She stole a glance at Nicholas. He was busy eating—completely oblivious to her. Swallowing a regret, she looked away, but caught Amaryllis watching her.
As Tracy would have said, “The dregs!"
Get yourself under control, Steele. Longing gazes and lovesick sighs are not part of this assignment.
"That is as it should be,” Zeena said adamantly. “Imagine Lord Uffing aspiring to our Serry. The coxcomb!"
Seated next to Serenity, Harry chuckled and whispered in her ear, “Quite a defender you have there, Serry. Wonder what Zeena would say if I popped the question?"
"To me?” Serenity nearly choked on her champagne. Heavens! One proposal was enough to endure.
But Harry must be ribbing her. She'd get back at him. “Harry, I think you'd be more concerned with what I would say!"
He had the grace to blush.
Then she whispered back, “But I think your interests lie in another direction.” She nodded over at Georgiana, who was talking with Cecil.
Harry's ears tinged pink. A hit! “You are too downy for me, Serry."
"Indeed, Mrs. Steele appears to be too downy for us all,” Nicholas interjected from across the table.
"On your high ropes again, Brockton? Demmed fatiguing keeping up with your moods,” Harry drawled.
Serenity caught her lip between her teeth. Harry was right—one moment Nicholas burned hot, then the next he was as distant as the Pleiades.
A sob of despair interrupted the standoff. Zeena stood from the table and, in an anguished voice, squeaked, “Don't you two come to fisticuffs. My evening is already ruined. It is bad enough that he is not here."
With another sob, Zeena flew out of the room.
Georgiana and Amaryllis shot dark looks at their brother, then followed her. Everyone else sat, uncomfortable because of the outburst.
"What the devil's wrong with Zeena?” Nicholas complained, forgetting his enmity towards his friend.
Harry shrugged. “How should I know? She is your sister. Who is she talking about?"
Serenity fixed her gaze on Nicholas. “It's Sir Rodney Presson. Remember, from the Opera House?"
"Blast!” Nicholas Wycliffe expostulated. “Another one of my peccadilloes has come back to haunt me."
"Eh?” Harry questioned.
"Constance Jones. Formerly Constance Presson."
"Ah!” Harry indicated his comprehension.
Silence sat heavily on the table. “So aren't you going to do something about it? After all, it's been two weeks since you two had it out.” Serenity felt like shaking Nicholas. Wasn't he concerned that his sister's heart was breaking?
"What would you have me do, dear Serenity?” he answered lazily. To Harry he explained, “Let the cub take a few blows to my face at the opera the other night."
Nicholas posed a good question. What did she want him to do? “I don't know. Maybe talk to him—apologize. Something! Anything to get him back here."
"Anything?” Nicholas looked over at Harry, an amused twinkle in his eye. “Mrs. Steele delights in assigning me the labors of Hercules. Perhaps I should be flattered. She thinks I can accomplish them."
He stood. “Very well, I will see what I can do. But...” He leaned over the table, so their faces were just three inches apart.
Memories of their long ago kiss resurfaced. She wet her lips.
"But,” he continued, “you will owe me, Serenity."
Unaccountably nervous, she watched him leave. His words sounded like a threat.
Chapter Eighteen
A week passed since Zeena's soirée and Serenity had given up hoping that Nicholas Wycliffe would come calling. True, he sent flowers the following day—again, white orchids, but no personalized note accompanied his quick slash of “Brockton.” The man was a constant puzzle; she just couldn't figure him out.
In her second story bedroom, she sighed and looked at the blank paper in front of her. She had to put all thoughts of that Regency rake behind her; she had to concentrate on work.
A deep cleansing breath cleared her mind. Until she saw the Prince Regent, her time trip wouldn't be complete. A case study of the soon-to-be George IV was on the Institute's itinerary for her. They also wanted a critique on Napoleon Bonaparte. Right. How was she supposed to view the French emperor while she was on his enemy's territory? Bureaucrats!
She had to admit though, she wanted to observe “the First Gentleman of Europe” for herself. The Prince Regent sounded like a study in inconsistencies. If she left it to chance, she'd probably never have the opportunity to meet him. She and he obviously didn't move in the same circles and she wasn't well connected enough to have a presentation at the Royal Court.
