by Sarah Zettel
“Heaven defend us,” I croaked as the blood drained out of my painted cheeks.
This man was tall and slender with arresting blue eyes set into a hatchet-sharp face. He was the Honorable Mr. Sebastian Sandford. I had met Mr. Sandford last spring, when he attempted unceremoniously to seduce me at a birthday party. When seduction failed, he, with equal lack of ceremony, attempted rape.
He also happened to be my betrothed.
TWO
IN WHICH A MOST UNWELCOME ACQUAINTANCE IS RENEWED.
“Miss Fitzroy. How wonderful it is to see you again.”
Sebastian presented me with one of his best bows, a feat rendered slightly awkward by the beribboned porcelain jar he carried in both hands. I watched him without moving or even managing to close my mouth. I quite literally could not believe my eyes.
I had last seen Sebastian before I came to court. That also happened to be the same day my uncle threw me out of his house. This was the morning after Sebastian had decided he was going to help himself to my virginity, in a garden shed, without bothering to inquire whether I consented to the act. I did not, as it happened, and was able to make a more forceful argument in that regard than he expected.
As Sebastian straightened from his most recent bow, I struggled to find where I had misplaced my voice. The initial results were not promising.
“I . . . you . . . what are you doing here?”
“Lud, Peggy!” cried Mary, clearly delighted at finding the evening’s entertainments had begun so soon. “One might think you had an excess of handsome swains parading in to see you.”
“And does she?” Sebastian inquired. For this pretty quip, he was treated to one of Mary’s celebrated sparkling laughs.
“If she does, she has kept her secrets very well.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
These remarks were ornamented by rather overmuch showing of dimples and batting of eyelashes on all sides. I suppressed the urge to slap them both on their noses.
I will say that if one did not know his true character, one could easily make the mistake of considering Sebastian Sandford handsome. He possessed an arresting face, and when it was not covered by a curled and powdered wig, his hair was pale gold. He was tall, a fact emphasized by his high-heeled shoes with their silver bows. The rest of his clothing was as rich as his footwear. Tonight, he dressed in pale mauve silk and white velvet, all decorated with great lashings of lace and silver braid. Mary’s mischievous eyes made a thorough and obvious inspection of all these points as she toyed with the lace edging her own low neckline.
“You have not answered my question, Mr. Sandford.” I attempted to give Mary a warning glower, but I needn’t have bothered. Mary was not paying my discomfort the slightest bit of attention. “What are you doing here?”
Sebastian, in a belated concession to courtesy, moved his gaze from Mary’s countenance, and other highly visible attributes, back to me. “I have come for the drawing room, of course,” he said. “I was hoping I might see you there, Miss Fitzroy. In fact, I was hoping you’d accept this trifle from me when we did meet.” He held out the jar, which was elaborately painted porcelain with a gilded lid.
I did not take it. Mary gave me a look clearly meant to inquire whether I had lost my senses. “Poor Miss Fitzroy, she’s quite overcome with seeing you again, Mr. Sandford.” She helped herself to the jar and peeked inside. “Oh . . . how wonderful. Look what your admirer’s brought you, Peggy.”
Curiosity is a slave driver, and as Mary held out the jar to me, I could not help but glance inside, although I made sure to keep an expression of complete indifference on my face. Sebastian was already looking far too satisfied with himself. The jar contained some black, crumbling substance with a strong herbal perfume.
“It’s tea,” said Sebastian. “Have you tried it?”
“Of course,” I answered. This was even true. I’d drunk the stuff once or twice with several grand ladies. I confess I preferred chocolate or coffee, which was just as well. Tea was abominably expensive, and not part of the rations allowed a maid of honor in residence at the palace. When considered in combination with the gilded jar, Sebastian was indeed offering me a costly present. Its value might be best judged by the fact that Mary made no move to hand the jar to me, but did eye Sebastian with fresh interest.
I took the jar out of Mary’s hands and set it on the mantel. “You could have sent it up,” I said. “That is, after all, the expected form.”
