"Oh, Mother!” Zeena sing-songed the age-old words of protest.
Serenity almost could hear those same words uttered by her own sister, Tracy. But the change in topic lightened her feelings of guilt. And what a stroke of luck to be invited to the Lyndons’ ball. There were bound to be a variety of informants present. Hopefully she could gather information about British reaction to the Napoleonic War.
She took a deep breath. Maybe by tomorrow she could get her wayward emotions under control.
Lady Rotterham rapidly fanned herself with a hanky. The older lady needed to calm down.
"I'm sure Zeena isn't interested in the poet, my lady. If I'm right, someone much closer to home is attracting her attention.” Sir Rodney Presson rented a house for the season, also on Grosvenor Square.
Zeena blushed. The girl probably didn't think anyone noticed which way her heart was leaning.
"Perhaps,” she admitted shyly, straightening a cushion on a glistening gold sofa. “But say you will accompany us tomorrow. We will come ‘round to pick you up. We can attend the ball together.” She looked to her mother's now-relaxed form for confirmation.
Lady Rotterham smiled her agreement, then sent her daughter off to fetch an embroidered shawl. “Had to get her out of the way,” the Marchioness confided. “We certainly have missed you around here, Serry. Your presence always soothes my high-strung daughter. And Edward, too. When Rawlins announced you, the relief I felt was palpable! Now, do tell me. Who does my daughter favor?"
Serenity bit her lip. “I really can't say. Perhaps I'm wrong."
"No matter. After all, Zeena is very young and very eligible. As I told you before, I have dreams of her securing an earl, at the very least."
Serenity wisely kept quiet and took her leave.
Chapter Twelve
Entering his study, Nicholas shot his jaded gaze at the fireplace mantle, now infested with gilt-edged invitations. More examples of haut ton celebrations of excess. Of course he would decline them all.
He strolled over and picked up the vellum card on the end. Osborne's parents, the Duke and Duchess of Lyndon requested his presence at their ball. While the Duke was a good sort, Nicholas hated these extravaganzas, each one more lavish than the last.
The topper had to have been the overdone fête at Carlton House, given last June by the new Prince Regent to hail his ascension to the throne. A good enough reason to spend 120,000! The affair had boasted of streams of water—complete with live fish flowing down the huge dining table. How plebeian. Nicholas had refused to attend the debacle—one of the few noblemen not in attendance. Grand spectacles, what good were they? Reminded him of ancient Rome. And look what happened there.
He laid down the invitation. While he would not reply to the others, for the Lyndons’ he would send his regrets. He owed a debt of thanks to the Duke. After cashiering out of the Navy, Nicholas had needed advice getting established in the House of Lords. The Duke helped him take his seat and showed Nicholas the Parliamentary ropes.
His Grace also had steered Nicholas past both doddering, tea-sipping peers and members concerned with lining their pockets. Disgraceful to think his colleagues concentrated on themselves rather than the problems facing the nation—the most important problem being the long war with France.
But, attend the Duke's party? No. Nicholas would not be amusing company. Osborne and his father would understand.
After penning his regrets, Nicholas rubbed his hand over his chin. Lord, but he was restless. What were his options for the evening? He could visit the succulent Lillian and drown his boredom in her silken hair.
An image of Lillian Fairfax surfaced causing him to drum his fingers. No, she was becoming too possessive. Why, she actually demanded an accounting of his time away from her. Preposterous!
What about Raphaela? Again, he pictured the singer. No, Raphaela would only further bore him to tears.
That left him no alternative but to seek fresh game. Perhaps he should pay for a night of pleasure and be done with it. The Rose Tavern, a well-known house of ill-repute, was as good a choice as any. It had a reputation for providing whatever the buyer desired, no matter how debased. Not that his tastes were unnatural.
He shrugged into his great coat. The Rose Tavern was located in Covent Garden. Not too far away.
But the Garden also brought to mind the perplexing Mrs. Serry Steele. This time, the vision appearing before his eyes did not displease.
