A Wedding Wager (19 page)

Sebastian retraced his steps to the hall. He picked up the wafer-sealed letter. The writing was unfamiliar but definitely feminine, too fancy for his tastes. He would indulge in the odd curlicue himself if he was in a festive mood, but this script was adorned with a positive garden of flourishes. The paper was also scented. Gingerly, he slit the wafer with his thumbnail and opened the sheet.

Mr. and Mrs. William Sutton request the pleasure of the company of the Honorable Sebastian Sullivan at dinner on Wednesday, October 31, at their residence in Bruton Street, at the hour of eight o’clock.

Sebastian raised his eyebrows. Serena, it seemed, had alerted him just in time. Of course, if she hadn’t cajoled him, he would have returned a courteous but absolute
refusal and put the whole matter out of his mind. Now, of course, he was honor-bound to accept. He cast the sheet aside on the console table and went back upstairs. He was committed to a return to Bruton Street in the morning, anyway. Not for the first time, he wondered what it was about Serena that addled his thinking, drove him to impetuous acts that held no conceivable benefit for himself—in fact, quite the opposite. In this case, he was gravely at risk of emerging from the tangle labeled a dastard, a coward, a coxcomb, and any number of disparaging epithets.

Serena retired to bed in the dawn hours as usual. It had been a successful night. The house bank had won consistently at faro. Lord Burford had, as usual, been in attendance, but for once, he had made no attempt to engage Serena in conversation. She had felt his eyes on her for most of the evening, but not even at supper had he approached her. Her stepfather had barely spoken to her, but he, too, had watched her closely throughout. The business of Burford’s proposition was not over, Serena knew that. It made her on edge,
jangly,
as she had described it to Sebastian, and it took all her self-discipline to concentrate on the play, to ensure that the faro bank ended the evening as the winner.

She had long since given up on moral scruples about the ways in which she ensured that the cards she dealt came out in a certain pattern. On one level, she quite enjoyed the dexterity of mind necessary to achieve the right outcome for the bank. There was no room for scruples in the life she led. She flirted, flattered both young men and old, treated the ladies, of whom there
were far fewer, with friendly and disarming deference.

Every now and again, a very young lady would appear at the tables, accompanied by a youthful cicisbeo. She would be an elderly peer’s new bride, giddy with her sudden independence, a seemingly enormous quarterly allowance, and the flattering attentions of a wide circle of young men.

Only then did Serena allow her conscience to dictate to her. Smiling, she would befriend the child in question, steer her to a table where the play was not quite so deep, try to keep her from deep basset or the faro tables, and intervene occasionally when it looked as if a family heirloom was about to be cast upon the table as a stake when the hapless bride’s purse had run dry.

Occasionally, she had earned the undying enmity of a young woman she had forced to leave the house on the arm of a reluctant cicisbeo, whom, in turn, she had roundly chastised for exposing such a naïve child to the dangers of the tables.

Not once did it occur to Serena that she was barely older than these youngsters whom she felt such a need to protect.

She fell into bed just before daybreak, told her maid to awaken her at nine o’clock, and for once found sleep quickly. The afternoon’s lovemaking with Sebastian replaced the tumble of yearning dreams that ordinarily interlaced her sleep, and she awoke, when Bridget drew aside the curtains, feeling wonderfully refreshed, as if she had slept twelve hours instead of four.

“Here’s your hot chocolate, Lady Serena.” Bridget set the silver tray on the bed. “’Tis a beautiful day. A bit chilly, but it’s such a pleasure to see the sun.” She bustled around, gathering up Serena’s discarded clothes from the previous evening. “What will you wear this morning?”

Serena nibbled a piece of bread and butter as she considered the question. “I’m visiting a friend, so the gray velvet gown with the silver fox pelisse, I think, Bridget.”

Bridget nodded her approval as she drew the gown out of the armoire, examining it for creases. “A quick touch-up with the flat iron, ma’am … I’ll be back in a moment.” She hurried from the room, leaving Serena with her hot chocolate and a small pile of billets-doux that regularly accompanied her early-morning tray.