Lady Rotterham had been so apologetic about Serenity's exclusion from Zeena's presentation, delayed due to Queen Charlotte's ill-health. But with all the protocol, pomp, and circumstance involved, Serenity was glad not to go—although the Regent was scheduled to preside. Court appearances demanded eighteenth century attire, and Serenity had no liking for wide hoops covered with skirt after skirt. Zeena's gown very likely weighed more than she did!
No, Serenity had another scheme in mind to view the Prince Regent.
Whizzing down the stairs, she spotted her butler polishing the silver wall scones. “Beasley, I need your help."
"'Ow may I be of service, ma'am?” He turned, carrot-shaped, and wiped his hands on the dustcloth.
Serenity quickly assessed his form and shook her head. “No. Your clothes'll never fit. How about the footman then? He's as tall as I am."
The butler lost his detached air and exclaimed, “Wot you be wanting with his clothing, Mrs. Steele? You be cooking up something unsavory, I feel it in me bones."
Serenity sank down in a hall chair and pushed her unruly curls out of her eyes. “Well, yes. I suppose it'll be rather scandalous, if I were caught. But I won't be."
Beasley stood gaping at her, obviously thinking she'd gone mad. She'd better explain. “You see, I want to see the Prince Regent—"
"That gravy boat?"
She smiled. “Yes, and Lord Rotterham mentioned the other day that he, Prinny, and Lord Castlereagh were all members of the Beefsteak Club. They meet every Saturday for dinner at four in the afternoon. I thought that I could wear a disguise, find a hiding place, and eavesdrop on their conversations."
If Beasley's bushy eyebrows could've risen higher than his forehead, they would have. He must've seen she was serious though, because he started muttering. “Never in all me born days ‘ave I ‘eard such a corkbrained idea. Dashed smoky! You be in a devil of a fix."
He wagged his head at her, but she knew he'd help her with her plan. She beamed. “You're a love, Beasley."
After she kissed his cheek, he was speechless for several seconds. When he composed himself, she asked, “What do you know about the Beefsteak?"
His gaze darted every which way but hers. “The swells call themselves, ‘The Sublime Society of Beefsteaks.’ Fatty cattle, I calls them! Only four and twenty of them. No more, no less. Meet in a room at the Bedford Coffee-'ouse. Next to Covent Garden Theatre. ‘Ow you aiming to get inside, ma'am?"
Serenity tugged on her ear lobe. “I have time to figure that out. Tomorrow's Saturday, but that's too soon, so I'll plan on going next Saturday, the second of May."
She saw the butler's downcast expression. The poor dear worried about her. “Cheer up, Beasley. I'll be fine. It'll be an adventure."
As she climbed the stairs to the next floor, she heard him ruefully say, “That be wot old slippery Pete said, afore they hanged him dead."
* * * *
For over three hours Serenity stood, hiding behind the thick velvet drapes. It was a good place of concealment—even had a window ledge she could sit on when she tired. The long dining table in the club room seemed to go on forever, but she counted, and sure enough, there were twenty-four chairs, no more, no less.
Sneaking into the room was easy. There had been no one about to notice her. But now t
hat the room was full, would her escape be as simple?
She heard rather than saw the members claim their seats. There was a call to order and then a toast: “Beef and Liberty.” An avalanche of clinking glasses followed that, then the scuffle of chair legs against a thin, rugged floor indicated the Beefsteaks were now seated.
Serenity peeped out from behind the fabric. The Regent sat at the head of the table, closest to her. She had a wonderful view of his back. When he leaned over to speak with his companions, she would have to steal glimpses of the rest of him.
Almost fifty, the Regent retained an air of youthfulness about him—youthfulness in his mannerisms, speech, and his baby-faced profile. But his vast bulk strained within his fashionable clothes. He was mammoth, and would remain so, judging by the way he ate the meal in front of him.
Food didn't slow the conversations of these men, and Serenity couldn't distinguish one verbal exchange from another. Maybe this scheme of hers wasn't such a good idea after all. Poor Beasley almost had a heart attack viewing her in men's clothing.
