Geoffrey possessed a small yet elegant house in Bloomsbury Square, but while the house was undoubtedly well furnished and staffed, Aunt Morley had instantly observed many matters in these bachelor quarters that were in dire need of a feminine touch. Like every noble lady, Serena had been educated in how to manage her husband’s household, but the notion of suddenly having to do so on her own in three weeks’ time was daunting indeed, and she struggled to take note of all the improvements and suggestions that Aunt Morley was offering in regard to her new establishment.
To Serena’s great regret, she saw nothing of Geoffrey during those three weeks. Her grandfather insisted that they be separated until their wedding, and no matter if Grandpapa believed he was keeping her from the temptation that Geoffrey represented, or that this was in itself a punishment, or perhaps he could not resist one last chance to irritate the Duke of Breconridge, the result was the same.
Still, it was just as well that Serena’s last days as a spinster were so full, leaving little time for her to reflect on what exactly she’d done by accepting Geoffrey’s proposal. She tried to tell herself that after so long, her secret was safe. She tried to believe that the odds were against her giving Geoffrey a child who looked more Indian than English. She tried to convince herself that the past was done, that at last she’d found the security she so desperately wanted and needed, and that she’d find only peace and happiness and another sanctuary in her future with Geoffrey, and a chance at love besides.
She tried, and failed. Her conscience knew the difference, and each night sent to her the old nightmares of the last days at Sundara Manōra, as terrifying to her now as when they’d first invaded her dreams. She woke shaking with panic and her night shift soaked with sweat, and with trembling fingers she’d light the candle beside her bed, staring at the bright flame to keep away the nightmare’s darkness until the dawn.
She had never described her dreams in detail to anyone. They were too much a part of her secret, and part of her as well. What would she do if the nightmares followed her to Geoffrey’s bed? Would he wake her, the way her maidservant and aunt did when she startled them with her cries, or would he wonder if she was a madwoman, the way her uncle wanted her to be? Geoffrey had promised to protect her, but even he could offer no protection from the kind of demons that plagued her at night.
And so once again she tried to calm her fears and her racing heart as she stared into the candle’s dancing flame.
Happiness and peace, and a chance at love. Yet alone in the dark with her past, nothing seemed more elusive.
“Here you are, Serena.” Her grandfather smiled broadly and rose from behind his desk as she entered the library. “Come, sit here close to me, my dear, so you can see properly.”
Curious, Serena took the armchair that had been arranged for her on the near side of the desk. Her wedding was tomorrow, and she and Aunt Morley had been reviewing the last of the trunks with her new belongings when Grandpapa had summoned her here. On one side of him stood his longtime man of business, the dour Mr. Gormley, but on the other side was an equally somber man, a stranger, accompanied by a sizable man who looked to be a guard of some sort, with a brace of pistols poking out from beneath his coat.
“This is Mr. Cartwright,” Grandpapa said, “and his, ah, associate Mr. Finn. Mr. Cartwright is a jeweler, Serena, and you’ll understand the presence of Mr. Finn in a moment.”
“Your late father was a most unusual gentleman, Miss Carew,” Mr. Cartwright said, bowing toward Serena. “I understand that his primary occupation in India was the procurement and sale of fine jewels, a trade that requires both courage and political delicacy in that dangerous part of the world.”
Serena nodded warily, volunteering nothing else. Father hadn’t been an ordinary English father in a specific, easily definable trade. If Grandpapa and Mr. Cartwright and everyone else in London wished to believe his fortune had come from trading jewels alone, then so be it. Although she’d been too young to know the details, she was aware that Father had been involved with a number of other occupations, some of which had brought various frightening men to their house to conduct business with him. She’d suspected there had been good reason for the strong walls and armed guards that had surrounded their paradise of a home, and as she’d grown older, she came to realize there were likely things her father had done that were not entirely worthy of being a Carew, or entirely legal, either.
With trepidation she glanced at the large, handled bag sitting on the desk. She had always remained loyal to Father’s memory, and kept his secrets as well as her own. But what could this Mr. Gormley have brought to her now, on this particular day?
