by Jane Feather
Sebastian laughed and cast aside his mask. “I might ask the same of you, sir. How is it that Miss Sutton is alone at night in a carriage with you heading for, I’m guessing, the Scottish Border?”
“Miss Sutton has agreed to be my wife.” He spat dust.
“Oh, indeed. But in that case why is an elopement necessary?” Sebastian mused. “I am sure Mr. Sutton would have happily given his daughter’s hand to you had she been willing.”
“Perhaps General Heyward thought an elopement would be more romantic,” Serena chimed in. It was over now. She had no more hostages to fortune, and she could finally show her stepfather every ounce of the contempt in which she held him.
Startled, he spun towards her, where she still sat her horse, guarding the men. “You.” The one word cracked through the night quiet, filled with hatred.
“Yes, Sir George, me. You will not do to another woman what you did to my mother.”
Sebastian had his hand on his sword, but he let Serena have her say. She needed it, and it would bring some healing balm to the wounds of the past. He took off his coat and handed it to Peregrine, who stood waiting.
The general seemed incapable of a response. He looked around the group of masked men and knew that he faced defeat.
“Draw your sword, General.” Sebastian’s blade flickered, sinuous and sudden in the pale silver light.
“No,” Abigail gasped, the word caught in her throat.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Abigail.” It was Serena who spoke, but her eyes were on the men. “Sebastian is a fine swordsman.”
Heyward shrugged out of his coat and let it fall to the ground. He drew his sword. Fair play had not been in his repertoire in his adult memory, but now he had no choice but to rely on his own naked skill. He had no backup plan, no trickery, no sleight of hand. Just the sword in his hand. And he knew he would be outplayed by the younger man.
Sebastian raised his sword in salute, and Heyward did the same, conscious of the throb of the bruise on his jaw. He lunged, too soon, too quickly for accuracy, and Sebastian easily turned the blade aside, dancing back, seeming to taunt the older man, to invite him to further assault.
Serena watched, aware that Peregrine was covering his brother. The general would not be allowed to win this, even if by some miracle he gained the upper hand. It was not exactly honorable, but it struck her as perfectly reasonable to use her stepfather’s own tricks against him.
Heyward began to fight in good earnest, but every thrust was parried. Sebastian was playing with him. He had many opportunities for a counterthrust that would end it, and he sidestepped them all, watching as his opponent grew wearier by the minute, dashed the sweat from his brow, stumbled once or twice, and finally stumbled for a third time and gasped, “Finish it, God damn you.”
Sebastian shook his head as he lunged, and his sword point cut into Heyward’s shoulder. He dropped his point, stepping back as the general let his weapon fall to the ground, his hand pressed to the welling wound. “No, I’ve no wish for your blood on my head, Heyward. You’ll not die of that scratch. See to him, would you, Peregrine?”
He loped over to where Serena still sat her horse.
“’Tis done, sweet,” he whispered, taking her hand.
She nodded. “And well done. I’ll escort Abigail home now.”
“I’ll clean up here, and we’ll meet at home.”
“At home,” she affirmed.
She dismounted, and for a moment, he held her tightly, before dropping a kiss on her brow. “Be off with you, then.” All business again, he called to Jonas. “Help Abigail into the coach, Jonas. Serena will escort her home. We need you to help here.”
“Of course.” Jonas put his betrothed into the carriage. “I will come to Bruton Street tomorrow, my darling. You will be quite safe now with Lady Serena.”
“Quite safe,” Serena agreed, climbing into the carriage on the other side. “And while we journey, you had best tell me the whole story so that we may concoct a suitable tale for your parents.”
Abigail shook her head vigorously. “No tale,” she declared. “Only the truth. I will not keep this from Papa.”
“Well, that is your prerogative,” Serena said. “And in truth, my dear, I think ’tis the best possible course of action.”
Chapter Twenty-two
By the time the carriage drew up outside the house on Bruton Street, Serena was in full possession of the facts.
