by Jane Feather
The family had to pay. He had visited as much disgrace upon them as he could while making his fortune and, indeed, in the manner in which he had made that fortune. But his final revenge was sweet indeed. The stiff-necked moralists of the Blackwater clan would be obliged to take to their collective bosom the disreputable brides of the Blackwater sons. And on his death, his little literary masterpiece would be published, a scandalous pamphlet that would shock and titillate the polite world. Bradley’s only regret was that he would not be there to see it. His chances of watching from a roseate cloud in heaven were fairly minimal, he reflected with a twisted grin. And he wasn’t sure how clear a view of the world he had left would be possible from the fiery depths of Lucifer’s domain.
The following morning, Serena was discussing the supper menus with the cook in the small parlor she had appropriated as her own sitting room when Flanagan came in.
“A Mrs. Sutton and Miss Sutton wish to know if you are at home, my lady.”
“Oh …” Serena frowned. She hadn’t expected them to call so soon. “Yes, of course, Flanagan. Show them up … I think we’ve covered everything for this evening, Mrs. Drake.”
“Aye, reckon so, Lady Serena. Them cold roast partridges always go down a treat.”
Serena smiled a vague acknowledgment, reflecting that it was always the most expensive delicacies that disappeared first from the supper tables. She got up from the secretaire and went to poke the fire into a more vigorous burn. The day was cloudy, with a chill breeze that needled its way into the room through an ill-fitting window frame. She made a mental note to tell Flanagan. The caretaker ought to be able to plug the gap with something before winter set in.
She straightened, setting aside the poker, as the door opened and Flanagan announced her visitors. “Mrs. Sutton … Abigail, my dear … how good of you to call. Flanagan, would you bring coffee?”
“Right away, my lady.” He backed out as the two ladies came in, Mrs. Sutton’s curious gaze already sweeping the room.
“My dear Lady Serena, what a charming room … a charming house altogether,” she declared. “Much grander than our little lodging on Bruton Street.”
“Your house is delightful, Mrs. Sutton, and a very good address. Please, sit down.” She indicated a sofa and took a seat opposite. “You’ve had no more unpleasant adventures, I trust, Abigail.”
Abigail shook her head. “Oh, no, not at all. Indeed, it was not very serious, I was foolishly alarmed, I think. Mama and I went shopping this morning in Piccadilly, and it all seemed so busy and ordinary I couldn’t imagine why I had been so frightened. But Mr. Sullivan was so very gallant. I shall always be grateful to him.” She sighed a little. “I think, and Mama thinks so, too, that I should write him a note to thank him for his kindness. Do you think I should, Lady Serena?”
“If you and your mama feel it would be the right thing to do, then of course, you should … thank you, Flanagan … there’s no need to serve it, I’ll pour.” Serena nodded to the butler as he set the coffee tray on the table in front of her.
“Unfortunately, he didn’t leave his card, so I don’t have an address to write to,” Abigail said. “Would you know how to get in touch with him?”
“I’m sure I have his card somewhere,” Serena said vaguely. It would look strange for a single woman to know by heart the address of a single man who was not related to her. “I’ll look for it.” She poured coffee, passed the cups. “What plans do you have for the rest of the day?”
“Well, that’s why we came to call,” Abigail said excitedly. “We wanted to ask you something very important.”
“Now, Abigail, let me explain … there’s no need to rattle on like that, whatever will Lady Serena think.” Her mother tapped her knee with her closed fan, and Abigail subsided.
Serena smiled. “Indeed, ma’am, I think nothing of it. ’Tis no wonder Abigail is excited, being in London for the first time. There is so much to see. The lions in the Exchange, the Tower of London, Vauxhall, and Ranelagh Gardens, just as a start.”
“Yes, and we shall do all of those things in due course,” Mrs. Sutton declared. “But I really wished to ask you, Lady Serena, if you would help me give a dinner party, a small entertainment, very select.”
Serena looked surprised. “Help you, ma’am. How?”
