by Jane Feather
Lord Harley laughed, clasping Sebastian’s hand tightly. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear boy. We all have our megrims.” He clapped a hand over Sebastian’s shoulders. “Why are you blue-deviled, my friend?”
“Women,” Sebastian told him, knowing the one word would satisfy Harley. No gentleman would tread on that territory unless invited, and the explanation had the added satisfaction of being true.
“Wine,” Harley declared. “’Tis the cure for all such ills.”
Sebastian shook his head. “Not in this case, Charles.” He laid his épée in the rack along the wall. “Let me buy you dinner in recompense. At the Swan tonight … oh, no, not tonight, damn it. I have another engagement.” He grimaced. He’d forgotten the Suttons’ dinner party, and in present circumstances, it was the last place he wanted to be … certainly the last place where he wanted to meet Serena for the first time after the previous night’s debacle. But he couldn’t cry off at this late date.
Lord Harley shrugged as he shelved his own sword. “Whenever you wish, Seb. It’ll be my pleasure, if you really feel the need.”
Sebastian managed a laugh. “No, ’tis not need, merely the pleasure I take in your company. Let us make it tomorrow evening.” He slung his cloak around his shoulders.
Lord Harley laughed. “The Swan it is. I intend to be expensive, take warning.” He swept up his own cloak.
Sebastian shook his head. “Nine, then.”
“Nine.” They parted on the street, and Sebastian, after a moment, headed for home, reflecting that if he could savage one of his best friends on the piste, he was clearly not good company at the moment.
He let himself into the house. “Perry, you home?”
Bart popped his head around the door to the kitchen regions. “Mr. Peregrine ain’t ’ere, sir. He went out about an hour ago.”
Sebastian nodded. He hadn’t expected to find his brother at home in the middle of the afternoon. “Bring me some bread and cheese, will you, Bart?” He went into the parlor.
Bart followed him. “This come for you, sir.” He held out a sealed packet.
Sebastian took it, turning it over in his hand. It was addressed to him in a sharp black script and sealed with the great seal of the Archbishop of Canterbury. With a rather grim smile, he slit the wafer with his thumbnail and unfolded the sheet of heavy vellum. It was, indeed, the marriage license he had applied for. A special license that could be issued only by the Archbishop of Canterbury.
When he’d had his epiphany, as he had thought of it at the time, he had spent a long time working on the logistics. He’d spent rather less, he thought wryly, on the issue of gaining Serena’s consent. For some hubristic reason, he’d assumed it would be willingly forthcoming. There were three ways to be married. They could have the banns published on three successive Sundays in the church where the ceremony would be performed, but he doubted Serena would be willing to risk the publicity, not until she was safely away from Pickering Place.
The alternative would be to obtain a license. This could be issued by Sebastian’s parish priest. Except that he didn’t have one. He and his brothers had given up all semblance of church connections long since. They all shared Jasper’s caustic opinion that there was more than enough piety, most of it false and self-serving, in the Blackwater family as it was. Failing the parish priest, the same license could be procured from Doctors’ Commons for a trifle, and that would allow them to marry in a parish church in the parish where one of them had been resident for more than fifteen days. He had lived at Stratton Street for more than three years, so that proviso was taken care of. Doctors’ Commons, situated just behind St. Paul’s, was a college of advocates, loosely affiliated with one or other of the bishops. For a small fee, the advocate would apply to their bishop for the license. It was a simple enough process, but it would mean the ceremony had to be performed in a place where he was well known. And again, that didn’t suit the need he felt for secrecy until the marriage was a fait accompli.
The final alternative was what he now held. A special license that could only be obtained from the Archbishop of Canterbury. The cost was huge, more than twenty guineas, but it would enable them to marry at any place and any time they chose. It was really the only solution. Sebastian stood looking down at it in his hand for a long moment. Now he didn’t know what to do with it.
He became aware of Bart still standing in the doorway, looking at him with unconcealed curiosity. “Bread and cheese, Bart,” he reminded him, and the lad scampered off.
