Colors of a Lady

by Chelsea Roston

  “Perhaps she did not want to ruin the sanctity of the books with her...activities.” She wrinkled her nose. “To the library.”

  Stale air and a fine layer of dust tickled her nostrils. Caroline exhaled and rubbed at her nose. Emma must not have been her in some weeks. She set her letters down on a writing desk. She pulled out the chair and sat down.

  “Blast! I forgot paper.” She groaned. Caroline pulled open the top drawer of the desk. It was empty. The next three were much the same. The last drawer was just as barren as the rest. Caroline reached her arm inside and felt around in the back. Her fingers brushed against a rough surface. The texture reminded her old paper, like it as going to crumble beneath her touch. Caroline grabbed onto it fully and pulled it out.

  It was a packet of letters tied up with a faded yellow ribbon. Caroline held the letters closer to her eyes. The names were too faint to read. She untied the ribbon and picked up the first letter. It would be a gross invasion of privacy for her to read this letter. Then again, these were from so long ago, whoever wrote them must have forgotten they were here. She unfolded the letter and smoothed it out on the desk.

  Her blue eyes roved over the paper. All of the Wren family were quick readers even if they did not utilize it as much as others. Caroline’s scanning abilities were used best when analyzing new debutantes and the rakes of the ton. But this...this letter. Emma would need to see this. Her correspondence could wait.

  She found it hard to breathe. How long had they been kissing exactly? It felt like ages. Civilizations had risen and fallen while their lips were locked as one. Not that she minded. That caricature remained in the back of her mind, taunting her. Her anger did not compare to the fury that burned in Thomas’ every motion. He turned that angry frenzy into knee-weakening kisses that ended with them falling onto a striped couch.

  His hands roamed over her body in ways that made her moan. This was all so new to her. She liked these sensations. She wanted more. Despite how cloudy her mind was at that moment, she knew a parlour as not the place to engage in such exertions. Even if the way his mouth caressed her neck persuaded her otherwise.

  “We should stop,” Thomas whispered as he nuzzled her ear. Emma let out a groan and slid off of him.

  “You are right.” She sat on the carpet and adjusted her bodice. “How many more weeks until we are married?”

  Thomas wrapped one of her thick curls around his index finger. “Two weeks and three days.”

  “I wish we were already wed. Then we would be out of London. Where are we going first?” Emma leaned her head back against his thigh.

  “Portugal. Wellington’s troops have left the country to head to France. It is still war-torn but we will be able to travel.”

  “Will you have business there?”

  “A bit. It will not be time-consuming. I am sure our longest sojourn will be in Vienna if matters go as planned.”

  “Are you predicting the outcome of the war?”

  “Not predicting. I have just received some intelligence.”

  Emma did not ask him to elaborate. She closed her eyes. Portugal, France, Italy, Spain and even Austria. They might not return to England until next year. That sat fine with her.

  Someone knocked loudly on the door. ‘It is me, Caroline. I have some letters that may interest you. May I come inside?”

  “Just one minute,” Emma called. She jumped to her feet and swatted at Thomas. “Sit up, silly.” He obeyed and moved into a sitting position. “I am ready.” Her eyes lowered to his waist. He followed her gaze. “Oh.” He pulled at his breeches. Emma smirked and went to open the door.

  Caroline stood there as beautiful as ever with a stack of letters in one hand.

  A sly smile played on her lips. “Good afternoon, dear Emma. You look rather flushed. Are you feeling ill?”

  “It was just a bit warm in the parlour.”

  “Caroline, what do you have for us?” asked Thomas. He did not stand up as propriety dictated. One leg was crossed over the other with his hands folded in his lap.

  “Letters. Now I have only read one of these, but you both will probably want to read them all.” She tossed them on the low table. “They are troubling. But you two will know what to do with them.”

  Emma grabbed one and looked it over.

  “Oh dear.” She handed it to Thomas. He read through it, eyes carefully scanning every letter.

  “Now it is beginning to make sense.”

