Lady Triumphs (The Black Rose Trilogy Book 3)

by Renee Bernard

  Phillip grimaced. “The reins are in my hands. God, there’s a message from Providence itself!”

  What am I doing?

  Phillip guided his horse off the path and halted under the shade of a large oak tree to gather his thoughts. He took a deep breath and looked out at the parade of well-appointed carriages and riders out enjoying the day. With new eyes, he studied the lovers and friends, the social games and formal greetings. He watched the show and players as they moved across the stage and waited for reason.

  I’m too far in to turn now. It seems foolish to worry about what the future holds with Raven when it’s the present that stands in our way. She’s set on destroying Trent and I cannot blame her. Hell, I hate the man as much or more than she does! But my instinct is to avoid him, to forget him, to cut him out and just get on with our lives…

  Thinking of Trent made everything painful, tainting his memories and spoiling clarity. The temptation to end Trent was potent but there was also an appeal to trying to lure her away from all of it, to kidnapping her for a luxurious stay in Paris until she was so deliriously happy that there was no room left for the past.

  Both ideas were overturned.

  He’d asked her for her terms and she had stated them. He’d accepted them without a breath of protest, determined to prove that he was a man of his word, a man of honor and the one man she could finally rely on.

  God help him, he loved her.

  Raven was like an inviolate force of nature that he didn’t fully comprehend, but what man needed to understand a deadly storm to appreciate its beauty and power?

  Raven was the dark center of his world.

  It was impossible not to admire her keen intellect and talent for inspiring loyalty. He’d barely caught a glimpse of the tip of the iceberg that comprised her invisible empire, but he suspected it was vast. He enjoyed the new privilege of being in her confidence and holding her trust.

  Not to mention the renewed pleasures of her bed.

  It may not be the marriage he’d long ago envisioned, but then nothing in his life was the way he’d envisioned it. So why would Raven be any different?

  Pride was a hard thing to smother and Phillip was wise enough to recognize the source of his anxieties. The answer finally became clear because any inkling of a life without her made every protest instantly stop.

  She had asked him to stand aside and he had promised to keep out of Trent’s path. Phillip tipped his head back, looking up at the sunlight through the filter of the oak’s broad leaves. “It would be easier if I weren’t acquainted with your suicidal nature, Raven Wells.”

  I will not lose you again.

  Not even to one of your own dangerous schemes.

  I will keep my word. I’ll stay out of the way but that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit around my club, drink brandies and whistle in the dark.

  He was a grown man and a free citizen of the British Empire, not a prisoner in the maven of the Black Rose’s lair. The love of his life had already proclaimed that she had no use for fools.

  And so Phillip was determined not to act like one.

  And if he felt like stretching his legs tonight and attending a ball…

  There was no one to stop him.

  Chapter Seven

  Serena arrived at the ball with Lady Lylesforth who had conceded to the evening her dark widow’s plumage only by the barest degree. Harriet wore dark purple threaded with black velvet trim but Serena knew better than to compliment her on the change. Her chaperone’s expression was a mask of defensive ice.

  I could not have chosen a better woman to play chaperone in all the known world. Bless her. Harriet can wring tears from a Cossack if she’s in a mood.

  As they ascended the stairs into the house, Serena was confident that her own appearance would hold its own. The dress she’d chosen was a masterpiece in a vibrant sapphire blue with an underskirt of gold. The décolletage was modest but cut to reveal the top of her shoulders and the fine shape of her figure. Only when she walked away did the daring display reveal itself as the bodice was cut to show off her beautiful upper back. The gold filigree choker at her throat was accented with three fine gold chains of varying lengths tipped in sapphires that cascaded down her spine.

  They’d arrived late enough to ensure that the party was well underway and the orchestra tuned for dancing. Serena made a demure turn about the room, greeting a few acquaintances and making note of more than one man in the grand salon who had suffered at the hands of the Black Rose—not that they knew it. Most of her victims never suspected a woman’s interference in their troubles. Those who knew of Lady Serena Wellcott’s hand in their misery were in no position to betray her, so she walked with absolute confidence amidst her peers, with ally and victim alike.