“Don’t look so distressed, Serena,” Grandpapa said, even as he was clearly enjoying her confusion. “It’s not as if Gormley here has brought you a nest of water snakes.”
“Indeed not, my lord,” Mr. Gormley said, smiling politely as he unfastened the buckles and leather straps on the bag. “I can assure you, Miss Carew, that there is nothing serpentine in this bag. Rather, I have brought you proof of your father’s providential devotion for you. During the time in which he lived in India, he took care to have a number of items of great value shipped back to England, to be held in safekeeping by our agents. His express wishes were that the items should be given to you on the event of your marriage. There is a letter here for you, too, that had accompanied the first shipment.”
He handed her the neatly sealed letter, the stock still fresh and white and the red wax seal imprinted with the Carew signet. But what shocked her was seeing Father’s familiar handwriting for the first time since his death, as surely as if he’d reached from the grave to touch her.
With trembling fingers, she cracked the seal. The letter wasn’t long; no more than a note, really, but that was like Father, who’d always been impatient with written words.
My dearest Asha,
When you read this, you will be nearly a Bride. How I wish I were there in London with You to see You in your finery! Tho perhaps ’tis best I am not, for how could I bear to give You away to another man’s Care & Love? I pray he will be worthy of You, & love You & cherish You as You deserve. I will count upon your Grandmama & Grandpapa to represent me whilst I am Absent, & see You do my little family Proud.
You know I do like surprises, & here is mine for You, a few Baubles & Pretties. It is my Fond Hope that You will find them Agreeable, & wear them on Your wedding day, & remember your Father so far away who Loves You more than anyone,
My dearest Daughter,
Father
Emotion swelled inside her as she stared down at the letter, the words swimming before her tear-filled eyes. She’d had nothing of Father to remember him, no little memento to carry with her, and to have this letter now was far more precious to her than any other gift he might have sent with it.
Except that all of it, the letter and the love from Father and whatever jewels he’d sent, hadn’t been meant for her. They’d been intended for her sister, Asha, the daughter of his wife.
Father had always claimed that he’d loved both of them equally, and as a child she’d never had any indication that he hadn’t. Yet here was the undeniable proof that he had differentiated between them. He’d always meant for Asha—the real Serena—to return to England and marry an Englishman. Asha’s mother had been a fair-haired Scottish lady with an impeccable pedigree named Miss Katherine Dalton, the lady whose portrait had hung in a place of honor in their dining room, and whose father had been a senior officer in the East India Company. Asha had been a sickly girl with none of her mother’s beauty, but her pinched, milky-pale face and blue eyes would have been accepted instantly in London, where she would have done his “little family proud.”
There was no mention in his letter of Savitri, her own real name, or even of Rachel, her English name. Yet she had to know for certain: she had to ask, even if it put her secret at risk.
“I thank you for bringing this letter to me, Mr. Gormley,” she said. The jeweler was a
lready lifting boxes from the bag, the kind of flat, leather-covered boxes that always contained the most precious pieces. “It means more to me than you shall ever know.”
Mr. Gormley’s cheeks pinked. “You are most welcome, Miss Carew. I am honored to have been the messenger of your late father’s devotion.”
She tried to smile. “Did he send things from India for, ah, for other members of our family?”
“Not to my knowledge, no,” Mr. Gormley said, pausing with a little bow before he returned to arranging the boxes on the desk. One by one, he opened them to display the contents, setting them out to face Serena. “Only to you, his single child.”
His single child. There could be no doubt—or hope—after that, could there?
She felt utterly abandoned, and more alone than she’d ever been. Mute, she looked down at the array of “baubles and pretties” that had been Father’s gift to her sister. There were four bracelets, a long necklace and a short one, three rings, and several brooches and ornaments; the stones included diamonds, pearls, sapphires, emeralds, and rubies. Some of the jewels had been placed in European-style settings, while others remained in their original Indian settings, the colors of the stones set off by brilliant enamel-work in the gold.