She looked down at her apparel. Respectable, but definitely of the servant class. She had bound her breasts, and the long frock coat hid her small waist and hips. Her breeches hung loosely on her thighs. Stockings revealed shapely lower legs and a horrendous grey wig, or queue, disguised her hair. Not a specimen to excite either of the sexes!
Serenity stopped fidgeting. The Regent was speaking. “And how is your worthy son, Rotterham? We have not seen him this age. We noticed the fair Lillian out of sorts lately. Without his escort, don't you know? Has he thrown her over for someone new?"
The room stilled. Apparently the other members also wanted to hear the Marquess’ answer. As did Serenity.
Lord Rotterham's voice came lazily. “Demmed if I can keep track of Brockton's discards. He has been out of town these past days. Business, he says. All a hum.” He paused. “I will wager the boy will soon enter the blissful state of matrimony."
If the Marquess had suddenly screamed, “Fire!", there couldn't have been more of a response. Choruses of “Who's the gel?", “Not Brockton!", and “Leg-shackled!” echoed down the table.
Serenity's heart dropped. So that's why Brockton hadn't stopped by her house. Someone captured his interest.
Her vision blurred a bit and she wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Well, perhaps it was for the best. Of course it was for the best. Besides, considering how difficult he could be, she even felt sorry for his future bride.
"Blissful!” boomed the Regent's voice. “You will not find us in agreement there. Aaargh!"
Serenity, and probably the rest of the room, knew the Regent had his wife, Princess Caroline, in mind.
"But, done. We shall take on that wager, Rotterham. Shall we say ... one thousand yellow-boys?"
As the other Beefsteaks also entered into the bet, Serenity slumped on the window ledge. For her, the evening lost its excitement.
* * * *
Nicholas hurriedly bathed and changed clothes. After his long journey from the county of Lincolnshire, he was tired, but eager to see Serenity. She had been on his mind the entire trip. Leave it to Presson to lick his wounds outside London, on his country estate. Nicholas had a devil of a time tracking Sir Rodney; damn saphead had not told his own Grosvenor Square staff where he was headed. Jackanapes!
Just a stroke of luck Nicholas had run into Constance Jones—the source of all this trouble to begin with. Not only had she divulged Presson's easterly direction, she also promised to divest herself of her cumbersome apparel, should Nicholas prove willing.
He shuddered. Constance's blowzy charms ceased to appeal to him years ago. And, on a fool's errand commanded by a demanding widow, he was tasked to placate Presson, who viewed himself as Constance's Sir Galahad, no doubt.
Nicholas allowed that Serenity had been right to ask him to smooth over the misunderstanding. Presson was a likable chap, and certainly seemed enamored of Zeena. Caught off guard at the unexpected visit, Presson even appeared glad to see him, at first. Surprised, but glad. Then Nicholas had to sit him down and have a man to boy talk.
No, that was cruel. Presson was no boy.
Nicholas quickly tied his cravat. It was just that Presson seemed so young and so smitten by Zeena. Gad! Nicholas would never make a fool of himself over a woman. Never.
He shrugged into his tight brown coat. Fortunately, the lad listened to reason. Nicholas tried to be diplomatic; he painted Constance in less than faithful wife colors. Presson got the picture, and thankfully, gave up his grudge against his sister's former paramour. Perhaps the lad had known what Constance was like all along.
Anyway, Presson manfully accepted Brockton's hand and vowed to pursue the Lady Zeena. Another good deed done. Now Nicholas was impatient to relay his success to Serenity Steele. She might not be home this Saturday night but he would make certain her unusual butler revealed her whereabouts.
While he waited for the door to open at Twenty-three Bedford Street, Nicholas shifted his feet. Serenity haunted his thoughts, haunted his loins. After his absence, how should he greet this impossible woman?
There was also the matter of Sarah Flanders to settle.
Pulling the door ajar, Serenity's butler intoned, “Madam is out, milord."
Somewhat irked at being kept standing outside, Nicholas shifted his feet again. “Where is she?"
"I cannot say, milord."
Damn the man! Nicholas started to lose what little patience he had. “Cannot or will not?"
The servant shrugged his shoulders and made a motion to close the door.
Nicholas flung his arm out, arresting the butler's action, and pushed his way inside. “Listen, er, Beasley, is it? If Mrs. Steele is not at home, you will tell me where she can be found. I shall not leave until you do. Understand?"
