The pounding at her temples doubled. Serenity didn't usually get flustered. Must be the headache, she decided.
The three Wycliffes shook their heads in obvious disbelief. Why was it inconceivable to them that a woman wouldn't actively seek the blissful state of matrimony? Just look at Georgiana as an example. The Baroness had mentioned she wanted to remarry, for the sake of her three children—but not at this time.
Using the poor health of her third child, Vincent, as an excuse, Georgiana still didn't participate in the Marriage Mart. Probably, when the boy grew older, his mother would think of another reason to avoid the parson's mousetrap. But Georgiana wouldn't admit it. No, indeed. That wouldn't do. That would be abnormal for this society.
Lady Rotterham slipped a conspiratorial wink to her daughters. She said, soothingly, “Put your mind at rest, Mrs. Steele. We will do as you ask."
Right. Serenity also believed in the Easter bunny! Shifting the now-cooled brick onto the carriage floor, she dropped the subject. “Now that we have that settled, please, you must call me Serry."
"Serry” was so much easier to accept than the unusual name of Serenity. Besides, she felt far from serene. And she would never divulge her middle name. At the time of her birth, her parents had thought the name cute, or groovy, as they put it. But Serenity was the one who had to live with it. She preferred to pretend she had no middle name.
"Serry, then.” The Marchioness waved an imperious hand. “The Marquess and I will take great pleasure in seeing that you enjoy your season with us. This is the very least we can do."
Those words didn't jibe with what Zeena had told Serenity. The Marquess supposedly took no notice whatsoever of the women in his family. How would he react to squiring around another female?
Serenity sank back against the comfortable carriage upholstery, and pulled on her ear lobe. Worry. She couldn't help worrying about the unknown. In her worst nightmare, she envisioned attending grand balls and being surrounded by scores of outlandishly dressed dandies, all looking like the obnoxious Stanhope DeVries.
Heavens! What a thought.
But men of these times wouldn't find her attractive. After all, she was too tall, too thin, and not blue-blooded. And, the most important consideration, she was not an heiress. In other words, she strayed too far from the Regency ideal.
An impish grin on her face, Zeena broke into Serenity's reflections. “You are not interested in marriage-minded males? Well then, Nicholas, being a noted rake, can introduce you to men who are not marriage-minded!"
Georgiana echoed her mother's shocked exclamation at that risqué remark.
Cute, Zeena. But Serenity was in no mood to joke around. The pounding in her temples returned with a vengeance as if to warn her. What, exactly, awaited her in London?
* * * *
Comfortably ensconced in the Rotterham mansion's library, Serenity sighed contentedly. Surrounded by volumes of books displaying the vast knowledge of man, she felt very much at home. Ah, this is the life.
She sat, unladylike, on the curved settee of carved English walnut wood, with her legs curled under her, and contemplated the data she already gathered during her stay with the Wycliffes. She hadn't intended to take advantage of the family's friendship by residing with them. But when Lady Rotterham learned the rented townhouse wouldn't become vacant for two more weeks, she generously insisted Serenity remain at the mansion in the interim.
This unplanned stay worked out well for Serenity for she noticed a great deal about servant hierarchy that she could use in her anthropological study. When she set up her own household, she also could put the information to good use.
Talking with the Marquess’ servants had been bewildering until she figured out the code. A friendly approach was scorned but, oddly enough, a haughty demeanor was respected. She had played on her ignorance of “town ways” for all it was worth, and presently, Rawlins, the butler, unbent a tad. He ventured an opinion that no less than eight servants were the proper amount with which to open a London residence.
Thinking of the damage to her set financial resources, Serenity had squeaked, “Including my maid, Maggie?"
"Excluding, madam,” intoned this majestical personage, whose profile shape was that of an archer's bow.
The other positions required for minimal maintenance of the house would be that of butler, footman, cook, housekeeper, chambermaid, housemaid, scullery maid, and the lowly pot boy. Surely she could manage a household with fewer help. After all, how difficult could it be? But since these servants probably were assigned to the house already, she'd feel guilty about letting any of them go.