  She had a healthy respect for her enemies but no fear. Life had taught her that it was only the enemy you couldn’t name that held any power. And tonight, she knew her enemy’s name.

  Geoffrey Parke, Lord Trent.

  She felt far stronger facing him this time, convinced that it was the impact of seeing him after so many years that had given the man the edge at the garden party. The theory was tested very quickly when the earl approached the women, his usual smile firmly in place.

  Definitely better. Thank God I need not worry about getting sick on the man’s shoes…

  “Lady Wellcott.” The earl took her gloved hand to kiss it. “The night was crawling by until this moment. I’d begun to worry that you were going to renege on that promised dance.”

  “I never forget my promises.” She resisted the urge to yank her fingers from his. “You remember Lady Lylesforth, of course?”

  Lord Trent released her hand and nodded at Harriet. “How could I forget? Though who would have recognized you in such a festive color, Lady Lylesforth! So daring!” His voice dripped with sarcasm, the jibe at her dark wardrobe unhidden. “And such a relief! You are too young to play the widow, your ladyship.”

  “I do not play at being a widow, Lord Trent. My husband is dead. I should think that fact pays no regard to one’s age.” Harriet skillfully opened her fan with a sharp flick of her wrist. “What a pleasure to meet you again and have my first impressions reinforced. I do admire a man who is consistent in his character. Come away, Lady Wellcott.”

  Serena stepped forward to touch the earl’s arm lightly. “Lord Trent! Make amends this instant or that will be that and you will forfeit that dance and a Season beyond.”

  Geoffrey managed a fleeting pout. “I must be losing my touch but I apologize, Lady Lylesforth. You may wear any color you wish and not have your beauty diminished in any way. I was a boorish clod to try to tease you out of your delightfully dour disposition.”

  Harriet glanced at her Serena before yielding. “Apology accepted.”

  Serena had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from laughing as Geoffrey slowly realized that Harriet was not about to seal her forgiveness with anything even remotely resembling a smile.

  At last, he cleared his throat and simply directed his attention to what he perceived as a friendlier quadrant. “The Drakes appear to have invited all of London. I’ve never understood the impulse to overcrowd a ballroom and declare everyone’s discomfort the price to pay for the company.”

  “Not even to show off one’s popularity and ability to overcrowd a ballroom?” Serena countered.

  “Oh, well, there is that.” He smiled. “Come, let’s see about that waltz if only to satisfy your honor, Lady Wellcott.” Trent held out his arm and she took it with Lady Lylesforth’s tacit permission, politely allowing him to escort her toward the grand ballroom.

  The room was draped in green bunting to create a festive spring like theme. Candles gleamed and every polished and mirrored surface added to the glittering effect. They took their place on the dance floor and the music began.

  Serena smiled, feigning a shy glow combined with a lively awed interest in the swirling masses around them to avoid having to look up into the man’s face e
ndlessly. The earl was not a polished dancer and after their second minor collision with another couple, Serena intervened to spare his pride.

  “I see your wisdom in complaining about the lack of restraint in Drake’s invitation counts. Would you forgive me if I asked for a breath of fresh air, your lordship?”

  “Not at all. Let’s see if we cannot escape the throng and find a drink without your chaperone fainting in shock.”

  They made their way to one of the salons, arranged for the overflow of partygoers, the din of “private” conversations making Serena smile. “Ah, yes. This is much better.” It wasn’t a striking improvement but at least she’d eliminated the risk to her toes and the disgusting contact of Trent’s hands on her person.

  “God, I’ll have lost Adam completely in this madhouse.”

  “Is your nephew here then?” she asked with genuine surprise.

  “Yes. He arrived just this afternoon and I insisted on dragging him out. He couldn’t miss tonight.”

  “Just for tonight’s affair?” She glanced about the room. “It is one social occasion in a string of them unless I have missed its significance.”