  Lady Helena, Countess of Hedgeton stretched out in her bed with a cat-like yawn. She watched her husband at his writing desk, busily scribbling away at a letter. He looked ever more handsome every day that passed, especially in the morning with his tousled blond locks and sleepy smile. They had been wed nearly a fortnight, having been married by a dubiously procured special license. Helena dared not dwell on it, she was far too consumed in her happiness.

  They had settled in a small inn in Dover with another occupant. It was owned by a woman with sienna skin and black coils of hair she kept in a loose bun. Her name was Thea. She was friendly and seemed unconcerned with her lack of customers. They had to wait for the seas to cooperate for a safe passage. So far, the storms continued to rage and so the newlyweds happily spent their days lounging around their small quarters.

  “Nathaniel dearest, are you not very cold? Come back to bed, it is much warmer here,” Helena called lazily to her husband. Her red curls were strewn about across her pillow like tangled vines and her eyes were sparkling. Nathaniel found her a lovely sight, but he had to finish this letter.

  This flight of fancy had quite been in Hartwell's own plans. He needed Nathaniel to keep an eyes on the sole other inhabitant of the Seaside Arms. One who had known Lady Lucille Wren would scarcely recall her now. She was artfully dressed down as an ornery old woman who lived by the sea, a role she played with great aplomb. Helena remained quite unaware of the whole charade and simply found the old woman amusing.

  Nathaniel was hoping this secretive business would soon be at an end so his wife and he could be on their happy way.

  “In just a moment, my sweet. Let me finish this letter and post it.” It took only a few more strokes and he was done. Nathaniel poured wax to seal the note, stamping it with his seal. He rose to his feet with the letter in hand. Helena, however, was already out of bed and pulling on a simple morning gown.

  “I am exceedingly starved. Let me walk down with you and we can breakfast with Mrs. Lowell.”

  “Food and then back to bed,” he agreed. Helena laughed, swatting his hand away from her.

  “Let me dress in peace!”

  Thea had no last name. Or not a name she liked to use. The few customers she did have liked to call her Miss Thea. It was rare for her to have three guests at a time. The old woman was rude, but the newlyweds were very sweet. Their presence warmed her heart. The only times she laughed was when her daughter Juliet had off days and came down from London. But this young woman, a Lady Hedgeton, had a vivacious personality. She never failed in greeting Thea and asking about her day. Her days were not interesting, but the thought was nice.

  “Good morning, Miss Thea! Can you just believe the weather outside?” Lady Hedgeton strode in with a storm on her heels. Raindrops nestled in her red hair. She shook out her cloak and hung it on a rack near the door.

  “It is quite awful. I am sure it will clear up so you two can make your way to France.”

  “We are quite enjoying ourselves here. London is so overcrowded. It is nice for some solitude.”

  “There is plenty of it here.” Thea finished arranging the breakfast platters. “My lady, there is some post for you on the bar there. From a Lady Emma Wren.” Her eyes darkened a fraction as she spun back to the food.

  “Truly? How delightful!” Helena crossed the expanse to sit on a stool by the bar. “Is it alright if I eat here?”

  “Certainly.” Thea plopped a plate down in front of her. “Thank you.”

  Shortly, Nathaniel entered the inn, shaking off his gre
atcoat. He sat beside his wife after bestowing a kiss on her greasy lips. “Any post?”

  “Just from Emma.”

  “What does she have to say?”

  Lucille Wren crept down the stairs of the inn. She hobbled to a table. It was far enough away from the bar to no be rude, but close enough to eavesdrop if the need arose.

  Helena, her niece’s flame-haired friend, was reading a letter. She read some of the parts aloud to Nathaniel. He seemed far more concerned with the food before him than whatever inane matters Emma had seen fit to write.

  “There was apparently some disgusting caricature drawn of them in the paper. Well, one of those gossip rags. Not a decent paper. How horrible!” Helena shook her head and continued reading. Thea stepped from behind the bar. Emma. She liked that name. She could not remember the name given to her at birth. She forgot most of her culture. England did that to many Africans. But she did not believe in their God. The God of these white men asked them to commit terrible acts upon her people.