“How much he must have loved you, Serena,” Grandpapa said beside her, his voice thick with emotion as well—though likely a far different emotion than what she was feeling. “Of course I’d known of the sapphires and diamonds, since he’d sent that directly to me, but I’d no notion that he’d intended this for you as well. Might I read his letter?”
Silently Serena handed him the letter, a letter that had lost much of its magic.
But not for Grandpapa, fumbling now with his handkerchief, his eyes and nose red.
“Poor Tom,” he said gruffly. “He always was generous, even as a lad. Not a day goes by that I do not miss him still. Not one day.”
“Lord Thomas was generous indeed,” Mr. Gormley said, standing proudly beside the arranged jewels as if they’d been his own to bestow. “His gift is a significant collection, Miss Carew, and of considerable value.”
Obediently she tried to focus on the open boxes before her. Most of the jewels were new to her, things she’d never seen, but one of them was achingly familiar. Gently she lifted the nearest ornament from its plush box, turning it over in her fingers. It was a sizable piece, nearly seven inches long, with a hexagonal center of diamonds and emeralds set in gold. On one end was a long green enameled spike made for tucking it into clothing for wearing, and at the other was an oversized, curving teardrop with more emeralds and diamonds.
It was an ornament made to be worn in a courtier’s turban, an elegant and costly sign of a gentleman’s nobility and rank. She remembered the day that Father had acquired it. He’d shown it to her and Asha after they’d dined, explaining how the curving teardrop was called a boteh, a Persian word for flower. Then he’d thrust the spiked end into the front of his own turban to demonstrate how it should be worn, and had strutted around the table with his head high and his fists at his hips, pretending to be a great pretentious nobleman from the court at Hyderabad until they’d all laughed so hard they’d wept.
“That’s a queer sort of thing,” Grandpapa said, frowning at the jewel in her hand. “Some manner of Mussel-man’s gewgaw, I warrant. You’ll want to have the stones reset.”
“We should be delighted to contrive a new setting for you, Miss Carew,” said Mr. Gormley. “In the latest fashion, of course. Or if you should prefer to sell—”
“Thank you, no,” Serena said quietly, the ornament still cradled in her hand. At least she had the memory of Father’s love, and of how happy her childhood had been. Nothing could take that away, no matter what he’d written to her sister. “I believe I shall keep it as it is, and wear it on my gown tomorrow.”
“As you wish, Miss Carew,” Mr. Gormley murmured. He drew one last item from the bag, a large ledger that he opened and laid on the desk before Serena, smoothing the page for her with his palm. “If you please, Miss Carew, please sign on that line, there, that you have received the jewels from our custody. For our records, you see.”
“Here, Serena, use my pen,” her grandfather said, pushing his gilt inkstand across the desk as well.
There was an itemized listing and brief description of the jewels with her father’s name and her own beside them, and a space left for her signature. She dipped the pen into the ink, and paused, pen over paper, suddenly reluctant to sign the name that wasn’t hers.
She didn’t know why she hesitated. The decision to become Serena had already been made, not just when she’d accepted Geoffrey’s proposal, but long before, in Calcutta, when she had wakened and the first kind English lady had called her by her dead sister’s Christian name and she hadn’t corrected her.
“Have we made an error in the accounting, Miss Carew?” asked Mr. Gormley, misreading her hesitation.
“No, no,” Serena said softly. “Everything appears correct.”
Yet still she hesitated, thinking of her father, and her sister, too, and missing them both very much. Surely they would forgive her for what she’d done, and what she was doing. Surely they would have understood.
“Come along, lass, you cannot keep these fellows waiting all day while you dawdle,” Grandpapa said, a trifle impatiently. “Consider it practice for the registry in the church tomorrow.”
Tomorrow, when she would become Geoffrey’s wife. She imagined him smiling at her, taking her hand, kissing her, and she smiled herself. She wasn’t alone, not at all. She’d have Geoffrey, and if she doubted the love that she’d had in her childhood, she might now have another kind of love waiting before her, if only she’d dare to claim it. She’d have to put aside the past, the good memories and the bad dreams, forever, and look only to the future, and with Geoffrey, she believed she could do it. It would not be easy, but for him, she would do it.