Slamming his beaver hat on his head, Nicholas left his townhouse to exhale his frustration into the cool April air. Why was he so fidgety?
And why the devil did Serry Steele choose the location of Covent Garden to reside? Surely she heard of its reputation for bagnios and bawdy houses. Who hadn't? Indeed, there was a new edition for sale of the infamous book, Henry's List Of Covent Garden Ladies.
A cold blast of midnight air whipped through his coat causing him to shiver. Besides, Bedford Street ran right into the Strand—home to London's most sordid prostitutes.
Would she be safe at her present location?
Sighing, he turned onto St. James’ Street and headed for White's. Women held no allure now. He would just spend the night losing himself in a card game.
For a long second, he stood in front of White's bow window, then turned away. The club's staid atmosphere was too confining for his present unsettled state so he repaired down St. James to the more countrified Boodle's Club.
Again, he changed his mind. Perhaps he should just go home and drink himself under the table.
But instead of going north in the direction of Hanover Square, Nicholas headed south on St. James. He crossed the street and stopped at number Sixty. Seeing bright lights blazing in the elegant windows of Brooks, he took refuge from his boredom in his father's club.
Nicholas nodded at several acquaintances and headed for the Great Subscription Room on the first floor. Though he was not a member of Brooks, he had no fear of being escorted out. Lord Rotterham's umbrella covered Nicholas's audacity in entering the inner sanctum. In the paneled gaming-room, he spotted several ongoing games of Whist, Faro, and Hazard. When one player asked him to sit in for another member, he accepted with alacrity.
Passing the time agreeably, he filled the dead space in his mind with the intricate rules of Whist. When a powerful hand rested on his shoulder, at first he did not feel it.
"Brockton, dear fellow! It unmans me to see you at this bastion of Whiggery. How came you to our modest club?"
Nicholas looked up from his cards, and saw his father's tall, commanding form. He silently swore his luck must have run out. As he threw down a knave of hearts, he gave his father a curt greeting.
When an opponent covered the knave with the queen of hearts, Lord Rotterham commented dryly, “How apt. May I infer that you are here because your current ladybirds no longer please you?"
Nicholas ground his teeth at the Marquess’ out-of-character wagging tongue. To speak of such personal matters in front of spectators was surely as abhorrent to his father as it was to him.
Trying to control his fiery temper, he replied that he was merely indulging in a game of cards.
The Marquess eyed another misplay, then said, “That relieves my mind. Since you are still so busy with your, er, female friends, no doubt I shall not see you at the Duke of Lyndon's ball tomorrow."
"You are attending, sir?” Nicholas almost shot out of his upholstered chair. His father attended even fewer haut ton events than he did.
"Ah, yes.” Lord Rotterham smiled and signaled to a page to fetch his top hat and cane. “Yes, ever since I heard you had overcome your aversion to society dances—Almack's, no less. I decided I must be missing the treats this season has to offer. And the delightful Mrs. Steele has agreed to accompany us to the ball. A splendid woman, don't you think, Brockton? Has made quite a change in our lives."
The Marquess accepted his belongings from the uniformed page. Turning to take his leave he added, “A pity we shall not see you tomorrow. You
r mother tells me she has grown quite used to finding you at Rotterham House these past few weeks. Your newly discovered filial devotion must be commended."
Lord Rotterham acknowledged several farewells and then departed from the Great Subscription Room.
Brockton lost the round of Whist, much to the disappointment and shock of his partner. Deciding to quit Brooks, Brockton returned to the brisk outdoors and pondered his father's words. His father was playing a deep game. Had that underfed adventuress cast out lures to him? Was she planning to secure a marquess as her protector?
Hell and blast! Nicholas would be damned if he stood by and let that baggage break up a happy home.
Although he still wished to decline the invitation to the Lyndons’ ball, he had to tear up his regrets. There was more at stake here than his own preferences. He would not permit Serry Steele to set her trap and steal his father. He would not let his mother become a laughingstock.
With his face grimly set, he walked home without any interference. His foul temper protected him from any of London's unsavory citizens.