“I could,” Sebastian admitted with a shrug that I think was supposed to be modest. “But when I arrived, I was told you would not be in attendance at the drawing room. I wanted to assure myself nothing was wrong.”
Which meant that either he had been wandering the halls or he had bribed someone to bring him here. I promised myself I would discover who had committed this outrage. He would be turned out. Possibly hanged. Slowly. In chains.
“You might have sent a note.”
Seeing that I remained uncharmed by his appearance, his flattery, or his gift, the mirth faded from Sebastian’s sharp face, and for a moment he actually looked abashed. “I did not think you would answer.”
“You were correct.” At this, Mary smothered a laugh, and I felt ready to strangle on my own impatience. Well, I felt ready to strangle something. “Mary, isn’t Her Royal Highness expecting you?”
“Not for another hour at least.” Mary’s tone said she hoped to spare me any undue concern. This was all the acknowledgment she gave me. Her attention remained fixed on Sebastian.
“Tell me, Mr. Sandford, how is it that you know our so-fascinating Peggy?”
“She has not told you?” Sebastian raised his brows, which, I noted, had been plucked as ruthlessly as any girl’s.
“Not a word.” Mary sidled closer to him and leaned in. “But then, she’s a great one for secrets.” She nodded vigorously.
Sebastian looked at me over the top of Mary’s dark head.
“You wouldn’t,” I breathed. Which was a mistake, because of course, Mary heard.
“Oh, now I must know.” Mary laid her hand on Sebastian’s arm. There was this way she had of tipping up her chin and lifting her brows that made her eyes grow to twice their normal size. The effect on gentlemen was extraordinary, and Mary knew it. “Please, Mr. Sandford,” she added, sucking in a breath and straightening her shoulders in case Sebastian had failed to take proper note of her finest, snow-white assets.
This once, however, the Bellenden Effect was for naught. Sebastian was not watching her. His gaze remained locked with mine. I have no notion of what he meant to communicate. For my part, I was sorely disappointed to find that, despite rumors to the contrary, looks could not kill. I assure my readers, I did throw heart and soul into the effort.
“I must apologize, Miss Bellenden,” said Sebastian slowly. “But this secret is not entirely mine.”
“I see.” To illustrate this fact, Mary looked ostentatiously from Sebastian to me, then back again. “Well. Isn’t this interesting?”
“Mary, it’s not what you think,” I told her. At the same time, I did not dare take my gaze from Sebastian. I did not want him to think he had disconcerted me.
“I’m sure it’s not, especially if you’re involved, Peggy.” Mary favored me with a bright smile and a quick pat on my shoulder. “But you’re right. I’m wanted downstairs, and you have your dinner to prepare for.” She slipped gracefully up to Sebastian, so close her hems all but brushed the tips of his shoes. “How delightful to have met you, Mr. Sandford. I do hope we’ll see each other again soon.” She curtsied deeply and held the pose.
Sebastian bowed. “I’m sure that we shall, Miss Bellenden.”
Mary straightened, presented us both with another knowing glance, trimmed by a fresh, delighted giggle, and skipped off. I let her go. My immediate priority was to quickly dispatch the man in front of me. This, I decided, called for the direct approach.
“Your audience has departed, Mr. Sandford. The farce is over. Why hav
e you really come here?”
Sebastian looked at the door, plainly expecting me to close it. I declined to move and folded my arms to emphasize my stationary status. I would not be so foolish as to shut myself up with this man, even though I knew Libby lurked somewhere in the background.
“I really did come for the drawing room,” said Sebastian. “My brother and my father say that as I’m to remain in England, I should make myself better known at court.”
“Remain?” The word all but choked me. “I thought the plan was to pack you off back to Barbados.”
Sebastian spread his hands, attempting to indicate ignorance and helplessness. “It may have been, but plans have changed.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long story. May I sit down?” Sebastian added hopefully.