  “Here you go, Mrs. Lowell.” Thea said with a smile. The ungrateful old woman growled in response. Thea rolled her eyes heavenward and returned to the kitchen.

  “Oh, she has found some old letters. Well, Caroline found them in an old desk in the library. She doesn’t mention what they are about. You know how she is. She does not want to invade anyone’s privacy. What a silly little--I say, Mrs. Lowell, are you quite alright?” Helena twisted in her chair. The old woman sounded like she was choking.

  “I-I am fine. Learn to leave well enough alone.”

  Helena shot her husband a look. He shrugged his shoulders. “Any other news?” he asked.

  “No.” She collapsed into giggles. “Just some silly matters. You know well how Emma rambles endlessly.”

  Throughout their entire friendship, Emma always knew more about life and all its intricacies. At least, she pretended she did. Today, at last, Emma wrote to ask for her advice. The sort of knowledge she found she knew little about: what happened in the marriage bed. Emma was due to be wed in about a week. From her words, it appeared the pair had been active enough in the short amount of unchaperoned time they had.

  Helena felt terrible that she would not be able to attend the wedding. Emma also wrote that there would only be a handful of people who deigned to attend.

  The ton was not as welcoming as Emma hoped. Helena shook her head over the details of the letter. She folded it back up and slipped it inside her bodice.

  “That is quite true. She does not talk, she rambles.” Nathaniel paused. “Not to me. She must still be mad about when I told her about the brothel.”

  “Ah, the brothel. I have heard that tale so often sometimes I dream that it happened to me.”

  “It was in bad taste. I admit I told her that to upset her.” The blond shrugged his broad shoulders. “I used to fancy her.”

  Helena looked at him sideways. But she smiled. “I know.”

  With only a matter of days before his wedding, Marquess Hartwell should have been concerned with buying his bride a wedding gift. Maybe a book or some emeralds. He liked her in green. Maybe a dressing gown in a pretty shade. He could buy her buy her all the books she wanted at a later date. No doubt they would do a lot of shopping once they left England.

  He was distracted. Tucked away in his left breast pocket was the only known copy of Captain Wren’s autopsy. A few pounds went a long way in bribing underpaid government workers. It took a couple weeks, but it was worth the wait. This autopsy revealed much of what had previously been unknown.

  Thomas’ stomach lurched. Emma needed to know this autopsy was fake. But, it provided plenty of information. Someone bribed the coroner to produce a false report. Once he found that someone, he had the murderer. Who else would go to such lengths to erase the truth?

  He crossed the street with a few long strides. He was sick of the wind and the snow. This past winter was colder than any he had known. The Thames was frozen solid until just a few weeks ago. It was almost May with no hint of spring in the air. He rubbed his hands together.

  Thomas shot a glare up to the overcast sky. He wanted sunshine and heat. The summer months were too short in England while winter dragged on and on. Emma, too, loved the summer. Their happiest times together revolved around hazy days spent reading books by the lakes or going on walks beneath the cool canopy of the green forests.

  There he was getting distracted again. Thomas shivered in his great coat and alighted the stairs of the Sheridan House. This expensive wool was useless when he still felt the chill in his bones. He raised the bronze knocker in his hand. It was frozen. He rapped the knocker against the door twice and waited.

  And waited.

  He looked up and down the street. Still no answer. Lewis usually answered the door within a few moments. He would welcome the Marquess with a bow and a servant smile. But, he was not there. Thomas reached for the door handle and pushed. It opened with ease. He shook off his Hessians and entered the Sheridan House.

  Chapter Ten

  He had not often known fear. But it coursed through his veins like ice, freezing his innards until he was numb. Thomas, Lord Hartwell, let himself into the Sheridan town house when no one answered his knock. He walked through the Great Hall, his Hessians clicking against the marble floor.

  The home was far too quiet for an afternoon during the Season. There should have been laundry maids, arms full of linens and stockings, rushing up and down the stairs and maids on their knees scrubbing the floors until they shone. But, there was no one. Not a soul. Not a whisper.

  Thomas noted the doorway to the sitting room was ajar. He walked towards it and nudged it open with his foot.