Among them she discovered an invitation to the Suttons’ for dinner on the 31st of the month. Had Sebastian received his at the same time? It seemed likely. She cast aside the bedcovers and went to the secretaire to pen her acceptance. She wanted it to arrive before she and Sebastian paid their morning visit.

Bridget returned with the freshly pressed gown, accompanied by a kitchen maid with a jug of steaming hot water. “I’ll need you to accompany me this morning, Bridget.” Serena poured hot water into the basin on the washstand.

“Yes, m’lady. Will you take breakfast in the dining room, or shall I bring it up to your parlor?”

Serena had no desire to run into her stepfather, and
she was bound to find him at breakfast downstairs. She wrung out a washcloth in the basin of hot water, pressing it to her face. “In the parlor, please. Just a coddled egg and some more bread and butter.”

She sat on the bench at the end of the bed to draw on silk stockings, fastening the garters above the knee, while Bridget shook out the folds of the stiffened cambric petticoats before lacing Serena’s corset. “Is that tight enough, m’lady?”

“Yes, quite tight enough,” Serena declared, taking a deep breath. She stood still as Bridget tied the small hoop at her waist and dropped the stiffened petticoats over her head. The gray velvet gown was one of her favorites. It opened over an underskirt of turquoise velvet, and the elbow-length sleeves ended in delicate lace ruffles banded with ribbon in the same turquoise velvet. Lace edged the décolletage, and she fastened a turquoise pendant at her throat.

“How would you like to wear your hair, ma’am?” Bridget knew that her mistress disdained powder except on the most formal of evening occasions, and she could understand why. Why would anyone want to cover that glorious blue-black mass with sticky white powder?

Serena considered the question, tilting her head as she examined herself in the cheval glass. “Curl the side ringlets, Bridget, and fasten the rest in a braided coronet. If it’s windy outside, it won’t blow about.” It was a simple style all her own, one that suited her small, neat head and somehow accentuated the size of her eyes. And
Serena was under no illusions that she wanted to look her most appealing for Sebastian. It was such a familiar feeling, so well remembered now, and now, as in the old days, it was accompanied by a little surge of excitement in the pit of her stomach.

She sat down to her breakfast with enthusiasm, noticing how buttery sunlight poured through the bay window of her parlor, how the brightness of the fire in the grate was dimmed by the sun’s light, noticing how good the egg tasted, how rich the butter on her bread, the delicious aroma of the coffee when she poured it into her cup. For the first time in an age, Serena felt truly alive. And she gloried in the sensation.

It lasted until she was crossing the hall, Bridget just behind her, to the hackney that Flanagan had summoned for her, and her stepfather came out of the library. “Where are you going, Serena?”

At the sound of his voice, her skin seemed to feel thin and raw, and a tiny pulse started to beat behind her eyes. She stopped, drawing on her gloves. “To Bruton Street, sir, to visit the Suttons.” Her voice was soft and level, and she met his gaze with stony eyes.

“Ah, good,” he said. His eyes slid away from hers. “I intend to visit Mr. Sutton myself later this morning. He wanted some advice on setting up his stables. Inform him that I will do myself the honor of calling upon him a little before noon. And mention in passing how much I am looking forward to seeing the enchanting Miss Sutton again.” He retreated to the library.

Damn,
thought Serena. Sebastian and her stepfather could not run into each other, so somehow she would have to get Sebastian out of Bruton Street after only half an hour. Perhaps she could contrive to get Abigail out of the house as well before the general paid his promised visit.

She and her maid climbed into the hackney. Bridget leaned out to pull the door shut, calling the address up to the driver as she did so.

Serena frowned in thought for the duration of the short journey. Bridget was accompanying her for form’s sake and could usefully provide an extra chaperone if Serena could persuade Abigail’s mama to allow her daughter to take a walk with herself and Sebastian, making their escape before General Heyward arrived. That would effectively kill the two birds with one stone.

The hackney drew up at precisely eleven o’clock, and as Serena and Bridget stepped down, Sebastian appeared, strolling nonchalantly along the street. He arrived at the doorstep a few seconds after Serena.

