Forbidden (26 page)

That even summoned a laugh from Francis. "Thank heavens for the Rogues."

"Amen."

As they moved to leave the room, Francis picked up his package, then remembered his purpose in coming to the club in the first place. "Hold on, Luce. I want to check this."

"What is it?"

"Serena's jewels, provided by Allbright in payment of his debt. I was going to go home and place them victoriously in her lap, but now..."

"Now?"

"There was a look in his eyes I didn't like. If he's fixed a joke of some kind, I don't want her to find it." He broke the seals and unwrapped the package.

Each item of jewelry was in its own soft pouch, and he spilled out the first one. Then another. Then another, until the whole glittering collection was spread over the table.

There was undoubtedly at least three thousand pounds worth of precious metals and gems here, but no wonder the Allbrights had been willing to part with them. It would be hard to sell them at anything near their true value.

To begin with, the arrangements were crude and tasteless. It was strange how gold, sapphires, rubies, and pearls could be made to look tawdry, but here they had. Sometimes the designs were frankly lewd, as with a large baroque pearl that was shaped exactly like an erect penis. Mostly they were just vulgar. It was impossible to imagine a lady wearing them in public.

He picked up a ruby and emerald band that looked like nothing so much as the collar for a pampered dog. When he saw the gold chain attached to it, he realized that after a fashion that's what it was. What he had taken to be a bracelet was actually one of a pair of manacles.

"Victory for the forces of light?" asked Lucien, and moved closer.

Francis made a movement to cover the collection, then realized it was pointless. Lucien read him, however, and sobered. He sifted silently through the glittering pile. "They'll be worth quite a bit broken up," he said at last.

"Yes." Francis was cold with rage at this evidence of a bondage he could scarcely even imagine.

Lucien swept them carelessly into the larger pouch. "Dump 'em on a discreet jeweler and have some better ones made up. Now, will we see you at the Palace this evening?"

"Yes," said Francis, his mind still full of the jewels. "Thank you, Luce."

"Think nothing of it."

Francis recognized that the instruction was directed at more than the invitation, but he couldn't follow it.

He'd accused her of looking like a frightened puppy, and her first husband had given her a dog collar.

He'd told her he wouldn't whip her, and among that collection there had been a jewel-handled whip.

He'd taken her silently in the dark as if she were a thing, not a person, and her first husband had clearly used her as a thing, not a person.

He left the club and headed home, not at all sure what to do.

On his way back to Hertford Street, he passed a young lad hawking a puppy. He'd never seen anyone doing such a thing before, but the lad—who looked about ten—was carrying a covered basket and calling, "Puppy! Puppy for sale. Fine, healthy puppy!"

On impulse, Francis stopped and said, "Let me see."

The lad's face brightened and he pulled back the cloth to reveal a dozing bundle of golden fur. The puppy immediately woke and scrabbled at the sides of the deep basket, tail wagging furiously. It looked to be about ten weeks old.

"Why are you selling it?" Francis asked.

"We've only this one left, sir. Da says he'll drown her if she's still home tonight. She's a bit small, see, so she got left, but she's healthy and friendly."

"What are her parents?" He tickled behind the floppy ears of the puppy, who certainly did seem of an amiable temperament.

"Her ma's largely spaniel, sir, but we don't rightly know about the da."

Pure mongrel, in other words. It was a crazy impulse, but Francis wanted a gift to take home to Serena, and the jewels were clearly not suitable. "How much?" he asked.

The boy glanced at him cannily, but then said, "To be honest, sir, I'll give her away to a kind home. I'll have to charge you three pence for the basket, though, if you want it. It's ma's."

Francis took the basket and gave the lad a crown. "For your honesty. Don't worry. She'll have a good home."

The boy's eyes grew huge. "Thank you, sir! God bless you!"

Francis went on his way, carrying the basket and assured that he had at least made one person happy today. When the clouds broke and sun slanted through to brighten the street, he took that as a sign of higher approval.

He envisaged presenting the puppy to Serena and being rewarded with transports of delight. Being of a practical nature, however, he also envisaged the puppy immediately soiling her gown in its excitement. For that reason, instead of going to his front door, Francis approached his house via the mews, heading for the garden, where the puppy could relieve itself. With any luck, it had reached some understanding of these matters.

As he walked down the carriage lane, he encountered an abstracted gentleman coming the other way. The man clearly had weighty matters on his mind, but when he glanced at Francis he halted as if about to speak. Then he shook his head and continued on his way.

Francis turned to watch the man stride off. Was he going mad, or had that man looked startled to see him? He was sure he didn't know him. He was a good ten years Francis's senior, very tall, and robust. He had broad shoulders under his greatcoat and ruddy good health in his cheeks.

Francis shrugged. He had enough tangles in his life without searching for mysteries where none existed. He went into the garden of his house and let the puppy out.

* * *

Once Arabella left, Serena spent the morning exploring her new home. She found that Francis's mother had a bedroom and boudoir here. Francis, on the other hand, had kept—and possibly still did—a set of bachelor's rooms elsewhere and rarely used this house.

She wondered if he would keep those rooms now and to what use he would put them.

This house, however, was clearly his mother's, which was a depressing thought.

When Serena saw the sun come out, she rang for a cloak and went out to explore the garden at the back of the house. It was large for a town garden, and had been cunningly designed to give the impression of rural privacy. The paths wandered around hedges and arbors, so that at times she felt she could be in a large park. At this time of year some of the bushes and hedges were without leaves, but in summer it must be completely charming.

She came across a gardener preparing a flower bed, and he touched his forelock.

"This is a lovely garden," she said.