“With the guests,” Abigail burst in. “You see, we don’t really know any of the right kind of people, except you and the general, of course. And I suppose it could be said that we are acquainted with Mr. Sullivan now. He drank ale with Papa … but that is the difficulty, because we don’t know how to invite him if we don’t know where he lives, and we must have some proper guests for him. Papa says he should come and take his mutton with us at any time and not stand on ceremony, but I don’t think that’s the way people in London do things.” She paused for breath.
“Well, that is the long and the short of it, Lady Serena,” her mother said, looking reprovingly at her daughter. “For all that the child rattles on so, it is our errand in a nutshell. If you would invite your own friends to dinner at our house, we would start the social ball rolling for Abigail’s come-out.”
“I see.” Serena sipped her coffee. It was a most unusual request, quite extraordinary, in fact, but she could see the sense in it. In fact, it rather amused her. It would be a pleasant distraction from the kind of entertaining she was accustomed to doing in Pickering Place.
“Your friends will find nothing to complain of in my hospitality,” Mrs. Sutton said, seeing Serena’s hesitation. “I set as fine a table as anyone, though I say it myself. And Mr. Sutton knows his wine, even though he’s a plain man, with no nonsense about him. He knows what’s what, and he’ll do anything to launch his daughter … no expense will be spared, I can promise you.”
“Indeed, ma’am, I wouldn’t give such a consideration a second thought,” Serena protested. “And I’m sure I could think of some friends of mine who would be delighted to attend such a party. I need a little time to consider.” While Serena herself would never be accepted in the drawing rooms of London’s ton, the young men and women who frequented the gaming salons at Pickering Place would probably be willing to accept a social invitation from her, even if their parents would not.
“Well, I’m sure you can find some congenial company for Mr. Sullivan,” Marianne said with a little affirming nod. “And I’m just as sure we can’t. And we would like to thank him for the service he did Abigail. So tell me when you’d like to invite your friends, and I’ll set everything in train. We should have a little music … or maybe dancing?” Her eyes gleamed at the thought. “Just a few couples … nothing big. What d’you think of that, Lady Serena? Will that be a fine party for you young people?”
“None finer,” Serena agreed, somewhat breathless at the speed with which Mrs. Sutton had moved from a small, intimate dinner to a full-scale dance. “I think, though, that it might be wise to have just a few couples for dinner to start with, just as a means of getting established, you understand.”
Abigail looked disappointed, but her mother immediately nodded. “Well, you would know best, Lady Serena. You know best how matters are conducted in Society. I’ll leave it all to you. You just tell me when and whom to invite, and I’ll make it happen.” She set down her coffee cup. “Now, we mustn’t intrude on your time any longer. Come, Abigail. We have an appointment with the dressmaker for a fitting. Do you know Madame Betty, Lady Serena? I have it on the best authority that she is the most notable dressmaker to the quality.”
“I’m sure she is,” Serena murmured, never having heard of the seamstress before. Her own clothes were made by the same woman who had made her mother’s before her. A quiet Frenchwoman of impeccable taste, who kept her clientele to a select few.
The door to the parlor suddenly opened with undue vigor. “How delightful … Mrs. Sutton and the entrancing Miss Sutton.” The general entered, all smiles, rubbing his hands with pleasure. “I could hardly credit it when Flanagan told me of your arrival. Y
ou do us too much honor, ma’am, indeed you do, to call upon us so quickly after your return to England.”
“Lady Serena was kind enough to call upon us just yesterday, General.” Marianne gave the general her hand with a bobbed curtsy. He bowed deeply, lifting her hand to his lips, before turning to Abigail. “So, Miss Sutton, how are you enjoying town? Comes up to expectations, I trust. You do look most charming this morning. Fresh as a daisy.”
Abigail blushed to the roots of her hair and curtsied low. “You are too kind, sir … too kind,” she murmured.
“I speak only truth, my dear. Only truth. And is Mr. Sutton not with you?” Heyward looked around as if expecting to see the ebullient corpulence of the redoubtable William popping up from behind the sofa.
“Mr. Sutton had business this morning, but I am charged with a most particular request, General.” Marianne fluttered her fan.
“Anything, my dear, ma’am. Any service I can render any of you, I should be honored. Pray, won’t you be seated again?” He moved a chair forward for her, and Marianne sat down with another flutter of her fan.