She lowered the pen and wrote her name—Serena Carew—in the ledger, boldly, so it wouldn’t be missed.
With that Mr. Gormley and the guard quickly took their leave, and Serena rose as well, intending to return to her packing. But as she did, her grandfather reached out to cover her hand with his.
“Stay a moment, Serena, if you please,” he said, returning her father’s letter. “I’ve a few things I wish to say to you, and if I do not say them now, they’ll be lost in the confusion of your wedding tomorrow.”
She smiled with expectation, and sat back down in her chair, tucking the letter into her pocket.
He sighed heavily, and began to shut the open jewel boxes and hook each lid closed, concentrating on that small task instead of looking at Serena.
“It’s no secret that Fitzroy’s not my choice for you,” he began at last. “But if he makes you happy as he should, then I shall abide by it and keep my peace, and if he doesn’t—”
“He will, Grandpapa,” Serena said firmly, thinking again of Geoffrey. “I know he will.”
“Ah, well, then he will, he will.” He sighed again, and began to stack the boxes, taking care to square the corner together into a neat pyramid. “The weary truth is that no man would be good enough for you, Serena. I loathe the notion of giving you away, to leave this house forever.”
“Oh, Grandpapa,” she said gently, touched. Her grandfather had never spoken to her like this. “You know I shall be back, and soon, too. You won’t be done with me.”
He nodded to the stack of boxes. “Your father said nearly the same thing to me, you know. He promised he’d come back once he’d made his fortune, if only to rub Radnor’s nose in it.”
He chuckled at the memory before his face once again grew somber. “But he didn’t, did he? He didn’t. You were the fortune he sent back to me, my dear, a scrap of warmth and sunshine that I’d never expected in my dotage. You’re like him in so many ways, Serena, always a reminder of what I’ve lost in him, and gained in you.”
“You gave me shelter when I had none,” Serena said, her v
oice breaking. “You showed me charity, and gave me a home and a family when I’d lost everything.”
“You were my Tom’s daughter, born of his lady-wife,” he said. “What else could I have done, eh? Blood’s thicker than water. It’s not as if you were some whore’s mongrel chit abandoned on my doorstep instead of its rightful place at the foundling hospital.”
Some whore’s mongrel chit: oh, that cut like the sharpest blade through the affection of this conversation. Because no matter how fond her grandfather had become of her, that was exactly what she would have been to him if he’d ever learned the truth. It would have been the same fate for her in London as it would have been in Calcutta. No more than a mongrel chit, to be sent off to the almshouse.
“Family always comes first,” he continued, unaware of her thoughts. “As a wife, you’ll look to your husband first for counsel, but if you’re ever in need, you’ll always have Radnor.”
“Uncle Radnor!” she exclaimed, appalled. She’d never told her grandfather about what her uncle had said to her, or what he’d ordered done to her, either. How could she, when Radnor, his only surviving son, could do no wrong in Grandpapa’s eyes?
“Yes, Radnor,” Grandpapa said patiently. “I know you find him a bit, ah, forceful. Your Aunt Morley does as well. But he means well, and only wants what’s best for you and the family. Even now, with all his other responsibilities, he took the time to tell me how worried he was that the trials of this wedding would be too much for you. He feared you’d make yourself ill.”
“I’m perfectly well, Grandpapa,” she said quickly. Her uncle had threatened to question her health and her wits if she became inconvenient, but she hadn’t expected him to begin already. “The preparations have kept Aunt Morley and me very busy, but it’s hardly taxing enough to make me ill.”
“Oh, that’s just Radnor’s way,” Grandpapa scoffed, making excuses. “He can’t help showing concern for you as his niece. No doubt deep down, if you were honest, you feel the same regard for him. If in the way of things you see an opportunity to say a word or two in Radnor’s favor with His Grace, why, I’m sure you would. You’re both Carews, and Carews stand together.”
A Sinful Deception Page 18