Sebastian put the document in an inner drawer of the secretaire and locked it. He could think of nothing else to do with it at this point. He had no idea whether his relationship with Serena could be salvaged, and he was still too hurt and too confused to attempt it. How could she refuse his protection? Why would she refuse it? She walked a tight rope with her stepfather every minute of every day, so why wouldn’t she seize the chance to jump off it? She was the most damnably obstinate, impossible woman any man could ever have had the misfortune to love.
He sawed savagely at the loaf of bread Bart had set on the table and stabbed his knife point into the wheel of cheese. Maybe he could force a duel on Heyward, offer some public insult that would compel the general to call him out. For a moment, he allowed his imagination full rein. A misty autumn morning at Barn Elms, six men, the two principals and their seconds. Would he choose pistols or swords? Pistols were quicker, but there was something a lot more satisfying about swordplay, the elegance and speed of steel on steel. And he was known for his skill on the piste. Even Jasper admitted that his younger brother was a fine swordsman.
Jasper and Perry would act for him. Of course, killing a man in a duel had awkward consequences. It usually necessitated a hasty trip to the Continent until it was forgotten. But he and Serena could have an extended honeymoon in Paris or Venice or perhaps Rome. Definitely not Brussels. Serena and her unsavory past would be too well known there.
Of course, this flight of fancy depended on Serena’s consent, and after last night, he was a long way from achieving that. He chewed meditatively on bread and cheese, poured himself a glass of claret, and sat down by the fire. If he couldn’t take Serena away from her stepfather, maybe the answer was, indeed, to take the stepfather away from Serena. Maybe when she was free, her resistance would crumble. It had been a stupid argument, really. He had no intention of wanting to rule her, of expecting that marriage would give him that right. Maybe with some women it would, but not with Serena. That fierce independence was one of the things he loved most about her. But one thing was now quite clear to him: the sooner he had this out with the infuriating love of his life, the better.
Some time before eight o’clock, he was in position on Pickering Place, watching the front door from the concealment of a shadowy alley opposite. Precisely at eight, the door opened, and a footman came out and ran off in the direction of St. James’s Street, presumably to fetch a hackney or a chair for Lady Serena. Soon enough, he reappeared, trotting beside a sedan chair. The chairmen set the chair down at the front door, and the footman disappeared inside. A few minutes later, the door opened again, and Serena appeared.
Sebastian couldn’t help a sharply indrawn breath when he saw her. She looked magnificent in flame-colored damask with wide panniers opened over a dramatic black silk underskirt stiff with silver embroidery. Ruffles of silver lace fell over her wrists. As usual, her black hair was unpowdered, and tonight she wore it in the fashion made popular by Madame de Pompadour, dressed high over pads. The chairmen’s pitch torches caught the glint of silver among the dusky curls, and he guessed she was wearing the silver fillet left her by her mother. She stepped into the chair, and as the chairmen hoisted their burden, Sebastian stepped up beside the chair, keeping pace with the chairmen.
Oddly, Serena found that she was not surprised by Sebastian’s sudden appearance. Of course, things were not over between them. How could they be? She said simply, “Good evening, Sebastian.”
“Good evenin
g, Serena.” There was a moment of silence, and then he said, “Have you nothing to say to me?”
She sighed. “I don’t know what there is to say anymore. Apart from the absurdity of the idea of us marrying, I cannot bear to be ruled by anyone, don’t you understand that? For the last ten years, I have been in servitude, and once I’m free, I will not voluntarily put myself under the control of anyone, most definitely not a husband. If that’s something you cannot accept, Sebastian, then we have nothing further to say to each other.”
He sucked in his lower lip, deciding to postpone arguing about the absurdity of a marriage itself. “I don’t wish to control you … rule you, Serena. But surely you can understand the need to protect and care for someone you love.”
“Sometimes,” she said slowly, “loving someone means letting them go, or at least respecting their wish for freedom, even if you have to stand by and watch them being hurt.”
He groaned. “How can I accept that, Serena? I can’t stand aside and watch while that brute bullies you.”
“He won’t do it again,” she assured him quietly. “I can promise you that.”
“I was thinking that I would challenge him to a duel,” Sebastian said, slyly watching her expression through the chair window.
