"Yes, you're right. I must.” Perhaps her fears were unfounded. Crossing her fingers and straightening her shoulders, Serenity left the safety of her bedroom.
Zeena greeted her at the bottom of the stairs. “I was just about to drag you from your bed, Serry. No matter what your dragon Maggie said!” She laughed lightly and drew Serenity's arm through her own. “Even I have never stayed abed this long."
Serenity smiled sheepishly. “Late nights don't agree with me."
"Oh bosh!” Zeena exclaimed. “But come, we are all gathered in the drawing room. We have had scores and scores of visitors leave their calling cards. Many have asked for you, you know."
"Ah, but most have come to see you, haven't they?"
Zeena blushed, and admitted that was so. “But do hurry. Your admirer has been patient too long."
Admirer? Who could he be? The fresh scent of roses filled the air bringing to mind summer fields of flowers instead of the frigid weather outside. Vivid fragrances linked with Lord Wilfred Uffing. Serenity braced herself for the encounter.
After stepping inside the drawing room, she took a moment to take stock of its interior. The room's theme was, of course, blue velvet, from the heavy gathered draperies, to the fleur-de-lis decorated rug nearly covering the entire area of the room. Two powder-blue upholstered settees were located near the carved white chalk fireplace, along with several armed parcel-gilt chairs.
"Serry,” Georgiana gaily called out from the settee. “Please, you must come and sit."
At Serenity and Zeena's approach, Lord Uffing stood, along with another gentleman, introduced as Sir Rodney Presson.
Zeena dimpled a smile in his direction, then sat next to her sister.
"Mrs. Steele, may I say you are looking particularly lovely this afternoon?” gushed Lord Uffing.
"Why, thank you, my lord. How kind of you to say so.” Serenity primly folded her hands in her lap to keep from smiling too broadly. The man's perfumed scent was hard to ignore.
"I say, Lady Zeena tells me you adore the floral bouquet I sent you this morning."
Serenity exchanged a glance with Zeena. Instead of working, maybe Serenity should have left the bedroom earlier to keep informed about the day's happenings. She nodded at her hostess in appreciation. Manners were manners, no matter what the century.
"Yes, the flowers are lovely, thank you.” If only he wouldn't press her to tell him just what kind of flowers they were.
"I do not spot them in here. Perhaps they are gracing your bedchamber?"
There was no mistaking the leer in his eyes. She could picture the proper Lady Rotterham telling her: an improper comment should not be encouraged.
"No, they are not,” Serenity replied coolly.
Turning slightly toward the other man, Serenity ended her conversation with Lord Fragrance. “Sir Rodney, I don't believe we met last night at Almack's."
His gentle smile seemed thoughtful and serious, especially since he was probably only twenty-four. “The loss is mine, Mrs. Steele."
Another Regency charmer! From his frequent gazes at Zeena, it was obvious he had more than a passing fancy for her. Zeena glanced his way a few times, too.
The Marchioness sailed into the room bringing in an older lady. “Serry, I must introduce you to my dear friend, the Duchess of Lyndon."
That name was familiar. The woman's merry brown eyes twinkled at Serenity. Of course: Lord Harrison Osborne's mother.
Lady Rotterham murmured, “What a tangle this afternoon has been so far. Serry, you must know that encroaching Mrs. Piedmont was here earlier, dragging her daughter with her. Mrs. Piedmont said nothing but nice things about you, however...."
Serenity grinned. “However, last night she was vilifying my name, right? She certainly changed her tune after learning I am visiting you. Poor Patricia."
"Yes, indeed.” The Marchioness wagged her finger at the Duchess. “Too bad of that creature to be a distant connection of yours."
The Duchess shook her purple turbaned head and blushed. “Sylvia, dear, what can I say? We cannot change our relations."
Lady Rotterham patted her friend's hand. “We all have family that are not quite the thing. Pity we cannot get Patricia married off. Her mother is only a bother when there is a gel on the market."
"Yes, Patricia is the last one, thank goodness.” The Duchess dabbed at her eyes with a delicate hanky. “My sensibilities, you know, are overwrought. I must admit I am quite thankful to have been blessed with two sons instead of daughters. Not that you have had a difficult time with yours,” she added hastily.
