Madrigals And Mistletoe

by Hayley A. Solomon

  “Science? I have never regarded the sky in that light.”

  Frederick smiled. “Most don’t, my dear, but astronomy is rapidly progressing, and for those fortunate enough to catch nightly glimpses of Saturn, the excitement is palpable.”

  “I can imagine! Saturn, if I recall, is the farthest planet known to man.”

  “Now that is where you are mistaken!”

  Seraphina blushed for her ignorance and wished she had paid more attention to the rambling of the hated Miss Werstead. The captain, however, more aware of the bouncy young thing at his side than any of the town-bronzed, ripely seductive vixens he’d ever had truck with, noticed her dejection and shook his head.

  “This time the fault is not yours, Seraphina! I daresay all the celestial globes have it wrong!”

  “How so, Captain?”

  “A passing acquaintance of mine—fellow named Herschel—has furthered the world’s body of knowledge in an extraordinary way.”

  “In what manner?” Seraphina’s eyes lighted up with interest. Captain Argyll’s knowledge, it seemed, extended a lot further than the sphere of music. She was fascinated to explore him—and his wisdom—further.

  “Do not look at me so, Miss Seraphina! You disturb my senses.”

  She coloured and Frederick’s wide, sensuous mouth snapped shut. He had said too much! Far more than what was within the bounds of gallantry. But there, he was not, in his current role, even meant to be gallant! Seraphina could well take up his comment and label it an impertinence or worse.

  She did not. Her feet, delicately slippered in a delectably unsuitable confection for the walk they were currently engaged in, slowed almost to a halt but did not stop. Instead, they ambled seductively alongside him as if loath to reach the quay that was their final destination. Her deep sapphire eyes were almost luminous, for his own had suitably adjusted to the dark and were now glancing sideways at hers with unusual intensity.

  “Sir William Herschel discovered, some years ago, that the sun has one more planet slowly orbiting the dark space we choose to call our heavens.”

  “Truly? Beyond Saturn?”

  He nodded firmly. “Beyond Saturn, Seraphina. He thought it a comet, at first, but we now know that what he saw was our farthest planet. He called it after His Majesty, but it is now more commonly known as Uranus. King George appointed him king’s astronomer and he has discovered more still since then. Uranus is orbited by two moons and he has recently uncovered two new moons circling our old friend Saturn. Since he is still stargazing, who knows what next he will uncover? His son Frederick is at it, too, I might add. He has found that so many of our stars are actually double stars, orbiting each other. Sometimes I hope, with my small scope, to rival them. Another planet perhaps?” He looked at her rather ruefully. “Unlikely, but not impossible! Sir William discovered Uranus with a ten-inch scope. Mine is a mere four, but still I gaze with excited anticipation most clear, dark nights. Odd, is it not?”

  “Wonderful! You are a man of so many facets! I never dreamed . . .” Seraphina fell into an embarrassed silence but his lordship was too astute to miss her meaning. His tone was therefore gentle as he pointed out two hackney coaches waiting for hire at the edge of the icy, lapping waters of London’s largest river.

  He was just raising his hand to indicate that he required one of its services when a queer little man in a striped waistcoat and perilously purple pants puffed up to the quay. He took out his quizzing glass and muttered something to Frederick about his prime little piece. Frederick found himself in an instant’s quandary. Sir Archibald Huffington was one of those seedy people forever hanging on to the fringes of the ton. He was tolerated for his eccentricity, his enormous wealth and the sad fact that half of London was in his debt in one way or another. The man had a vicious tongue and an even more vicious temper. Several slightly nastier things were whispered about him in select circles, but since nothing was ever proven, Sir Huffington was permitted to remain.

  Now the vile man was ogling Seraphina in the most odious way and offering Frederick an advance to take “the goods off him.” Seraphina opened her pretty little mouth to formulate the most scathing of replies, but Frederick stopped her with a peremptory gesture. If Sir Archibald heard her speak, he would know he was mistaken in his first surmise. He would know Seraphina was quality born, and as sure as the sun rose every day in the sky, he would make ample use of that knowledge, either by blackmail or by the spread of the delectable gossip that was yet another reason why the old tabbies tolerated him.