Warning took hold inside me and squeezed several vital organs. “No, you may not sit,” I answered. “My maid is waiting to finish my toilette, and then I have my own business to attend to.” I stepped back, gesturing to show that the pathway to the door was free of all obstruction. “You have seen me. You can be satisfied that I am entirely well, and you have left your gift. You may now go.”
But Sebastian did not turn his footsteps toward the door. Instead, he advanced on me. My first instinct was to retreat, but I caught myself in time and held my ground. I would not let him see me afraid. I touched the jeweled pin that decorated the center of my stomacher—an item I’d requested my patron, Mr. Tinderflint, to commission especially for me—and for a moment silently dared Sebastian to come closer. I had been adding some most unmaidenly skills to my arsenal over the past months, and my carefully manicured fingers were itching for an excuse to unleash them on this particular visitor.
I don’t know if he read any of this in my narrowed gaze, but Sebastian did halt his advance while there was still a good two feet of space between us.
“We need to talk, Peggy,” he said in a low, urgent voice.
I looked at the young man in front of me, at his anxious face and melting blue eyes, and I forced myself to remember. I remembered the feeling of his hot, hard fingers as he shoved them under my skirts so he could pinch my thighs. I remembered the leer on his face as he raised himself up above where I lay pinned to the ground. I remembered how he laughed at my screams and my pleading. At least, he laughed until I jammed my fan into his throat. I made myself remember that moment as well.
“I have nothing to say to you, Mr. Sandford.”
Sebastian’s jaw worked itself back and forth. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw genuine worry in his bright, blue eyes. I told myself not to be ridiculous. There was nothing genuine about this man, and there never would be.
Knowing this as I did, his next words surprised me.
“This is my fault, and I do know it,” Sebastian said. “I have begun as badly as possible, again. But you will soon understand that we must talk. Send word for me when you are ready, and I will meet you, where and when you please.”
He bowed, this time perfunctorily, and left me standing there.
THREE
IN WHICH, AGAINST ALL EXPECTATIONS, AT LEAST A FEW PLANS UNFOLD AS HOPED.
Slowly, I closed the door. My heart knocked hard against my ribs. What on earth could Sebastian be playing at? What did he mean, I would understand that we must talk? We had nothing at all to say to each other.
I repeated this to myself and the closed door several times. At the same time, I looked at the porcelain jar on the mantel. It must hold a good pound of tea. My brain, which had been made mercenary by both my public and concealed duties, calculated that to be worth at least forty pounds sterling, not counting the value of the jar itself. As bribes went, it was both respectable and well considered.
“Friend of the family?” inquired Libby from the threshold of my closet. Of course she had stayed in there, where she could listen to every single word without fear of being noticed. I expected no less of her.
“Am I fit to be seen, Libby?” I asked by way of ignoring her far too personal question.
My maid narrowed her dark eyes, inspecting me like a horse at market. “You’ll do for tonight.”
“Good. Get down to the Color Court and keep watch for my uncle and his family.” With that, I snatched up the small purse from my desk and hurried out my apartment door as quickly as my constricting garments would allow.
Had we all still been in residence at Hampton Court Palace, I would have had space enough to host my dinner party in my own apartments. We might even have been warm. But as soon as autumn arrived, the royal family had transplanted themselves to the heart of London and settled beneath the turrets of St. James’s Palace. I was told this ungainly brick warren had originally been built by Henry VIII. That gentleman considered it to be a fitting home for his beloved, at the time, Anne Boleyn. If that was true, he thought her fitting home was a cramped, smoky, drafty, bewildering maze of dark corridors and dim, low-ceilinged rooms. The small salon that I had been allotted for my dinner was ten minutes’ walk, in fully rigged mantua and high heels, from my apartment, and that was without any wrong turnings.
Even a small court is a good-size village, and I was but one in a stream of richly dressed persons all hurrying to reach their designated places for the evening. I barely noticed who I passed. This neglect would cause me to be accused of snubbery later, but I could not tear my mind away from Sebastian and his abrupt return to my life.