Lady Rotterham nodded her head. “No, the older two had their choice of swains. And if today is any indication, Zeena will also."
Serenity looked to see if anyone else was paying attention to the matrons's gossip, but fortunately both men and the Wycliffe sisters were engaged in conversation.
The Marchioness took the Duchess by the hand. “You must come upstairs and see my latest acquisition from Bond Street. It is a dazzling turquoise gown. Makes me feel like twenty again. I have not worn that color in as many years."
Leading the Duchess out of the Blue Velvet Drawing Room, Lady Rotterham turned back and admonished, “Now, you young ones behave!"
Georgiana laughed. “By the way Mama talks, one would think we are but ten and two."
About to respond, Serenity noticed the drawing room doors open. In stepped Lord Harrison ... and Lord Brockton.
Her stomach dropped. In all the days she spent at Rotterham House, he never paid a visit. So why was he here today? Did he intend to “blow the whistle” on her?
As she looked at him, his gaze met hers ... and held. An electric spark pulsed through her body as if receiving a shock. But other than displaying a marked disinterest, his eyes revealed nothing. If he continued to have suspicions about her, he must've been keeping them to himself.
Hoping her face didn't betray her inner turmoil, she wiped her hands against the material of her gown. Ladies were not supposed to have sweaty palms.
Georgiana's pale face broke into a smile. “Bless me! Here comes Nicholas and Harry to visit with us."
Sir Rodney stood and bowed stiffly to the sisters. “I fear it must be time for me to take my leave. Ladies."
"Egad, I suppose my time is up as well. Ladies,” Lord Uffing repeated.
On the way out, Sir Rodney passed Zeena's brother, barely acknowledging his presence with a glacial nod. Apparently, Rodney didn't care for Lord Brockton. In that, the young knight showed good judgment!
If the atmosphere had been forced before, it was surely strained now. At least it was on Serenity's part.
Sending an amused glance her way, Harrison monopolized the two sisters in conversation. That meant Brockton was about to talk with her.
"Mrs. Steele,” he said smoothly.
"Lord Brockton,” she countered.
Just because he wished to speak with her didn't mean she would make it easy for him. She turned toward Georgiana and asked, “When are your darling children arriving? I can't wait to meet them and your sister Amaryllis."
As Serenity had guessed, Georgiana seized the topic so near and dear to her heart. Giving the Baroness all her attention, Serenity patted herself on the back. She outwitted Nicholas Wycliffe—for now.
* * * *
Nicholas noticed Mrs. Steele's defensive tactic. He would let her have her way, at present. Biding his time, he slouched in his uncomfortable chair and negligently rested his right booted foot atop his left. The woman had to be aware that he was onto her little game. Had to be!
As he surveyed the lively group, he smiled grimly. He could afford to put his quest for information on hold, but one thing was for certain, she would not escape his interrogation. Though she looked charming in her demure half-mourning dress, her proper appearance did not endear the young widow to him in the slightest.
Her unaffected laughter at one of Osborne's inanities caused Nicholas to grind his teeth. How unexpected to run into his fr
iend outside the Rotterham door. Why was Osborne here? Most assuredly he was not paying homage to the grey-garbed Mrs. Steele.
Preposterous. Osborne was more intelligent than that.
While the women talked of Zeena's success, Osborne leaned over to him. “Imagine you are as surprised to see me here as I am to see you."
Nicholas glanced at his friend. Devil take it, but Osborne's town finery matched his own! Morning coat must have been made by Weston, and his trousers were almost the identical hue of light yellow. A wink from Osborne advertised his merriment on their similar raiment.
Sorry state of affairs. His voice low, Nicholas said, “I am here to find out about this, er, schemer. Do you see how my sisters hang on her every word? She acts as if she owns the place."
He watched the women on the couch for a long second, then turned back to Osborne. “Perhaps we can get her leg-shackled to the odorific Wilfred Uffing. Did you not see how he drooled outrageously at her? The parson's mousetrap—that would get her out of our hair."