  Frederick knew that neither scenario would suit. He therefore looked Sir Archibald in the eye, lifted his fist and planted such a facer across the surprised man’s face that even as he landed in a paltry, snivelling heap at their feet, his expression was so ludicrous as to make Seraphina chuckle. The hackney coach riders, just making out the debacle in the faint mists that were rising up from the waters, saw fit to applaud and Frederick cast an indulgent grin their way.

  But what was to become of Sir Archibald? Left to his own devices, he would undoubtedly either call Frederick out—for in his bold, military-style evening dress he had recognised him as the gentleman he was—or he would piece together who Seraphina was and make his angel’s life a living hell. Accordingly, Frederick, ever a muscular man of action, ordered Seraphina to turn her back.

  She refused so indignantly that he thought better of arguing with her in a public street and shrugged his fine shoulders in resignation. So long as the chit had the sense to keep herself covered in the folds of his greatcoat, he wished to waste no more time. Besides, he reluctantly admired her spunk. Any other gently bred female would surely have taken the opportunity of swooning at this point.

  Accordingly, he reached over to the spluttering, dazzled and bruised Sir Archibald and placed his hands in the man’s capacious pockets. When he produced a decanter of Burgundy from the lined pocket inside of his garb, he nodded his head in satisfaction. Then the rumours were true! He did not feel any surprise. Sir Archibald’s addiction to salubrious liquids had been hinted at often enough—he had just never really stopped to care.

  Sir Archibald was making a pathetic attempt at reviving himself. His eyes swivelled from Frederick to Seraphina, and in that cunning glance, Frederick knew for certain he had no choice. Unhesitatingly he unstopped the bottle and placed it firmly to Sir Archibald’s lips. The man protested, for an instant, then gave himself up to the intoxicating aroma that assailed his nostrils. A little more gently then, Frederick proceeded to pour the entire contents down his gullet until all that could be seen of the man was purple pantaloons across a cobbled street. Seraphina stared at Frederick and shivered.

  She had no idea he could be so forceful—such a gentle man he had always seemed to be. Then she remembered the firmness of his jaw and the quiet, authoritarian tone he used only when she was making a particularly foolish cake of herself. Captain Argyll was acting entirely in character, and though his actions were dubious and possibly debatable, Seraphina applauded him loudly in her head.

  The clapping was echoed on the wharf, for the two curious hackney coach drivers had drawn ever closer at this unusual interlude in their evening. They were used to common brawls, of course, but the two men—well, certainly the victor—were clearly gentleman. When Frederick rather shortly ordered one of them to bundle the “sadly inebriated gentleman” into a hack, the larger of the two grinned broadly and admitted he would be “much obliged” especially as the order was accompanied by a quite satisfactory coin of inducement.

  Frederick racked his brain for the man’s unfashionable address. Somewhere near Kensington, if he recalled. One of the older buildings . . . Lord Caxton had once spent several months in that vicinity on a repairing lease. He closed his eyes, concentrating. At last, his efforts were rewarded. Remembering, he mouthed out the place and bade the hack farewell. The second driver’s eyes now turned to Seraphina and for an instant Frederick debated the necessity of coshing him over the head as well. The man took one
startled glance his way and became quite humbly servile, even offering to open the doors of the chaise for her.

  Frederick declined the kind offer, but his jaw relaxed into a quick grin. There would be no trouble with this man and he hoped above hope a quite dramatic scandal had been averted. Of course, he would have offered at once for Seraphina’s hand had damage actually occurred, but as he silently smiled to himself, he preferred to do things in his own time, in his own unique way. He looked at Seraphina and it felt as though his heart would burst in his chest. So lively, such animation, so much potential bottled up beneath the ladylike veneer. He never imagined what a joy it would be to teach her, to unleash some of that potential . . . His breathing grew deeper as he allowed himself to reflect on further potential he might explore with her. His eyes caught hers and he felt, rather than knew, that she was thinking similarly reflective, slightly wanton thoughts. It would be nothing to reach out and stroke that mass of burnished copper . . . to tease her mercilessly with his lips, just a hairbreadth away . . . His fingers unfurled and the pulses in Seraphina’s slim wrists and neck were raging. Fortunately, her gloves and her coat preserved her modesty, for if Frederick had seen that rush of desires he would, quite truly, Sir Archibald or not, have been compromised.

