William, in this matter, was the one to convince.
Chapter Sixteen
Sebastian parried, feinted, and his blade slipped beneath his opponent’s guard, pressing into the soft unprotected flesh beneath his armpit.
“Touché.” Lord Harley stepped back, wiping his brow with his shirt sleeve. “That felt like you had an axe to grind, Seb. What did I do?”
Sebastian lowered his point to the floor. He had let his emotions get the better of him, an unforgivable sin on a fencing piste. “A bad night, Harley. But unforgivable. I apologize.”
His friend regarded him with a degree of concern. “We all have bad nights, Seb.”
“No excuses. I beg your pardon.” Sebastian held out his hand. “Forgive the unforgivable, Charles. And if you refuse to fence with me again, I’ll understand.”