  “You have. You are missing the notion that you are here and that I had the opportunity to demonstrate to my nephew that the most beautiful woman in London was cheerfully in my arms.” He lifted his chin. “I am yet a man to be reckoned with.”

  “You are indeed.”

  “Ah! There he is!” Trent upheld one hand to wave over his nephew and Serena turned with interest to see what kind of man would one day become the next Earl of Trent.

  A fat man huffed toward them and she forced a smile to her face only to feel the world take a strange sidestep when the man diverted toward the punch bowl. Serena’s brow furrowed in confusion until an entirely different man emerged from the crowd and she struggled to make sense of it. She politely held her ground, waiting for another more likely candidate to step forward but when the man’s path didn’t waver toward them, she accepted the new twist.

  “Uncle. It is awkward enough to stumble about this house without you hailing me like a hackney,” he said calmly only to stop mid-stride as his eyes met hers.

  Serena blinked.

  “Lady Serena Wellcott, may I present my nephew, Sir Adam Tillman of Yorkshire? Adam, Lady Wellcott is the daughter of a dear friend of mine and…well, as you see, an incomparable beauty.”

  Serena nodded as Sir Tillman made an awkward half-bow, openly unsure of the protocol. She took the opportunity to gather her composure and prayed that Trent hadn’t noticed the lapse. Because Sir Adam Tillman was not nine years old, not squat like a hedgehog or misshapen and not sausage fingered. He was at least six feet in height, broad shouldered and lean, so ruggedly handsome she nearly giggled at the strange humor of providence. Only a year or two past his thirtieth year by her best guess, he was a male specimen in his prime gloriously appealing in the way he artlessly held his ground. Pale hair the color of ripened wheat streaked with gold betrayed that he was not a man to bother with combs and pomade. His skin was unfashionably bronzed and eyes the color of a summer sky openly assessed her in return.

  “Lady Wellcroft…it is a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Wellcott.” Trent corrected him mercilessly. “Dear God, man.”

  The muscle in Adam’s cheek jumped as he clenched his jaw tighter and the blue in his eyes darkened and Serena instantly knew more of him than any speech could convey. He was not enamored of his uncle or enthralled by the earl’s notorious charms. And by Trent’s vague introduction of her, it was clear that her old guardian wasn’t giving his heir any history lessons. “Forgive me, Lady Wellcott. I was—distracted in the moment.”

  Serena smiled and gently waved away the apology. “I am surprised you could hear the introduction at all in this terrible din, and I am not so easily offended.”

  “A ruddy faced brute, is he not?” Trent asked. “I still suspect my sister of packing up one of her footmen to throw me off the scent…” The earl shrugged. “What? Look at him! He looks like a Viking warrior trapped in an evening suit! Or even worse, I swear he smacks of an American cowboy!”

  Her composure deserted her for a moment and she gasped at the open insult, bristling in Sir Tillman’s defense. But Adam cleared his throat, then gave his uncle a look of absolute nonchalance.

  “Your wit betrays you, uncle. For by those words, one would infer that you expect all the men in our family to be weak, pale skinned doughy wastrels so you could recognize the resemblance.”

  Trent’s eyes widened before he grinned. “My! There’s a flash of fun! What do you think, Lady Wellcott?”

  Serena’s breath caught in her throat. “I think you must tread carefully, Lord Trent. It doesn’t seem wise to provoke a man so well-armed.”

  “Yes, I like him, too,” Trent conceded. “Even if he has wasted most of his life apparently trudging about in the elements like an itinerant carpenter building bridges and whatnot.” Trent clapped his nephew on the shoulder. “No worries, Adam! Plenty to do at Oakwell Manor when your time comes, eh? You can design and build fancies to your heart’s content.”

  Adam winced but then nodded. “I’ll keep my worries to myself, Uncle Geoffrey. No fear.” He shifted his attention back to Serena. “Would you care to dance, Lady Wellcott?”

  “I would be honored, Sir Tillman.” Serena smiled and then noticed the flash of disapproval in Trent’s eyes. “No fear, Lord Trent. I’ll return him with his toes intact in just a few minutes.”