Osborne chuckled at that witticism, but his amusement seemed to be at Nicholas’ expense. “I also saw Sir Rodney Presson give you the cut direct. Why does he hold you in dislike?"
Nicholas shrugged. “It is of no import. However, what about a match between Mrs. Steele and—"
"Brockton, old fellow, it is good to see you concerned about your family. But I think you are out, this time. Mrs. Steele is not a poacher. She is a sensible female. Much too sensible for Uffing."
Osborne indulged in a hearty laugh. “Besides, don't believe Mrs. Steele is hanging out for marriage, just being widowed and all."
Nicholas narrowed his eyes and surveyed his friend. “Then she has got you bamboozled too, Osborne. All women are hanging out for a husband. You know that."
He waved his hand in the ladies’ direction. “What do you think they are jawing about now? The weather? Let me tell you, Osborne, I know women. No empty boast, that. And, I will venture Mrs. Steele will soon find herself in need of a different protector, for I am determined to pluck this weed from the Wycliffe garden."
Standing, he said with confidence, “Watch me."
He stepped in front of her, towering over her seated figure. “Mrs. Steele, would you care to go with me for a drive to Hyde Park?"
Before looking up at him, the woman drew back. Her eyes revealed surprise, and what else? Worry?
"Well, I'm honored, my lord, but.... “She hesitated, obviously searching for an acceptable excuse to decline.
Coward! Perhaps she felt being alone with him was akin to a sheep exposing its neck in the wolf's presence. But at least she had manners.
"Oh, you must go, Serry.” Zeena clapped her hands with delight. “Nicholas has the most marvelous matched greys. Four of them. A rarity, aren't they, Lord Harrison?"
Osborne also stood. “Yes, Lady Zeena, I am assured that Brockton's cattle are indeed out of the ordinary."
"Rare praise,” murmured Nicholas.
"My pleasure,” rejoined his friend.
The woman remained silent. Suddenly she became animated, as if she'd hit upon a solution. She turned toward Zeena. “Maybe you'd like to come too?"
He saw her eyes flash at his sister. No! He would not allow rescue from that quarter.
"Alas, no. That is not possible,” he stated smoothly. “My perch phaeton only seats two.” He leaned back on the heels of his meticulously crafted Hessian boots. Mrs. Steele would have no escape now. Mrs. Serry Steele. What kind of name was that?
His sisters persisted in their claim that this would be a treat for their houseguest. Naturally, the woman had to agree to the jaunt.
"I'll just get my pelisse,” she sighed. No doubt she felt the wolf's sharp teeth closing down on her.
When Serry Steele left the room, Nicholas shot a victorious glance at Osborne. Let the interrogation begin!
* * * *
High atop Brockton's phaeton, Serenity knew why the carriage was so aptly named. The occupants were precariously perched! When he'd stated his carriage would only fit two people, he hadn't lied. The flimsy seat looked as if it could barely handle more weight. A person with extra adipose tissue probably would send the delicate seat tumbling off the fragile-looking supports—down into the cobblestone street below.
The two back wheels were about three times the size of the front ones. As Brockton tooled through the streets to nearby Hyde Park, she speculated on the reason for this ridiculous carriage design. Some of the streets they passed were “rich” with smells of inadequate sanitation. Maybe the higher from the ground the person was, the less offensive the odor.
It was only a theory. Good thing she didn't have to travel in a nearer-to-the-ground vehicle to test its validity.
She pressed her handkerchief over her nose and looked at Brockton. How was he handling the smells? The man had a damn smile on his face! Why, he purposefully guided his horses down these rancid streets. He wanted to see her reaction to this filth. Well, she would manage to tough it out just to spite him.
Why was she drawn to this maddening man? In the drawing room, she had found herself glancing his way several times. But then again, it was her duty, her job to observe every person there, wasn't it?
Too bad this specimen had to have such an appealing profile, meriting a second look. And a third. And a fourth. Odd, especially when Harrison Osborne and Sir Rodney were just as handsome—and much, much nicer.
Brockton flicked the reins on his dove-grey horses. “I must say, Mrs. Steele, you are holding up very well. None of my, er, ladyfriends would endure this affront to their nostrils without a vocal protest."
