A Wedding Wager (9 page)

“I don’t need the whole day,” Serena protested. “Just an hour or even half an hour will be sufficient.”

“I shall be out all day Thursday,” Margaret responded
firmly. “You may set whatever half-hour you wish from eleven in the morning until late evening. In fact,” she mused, “I may not even return in the evening.”

Serena was intrigued. “A new conquest?”

“Possibly. We will see how he performs on Thursday. He has a small hunting lodge in Windsor Park, and since he is rather beautiful and even more wealthy, I am anxious to try his paces.”

Serena laughed, feeling lighthearted for the first time in weeks. “You are incorrigible, Margaret. Very well, I’ll write to Sebastian and suggest he meet me here at midday on Thursday.”

She rose to her feet as the dainty ormolu clock on the mantel struck five.

“I must go back. We dine at six before the doors open at eight.” She set her hat on her head, adjusting the position in the mirror above a console table, then slipped her arms into her pelisse before turning to embrace her friend. “I can’t thank you enough, Margaret.”

“Nonsense” was the robust response. “I would be of service to you in many more ways if you’d let me, you know that, Serena.” Margaret hugged her, then stood back, holding Serena’s arms, looking closely at her. “Why don’t you just pack your bags and leave, my dear?”

“Not yet.” Serena smiled a little mistily. “But soon. There’s one particular piece of mischief that I must forestall first.”

“Oh?” Margaret raised her eyebrows again.

“He’s getting his hooks into an innocent with a very
wealthy papa. I have to stop it, and to do that, I must be there watching the general, ready to step in. If I don’t, the poor child will end up like my mother.” Her face closed, and shadows crossed her eyes. “I can’t stand by and let that happen.”

Margaret said nothing. There was nothing to be said. She knew only a very little about Serena’s and her mother’s life with General Heyward before the latter’s death of what Serena had described once as desperation. But what she did know was enough to convince her of Serena’s resolution now to prevent anyone else suffering the same fate.

“Well, you know best, of course.” She accompanied Serena to the head of the stairs. “But don’t forget you have a friend and a roof here whenever you need either or both.”

“Thank you.” Serena’s violet eyes filled with tears for a moment as she fought the temptation to throw everything to the four winds and cast herself upon her friend’s bosom. But now was not the time. She would be strong for a while longer.

Sebastian received Serena’s note early that evening. It was brief and to the point:
I will await you at 12 St. James’s Place next Thursday at noon. Do not reply to this. S.

Sebastian’s gaze lingered over each pen stroke. He knew her writing so well, and it never failed to set his pulses racing. They had written many letters to each other in the past, ardent pages of lyrical prose, rekindling memories of passionate nights and equally passionate days. Serena had never been shy about expressing her feelings, and how he had relished the frankness of her desire, the naked lust apparent in her sensuous descriptions of their erotic encounters. Now he looked at the bald sentence and felt oddly bereft. Where was she? That woman who had so inflamed him.

When he thought of those dreadful moments of her betrayal three years earlier, he thought he must have imagined the Serena he had loved with such passion. What he had said that morning was true:
“I don’t know you … I don’t know you at all.”
The cold cipher who had
dismissed him with such hard, emotionless words was a stranger to him. It was as if some malign spirit had occupied Serena’s loveliness. And judging by these cold instructions on the smooth vellum, nothing had changed.

He scrunched the paper and threw it into the fire, then poured himself a glass of madeira, staring into the fire, one arm resting along the mantel.

“In the doldrums, Seb?”

He looked up as Perry came into the parlor, buckskin breeches and boots dusty with the fine sand of the riding path in Hyde Park. “No, why should you think so?”

“Because you only ever stare into the fire like that when you’re hipped,” his twin observed, tossing his riding whip onto a table. “What’s amiss?” He poured himself madeira.

“Nothing of any moment. D’you have plans for the evening?”

“Nothing that couldn’t be changed.” Perry’s gaze sharpened. “Serena?” he hazarded.

Sebastian gave a short laugh and left the fireplace. “The very same. I ran into her this afternoon in the strangest circumstances.” He described the events of the afternoon to his brother, who listened attentively from deep in an upholstered armchair to the right of the fire. “I assume she came across the family in Brussels; the little Abigail was full of their travels. Not much impressed by them, either, I gather.” He smiled rather more cheerfully and brought the decanter over to refill their glasses.
“A lively little innocent but not much to her. Father was a decent man … good, honest folk, I think would describe the family.”

“In trade?” Perry sipped madeira.

“Indubitably. Not quite sure of the details, but in the Potteries, I gather. Wedgwood was mentioned as a neighbor.”

“Doesn’t sound as if they’ll receive vouchers for Almack’s,” Perry observed. “I’m not sure the Wedgwoods, for all their fine work, are quite acceptable Society.”

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t decent people,” his twin retorted.

Perry held up a hand in disclaimer. “Did I say they weren’t?”