“Well met, Lady Serena.” He bowed with a flourish of his hat. “Is it not a beautiful morning?” His blue eyes gleamed with a conspiratorial amusement, as if all their shared memories were at the forefront of his mind. He stepped back, gesturing that she should precede him to the front door, then reached over her shoulder and lifted the knocker.

The butler opened the door, and Serena greeted him.
“Good morning, Morrison. Is Mrs. Sutton at home?”

“I believe so, my lady.” His gaze glanced off Sebastian. “Who shall I say is calling, sir?”

“The Honorable Sebastian Sullivan,” Serena said swiftly. “He is known to Mrs. Sutton.”

“Of course, my lady.” Morrison bowed and progressed in stately fashion upstairs to the drawing room. The ladies were at their embroidery, Abigail, at least, bored to tears. When Morrison announced their visitors, she jumped up.

“Oh, Mama, how lovely. ’Tis Serena and that kind Mr. Sullivan. Do show them up, Morrison.”

Morrison looked to his mistress for confirmation. Marianne set aside her needlework. “Indeed, Morrison, show our guests in. And bring refreshment. I daresay Mr. Sullivan would enjoy a glass of madeira … or sherry, perhaps.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Morrison bowed himself out and within a few minutes announced, “Lady Serena Carmichael and the Honorable Sebastian Sullivan, ma’am.”

“Mrs. Sutton, I hope I find you well … and Abigail, my dear, you are looking positively radiant. London suits you.” Serena moved into the room, talking as she did so, sketching a curtsy to Mrs. Sutton and embracing Abigail. “See who I found on your doorstep.” She gestured lightly to Sebastian, who made his bows, kissed hands, and murmured all the correct platitudes.

“I do hope we shall see you at our little dinner next week, Mr. Sullivan,” Mrs. Sutton said with a winning
smile. “Lady Serena has already been good enough to accept.”

Sebastian bowed his head. “Indeed, ma’am, I shall be honored.”

“Well, I do think you might enjoy it,” Marianne declared with a complacent smile. “Mr. Sutton keeps a fine cellar, you should know, and my cook is as good as any outside one of the royal palaces.” She nodded in emphasis.

“Indeed, Mama, I’m sure Mr. Sullivan is not concerned with such things,” Abigail protested, blushing a little.

Sebastian smiled. “Oh, you are mistaken, Miss Sutton. I am most concerned with such things. But I must say, even without those inducements, I would find it impossible to refuse such an invitation.” His smile seemed painted on his lips, and he struggled not to glance at Serena. He could well imagine her expression, a wicked mix of amusement and satisfaction.

“Indeed, sir.” Mrs. Sutton nodded, as if it was only to be expected. “Will you take madeira or sherry … Lady Serena, what may I offer you?”

“Sherry, if you please, ma’am.”

“Sherry, thank you,” Sebastian murmured in his turn.

Their hostess gestured to the hovering Morrison, who filled glasses and brought them over. The sound of the door knocker made Serena’s heart jump. She glanced at the clock. It was barely eleven-fifteen. The general could not be this early. But she waited apprehensively until the
butler returned to announce, “Mr. Jonas Wedgwood, ma’am.”

Marianne stiffened, her mouth tightening, and Abigail flushed. Serena noticed both reactions and regarded the newcomer with interest. The young man bowing in the doorway was impeccably dressed, handsome enough, and his expression was a mixture of eagerness to please and the self-confidence of one who had always been assured of his own value.

Marianne offered a chilly smile. Abigail’s greeting was a curtsy and a flustered “Good morning, Mr. Wedgwood.”

“I see you have visitors already,” Jonas Wedgwood said, having made his bows. “I trust I’m not intruding?”

“Not at all, sir,” Serena said readily.

“Allow me to introduce Lady Serena Carmichael and the Honorable Sebastian Sullivan, Mr. Wedgwood.” Marianne managed to emphasize the titles of one set of guests, whilst murmuring the name of the lowly new arrival.