Serena took a seat on the sofa and gestured to Abigail that she should sit beside her, effectively ensuring that the general would have to take a chair on his own. Abigail gave her a grateful smile and accepted the invitation. The general had a disconcerting habit of patting her knee, her hand, even her upper arm if he was sitting close beside her. It was a familiarity not practiced in Stoke-on-Trent Society; indeed, ladies and gentlemen in her experience hitherto did not usually sit beside each other in the confined space of a sofa, unless they were betrothed or related in some way.
“So, how can I be of service, dear ma’am?” The general leaned forward with flattering attention.
“It is not so much for me, sir,” Marianne protested. “But for Mr. Sutton. He is in some difficulty about setting up his stable … unfamiliar with the way matters go on at Tattersalls, for instance.”
“Oh, I should be delighted to assist Mr. Sutton,” the general assured her. “Indeed, I am known to be a very fair judge of horseflesh. I’m sure I can advise your husband to good purpose.”
“Oh, I don’t believe my husband needs advice on the horses themselves,” Marianne made haste to assure him. “Indeed, sir, he prides himself on his stables at home. His stud is known the length and breadth of the County, and farmers and gentry alike bring their mares to stud at Bellingham Grove. I doubt there’s another man in the country who could best his judgment on horseflesh.”
Serena hid a smile at this masterly but unintentional snub. She could see that her stepfather was distinctly put out, but he could only swallow his chagrin.
He rose rather abruptly to his feet, saying gruffly, “Well, as to that, ma’am, who’s to say? I should be happy to be of service to Mr. Sutton in any way he wishes. He should call upon me. I am generally at home in the mornings. Now, I bid you good day, ma’am … Miss Sutton.” He bowed and marched in soldierly fashion from the parlor.
Marianne and Abigail took their leave almost immediately, leaving Serena to savor the memory of her stepfather for once put out of countenance. And to wonder at the extraordinary request made of herself. To invite her own friends to be guests of someone else was most peculiar.
She was, however, perfectly happy to help with Abigail’s social debut, at least as far as she was able. The highest echelons of Society were as much beyond her as they were beyond the Suttons, although the Suttons didn’t know that. As far as they were concerned, General Heyward and Lady Serena were impeccable members of Society, and that was how it must remain until Abigail was safe from the general’s clutches. She could expose herself and the general for the charlatans they were, of course, but from what she’d seen of Mr. Sutton, his reaction to that would be to sweep his wife and daughter back to the Midlands without ado. And Serena could see no reason Abigail should be deprived of her debut and the opportunity to make a good marriage just because Heyward was on the prowl. Serena would forestall him somehow, and it would give her enormous pleasure to do so.
Of course, once the highest echelons of Society would not have been beyond her. But there was no point dwelling on the happy times before her mother’s remarriage.
Resolutely, Serena put memories of the past behind her. They only depressed her and made her present existence even harder to endure. At least, her mother had been spared the worst. Life with her second husband had been bad enough, but she had not experienced the worst degradations. Serena could take some measure of comfort in that.
She turned her thoughts down another rather interesting path. Both Mrs. Sutton and Abigail seemed very keen on advancing their acquaintance with the Honorable Sebastian Sullivan. Could they have set their sights there? It was an intriguing idea but surely impossible. Sebastian would never consider such a misalliance. He was by no means a high stickler for convention, but there were some things a man of his lineage just did not do.
Chapter Five
“No, this won’t do. Help me take this off, Bridget.” Serena regarded her image in the glass with a frown of distaste. She had liked the lavender silk sacque gown when she had first put it on, it still flowed in graceful folds around her tall, slender figure, but now the color didn’t seem right. It seemed to make her look sallow, and where it ordinarily accentuated the color of her eyes, it seemed this morning to make them appear dull.
Her maid helped her out of the gown, hanging it up again in the armoire. “Which will you wear, then, my lady?”
Serena leaned over Bridget’s shoulder to flick through the contents of the armoire. Even when the general had less than two pennies to rub together, Serena’s wardrobe was always at the forefront of fashion. It was considered a necessary business expense.
