by Jane Feather
Serena smiled. “And did Mr. Sutton give it to him?”
Abigail looked up at her. “If I would have him.”
Serena felt a first niggling of alarm. Surely Abigail hadn’t turned Jonas down? “And will you?” she pressed, wondering why the girl was so hesitant about something that should have had her jumping over the moon.
“I said I would.” It sounded to Serena more like a confession than a joyous affirmation.
“That’s wonderful,” she said warmly, taking Abigail’s hands in hers, noticing how cold they were as she leaned in to kiss her. “I wish you both very happy.”
“Ah, Abigail has told you her news, I see, Lady Serena.” Marianne gave a complacent little nod. “Yes, she is to become Mrs. Jonas Wedgwood. Mr. Sutton and Mr. Wedgwood are at this moment discussing settlements.”
“Well, that’s a cause for celebration,” Sebastian declared. “Mr. Wedgwood is a very lucky man. But I think he knows that,” he added with a smile.
“Will you be married in London?” Serena asked, still trying to puzzle out Abigail’s less than joyous expression.
“No, I don’t think so. It will be a considerable event in our County society,” Marianne stated. “’Tis only right and proper that our friends and Mr. Sutton’s business associates in Stoke-on-Trent are invited to share our joy.”
A faint shudder seemed to pass through Abigail, and Serena became even more concerned. “You seem a little glum, Abigail, on such a joyful morning,” she murmured. “You haven’t quarreled with Jonas yet, have you?”
Abigail colored deeply and spoke in an agitated undertone, “No … no, of course not. How could I? He’s the most wonderful person.”
“Wedding nerves, then,” Serena said with a placidity she didn’t feel.
The arrival of William and Jonas put an end to the possibility of further probing. Jonas came instantly to Abigail, taking her hands and kissing them before saying with a hasty bow, “Oh, forgive me, Lady Serena. Good morning, ma’am.”
“Good morning, Mr. Wedgwood.” She smiled at him. “I understand congratulations are in order.”
“Miss Sutton has agreed to make me the happiest man in the world,” Jonas stated.
Abigail suddenly rose to her feet. “Please, I must ask you to forgive me … Mama, may I be excused? I have the headache … it pains me most dreadfully.”
“Oh, my poor child … too much excitement, I’m sure. Go and lie down, and I will send Matty with lavender water and sal volatile. I thought you were looking a little peaky.” Marianne got to her feet in a flurry of silk. “Lady Serena, Mr. Sullivan, please excuse me. I must take care of Abigail.”
“Oh, my poor darling.” Jonas looked stricken as his future mother-in-law hustled his bride-to-be out of the parlor.
“Oh, never you mind, young man. She’ll be right as rain in no time. Mrs. Sutton is right … too much excitement. Women are susceptible to the megrims, as you’ll discover for yourself.” William sounded unperturbed by his daughter’s sudden frailty.
“We must be going, Mr. Sutton.” Serena stood up in her turn, glancing at Sebastian, who nodded. “Jonas, d’you care to walk with us?”
Jonas recollected himself. He knew Mr. Sutton was anxious to get back to his work, and he couldn’t sit around the parlor on his own. “Yes … thank you, I would. As far as the square, at least.”
William made no attempt to detain them, and when the front door had closed upon them, he returned to his library with something akin to relief.
“My poor darling,” Jonas lamented again as they began to walk up the blustery street. “I wonder what could have overset her so suddenly. She was so happy last evening.” He glanced over his shoulder, as if hoping to see his betrothed standing on the steps watching him out of sight, as she had done the previous evening.
“Women suffer from headaches, Jonas,” Serena informed him plainly. “There’s no need to take them too seriously. Offer sympathy and peace and quiet, and all will be well.”
“Indeed, ’tis good advice,” Sebastian said with a chuckle. “Lady Serena is an expert on all matters female.”
Serena merely smiled, but the smile hid a degree of consternation. A headache would explain Abigail’s listlessness and pallor, but she had the sense that something more was troubling the girl. She was usually so open and bubbly, never seemed to have a care in the world, and yet this morning, she had struck Serena as positively careworn.