Chapter Thirteen
Edward Wycliffe, the Marquess of Rotterham, leaned against a huge column in the Great Hall, and waited for his wife and daughters to appear. The Marchioness, dressed to perfection, hummed an obscure tune and descended the marble staircase, obviously eager to be on her way to the ball. When she spotted him, she stopped in mid-tune and covered her heart with her gloved hand.
"Edward!” she gasped. By bobbing her white head, her toque's turquoise feathers fanned the hall. “Edward, it cannot be that you are accompanying us. The Duke is your friend, of course, but it has been years since we have attended an event together."
Her deep blue eyes grew misty and tiny tears started to form. While she searched in her reticule, she hid her face. “Please forgive me. I know you do not care for emotion."
As he handed her a handkerchief, he admired her trim figure swathed in varying shades of greenish-blue. The gown's unusual color suited her pale complexion, bringing green hues to her blue eyes. She reminded him of the Sylvia he had courted long ago.
Edward was aware he deviated from his usual behavior since he never attended haut ton parties. However, this one would be an exception. He wanted to observe his son's conduct with a particular guest at the Lyndons’ ball. By baiting Nicholas last night, the Marquess was certain his son would be in attendance. Predictable cub, in some instances.
And he had a feeling that maybe, just maybe, Nicholas might have met his match in Serry Steele. She would be good for his son. She certainly had been good for Edward Wycliffe.
He chuckled, remembering how Serry had burst his complacency on the supremacy of man—as in the male of the species. Gad! Had he been such a boor to treat women as ... what did Serry say? As second-class citizens?
She had said something odd then. What was it? Yes, she said it would not do for her to press her own opinions on people she studied. That was it. After that, she turned red, embarrassed.
Something not up to snuff about Mrs. Steele. He could place a bet on that. Harmless though. Whatever it was, he would let Nicholas discover it.
She did have a point. His attitude did need rearranging. Like now. Edward saw his wife's simple joy at being in his company tonight. It touched his heart more deeply than any words could have. He took Sylvia's tiny, gloved hand and placed it on his arm. When turquoise plumes tickled his nose, he magnanimously ignored the sensation.
Feeling tender, he maneuvered his way past her toque's feathers and kissed her small forehead.
As they set forth for the Lyndons, Lady Rotterham, usually talkative, seemed to be in a daze.
* * * *
Serenity stared at the opulent Lyndon ballroom. To her novice eye, this party must have been the event of the season. The crowd mingled in seemingly preordained groups, and barely an expanse of gleaming mahogany floor remained visible. Overhead, sparkling chandeliers swayed with the abundance of energy flowing throughout the room, and the rich texture of the draperies reflected the elegant tastes of the owners.
As Zeena had said, anyone with any pretensions to being anybody was found at the Duke and Duchess of Lyndon's ball. The company glistened with magnificent jewels prestigious enough to match the titles present. Serenity heard the guests’ names announced. Those with only the common Mister or Missus attached were definitely in the minority. It was rumored that a royal duke planned to attend—maybe even two.
The social-climbing Mrs. Piedmont was not only present but eagerly flit from guest to guest, rubbing shoulders with the crème de la crème of British society.
The profusion of wealth and beauty in this room clashed horrifically with the squalor and poverty Serenity had passed on her way here, only a few streets down. But her purpose in attending tonight was not to belittle the abundance of the haut ton, but to seek British opinions about the war. A war that was in no way evident tonight.
Spotting a distinguished man dressed in a military uniform, Serenity tapped on Lady Rotterham's arm. Etiquette demanded introductions before conversations. Serenity tingled with excitement to get started. “If you wouldn't mind, my lady, I'd like to talk with that gentleman."
The Marchioness peered over in his direction. “A military man? Serry, you do have odd preferences, do you not?"
But Lady Rotterham complied, first learning the soldier's name then leading Serenity to him. “Colonel Jenkins, I would like to present my dear friend, Mrs. Steele."
The colonel's blue eyes bulged at the sight of her. “I am so very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Steele. You are a rare vision for my battle-weary eyes!"