  Instead, Frederick saw parted lips and high colour, the first flush of youth. The sight both inflamed and cooled his ardour, for Seraphina was a lady, gently born and, despite her mischievous inclinations, utterly innocent. So he sighed and searched around in his head for some dampening thought. The image came easily: dark and handsome and intolerably painful. Rhaz, the fifth Duke of Doncaster and his very best friend. His brow furrowed painfully as he realised that the fruition of his dreams was not meant to be. Rhaz had branded Seraphina with his first claim. Cruel fate! If he had had a notion, even an inkling! But no! He would never know, for on this matter Frederick determined to be silent. If the sentiments were reciprocal, he would stand back for the sake of his great love and his friendship.

  Seraphina looked at him quizzically. It was all he could do not to allow her to tumble into his arms and be madly, wildly kissed. He was a gentleman, though, so despite his inner turmoil, he maintained a polite and proper distance. Miss Camfrey’s heart slowly stilled as she found him very thoughtful for her comfort and impossibly charming in manner, but nevertheless unexpectedly silent. An unease had descended upon them that made the dark, starlit evening sadly dimmer.

  When Sir Archibald Huffington was duly delivered to his residence, it took both the hackney cab driver and the sadly underpaid manservant to ease him out of the coach and into the house. Their efforts were not made any easier by the baronet’s strange predilection for song, nor by his very loud insistence that he was perfectly sober and could manage for himself.

  Several candles were lit in the houses alongside of him, a surefire indication that yet again his nocturnal carousing had wakened the genteel neighbours. The hackney coach driver, awake to every suit and in a particularly charitable frame of mind given the glittering coin rattling round in his pocket, felt he should earn his keep. Consequently, in a very loud voice, he told the under butler that the “gennelman” had been extracted from the King’s Head, a well-known taproom at least five miles south of the scene of the crime. If Sir Archibald had any interesting snippets to relate with regard to the well-turned wench, his credibility would be sorely tried, since gossip spread like wildfire among servants. It would not be long before every house in London knew that poor Sir Archibald had been carousing again.

  The hackney coach driver smiled grimly as he jumped up onto his perch and took the reins once more. It was not often he had the chance to cast one in the eye to the gentry folk, but tonight he’d done just that. With a little whistle between his teeth, he urged the horses on.

  If the King’s Head had not exactly transacted business with the purple-breeched dandy he’d just dumped on the doorstep, they would nevertheless not miss out. Harry Turkington was about to descend upon them with a half crown’s largesse in his pocket. Ah, it was a wonderful night! He click-clicked with his tongue and the horses obediently changed to a trot.

  FOURTEEN

  “Do hurry up, Delia dear!” Seraphina skipped into the luxurious chaise and flung herself against the squabs. “Isn’t this heavenly? I declare there’s enough space for us all to stretch out with perfect decorum!”

  “And since when has decorum been a prime consideration with you, Seraphina my love?” Cordelia dimpled wickedly, her spirits high though she could not, for the life of her, understand why. Perhaps it was the crisp chill of the morning or the prospect of an interesting ride through the picturesque green countryside. Whatever the cause of her animation, she was certain that it was not the fact that she was now occupying the duke’s own seat, preparatory to a visit to that gentleman’s vast country estate.

  “I cannot see why Captain Argyll has to sit up with the outriders! Can he not take his place inside?”

  Ancilla lowered her head to climb in and caught the last of Seraphina’s remarks. “We’ve been through all this, Seraphina! Captain Argyll is an excellent shot and we can rest secure in that notion.” She refrained from saying that she thought that, if Seraphina wished to further her chances of becoming a duchess, it would be wise not to pursue too active an acquaintance with the good captain. For though his manners were ineffably those of a gentleman, he appeared to hold Miss Camfrey in a thrall that Ancilla deemed slightly concerning, given that he was employed only as a common music master. She held her peace though, knowing her youngest daughter too well to force the point.