Jonas left them in Berkeley Square, and Sebastian looked quizzically at his wife. “Shall we go home, madam wife?”
“To Stratton Street?”
“’Tis the only home we have at present.”
Serena hesitated. There was nothing she wanted to do more, but reluctantly, she shook her head. “Not now. Something’s going on with my stepfather, and I need to discover what.” She saw the black cloud descend on his brow and said swiftly, “I’ve learned over the years, my love, that to keep one step ahead of him, I have to be forewarned as far as possible. If he’s planning something, I have to be watching.”
“Dear God, why can’t the damn Suttons pack up their daughter and go back where they came from?” Sebastian muttered. “Abigail has a husband in the wings. What’s to keep them here?”
“It only happened yesterday, Sebastian,” Serena pointed out to him. “It takes time to pack up a household and move a hundred miles. Besides …” And then she let the sentence fade.
But Sebastian wasn’t having any of it. “Besides what?”
“Oh, just that when the general’s plans don’t work out, he becomes unpredictable. If he thinks Abigail is going to slip away from him, there’s no knowing what he’ll do.”
“What can he possibly do?” Sebastian exclaimed. “Abigail is as good as wedded and bedded.”
“Not quite.” She stepped back from him, regarding him gravely. “’Tis the endgame now, Sebastian. I’ve played it thus far, I must play it to the end. Otherwise, all the past sacrifices have been in vain.”
He couldn’t argue with that, much as he wished to. “Go, then. But you are not to make a move without informing me, is that understood, Serena?”
Serena understood how hard it was for him to let her go without him. She would have felt the same way herself if their positions were reversed. She said softly, “Husband, I promise.”
He still didn’t smile, but his eyes became less stern. “I trust you.” He raised her gloved hand to his lips. “Send to me when we can meet again.”
She nodded. Sebastian called over a chair and watched the chairmen trot off in the direction of Pickering Place. He wanted to throw something, run Heyward through with his sword, shoot a hole in his heart, snatch up Serena, and carry her as far from there as he could get. And he couldn’t because she wouldn’t let him.
Serena’s chair stopped outside the house, and she hurried up to the front door. Flanagan opened it at her knock. “A pleasant visit, Lady Serena?”
“Yes, thank you.” She glanced significantly to the library door. It was firmly shut. She raised an interrogative eyebrow. “Did you hear anything?”
“Just some discussion about a postchaise, tolls, and changes of horses at posthouses. I inferred that the gentleman in question had been charged by Sir George to make arrangements for a considerable journey.”
Serena frowned. Not another midnight flit, surely? “You couldn’t gather where?”
Flanagan shook his head. “I’m afraid not, ma’am. Although there was some mention of Finchley Common, I’m sure.”
“A journey to the north, then?” Serena mused. Maybe he thought to continue his pursuit of Miss Sutton into her own home territory. But that wasn’t the general’s style. He liked to be on his own turf. “Thank you, Flanagan. Let me know if you hear or remember anything else.”
“Of course, Lady Serena.”
“I’ll be in my parlor.” She made for the stairs, drawing off her gloves. The library door opened behind her.
“Ah, there you are. I need a word with you.”
She turned, her foot on the bottom step, as her stepfather spoke. “Yes, sir?”
“In here.” He turned back to the library.
Serena retraced her steps and entered the library. The general was standing in front of the fire, the usual brandy goblet in his hand. He said without preamble, “You’ll have to run the house yourself for a few days. I am going away for a while.”
Serena caught her breath, torn between a surge of pleasure at the prospect of his absence and an equally strong presentiment that this absence could only bode ill. “May I ask where to, sir?”
“No,” he stated. “You may not. If you need to close one of the salons, then do so. I don’t expect to be gone above a week.”
Postchaise, change of teams, tolls. A long journey to the north.
“When do you leave?” she asked, neither her voice nor her expression showing so much as a hint of surprise at his announcement.