“No, you didn’t,” Sebastian conceded. “But you’re right, brother dear, as so often. I doubt I’ll be seeing anything more of Mr. and Mrs. Sutton and the sweetly pretty Abigail.” He returned the decanter to the sideboard. “What d’you say to a mutton chop at Whites this evening? Followed by a hand or two of whist. There’s always someone there willing to make up a four.”

Perry shrugged easily. For all his brother’s careless demeanor, he could tell Seb needed company and distraction, and he was more than willing to provide both. “If that’s what you have in mind, it’ll suit me. I have no firm engagements this evening.” He stood up and stretched before going to the door. “I’ll go and change.”

In the house on Bruton Street, Mrs. Sutton was having one of her earnest conversations with her husband, who, in her opinion, did not fully grasp the vital importance of the right kind of social contacts. “I wonder if we could invite Mr. Sullivan to a small gathering, nothing as formal as a dinner—”

“Good God, woman, is there anything wrong with our table? I’ll lay odds that Mr. Sullivan, whatever his breeding, has not eaten any better at any of the noblest tables in the land,” her husband expostulated. “My cellars are as good as any, and a great deal better than most, and you, my dear, are a first-rate housekeeper.”

“Yes … yes, William, of course.” His lady made haste to soothe him before the issue became too much of an irritant. “Of course, we can put on as fine a dinner as can be found outside the royal palaces … but I wonder only whether we can summon the kind of company the Honorable Sebastian would find congenial.”

“A plain-speaking gentleman, he seemed to me. Not high in the instep in the least. Drank his ale like a regular fellow. If you like, I’ll invite old Parsons … he’s got some distant relative with a title knocking around in his family. Would that do?” William looked kindly upon his wife. He sympathized with her ambitions for their daughter but found it hard to understand her social anxieties. They were who they were and, in his opinion, as good as anyone. His money was certainly as good as any duke’s.

“Oh, dear … I don’t know.” Marianne adjusted a pin
in her coiffure, shaking her head. “Of course, if Lady Serena is to be one of the party, we’ll have to invite the general.”

A frown creased her brow. The general had seemed a good prospect for Abigail until the serendipitous encounter with the Honorable Sebastian Sullivan that afternoon. She was such a pretty girl, it would be a shame to waste her on a man so much older. Besides, a mere general could hardly compete with the scion of an earldom when it came to social status.

She decided against expressing this thought to her husband and continued, “But we need younger people … people Mr. Sullivan can talk to, be comfortable with. But apart from dear Lady Serena, we don’t yet know anyone suitable in London.”

“Then ask Lady Serena for help,” her husband suggested reasonably. “She will be able to put together a guest list … maybe you could ask her to share the hostess duties with you. Then she could invite her own friends. This Sullivan fellow seems to know her, so what could be more natural?” He beamed, pleased with his inspiration.

“Oh, that could be the very thing, Mr. Sutton. Oh, William, how clever you are.” Marianne planted a kiss on his cheek and bustled from the room.

William returned to his perusal of the
Gazette
with a fond smile.

Much later that evening, a massive old-fashioned carriage stood outside an impressive double-fronted mansion on the Strand. The coachman in white wig and dark green livery stood by the carriage door, emblazoned with the arms of Viscount Bradley, and glanced impatiently at the firmly closed front door of the mansion. He had been waiting for more than half an hour and wondered if, as on so many other occasions, the steward would come out and tell him that his lordship’s health had taken a turn for the worse and he no longer felt up to going out tonight.

He seemed to spend most of his life waiting, he reflected, and the horses in his charge got so little exercise they spent their days eating their heads off in the mews. But just as he’d decided he was going to spend all night standing out in the cold, the double doors were flung open, and an elderly gentleman in a powdered wig, resplendent in a full-skirted blue satin coat adorned with gold frogging, black knee breeches, and white stockings emerged on the arm of a bewigged and liveried footman.

The coachman opened the carriage and bowed as the old man, leaning heavily on a cane, shuffled towards the vehicle. He helped his master up into the dark interior, receiving curses for his pains, while the footman arranged a lap rug over the viscount and set a hot brick at his feet. The coachman put up the footstep and closed the door.

“Where to?” he inquired.

“Pickering Place … new gambling hell,” the footman said. “He’s in a foul mood, so be careful.”

“When’s he ever in anything else?” The coachman climbed back onto the box and took up the reins. The carriage lumbered down the Strand.

Fifteen minutes later, it drew up outside the house on Pickering Place, where light poured forth from every window, and a doorman stood at attention outside the front door. The coach drew up, and the viscount descended on the arm of the coachman. He looked up at the house for a moment. The doorman flung the door wide, said something rapidly to a servant within, then stood bowing with a murmured, “Good evening, my lord.”

The viscount didn’t deign a response as he passed the man to enter the well-lit hall, where another footman hurried to offer assistance, taking his lordship’s tricorne hat and silver-laced gloves.