“Challenge him to a …” She went into a peal of laughter, and the sound warmed him to the marrow. “Oh, Sebastian, my darling, would you really?”
“If you asked me to,” he said, grinning now. “In truth, there is nothing I would like better than to cross swords with that bastard at Barn Elms.”
“Mmm.” She seemed to consider. “You would certainly do better with swords. The general’s counted a first-class shot.”
“You doubt my prowess with a pistol?” he demanded with mock indignation.
“No, sir. I do not doubt your prowess in anything,” she said with the faintest stress on the last word and one of her mischievous smiles that made his heart sing.
“Oh, God, Serena, how can you do this? You twist me in knots, you turn me inside out, and then you smile like that, and I love you so much I think I’ll split apart at the seams.”
Her smile faded, and her huge velvety eyes glowed like purple pansies under moonlight. “My dear, I don’t understand, either, how we can disagree so powerfully on such vitally important matters and yet still have this … this connection. I’m only happy when I’m with you, and yet I’m sometimes more unhappy with you than at any other time.”
“We’ll find a way through this, Serena. We have to,” Sebastian said quietly.
The chairmen stopped abruptly, and Sebastian realized they were outside the Suttons’ front door on Bruton Street. He offered his hand as Serena stepped out of the chair. He held her hand tightly for a moment, looking into her face, his own eyes speaking volumes. Then he released her hand, paid the chairmen, and gestured to the front door.
“Shall we? ’Tis time to put on our other hats.”
Serena nodded and slipped her hand into his arm, murmuring, “Do everything you can to bring out the best in Jonas.”
“He’s to be there? He told me last night he wouldn’t receive an invitation.”
“I gather from Abigail that Mr. Sutton had something to say about it.”
“Good … and unless I much mistake the matter, here comes our friend now.”
Serena looked to the corner of the street, where a dark-clad figure was striding energetically towards them. “So it is. And he looks most elegant. Not even Marianne could find anything to object to in his appearance.”
“No, indeed. Should we wait for him?” Sebastian had already raised an alerting hand to Jonas.
“You go and meet him. I’ll go in. It might look better.”
“As you say.” Sebastian reached over her shoulder to lift the door knocker, then strode off down the street towards Jonas Wedgwood. “Well met, Wedgwood. Do you come to the Suttons?”
“I received a most unexpected invitation this morning, Mr. Sullivan.” Jonas extended his hand and bowed as he reached Sebastian. He was blushing fiercely. “I must beg your pardon for the spectacle I made of myself last evening, sir. I do not know what you must think of me.”
“Good God, man, think of you? Why, nothing at all. ’Tis no great matter to dip a little deep into the claret. We’ve all done it on occasion, and I’m sure we’ll all do it again.” He shook the young man’s hand. “Don’t give it another thought. I daresay you had a rough morning,” he added sympathetically.
“Not too pleasant,” Jonas admitted with a rueful smile. “But I find it passes off quite quickly. I feel perfectly well now.”
“Good, then let us go in, and you shall lay delicate siege to the exquisite Miss Sutton.”
“I doubt Mrs. Sutton will permit that,” Jonas replied.
“I said delicate, my friend.” Sebastian raised the door knocker. “If you play your cards right, the redoubtable Mrs. Sutton will not see what you’re doing … ah, Morrison, isn’t it? Good evening.”
“Good evening, sir. Mr. Wedgwood.” The butler bowed and held the door wide. They went past him into the hall, where a footman took their cloaks. “The guests are assembled in the drawing room, gentlemen.” Morrison proceeded to the stairs, and they followed him up.
The double doors to the salon stood open, and Morrison announced in ringing tones, “The Honorable Sebastian Sullivan and Mr. Jonas Wedgwood.”
Marianne’s expression was a picture as she stepped away from a circle of guests and came across to greet the new arrivals. Clearly, she was struggling with the dilemma of how to greet one guest with unequivocal pleasure while acknowledging the other with modified rapture.
“Mr. Sullivan, I’m delighted to see you.” She curtsied, extending her hand with an inviting smile.
Sebastian bowed over the hand. “And I’m delighted to be here, ma’am.”