“This afternoon.” He sipped his brandy and shooed at her with the fingers of his free hand. “That’s all. You may go.”
She sketched a mock curtsy and retreated to the hall. Thoughtfully, she made her way upstairs to her parlor.
Abigail made her plans very carefully. Lying in her darkened bedchamber, a damp cloth soaked in lavender water on her brow, the bottle of smelling salts in her hand, she had moaned her desire to be left to sleep, and the hovering had finally ceased, and her mother and Matty had left her to herself.
It was close to one o’clock. She had to be at the rendezvous by four o’clock. If she left without leaving a note of explanation, her parents would be beside themselves. She couldn’t let that happen.
They wouldn’t worry, though, if she said she was spending the evening with Lady Serena, and then the evening could become the night without too much added explanation. Would Lady Serena agree to lie for her?
Abigail sat up, casting aside the lavender cloth from her forehead. She swung her legs off the bed and began to pace the chamber, frowning in thought. Could she trust Lady Serena? There was no one else. She wouldn’t tell her the real reason, of course. And of course, she would be shocked at Abigail’s lack of conduct in wanting to spend the night away from home, but she wouldn’t betray her. The more Abigail thought about it, the more convinced she became that the older woman wouldn’t betray her. Lady Serena was so sophisticated, so experienced in the ways of Society.
She sat down at her little walnut secretaire and wrote a hasty note, sealed and addressed it, and rang for Matty.
“Are you feelin’ better, miss?” the maid asked as she came into the still dimly lit chamber.
“A little, thank you. But I need you to run an errand for me. Would you take this note to Lady Serena Carmichael in Pickering Place?”
Matty took the sealed note. “Right away, ma’am?”
“Yes, immediately. ’Tis urgent.”
Matty dropped a curtsy and hurried away. Abigail lay down upon her bed again. Her head was beginning to ache in earnest.
Serena’s reflections were disturbed by a footman with a tray. “Cook sent this up for you, m’lady. Thought you might like a little something since ’tis well past noon.”
“Oh, thank you, Bill, and thank Cook for me.” She examined the contents of the tray, aware that she was actually quite hungry. A mushroom tart, bread, cheese, and a compote of apples and pears.
She took the tray and sat by the fire, her brain working overtime as she ate. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Sir George was planning this sudden journey up north with fast horses. With frequent changes and no stops of his own, he could be in the Potteries by tomorrow morning. But what was he going to do up there? The Suttons were not leaving London just yet.
She set aside the tray, leaned back in her chair, and for a moment forgot Abigail and the general in the heady prospect of a week’s freedom. She didn’t really need to open the house in the evenings at all, although the general would notice the lack of receipts soon enough on his return. But by then, maybe she would be free and clear.
A knock at the door hauled her out of her pleasant trancelike reverie. Flanagan came in with a letter on a tray. “This just arrived, Lady Serena. The young person said it was urgent.”
“Thank you, Flanagan.” She took the letter, recognizing the writing. Abigail had written her one or two breathless little notes in the past. But there had been nothing urgent about those. She slit the wafer with her thumbnail and opened the sheet.
Dear Lady Serena, please don’t think badly of me, but please … please … could you say that I came to see you at four o’clock and you invited me to spend the evening with you, and later please send a note to my mother saying that I am not feeling well and you feel it would be better if I spend the night with you? I know this is a lot to ask, but please will you do this for me? ’Tis a matter of life and death. I will be everlastingly in your debt. Your grateful Abigail.
Sweet heaven, Serena thought. She glanced up at the clock on the mantel; it was just after two. After a moment’s reflection, she went to her secretaire and wrote a brief note to Abigail. I won’t fail you. S. She rang for Flanagan and asked him to have it delivered immediately. “Oh, and summon me a hackney, will you?”
“At once, Lady Serena.”
She put on her pelisse and hurried downstairs. The library door was still closed. Pulling on her gloves, she hurried to the street and climbed into the waiting hackney, telling the jarvey, “Stratton Street, please.”