On her pad of paper, Serenity made a note to ask the London housing agent about the townhouse's staff and its current wages. Too bad she was a novice in these affairs. When she had signed the lease in Bath, she could've asked more questions.
These monetary considerations distracted her thoughts so she chewed on the end of her twenty-first century pen for inspiration. Voices soon rose from the main floor, and Serenity quickly hid her pad and pen under the couch's cushion just in case her solitude was broken.
The voices grew louder. Evidently, an argument was in progress—at least with one of the participants.
The paneled door flew open, and with no preamble, the Marquess of Rotterham entered. “...and I will not have it, Madam. I will not have Rotterham House overrun by brats no matter to whom they belong. Damn pack of females, anyway."
A tall man, slightly stooped by Father Time, strode over to the side cabinet and lifted a whiskey decanter. While he was pouring, he spotted Serenity, and shook the bottle in her direction.
"Sorry, m'dear. Forgive my language. Didn't know you were here."
Lady Rotterham followed his footsteps, her hands fluttering, obviously trying to soothe her irate husband.
The Marquess inadvertently backed into her, causing another oath. “God's life! Females underfoot already."
He glanced at Serenity, lowered his gaze, and apologized again. “Didn't mean you, m'dear. You are a sensible female.” Easing his long limbs into a high-backed chair, he took a generous drink of whiskey.
Serenity sat, rigid and uncomfortable. She nodded slightly at Lord Rotterham. He was a handsome man in his early sixties; his hair was almost as black as his wife's was white. The years added several lines to his commanding face. But other than the stoop and the thickening around his waist, he was the epitome of the term, “fine figure of a man.” He and his small wife made an attractive couple. Unfortunately, it seemed he spent little time in her company.
Serenity made a move to leave them in private, but the Marquess motioned to her to remain. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into the woman. She is well aware I cannot abide children. And female ones at that!"
"Now Edward,” Lady Rotterham began placating, “you must realize Georgiana has been parted too long from her children. She is far from well enough to journey to the estate to visit them. What could be more natural than for Amaryllis to bring them here? There are more than enough rooms.” She timidly placed her hand on his arm.
Her husband shook it off. “And Amaryllis would bring her own brood as well. All females except for that milksop husband of hers.” The Marquess downed his glass of liquor, then quickly refilled it.
"I refuse to repair to my club during their visit. Spend too much time with those old blowhards at Brooks’ as it is. No, Amaryllis and those, what—five? Six? Seven? Whatever. Those chits will have to room elsewhere."
Serenity studied her hands. Being in the presence of anger always made her uncomfortable. If only she could help. Mentally, she reviewed the Wycliffe family tree. The eldest daughter, Amaryllis, had three daughters. Georgiana had two, plus one son. Since neither Amaryllis's husband, Sir Cecil Sedgwick (a tongue-twister moniker) nor the late Baron Trent had a surfeit of wealth, London residences were out of the question for the sisters. Hence, the Marchioness’ dilemma.
The quiet in the library room went unbroken. Lady Rotterham fiddled w
ith her large diamond ring, and her husband glowered into his glass. By chance, Serenity remembered Zeena mentioning her brother's townhouse. Surely that could solve the stalemate.
"Excuse me, my lord, I hate to intrude, but you've suggested the perfect solution. Have the rest of your family housed elsewhere. Your son, Lord Brockton, has a house in Hanover Square, right? Since he's not in residence, couldn't your daughter and grandchildren stay there? That would suit everyone's needs."
It sounded ideal, but the Marquess and Marchioness shook their heads. “No, it would not suit Brockton's needs,” Lord Rotterham muttered, contemplating the tips of his shiny Hessian boots.
"No, indeed, Serry. Nicholas is in town. He has been here for the past...” Lady Rotterham looked to her husband for the answer.
"Month,” he uttered tersely.
Since the brother hadn't yet come calling on his sister, Serenity assumed he wasn't in London. But he had been here, all along. What nerve! Georgiana had a dangerously close brush with death, and he was too busy to pay her a visit. From what Serenity observed, both sisters had a high regard for their brother, but obviously, Nicholas Wycliffe didn't return their affection.