Marianne turned to Jonas, who bowed. She had not offered him her hand and merely bobbed her head in place of a curtsy. “Mr. Wedgwood.”
“Mrs. Sutton.” Jonas cast a comical look of dismay in Sebastian’s direction as the lady moved off, but his discomfort was short-lived, as William came barreling across the room towards them.
“Jonas, m’dear boy … Mr. Sullivan … welcome … welcome. Come and take a glass of wine. Champagne tonight … nothing else would satisfy m’lady wife. Nothing but the best. I daresay you know most of these people better than I do, eh, Mr. Sullivan … and there’s Lady Serena … looking radiant … isn’t she a picture? But I say as shouldn’t, my little Abigail is showing at her best this evening, don’t you think?” He gazed fondly across the room to where Abigail was standing beside Serena in a small group in front of the fire.
Abigail did look enchanting, Sebastian reflected. Her mother, for all her shortcomings, certainly knew how to turn out her daughter. Her gown of ivory crepe opened over an underskirt of anemone blue. She wore a very modest hoop as befitted a debutante and her fair hair, confined at her brow with a pearl-encrusted blue ribbon, clustered around her face in soft ringlets. Her appearance was in perfect taste and set off the girl’s pale prettiness to perfection. Although Sebastian’s tastes ran to the more dramatic, flame and silver and black, for instance, he could appreciate Abigail’s appeal.
Jonas couldn’t take his eyes off her. He murmured something in agreement with William, who for all his bonhomie had a shrewd look in his eye as he regarded the young man. A footman brought a tray of champagne, and Jonas took a glass with a murmur of thanks, then moved off dreamily towards Abigail.
William glanced at Sebastian. His wife had confided her hopes that Mr. Sullivan might be brought up to scratch, but he rather doubted it. The Honorable Sebastian had barely glanced at Abigail, but William had not missed his quick, covert glance at Lady Serena. That he could understand. Lady Serena was in a different class altogether from his little Abigail. A grown woman, and for all her unmarried status, William reckoned he knew a woman of experience when he met one. He wouldn’t call her an adventuress by any means,
but Lady Serena Carmichael was no ingénue. And she and the Honorable Sebastian seemed to him to be two of a kind in some fashion. Not, of course, that it was any of his business.
“I reckon you don’t need any introductions, Mr. Sullivan, so I’ll leave you to plunge in.” He strolled away, wishing he could exchange the insipid champagne for a large bumper of porter.
Sebastian went to join the group around Serena. He bowed to the company in general before offering Abigail a most particular bow, taking her hand and kissing it lightly. “May I congratulate you on your debut, Miss Sutton?”
She laughed a little nervously. “’Tis only a very small debut, Mr. Sullivan.”
“True enough,” he agreed. “But there’s never anything wrong with small. Why be in a hurry?”
“Yes, indeed, Miss Sutton. Why be in a hurry?” Jonas repeated eagerly. “Large things grow from small, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” Abigail gave a little laugh. “I had the tiniest rabbit once, and before I knew it, she had sixteen babies. And she was still a little thing.”
Serena didn’t dare look at Sebastian. The group around them were staring in astonishment, and Abigail suddenly became aware that she had said something shocking. She paled, looked around in panic, and Jonas said heartily, “Indeed, Miss Sutton, rabbits are a law unto themselves. I remember a black and white I once had …” Still talking, he slipped a hand beneath her elbow and bore her off towards another group of guests across the room.
“Well done,” Serena murmured sotto voce. She turned her own attention to distracting the group around her with a particularly scandalous on dit about the Duchess of Devonshire that she had been told in the strictest confidence by a drunken player at the hazard table.
Sebastian joined in, encouraging the gossipy laughter, and they were both confident that Abigail’s indiscretion would soon be forgotten.
Morrison appeared in the doorway to announce, “Dinner is served, madam.”
Marianne surreptitiously consulted the paper Serena had drawn up for her, decreeing who was to take whom down to dinner. “Mr. Sutton, you will take down Lady Mountjoy … Mr. Amesworth, will you escort Lady Serena, Mr. Sullivan, will you take down Abigail, Mr. Wedgwood, pray escort Miss Bentley …”