If Sebastian wasn’t home, that would put the cat among the pigeons. She’d have to act on her own, and he would not like that one bit.
Chapter Twenty-one
Peregrine was on the point of leaving the house when the doorknocker sounded. He opened the door and regarded the visitor in vague surprise. Sebastian had confided to his brother that for reasons of her own, Serena wouldn’t be moving under his roof for a few weeks. Perry had asked no questions. If Sebastian was content with the strange situation, then who was he to quibble? There was nothing ordinary about the marriage in the first place.
“Lady Serena Sullivan.” He greeted her with a bow. “Come in. I’m afraid your husband is not here, but if you’d like to wait by the fire…?” He moved to open the door to the parlor, then stopped, seeing the frown on Serena’s face. “Is something the matter, Serena?”
“Yes, in a word,” she said bluntly. “And the devil of if is that I promised Sebastian I wouldn’t do anything without letting him know, but if he’s not here, I’ll have to, and he won’t be happy about it.”
Peregrine wrinkled his brow. “Can I help? We do sometimes substitute for each other.”
She gave him a wan smile. “Thank you, but I don’t think it will serve on this occasion. Damn.” She drummed her fingers on the pier table beside her. “I wonder how long he’ll be.”
“We could try to find him?” Perry suggested. “I could hazard a guess about where he might be.”
Serena thought for only a moment before making up her mind. “Let’s go.” She turned back to the door.
“By all means,” Peregrine said amiably. “I suggest we try Whites first. If he’s not there someone may know where he is.” He offered Serena his arm.
They walked briskly to Whites coffee house. “I’ll just put my head around the door,” Peregrine said, adding apologetically, “You can’t really go in yourself.”
“No, that would never do,” Serena agreed drily. “I’ll wait here.”
“I’ll only be a minute.” Peregrine stepped into the noisy room, peering through the fog emanating as much from gentlemen’s pipes as from the smoking fire. He could see no sign of his twin, but a trio of gentlemen gathered at one of the long trestle tables called a greeting.
Peregrine pushed through the crowd towards them. “Anyone seen Sebastian?”
“He was in a while ago,” one of the men told him, “but I haven’t seen him since.”
“I think he said he was going to Albemarle Street for a bout with Maître Jerome,” one of his companio
ns offered. “Something about a new pass with the épée.”
“My thanks. I’ll try him there.” Perry raised a hand in farewell and threaded his way back outside, where Serena was pacing restlessly. “Albemarle Street,” he said, offering his arm again.
“What’s there?”
“Maître Albert’s fencing salon. He has a new assistant who’s a magician with the épée, I’ve heard. Apparently, Seb has gone for a lesson.”
A lesson that might stand him in good stead, Serena reflected grimly. “What’s the time, Perry?”
He looked at his fob watch on his waistcoat. “Close to three-thirty.”
Serena set her lips and quickened her step. If Sebastian was not at the fencing salon, then she would have to act alone, but she hadn’t any real idea what she could do alone. Maybe she would need to recruit Peregrine after all.
They reached Albemarle Street in ten minutes of swift walking. Peregrine held the door to Number 7 for her and followed her into the narrow hallway. He started immediately up the narrow flight of stairs, and Serena followed him. On the landing above, Peregrine opened the set of double doors, and Serena stepped into a long, mirror-lined room where two men in shirt sleeves and stockinged feet were fencing with foiled weapons.
Peregrine shushed her with an imperative hand just as she was about to speak, and she forced herself to wait as the tense exchange of passes continued, fascinated despite her anxiety at the skill of the two duelers. It seemed to her that Sebastian was every bit as accomplished as the maître. But then the other man slipped his foil under his opponent’s, and Sebastian stepped back, raising his épée. “Touché, Maître. A masterly stroke.”
He glanced towards the door, and his expression changed, his eyes darkening. “Serena … what is it?” He crossed the room. “What’s happened … Perry?”
“I don’t know,” his twin said. “But your wife needed to see you urgently.”
“We don’t have much time, Sebastian.”
“To do what?” he asked quietly.