  Adam led her away before the earl could summon a protest and Serena savored the escape as he escorted her back toward the main ballroom where the orchestra was in the midst of a reel. As they waited for the next dance, Serena seized the opportunity for a more private conversation.

  “Did I hear the earl correctly? You build bridges, Sir Tillman?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Yes. I am scandalously in trade and hold a professional degree as an engineer and architect. My uncle is very disappointed in me.”

  Serena smiled at the dry delivery and gleam of defiant humor in his eyes. “Lord Trent is disappointed in anyone who doesn’t need his approval.”

  He looked down at her, openly pleased. “And you, Lady Wellcott? You do not think less of me for dirtying my hands?”

  “I like and respect you more for it. This room has enough useless men in it who cannot button their own coats, don’t you think? If they growl at you, it is only because they are envious and you make them look lazy in comparison.” She glanced out over the crowded gathering. “When they are gone, the world will be unchanged. But who knows what monuments an architect and engineer can create as his legacy?”

  “Dear God,” he sighed, and she instantly pivoted to see if she’d overstepped.

  “You think less of me for speaking my mind?” she asked.

  He shook his head firmly. “No. Not at all. I was just…amazed and exhaustion has muted my manners.” He straightened his shoulders. “I should thank you for the pledge to keep my toes safe, madam, but I have to risk looking ungallant if I point out that I am not as confident that I can make a similar promise,” he said as he surveyed the milling crowd. “I am fighting to stay atop my own feet after the grueling journey to London and cursing my pride for allowing my uncle to poke me into proving that I was up for any adventure tonight. You are in danger, Lady Wellcott.”

  “Oh,” she said, then went on. “In my experience, danger is largely missing from a woman’s confined and restricted existence. I believe we invented dancing for the excuse to put ourselves into the fray. Besides, until you have danced the quatrain with a certain Colonel Marcus Bellicorte you have never tasted terror—so I think I’m up for the challenge.”

  “You give the remarkable impression that you are up to any challenge, madam.”

  “I suppose I am. Although if you see Colonel Bellicorte marching toward me, do not be disappointed if you see me making a hasty retreat.”

  He laughed, a deep bass melody that surprised the
m both. “God, I can’t remember the last time I laughed!”

  “Then I am glad for it,” she said. “With Lord Trent as your uncle, you will need a good sense of humor to hold your own. But here, the test comes. Have no fear, sir. If your strength fails you, I can faint with the theatricality of a dowager and spare your pride, your toes and your reputation.”

  “You are my champion, Lady Wellcott.”

  The music ended and the transition of dancers departing the floor interrupted their conversation. At last, he led her out and they took their place near the center of the room in a small pocket of space. She politely placed her hand in his and entered the formal frame of his arms for the waltz. He was an inch or two taller than Phillip, but something in her rebelled against the impulse to make any further comparisons.

  Concentrate, woman. He is neither friend nor foe, and even if he appears to be an ally, his loyalties will fall where his fortunes lie.

  “Lord Trent should never have forced you out,” she noted. “But I suspect it is a compliment.”

  “A compliment?”

  “If he can outlast a man decades younger than he is, he shall preen over it for the rest of the Season.” Serena risked candor. “He is no doubt attempting to demonstrate his strength and may see this as his only chance to do so and win. Unless you plan on criss-crossing England continuously in between putting in social appearances?”

  He shook his head, replying even as he skillfully protected her from traffic. “I’ll avoid the roads for a while and thwart him by getting a good night’s sleep. My uncle’s machinations are a good introduction to the subtle workings of his mind. I suspect, he is a man used to getting his own way.”

  She smiled. “A terrible habit you are going to break him of in the weeks ahead.”

  “That is a good guess.” He looked down into her eyes and Serena had to bite the inside of her cheek to remind herself to focus her attention on her feet and not on the alluring power of his gaze. “Lady Wellcott, after meeting you, I may have to reconsider my position against insipid social gatherings.”