A slow smile played about the Marquess’ lips. He jumped up—a tricky feat for a large man—and clapped his hands together. “Demmed sensible female, Mrs. Steele is. I knew it from the moment I first set eyes on her. Fine idea! Brockton's comfort be damn ... demmed,” he amended quickly.
To his wife, he barked, “Have Amaryllis and Sedgwick set up house at Brockton's place. On my orders. When has that rapscallion of a son ever given thought to my needs? To my wishes? Isn't he still without an heir?"
Lady Rotterham murmured, “There is always Vincent."
"Pah! Trent's brat. Demmed bad blood on that side the family. My orders stand. Let Brockton suffer inconvenience for a change."
As the Marquess headed out for parts unknown, his words, “Worthless son,” drifted back into the library.
The Marchioness spread her hands, as if to offer an apology to Serenity, and also departed. Was she hoping to pacify her husband and her son?
Serenity sank back into the cushions, and reflected on the whirlwind that was the Marquess of Rotterham. As she relaxed, an unpleasant thought occurred to her. Because of this day's events, because of her innocent suggestion, had she just incurred the animosity of the irascible Lord Brockton?
Chapter Six
Nicholas James Edward Basil Wycliffe, known to his acquaintances and the Polite World as Lord Brockton, finished surveying his cards in the Gaming Room at White's Club. He raised his eyebrow at his partner, Lord Harrison Osborne, secure that Osborne recognized the signal that his cards were strong. Since he and Lord Harrison cut their eyeteeth on the game of Whist, barely out of leading-strings, Osborne probably recognized the signal in his sleep.
In fact, Nicholas Wycliffe smugly contemplated the notoriety of the Brockton-Osborne duo in the area of Whist. And women. Virtually legendary. However, the two other players at the table were new to London. They remained blissfully unaware of their impending losses—for now. Poor flats.
Nicholas raked a lazy gaze over the newcomers. Obviously non-members. What strings were pulled to have these military men enter White's exclusive club? Damned puffed-up pomegranates.
No strings pulled at the Whist table, though. The luck of the draw had determined partners, and this colonel and lieutenant from the county of Avon would soon find themselves considerably lighter in the pocket.
"Your trick,” the colonel growled.
"So it is.” After recording the point, Nicholas smiled at the thought of fleecing these men. But why was he prejudiced against them? Because they were Army officers? Milk-and-water misses, that was all they were. Either they had purchased their commissions, or obtained their positions through family influence. Provincials.
The pain of his own aborted military career resurfaced, and he bared his teeth. What he would not give to be engaged in battle at this very moment.
The colonel glanced at Nicholas’ expression and dropped a card—a queen of hearts. Devil take it! The soldier must be a fierce fellow indeed, to flinch at the sight of white enamels.
This ... this jackanapes was a damn colonel, while he, Nicholas Wycliffe, who had sweated through mutinies and onerous, dangerous missions in His Majesty's Royal Navy, had only risen to the rank of commander during his six years of service.
But it was an honorable promotion—an earned promotion.
"Your play, Brockton,” Osborne reminded.
Nicholas took a swig of brandy and swirled it in his mouth. He gulped down hard, then thrust the ace of hearts down on the table.
Dammit, the sea had become a part of his blood. His men, bless them, were proud to put to sea with him. They obeyed him, respected him—at a time when sailors deserting to the enemy remained a constant threat. Had they been present, how his men would laugh at these powdered and puffed excuses for officers sitting at the gaming table. Incompetents.
Incompetent or not, he admitted to the feeling of envy. Better to serve the king nobly, than to suffer among the fools and fops inhabiting London. No matter what his father said.
Some people considered Nicholas a hero, for his exploits. After all, he had served under Admiral Nelson at Trafalgar—still wore the scars to prove it. But all Lord Rotterham cared about was an heir, dammit. And he, Nicholas Wycliffe, was not about to oblige his father.
Ah, well. Brockton played his hand by rote and admired Osborne's skill at winning the odd trick. Lucky devil—as usual.