“My father couldn’t possibly have written such a letter,” Abigail repeated passionately. “And he couldn’t possibly have done those horrible things. But ’tis his writing, and the seal …” She shook her head in confusion. “I know ’tis his seal.”
Serena reread the incriminating letter before handing it back to Abigail as the postilion opened the carriage door and let down the footstep. “Oh, I know how it was done,” she said grimly. “Let us see what your father has to say.” She stepped out and waited for Abigail to join her.
Abigail was pale but resolute as she banged the knocker on the front door. It was opened instantly by her father, who was dressed for the outside, a thick cloak around his shoulders. He looked at his daughter in astonishment. “Where have you been, child? I’ve just returned from Pickering Place to bring you home. Your mother would not countenance you spending the night away. But I was told that you had never arrived there and that Lady Serena had left the house with Jonas Wedgwood in the mid-afternoon. What does this mean?”
He waved the note Abigail had left. “How dare you leave the house without permission? Without even your maid? Your mother is in strong hysterics. As for you, Lady Serena …” He turned his attention to his daughter’s companion. “What is your part in this? Aiding and abetting clandestine meetings between my daughter and Wedgwood? I had thought better of you.”
“That isn’t exactly what happened, sir,” Serena said swiftly as soon as he paused for breath. “I believe you should listen to Abigail’s explanation, Mr. Sutton, but not here … in the public hall,” she added, conscious of the hidden eyes of servants.
William looked back to his daughter. She was very white, her eyes filled with tears. He turned on his heel and stalked to the library. They followed him, and Serena closed the door firmly.
“Well?” he demanded.
Abigail, in silence, handed him the general’s letter to her and its accompanying letter from her father to Howard Barrett.
He looked down at them in his hand. “What are these?”
“Read them, Papa,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Please.”
He frowned, then opened the papers. His expression changed from initial confusion to incandescent fury. “What the devil …” He looked at Serena. “What d’you know of this … this slander? What’s your part in it? You weasel your way into my house, into my family’s confidence and affection, to do this?”
“No … no, Papa, Lady Serena rescued me from the general. She had nothing to do with this,” Abigail exclaimed.
Serena shook her head. “Abigail speaks the truth, Mr. Sutton. I admit that I knew Sir George had set his sights on your daughter’s fortune, but I was not abetting him, sir. I befriended Abigail in order to protect her from him.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, his fury unabated. “I would have put a stop to him.”
Serena bit her lip. “I was overconfident, sir, I admit it. I had thought I could stop Sir George myself. I’ve forestalled other plans of his, and I thought I could do it this time.”
“She saved me, Papa. She and Mr. Sullivan and his brother and Jonas. They held up the carriage, like highwaymen,” Abigail said in a rush.
“Good God.” William’s rage was diminishing. “Highwaymen?”
“It seemed the only solution, sir,” Serena said, sounding almost apologetic. “There really was no time to waste. We had to stop them before they got too far from London. Once we knew they were heading north …” She stopped, seeing comprehension mingled with his lingering wrath.
“
Gretna Green.” It was not a question.
“But apart from the short time she was alone with the general, and no one but us knows of that, Abigail has been with me, as she said in her note to you. Her reputation is unassailable.”
He sighed deeply as his fear-fueled anger finally left him. His eyes were bemused as he looked again at the papers he held. “I did not write this, but ’tis my hand and my seal. How … how?” He looked at Serena. “How the devil did he manage this?”
“Oh, I can explain that,” she said. “The general is a collector … a snapper up of unconsidered trifles, as Shakespeare put it. He picks up anything that he thinks might be turned to good use in some future situation.”
She picked up Mr. Sutton’s seal on the desk. “This, for instance. He collects seals, in particular. A simple imprint of the seal on a piece of wax is enough to make a duplicate. Any time he was in here or even in your study in the house in Brussels, he could have picked it up. If he was alone, so much the better. But if not, then an idle examination, a little sleight of hand, and he had the imprint.”