A flame of embarrassment burned her face. Heavens, he was a smooth talker, wasn't he?
It didn't take many questions for him to open up and talk about his experiences with Napoleon Bonaparte. In fact, the colonel was a treasure-house of information. Too bad she couldn't take out her digital recorder and get everything down verbatim.
Right in the middle of one of his amusing anecdotes, she spotted Zeena talking with Sir Rodney Presson. But instead of engaging in flirtatious glances, the girl looked ready to cry.
Serenity put her hand on the colonel's red uniform. “Please forgive me for interrupting you, sir, but I see a friend I must go to. Perhaps we can continue our conversation later?"
He bowed. “I would be delighted, Mrs. Steele."
As Serenity headed in Zeena's direction, the girl left Sir Rodney's side and seemed to wander about in a random fashion. Reaching out, Serenity caught up with her. “What's wrong, Zeena? Please, tell me. Shall we go someplace quiet, until you calm down?"
Zeena's lips trembled. “Oh Serry! It is Sir Rodney. He was so attentive to me before. I even thought that perhaps ... well, never mind. I do not understand. I have not played him false. What could I have done? He looks as if ... as if he hates me!"
From across the room, Serenity observed the knight. Although he was talking with someone else, he looked sad. Terribly sad.
Serenity pulled on her ear lobe. “Why don't you go over to your mother, while I see what this is all about."
Giving her a grateful smile, Zeena quickened her slippered steps to take refuge in her mother's presence.
When Serenity reached Rodney, he was practicing his gallantries on another lady. His eyes said his heart wasn't in it. Serenity tapped him on the shoulder and gestured to go outside on the balcony. Rodney willingly followed.
"What's this all about, Sir Rodney? You don't strike me as a man who would trifle with a girl's affections. You saw Zeena's state. What did you say to upset her so?"
The man sighed, and refused to look at Serenity. “Lady Zeena is perfection itself. Her radiance and innocence outshine the brightest diamond in this sea of jewels. I do not deserve her kind consideration.” He fell silent.
Well, that made a lot of sense. “Then what's the problem? Why have you hurt her?"
Rodney turned around, his hazel eyes hardening. “I have to forget about Lady Zeena. No matter
how desirable she is. Why, oh why has Cruel Cupid plunged his capricious arrows so deeply into my heart? Of all people to be related to. She is sister to that ... that libertine bastard."
He apologized for his vulgarity, and swiftly left the balcony.
"Libertine bastard,” Serenity softly repeated. Exhaling her surprise, she reentered the ballroom and headed back to Colonel Jenkins. The plot was thickening.
* * * *
Nicholas arrived at the Lyndon residence, oblivious to the overwhelming crowd before him. He was interested in only two people, one of whom was his father. After a quick look, he did not spot either person. Not wasting any time, he walked over to his hostess.
"Why, Nicholas!” the Duchess of Lyndon exclaimed. “What a surprise. I am gratified to have you attend. You so seldom make your appearance at any of Polite Society's functions. I promise not to engage in any matchmaking schemes. Your mama and I gave up that pastime years ago."
He endured these familiarities. “A pleasure, Your Grace, as always. Would you be aware of my father's whereabouts?” He had to make sure the Marquess was not sitting in Serry Steele's pocket.
"Oh yes. I just saw Edward. In fact, he stood with your mother—until he noticed your arrival. Then he whispered to Sylvia and took off for the gaming-room. Should still be there. Oh, here comes Harrison. I have to take him to task. Told me you were not coming. The rascal!"
The Duchess good-naturedly gave her son a ribbing and then left to circulate among her guests.
Osborne lifted a wine glass at Nicholas. “Did a double-take when you arrived, you know. So did several other party-goers. You being here must mean a certain young military widow is also present. Let's see. Where is she?"
He scanned the immense ballroom. “Whoa! What is this? I see the drawn brows and tightened pink lips of Lady Lillian Fairfax. Lud, Brockton. She is surveying you from this distance and her thunderous look does not bode well. Been a falling out between you two?"
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