Though Beasley was broad, Nicholas had the advantage of height. He glared down at the servant.
Beasley's darting gaze faltered. “'Er orders be not to tell, milord."
"Not to tell me?" Along with his voice, Nicholas’ temper flared. He would not allow Serenity to put him off.
Small beads of sweat appeared on Beasley's lined forehead. He hesitated, and then replied, “No, milord. Not to tell anyone who come a-calling."
Blast! Now Nicholas understood. He turned from the butler and headed for the door. “Of course. An assignation. Why did I think she was above that?"
For a stocky man, Beasley moved quickly. He stood in front of Nicholas, hands up to impede his exit. “No, no, milord. ‘Tis not wot you be thinking. Mrs. Steele's not like that. ‘Owever.... “He trailed off, uncertain whether to say more.
Nicholas folded his arms across his chest. “However?"
The butler's brows met in a bushy line across his nose. It obviously disturbed the man to go against Serenity's wishes. “Well, ‘tis late and she not be back yet. I admit worrying about ‘er. Mayhap milord can make sure she be safe. She ‘ad a fancy to see Prinny at the Beefsteak. Dressed ‘erself up as a man, she did. Thought it'd be a lark. She be gone ‘ours already."
"And you let her go, man?” Nicholas had no doubt that Beasley was telling the truth.
Serenity, dressed as a man, at this time of night, on Bow Street? Alone? If London's disreputables got a hold of her, they would grind her into mincemeat. And if they saw through her disguise, they would do worse.
His mouth set grimly, Nicholas rushed past the butler and ordered his carriage to the Bedford Coffee-House.
* * * *
After countless hours behind the window drapes, Serenity took a swift step and came out of hiding. She waited until the last of the voices had drifted out of the Beefsteak room. Now, the only noise that remained was the snoring from two drunken diners, their heads resting on the long table.
Serenity straightened her wig, squared her shoulders, and left the room. Entering the smoke-filled parlor of the Bedford Coffee-House, she stood for a moment to get her bearings. Peering through the haze, she felt the raucous patrons look a
t her, pass judgment, then dismiss her. Good. She spotted the door and quickly exited.
Fresh air. How good it felt to pump her lungs full of fresh air. She walked ahead, leaving behind the noisy tavern. Stopping at the corner, she took another cleansing breath. The night hung silent; the only sound disturbing the quiet was the Coffee-House's door slamming shut.
In just a few minutes she'd be home and finally be able to rest her achy body ... and her aching heart. Standing still for who knows how many hours strained every muscle in her body. And hearing the news of Brockton's betrothal sapped whatever strength she had left.
It's for the best. It has to be for the best. After all, I'm leaving here in February. Why shouldn't he marry?
Those thoughts did little to ease her sadness.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, three hooligans jumped out at her. They blocked her way and blandished gleaming knifes.
"Wot ‘ave we ‘ere, now? A pretty cove, ain't that so?” A grimy man grinned at her, his teeth blackened with rot.
Oh God. Serenity took one step backward.
"'Ere now, pretty laddy. Don't shove off so soon. We wants t'get t'know ya, don't we, boys?"
The other two men leered at her in agreement.
Dear God, how could she get out of this? Serenity reached inside her coat; she brought along her own knife for protection. But she wasn't fast enough. One thug pinned back her arms while another stuffed a rancid rag in her mouth. The spokesman stuck his greasy face next to hers.
"Not so fast, me laddy. Not so fast. The boys ‘n me wants t'ave a little fun. A little buggery. Wot's the ‘arm in that, right, boys?"
His foul breath blasted her and the grips on her arms tightened. Right now she'd be better off dead.
They dragged her into an alley. “First comes off that grey jasey. See wot color ya ‘air is, pretty laddy. Then, we takes off the rest."
Maniacal laughter assaulted the night air. As the leader advanced on her, ready to pull off her wig, the other man nearly tore her arms from their sockets.
Serenity closed her eyes. Time for one brief prayer. But then, nothing happened. She heard voices carrying through the alleyway. They sounded as if wrangling. Over her?
Regency Society Revisited Page 18