Small beads of perspiration now appeared on the colonel's high forehead, threatening to run rivulets into bulging blue eyes. As the man wiped the sweat with a linen handkerchief, Nicholas wrote down another point for his team and indulged in a sardonic grin.
The outcome of the game assured, he let his mind wander again, this time around the gaming room. This very room had seen fortunes change hands as quickly as a throw of the dice. He focused his sleepy eyes on the massive Ionic columns supporting the ceiling. Too staid an atmosphere for his liberal tastes. But since his father was aligned politically with the Whigs, therefore a member at the rival club, Brooks', Brockton had been contrary and joined the Tory headquarters at White's. Unfortunately, he regretted his decision. It was so tiring always being at loggerheads with his distinguished father.
At the conclusion of the game, Nicholas tallied up the score. “Another profitable evening, Osborne,” he commented, raking several gold coins his way—his share of the winnings.
"Better luck next time, Colonel.” Cracking his knuckles, Osborne stretched out his long legs.
The ranking officer's face turned as red as his uniform. Without a word, he angrily pushed his chair away from the round table and exited the gaming room. The lieutenant shrugged as if in apology, then followed his superior out. From the hall corridor, stifled oaths punctured the sedate atmosphere.
Nicholas grinned. “And good-night to you too, Colonel ... what was that fellow's name?"
"Jenkins, I believe he said,” Osborne answered, lazily placing sovereigns into his waistcoat compartment. His brown eyes crinkled, reflecting good humor. “I vow I do not understand what his complaint is. It is not as if he had been gulled. Nor do I think this game put him under the hatches. He seemed to have plenty of the ready."
Nicholas straightened up from his slouch. “Perhaps they were both Captain Sharps. I would not put it past them to stack the deck. Glad to lighten those Army bounders’ purses. Especially the one held by that obnoxious colonel."
"Army bounders, eh? By any chance, does your dislike of the fellow stem from the fact the good colonel surpasses you in rank?” Osborne asked, a little too innocently for his own good.
Blast the man! Osborne knew that was a tender subject. Covering his feelings, Nicholas took a sip of brandy. “Good Lord, no. Nothing to do with it. Indeed, the veriest paper-skull can see that man for the scoundrel he is. Those shifty eyes—"
When he notice
d his friend trying to contain his mirth, Nicholas broke off his words. “Os, you rascal. You can see right through me. What would I do without you?"
Glancing at his chain watch, Nicholas sighed wearily. “And what do we do now? The night is just beginning and there are no pigeons left to pluck."
Osborne brushed back a lock of light brown hair from his forehead, and gave Nicholas an engaging grin. “What about dallying with those of the female persuasion? How about the fair Raphaela? Has the name and face of an angel. Sings like one, too."
Shuffling the deck, Osborne glanced over at Nicholas. “Didn't you offer her carte blanche last week? Don't tell me you have tired of her abundant charms already?"
Nicholas yawned. “The only carte blanche that holds my interest is in the card game of Piquet. But yes, I did sample the fair Raphaela. She turns out to be commonplace, after all. As they all do, after a night or two."
"Another disappointment in love,” sighed Osborne. “Poor Brockton! Have it too easy, you know. Since the time long past when you dressed in nankins, females have dangled after you. I could not compete then, just as I cannot now."
He set the deck in front of Nicholas. “Cut."
Nicholas complied, then Osborne drew the first card—an eight of clubs.
He sighed again. “Let's see your card."
It was an ace of spades.
"Always besting me. Don't understand why—a face like Adonis, impeccable lineage, and as rich as Croesis! That is why every debutante's mother thrusts her delicate flower under your aristocratic nose."
Osborne drummed his fingers against the gaming table. “Y'know your trouble, Brockton? You believe women are fools, to be barely tolerated and only in the boudoir. Extend your tolerance to street doxies, actresses, opera singers, and your mistresses. Never true gentlewomen. Should give it a try."
Raising his eyebrow, Nicholas looked at his friend. Other occupants in the gaming room also overheard Osborne's unusual speech. His friend was known to be a man of few words. What was troubling him?
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