  “The duke has been most thoughtful and has provided hot bricks for our comfort. He has also attended to a picnic hamper so we should not starve before arriving at our destination.”

  “What, ho?” Lord Henry, rather out of breath, climbed the few small steps and waved away the Camfreys’ gardener cum groom.

  “Lord Winthrop, we thought you were making your own way to Huntingdon?” Ancilla’s voice was light, but the dismayed glance she cast Seraphina’s way was heartfelt. Cordelia, too, felt a strange sinking of the spirits as her betrothed fussily set himself down and called out orders from the open windows of the splendid well-sprung barouche.

  “I was of a mind to, Mrs. Camfrey, until I bethought me of a better plan! Since the duke is sending two carriages over, both of them sporting excellent stallions, I felt it would be a shame—not to mention discourteous—not to avail myself of the opportunity of viewing their mettle firsthand. This looks a fairly well-matched team, I might add. I shall inform his grace.” He looked up with a bland, satisfied smile and remarked benignly that all the ladies were in fine looks. Having dispensed with all his social obligations, he then took a small peek into the hamper and selected for himself a smidgen of carved Westphalian ham, a sliver of pheasant and several helpings of an excellent duck-and-gooseberry tart. Seraphina was hard-pressed not to giggle, but Cordelia frowned at her warningly, so the morning passed without any hurt feelings or further social disasters.

  Unfortunately, the afternoon was not as serenely spent. Cordelia found herself wrapped up in a pleasant daydream that had little to do with the man seated opposite her and much to do with a certain, unattainable, striking and magnetic man that seemed to occupy far too much of her thoughts for comfort. She could still feel his strong caress, his burning eyes and his amused empathy from every single encounter she had had with him. Winthrop, sensing her abstraction, attributed it to a maidenly embarrassment at his own splendid presence. Accordingly, he good-naturedly, misguidedly and excruciatingly pompously set about drawing Cordelia out of the cocoon she had so carefully woven for herself.

  In between odd excursions into the bountiful picnic hamper—Cordelia was now feeling decidedly queasy at the sight—he decided to discourse with her on the horses they were about to view at Huntingdon until even Ancilla was forced to roll her eyes heavenwards and comment that perhaps Cordelia looked tired.

  “Tired? Never! Our Miss Camfrey
is never peaky! Too much rumgumption and all that! For myself, I have hardly had a day’s tiredness in all my life! Brisk walking and plenty of exercise, I always say! Now Dr. Foggarty, he would tell you . . .”

  And so it went on until all three female passengers were longing to make their escape. Seraphina kept peering wistfully out of the window, but Captain Argyll was always too far forward to be seen. She sighed and wished something exciting would happen to relieve them of the tedium.

  She did not have long to wait. Captain Argyll crossed to their window as the late autumn leaves fluttered to the ground and the mild sunshine was dimming to shadows. He pointed to a crossroad and indicated they were nearing Huntingdon, one of the duke’s extensive domains. While it was not his principal seat, most of the hills and meadows that stretched farther than the eye could see formed part of the estate. Cordelia was interested to note how neat everything looked, how the cottagers seemed as robust and as spanking clean as their tidy, thatched homes. The road stretched tantalisingly to the east.

  The elder Miss Camfrey could not help feeling a spark of anticipation. Somewhere to the east, his grace was strolling, riding, awaiting their arrival perhaps. She reflected on his brilliant smile, how his cravat would be elegantly but not ostentatiously tied, how his—But no! Such thoughts were unbecoming in her. She flushed and did not notice the teasing interplay between Frederick and Seraphina. Ancilla did though. She sighed, for Captain Argyll was so charming, such a perfect gentleman, so very much everything she could wish for in a son. . . . He had the taming of Seraphina, too. It was difficult to turn a blind eye to the sparkle that instantly appeared in striking coincidence with the captain’s presence. Almost, she could swear, there was an attachment . . . Yet that was ridiculous! Captain Argyll was nothing more than a penniless employee. It was unthinkable. Yet such gracious manners . . . She sighed. If only he had been the duke! And Cordelia? Despite Winthrop’s assertions to the contrary, she was looking peaky! What was going on with her girls?