“The green and white muslin over the green satin petticoat,” she decided at last, casting a glance at the clock on the mantel. It was already eleven o’clock, and her rendezvous with Sebastian was at noon.
It was quite a simple gown as prevailing fashion went, the sleeves banded in dark green velvet at the elbow, delicate falls of lace ending just above her wrists. The pale muslin overskirt opened over a dramatic dark green silk underskirt. The décolletage was edged with a deep lace collar, and a dainty white fichu tied just above her breasts gave the impression of modesty.
She surveyed her reflection anew, eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly. It would have to do.
“Will you wear the dark green cloth mantle, my lady? It’s quite chilly out, and it would look very well with the gown,” Bridget suggested rather tentatively.
Serena turned and smiled. “Oh, forgive me, Bridget. I’m being a miserable, irritable cat this morning. I didn’t sleep well. Yes, the green mantle will be perfect.” She hadn’t slept well, but then, she often didn’t these days. It had nothing to do with the upcoming meeting with Sebastian, or so she told herself.
The maid draped the short, hooded cloak over her shoulders, fastened the jet button at the throat, and handed Serena her dark green kidskin gloves, a perfect match for her heeled shoes. “You look beautiful, Lady Serena.” Her eyes widened with admiration.
“And you’re very sweet to say so.” Serena gave the young girl a kiss. “If General Heyward asks for me, tell him I will be back later this afternoon.”
“Should I tell him where you’re going, ma’am?”
“How could you, my dear? You don’t know,” Serena said with a smile. “Would you have a bath prepared for me this evening, before dinner? And I will wear the ivory silk.”
“Yes, my lady.” Bridget curtsied as Serena hurried from the room.
She walked quickly to St. James’s Place, where Margaret’s footman opened the door at her knock. “Mrs. Standish told us to expect you, Lady Serena. Refreshments will be served to you and your guest when you wish for it.” He took Serena’s mantle and gloves as he spoke, then walked ahead of her upstairs to Margaret’s parlor.
The room was immediately welcoming. A fire burned in the grate; decanters of sherry, madeira, a
nd claret were arrayed on the sideboard; fresh flowers bloomed on windowsills and side tables; fresh candles only awaited flint and tinder.
Serena looked around appreciatively but couldn’t help the wry thought that it was a veritable love nest, exactly as Margaret intended it to be. In Margaret’s eyes, a rendezvous was a rendezvous, after all, and anything could happen. But then, she didn’t know the history behind this meeting.
Serena wondered for a moment if Sebastian would get the wrong idea but quickly dismissed the thought. He was still far too hurt and angry for that. Her cruel-to-be-kind strategy had certainly worked, she reflected, thinking of the coldness in his voice, the flicker of contempt in his eye. He had requested this meeting to clear the ground sufficiently for them to meet with a convincing semblance of civility in public if and when it happened. And she was perfectly happy with that.
“Should I bring up your guest as soon as he arrives, Lady Serena, or announce him first?” Margaret Standish’s butler knew his job well.
“You may bring up the Honorable Sebastian Sullivan as soon as he arrives, Horace. Thank you.”
She went to the window as the door closed on the man and looked down at the street. From here, she would see Sebastian as he turned the corner of the square. She felt unaccountably nervous and found herself twitching at the curtains, moving around the room, straightening perfectly aligned cushions, adjusting the arrangements of the flowers in the vases. It was close to noon, ten more minutes. Sebastian would be punctual. He was nothing if not courteous.
Precisely at two minutes to noon, Sebastian rounded the corner exactly as she’d predicted. He was on horseback, in buckskin breeches and a dark wool coat, a brilliant scarlet plume in his silver-laced bicorne hat. Her heart turned over. How many times in the old days had he come to her like this, while she waited in the little room above the taproom of the inn on King Street, all impatient anticipation for his arrival? For a moment, as she watched him dismount beneath the window, she could almost imagine she was back in that halcyon past … that in a moment, she would hear his feet on the stairs, racing to be with her. He would fling open the door as he had so often done and be beside her with two long, quick strides, catching her up into his arms, his mouth on hers in a long kiss that would seem to draw her very soul from her body.