William gazed at her in stupefaction. “And my handwriting?”
She shrugged. “The general is something of an artist when it comes to forgery. If he has a sample of your handwriting … and I assume you have sent him occasional communications?”
He nodded in grim silence.
“Then he would have no difficulty in imitating it. Maybe an expert might not be fooled, but experts are not his quarry. Usually, ’tis good enough to fool those he wishes to fool.”
William shook his head as if dispelling cobwebs. “And your part in all this thievery and deception?”
“Unwilling,” she said simply. “But I have … I had …” she corrected herself, “nowhere to go, no one to turn to, no resources except my own wits. I needed those to save myself.” It was a simple but bitter statement of the truth, and William heard it as such.
“Where is the general now? He must be brought to justice.”
Abigail spoke up for the first time. “Oh, Mr. Sullivan forced him to fight a duel on the Common, and he wounded him in the shoulder, Papa.” She glanced a little shyly at Serena. “But I don’t think he did so for my sake.”
Serena smiled a little. “You don’t do yourself enough credit, Abigail, but ’tis true that Mr. Sullivan … my husband … was exacting payment for more than the insult done you.”
“Oh, wonderful. I knew it would happen,” Abigail cried, clapping her hands in delight. “I knew you were made for each other all along. Have you been secretly married for months and months?”
“Not exactly,” Serena responded.
“Well, you are to congratulated, Lady Serena,” William said drily. “I assume that means that your stepfather no longer has any hold on you.”
She nodded and said softly, “Yes, that’s exactly what it means, sir.”
“Well, what’s to be done about him?” William asked. “If he’s as slippery as you say, he’ll find another victim soon enough.”
“Not if he ends up in debtors’ prison,” she said quietly.
William’s glance was sharply attentive. “How d’you mean?”
“The Earl of Burford holds the mortgages on Pickering Place. If he could be persuaded to call them in …” The plan lay clear in front of her, beautifully symmetrical and gloriously apposite. “No, better still. If he could be persuaded to sell them to you, sir, then you could call them in. If you act quickly, while the general is still laid up with his wounded shoulder, I’ll wager odds every creditor he has will come out of the woodwork once he is dispossessed. An extended stay in the Marshalsea or the Fleet would be a fine vengeance, don’t you think?”
William considered, and a slow smile spread across his countenance. “You are a devious woman, Lady Serena. But I own there is indeed a most satisfying correlation between crime and punishment. I shall visit Burford first thing in—”
A loud hammering on the front door interrupted him. “What the devil is it now?” He took a step to the library door when it was flung open. Sebastian stood on the threshold, his cheeks pink with the cold, his eyes glittering with purpose.
“I have come for my wife,” he declared without preamble. “You were not at home, Serena.”
“Mr. Sullivan, come in, come in.” William extended his hands to the visitor. “Indeed, sir, I owe you a debt of gratitude that I cannot know how to repay.”
“Not now, sir,” Sebastian said firmly. “I am come for my wife. ’Tis past time she stopped looking after the interests of others and started giving her husband some time. Come, Serena.” He reached for her hand and pulled her smartly towards him. “I am tired of not finding you where you belong.”
“Sebastian,” Serena exclaimed as he pulled her to the door so fast her feet skipped across the carpet. “’Tis discourteous not to make our farewells.”
“Courtesy may go to the devil.” He marched with her to the door. His horse stood at the railing outside, and without hesitation, he lifted Serena onto the saddle and mounted behind her. His arm went around her, holding her warmly against him. He nudged his horse into a brisk trot to Stratton Street.
Serena offered no further protest; indeed, she had none to make.
Outside the house, he lifted her down and hurried her into the house, calling for Bart to take his horse to the mews. The lad scampered out of the house, pulling on his jerkin. There was sudden quiet in the house.
Sebastian turned Serena slowly towards him, his blue gaze intent. He pushed up her chin with his gloved hand and spoke with soft determination, “’Tis over now, my love. Trust me. From now on, we are all and everything to each other. The bad times are finished. I am your sword and your shield.”