He brushed at a fly hovering around his ear. “Do not worry, we are almost at Hyde Park. The view and atmosphere there are considerably better. Unfortunately it lacks two hours until the fashionable hour to parade through the park. It shall be thin of company."
Why was he taking her for a drive? Why didn't he take one of his “ladyfriends?” She'd better keep her guard way, way up.
"I don't care much for crowds anyway, my lord. Besides, we'll have a better view of the sights."
"Now, Mrs. Steele, it is every woman's goal to see and be seen by the bon ton in London's largest park. I can put little credence in your words."
He spoke so smugly; how compartmentalized his little world was. But perhaps she was being too hard on him.
After they passed through the foul-smelling district, Serenity put her handkerchief back in her reticule. Just then, an uneven dip in the road caused the phaeton to swerve to the left. Her face bumped up against Brockton's hard shoulder.
Immediately, a new smell permeated her senses. It was crisp and rich and buttery—like the smell of fresh home-baked bread. The warmth of it overrode all other sensations, spreading its aroma throughout her body. It signified security, safety. Even her sight faded. London was replaced by a crusty brown loaf of bread.
Feeling a scratchy fabric—kerseymere?—under her cheek, she pulled away from Brockton's arm and looked up into his face. She seemed to recall him asking her a question.
"Mrs. Steele, are you all right?” His voice sounded tense.
"Yes, yes, thank you. I'm ... fine.” Synesthesia again. Whew. She clasped her gloved hands in her lap and tightly squeezed them together to banish her second brush with the strange mingling of the senses. How in the world could she control this peculiar condition?
He drove the carriage through the park gates, and remained silent for a few minutes. Clearing his throat, he said, “I must apologize for my behavior last night, Mrs. Steele. I fear I was laboring under a misunderstanding. It came to my ears that my youngest sister had taken up with an adventuress. I am now certain my informant was talking about someone else, not about you. I hope you will forgive me."
Serenity turned in surprise. He smiled and she felt a warm tingle. “Of course, I do. I'm so glad and relieved. Your family has shown me so much kindness, it would be a shame not to get along with you, also."
She smoothed her s
kirt. “Your accusations certainly puzzled me, though. I almost feel sorry for the adventuress you're talking about."
A muscle twitched in his left cheek. “Good. Then we shall cry ‘friends.’ I know so little about you, Mrs. Steele. It puts me to the blush to be uninformed about my sisters’ acquaintance. I would like to learn more about you. You met in Bath, helped Georgiana through her illness, and are, I am told, a recent widow. My condolences, Mrs. Steele."
Brockton's deep voice held caressing intimacies. She didn't dare trust herself to look back into his face. What a turnaround! Perhaps amicable glances and close-quarters rides through the park were all stock-in-trade devices for a “rake.” Being an expert information-seeker, Serenity easily recognized an interrogation. If this was Brockton's idea of a “third-degree,” he literally could ooze charm.
Best be careful. Better to be on the good side of Nicholas Wycliffe than on his hit list.
She gave him her stock history about her dead husband, and also told her purpose in visiting London. She didn't want him to get the idea she was in the market for another husband. Still had to convince Sylvia Wycliffe and her daughters of that.
Before she had a chance to initiate her own topic of conversation—to learn his opinions about the war, he lazily asked, “And how long will you be in London?"
"About a year,” she quickly replied. “Then I can go home.” As soon as she let that slip, she flushed.
Watch your tongue, Steele.
"You will be residing with my parents, I presume?” His voice grew cold.
Did he think she'd impose on his parents for a year? No wonder he fumed!
Serenity laughed, thinking of her needless worry about him exposing her cover. “Oh no! How could you think that? What a sponger I'd be."
Brockton didn't reply. He returned a passerby's greeting.
Serenity had to set him straight. “I bet that's why you were angry last night. Maybe you do think I'm an adventuress. No, really. I'll be on my own soon. While I was in Bath, I made arrangements to rent a house here, in Bedford, for a year. But when I arrived, the agents told me it wasn't ready. Your mother kindly offered to let me stay with them until it is. In fact, I'm moving Saturday."
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