Given the manner in which I’d left my uncle’s house and all that had happened since, it simply never occurred to me that anyone would want to enforce the betrothal contract that existed between my uncle and Sebastian’s father, Lord Augustus Sandford, Baron of Lynnfield. If I’d thought of it at all, I’d assumed that contract had been broken by my uncle’s failure to bring me to church. But now the horrible possibility that I had been wrong descended upon me. The betrothal might still be in effect. As an underage girl, I remained completely under the control of my nearest male relative, no matter where I might temporarily reside. I could, legally and properly, be dragged back to my uncle’s house. I could be given into marriage with a street sweeper or sold as an indenture to the Virginia Colony, just as he saw fit.
I will admit, given that my other choice was Sebastian, street sweepers and colonies had a certain appeal.
I told myself I must not panic. I was hardly alone or friendless. It was not possible Her Royal Highness would permit me to be removed from her service by so trivial a person as a lurking bridegroom. Besides, I had planned this evening well. If my personal charms failed to win my uncle over (a very probable outcome), I had laid out a second route by which I might retain my personal place and see my cousin, Olivia, again. It was admittedly riskier, because it hinged on the whims and generosity of a small girl. I sincerely hoped I would not have to depend on either, but given the way the evening had gone thus far, I felt very glad I’d planned for the contingency.
The farther I went down those dark and busy corridors, the deeper the fear piled around my thoughts. This pessimism readily infected the whole of my mind, causing it to conjure a world of evils waiting for me. Despite Libby’s assurances, I was positive the fire had not been lit and the salon was stone cold—or perhaps the fire had been lit but the chimney did not draw, so smoke was filling the room. Perhaps the servants I had been promised had not arrived to lay the table. If those servants had arrived, they might well have stolen the silver spoons and gone to the tavern. If they had not stolen the spoons, it was only because they had stolen the wine and were lounging about on the chairs, drunk as lords, which, I had reason to know, was very drunk indeed.
So it was that by the time I arrived at the correct door, my hand actually trembled as I reached forward to push it open.
The fragrance of tallow and wax laced with an acrid hint of coal wafted out to greet me. I stepped into a plain, warm, well-lit chamber. A tapestry-covered table took up much of the space and was fully laid out. The wine bottles with their silver tags indicating variety and vintage s
tood in ordered rows on the sideboard. Two youths with serious faces and neat green coats stood sentry on either side.
So powerful was my relief, I failed to notice they were not alone in the room. Then someone cleared his throat.
I jumped. I might have screeched. I definitely turned, poised, perhaps, to run. But then my bewildered eyes made out that it was Matthew Reade who rose from a stool by the fire.
“Hello, Peggy,” he said. “I thought you could use the sight of a friendly face.”
He spread his arms wide, and I rushed into them.
Matthew’s embrace folded around me and I felt, as I always did, that here I had come home at last. Storm wrack, tempest, flood, revolution, all might come crashing down and none of it matter. As long as Matthew held me, I was safe. I tipped my head up so I could feast my gaze on the brilliance of his smile and his shining gray eyes. At that moment, I hated my cosmetics with a fury hot enough to burn the palace down. My face, neck, and any exposed portion of bosom had been slathered with enough paint to cover a good-size canvas and glued with patches of assorted shape, color, and symbolic significance. It might be all well and good to allow the world a peep at one’s actual hair, but the Great Rules of Fashion would never be bent enough to permit one to show her actual face. The truth was, I spent most of my glittering evenings surrounded by the powerful and the beautiful, and trying not to expire from the itching.
But far worse than any itch was the fact that while I had my court face on, I couldn’t indulge in what had become one of the chief joys of my existence—kissing Matthew. I had to settle for brushing my fingertips along the corners of his mouth and watching his smile broaden.
“Thank you,” I breathed. Matthew generally did not wear a wig. One lock of dark copper hair had escaped his short queue to trail along his temple. I fingered that loose tendril of hair and tucked it back behind his ear, slowly, carefully, taking an extra moment to smooth it into place just for the delight of being able to touch him.