Tears pricked, and Serena blinked hard. She caressed his cheek as she so loved to do. “I don’t have much of a fencing arm, but I shoot straight.”
He smiled, wiping the teardrop from her cheek with his fingertip. “All and everything to each other.”
She nodded. “All and everything to each other.”
Epilogue
The two young women sat on the wide window seat, their heads together as they spoke in low voices in the salon of Blackwater House on Upper Brook Street. When the door opened suddenly, they both looked up, two pairs of eyes turning to the door, one a deep purple, the other a soft jade, two heads, one titian, one black as a raven’s wing.
“You didn’t sit long over the port,” Lady Blackwater observed with a smile.
“Sebastian was too anxious to get back to his bride,” Jasper responded.
“That is certainly true, Clarissa.” Sebastian looked for a long moment at his wife, relishing once again the words that set the fact in concrete. “But besides that, ’tis time we left to pay our duty visit to Uncle Bradley. He has yet to meet my wife.”
“He’s met faro’s daughter before, however.” Serena’s tone was matter-of-fact, but the look she gave her husband was anything but. “He didn’t frighten me then; he’s not going to frighten me now.”
“I still don’t envy you the interview,” Clarissa said with a shudder. “He’s the most loathsome individual. I’ve never come across anyone as malicious as the viscount. He really seems to enjoy other people’s discomfort.”
“I’ll come with you if you like,” Peregrine offered. “A little leavening can do no harm.”
“By all means,” Sebastian agreed cordially. “I’ll lay odds Serena’s more than a match for the old reprobate, but there’s always safety in numbers.”
“Are you going, too, Jasper?”
The Earl of Blackwater considered his wife’s question. “On the one hand, a united front and superiority in numbers might dilute the malevolence, but on the other, I have no desire to leave you for the evening, my love.”
“I shall be perfectly content in the knowledge that I don’t have to endure another moment in the viscount’s company,” Clarissa declared crisply. “Go with them, Jasper, and then you can come home and tell me how Serena beat
the old man at his own game.” She gave Serena a quick complicit smile.
Serena chuckled and got up from the window seat. “I’ll bear in mind the need to provide you with some amusement, Clarissa.”
“I’ll send to the stables for the carriage. We might as well arrive in style.” Jasper went out into the hall to give Crofton the instruction, and half an hour later, Serena and the three Sullivan brothers were ensconced in the traveling carriage, swaying through the London streets to Viscount Bradley’s mansion on the Strand.
“So where’s your stepfather now?” Jasper inquired. “I heard he lost the house in Pickering Place.”
Serena nodded. Her plan had been successful down to the last iota. William Sutton had cheerfully bought the mortgages from the Earl of Burford for considerably more than they were worth. He’d called in the debt, had the general evicted, and just as she’d predicted, Sir George’s creditors had swarmed over him. He had had no time for his usual midnight flit, and William, ably supported by the army of creditors, had had General Heyward committed to the Marshalsea for debt.
“As far as I know, the general is still housed in the Marshalsea.”
“And likely to remain so for the foreseeable future,” Sebastian put in with his own note of satisfaction. “Unless he can pay his debts, and that’s notoriously difficult to do from the depths of debtors’ prison. I doubt he’ll see the light of day again.”
“For which I am profoundly thankful,” Serena said. “And Pickering Place is for sale to anyone who can come up with the price … Oh, are we here?” The carriage slowed to a stop.
Jasper looked out. “Yes, we’re here. Let’s hope the old man’s in the mood for visitors.” He swung open the door and stepped down, offering his hand to Serena. “Ma’am …”
“Thank you, my lord.” She stepped down beside him. The formality was in jest. In the time since her marriage to their brother, Jasper and Peregrine had embraced Serena as one of their own, and as Sebastian had predicted, she and Clarissa had become fast friends, sharing, as they did, the bond of love for the men of the Blackwater family.