  A beautiful tea service with plates of finger sandwiches and delicious little biscuits sat half-eaten on a small table. The mistress of the house, Countess Sheridan, hung half out of her chair, mouth slack and eyes shut. Her chest heaved slightly with breath. Across from her, Caroline had fallen back in a similar position in her chair. Her golden hair tumbled freely from their pins, her rose pink lips stark against her pale face.

  And then, his heart dropped. His Emma lay prostrate on the floor. The hand upon which she wore the Kellaway betrothal ring, a masterpiece of braided gold and an exquisite diamond, clutched a tea cup stubbornly. Messy tendrils of curls fell across her unlined forehead. She, too, still breathed. He let out a sigh. Relief curled around his body. They were alive, yes, but he presumed they had been drugged. In their tea. In everyone’s tea? That would account for the lack of servants milling about if they, too, had been drinking the laced tea.

  To what end was this done? Thomas brushed dark hair off of Emma’s forehead. He stared down at the face he knew better than his own. The lashes so dark they were nearly black fanned across her golden cheeks. The ever determined curve of her chin that could organize unruly cats into sweet submission. He admired her lips, full in size and beautiful in shape. Lips that he had not kissed often enough.

  He loved her. It was as simple as that. A part of him had always loved him while a larger endlessly stubborn part refused to voice it. Pride was a terrible sin. The local vicar spent most of his sermons ranting on the dangers of pride. Not that Thomas ever paid him any mind. He grew into a man with more pride than he needed. The pride that caused him to reject Emma years ago now told him to keep those same feelings to himself.

  Still, his heart sang. Usually it was a soprano’s aria, lilting notes over high-pitched flutes. At this moment, mournful violins swelled in his ears reflecting the sorrow growing inside him.

  Why did she not stir? What had they been given? His hand dug into his hair, raking the curls out of his eyes. The women of this house took tea at one o’clock. It was nearly three now. They had been out for too long. Whoever drugged them wanted the household unconscious for hours.

  He laid a hand across her forehead. It was cool to the touch. Thomas frowned and sat back.

  “Smelling salts,” he muttered. Those vile vials could awake the entire household.
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br />   “H-Here…” He jumped at the sudden intrusion. It was Lady Sheridan. A shaky hand extended to him with a tiny vial. Her face was ashen, but a ghost of a smile touched her lips. “It as the tea. I am sure of it. I had only a sip and then my eyelids felt heavy. I just passed out here. Please excuse my appearance.” She adjusted her fichu. “Emma gulped down half her cup. She may be harder to rouse. But Caroline drank about what I did.”

  “I am relieved to see you are well, Lady Sheridan.” He looked down to his fiancée. Constance closed her eyes. The floral wallpaper she once so loved was now churning her stomach. There were far too many climbing vines. They unsettled her, slithering around like snakes up her walls to the ceiling. She opened her eyes into slits, enough to keep an eye upon the other occupants. Caroline was stirring, eyes fluttering open like tiny hummingbirds. She wiped at her mouth and struggled to sit up.

  Thomas looked up from Emma. “Do not move too much. Just rest. I am going to send for a few of my staff.” He grasped a throw pillow to place beneath Emma’s head before rising to his feet. “I will return in a few minutes.”

  Constance watched him leave. She licked her dry lips. She knew why this happened. After years of ignoring the truth, it was being thrust upon her in a damaging way. This laced tea affected her entire household. When the search began around the house, she knew that only one room would be amiss: Emma’s. She knew just what would be missing. Emma had found a packet of letters that had disappeared since 1796. Constance herself searched for these letters when times were darkest. She was no stranger to difficult days. It seems this day, too, would herald sadness.

  Lord Hartwell returned to Emma’s side. He loomed over her. His handsome face crumpled into concern. Constance wanted to smile. Some goodness at last. Yes, Hartwell was honour bound to Emma. She knew once the match was announced that he would treat her with respect and cordiality. Of course, Constance was annoyed that a match came so easily to Emma when Caroline had toiled around Almack’s for four Seasons.