"Aye, milady, that it be. All laid out by her ladyship near twenty years ago, it were."

Serena smiled and walked on, but the thought depressed her.

In February there was not much growth, though far back in the garden, where the sun was strongest, she was charmed to see a mass of golden and purple crocus scattered through with delicate snowdrops. She crouched down to admire them more closely, even taking off her gloves to touch the delicate petals. She was almost startled into toppling over when a voice exclaimed, "Damnation, Cordelia!"

She scrambled to her feet and turned. The big, ruddy man froze. "My pardon, ma'am. I thought you were Lady Middlethorpe."

"I am Lady Middlethorpe, sir." Serena edged away. The secluding hedges could now prove to be a hazard. She glanced behind and saw a gate in the wall, presumably leading to the mews.

"What?" the man's look sharpened. "Middlethorpe has married, then? You must be Lady Anne."

Serena felt herself go painfully red. "No, sir. I am Serena, Lady Middlethorpe." His familiarity with the family was easing her fears, however. "Who, pray, are you?"

"Ferncliff. Charles Ferncliff." Almost absently, he gave her an engraved card with his name upon it.

"Well, Mr. Ferncliff, if, as I gather, you wish to speak to my husband's mother, I am afraid she is still in the country."

"I thought with the knocker on the door..." he muttered. Then he fixed Serena with a keen eye. He was a handsome, vigorous man with a look of intelligence and honesty, and despite his strange behavior, she could not remain too nervous.

"As you suspect," he said, "I have important matters to discuss with Lady Middlethorpe. The Dowager Lady Middlethorpe," he corrected. He suddenly laughed. "I doubt she'll like being a dowager. There's hope yet. Do you know if she is expected in town?"

"No, sir. If you wish to speak to her, however, it is no great distance to Thorpe Priory."

He shook his head and grinned. "Once she hears of this, she'll be here." He bowed. "My very best wishes to you, Lady Middlethorpe, and my congratulations to your husband."

Then he was gone.

Serena pondered the strange encounter, then decided there was no sense to be made of it. She had to wonder what sort of woman Francis's mother was, though. She would not have thought that the stately lady of the portrait was the kind to have dealings with Mr. Charles Ferncliff, particularly clandestine ones in the garden. She realized that she still had his card in her hand and slipped it into the pocket beneath her gown. She would ask Francis about all this when he returned.

If he returned. Of course he must, and yet she was irrationally afraid that he had left her forever.

She went sadly back to the house. In Summer St. Martin she had grown used to being busy, but this establishment was too well managed to need her care. She found herself sitting in the drawing room with nothing to do but worry.

* * *

Francis was surprised to find Serena sitting alone in the drawing room. He'd forgotten, damn it, that Arabella was leaving and that she would be without company. She didn't know a soul in Town other than her brothers. He'd have to take better care of his wife.

He found himself nervous about his gift, however, for it was beginning to look like a foolish, maudlin gesture. She might not even like dogs, and a puppy needed a lot of care. At least the animal had relieved itself in the garden, but it had been quite reluctant to return to the basket.

As he entered the room, Serena leapt nervously to her feet, eyes wide on the basket. "Oh. What on earth is that?"

"It's a gift. If you don't like it, we can make some arrangement for it...." He placed the basket on a table.

Serena approached slowly. His heart ached at how clearly she distrusted surprises. He wanted to heal her hurts and to teach her joy, but he wasn't sure if he knew how. He remembered how she had looked that day in Summer St. Martin, sitting on the wall and cheering on her mock suitors. She'd been happy then, but her happiness had fled with his arrival.

She glanced up at him nervously, then eased back the cloth. Immediately, a little wet nose pushed at her hand and the puppy scrambled to be out.

"Oh!" Hesitantly, she gathered the bundle of golden fur into her hands. The puppy sniffed and clambered, almost falling from her grasp in its excitement. Its little tail was wagging frantically, twitching its whole body. "Oh, you sweet thing. You're adorable!"

She looked up at that moment, and Francis could almost think she addressed those words to him. His heart did a strange, anatomically impossible, somersault.

"Do you like her, then?" he asked.

Serena glowed. A glowing Serena was a rare and wonderful sight. "She's beautiful! Thank you!"

She held the puppy to her chest, murmuring sweet sillinesses to it, laughing when it licked at her chin.

"She has already proved her worth," he said, and pulled a pair of gloves out of his pocket. "Yours, I think. She found them in the garden and insisted I take care of them."

Serena beamed at the puppy. "How clever you are!" She took the gloves and sank to her knees, dangling them for her new pet.

Francis subsided into a chair and simply watched as his wife played, recognizing that she played as one who has forgotten how to play but is perfectly willing to be reminded.

And a puppy, it appeared, was an excellent trigger for the memory.

She was on the floor now, letting the animal run around, but the puppy seemed as fascinated by her as she was by it. It burrowed into skirts, tugged at a slipper ribbon, and frequently returned to worry at the gloves. Serena laughed and lay back, whereupon the puppy clambered over her chest and nuzzled down her bodice. She giggled and kissed it, then squeaked when it tangled in her hair, which had slipped from its pins to dance around her face.

Francis slid lower and watched with deep, warm satisfaction. Something good was coming out of this day, and the future already looked more promising....

Just then the door burst open and his mother swept in, swathed in furs and righteous indignation.

She stopped dead.

Serena sat up sharply and held the puppy protectively close to her breast.

Francis sighed. It had been a pleasant few moments. He rose to his feet. "Hello, Mother."

Lady Middlethorpe's maid was behind her, but the dowager shut the door in the woman's face. "Francis, how
could
you!" Her eyes sliced through Serena.