Читать книгу Scoundrel in the Regency Ballroom: The Rake and the Heiress / Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 10

His lips were gentle, pulling her bottom lip between his own, moulding his mouth to hers, delicately flicking her mouth open with his tongue. Their bodies nestled, thigh to thigh, chest to chest. The buttons from his coat dug into her through the thin fabric of her dress. Still Nicholas teased, a determinedly slow onslaught on her mouth that licked and sipped and kissed with seemingly no intent but to tantalise.

She was suffused with a warm glow. A hotter flame flickered low in her abdomen, and yet she shivered too, goose bumps rising on her neck, her waist, her arms, everywhere their bodies touched. So different. So lovely. Unfurling.

His breath was warm on her cheek. She wanted to melt into him. To drink deeper of him. To feel more of him. Instinctively she returned his kiss, relishing the myriad of sensations flooding her senses, blocking out all thought, building so slowly from warmth to heat that she hardly registered the change in temperature, the intensifying ache becoming a need for more.

Nicholas’s hold on her tightened. The pressure of his mouth increased. His tongue touched hers, or hers touched his, and everything changed. He pulled her so close that even through their clothing there could be no mistaking his arousal. His hand left her waist, trailing lower, gripping the soft flesh of her thigh, cupping and moulding the rounded flesh of her bottom. A throbbing pulse inside her responded to his hardness. Heat sparked.

His mouth became demanding. His tongue penetrated deep, tangling with hers, his lips no longer gentle, no longer sipping, but drinking, driving her towards a place hotter and wilder than any she had been before. She was trembling. Would have fallen were it not for the strength of his grip on her. ‘Nicholas,’ she said, though what she meant she had no idea. Her voice sounded ragged.

He released her abruptly, breathing heavily, his lids hooded over eyes that were almost black with desire. Serena slumped down on to the bench, her head swirling.

‘If I’d known the response I’d get I would have waited until we were indoors,’ Nicholas said with a grim attempt at humour, taken aback by the strength of passion that had erupted between them.

‘You said you were going to kiss me, not ravish me,’ Serena flashed in return, desperately struggling for a modicum of composure. Just a kiss! Well, now she knew there was no such thing!

Nicholas turned away, taking his time to adjust his disarrayed neckcloth, allowing himself to be distracted by this small task in order to give them both time to compose themselves. He had intended no more than a teasing kiss, something to test the waters. That they had plunged immediately into the depths was most unsettling.

Serena sat on the damp wood of the seat, wrestling with the tangled strings of her bonnet. Desire and heat warred with shame and guilt as she realised what she had done. What must he think of her? What was she to think of herself? For even as she sat here, trying to compose herself, she was distracted by an unfulfilled yearning for more. She barely recognised herself. Perhaps she had become infected by Nicholas’s spirit of recklessness.

But it was done now, and she could not regret it. She would put it down to experience—at least, she would at some point, when she was gone from here, somewhere far from this man’s disturbing, bewildering presence. In the meantime the best thing she could do was protect her dignity. She was damned if she would let Nicholas Lytton see how easily his kisses overwhelmed her. Serena straightened her shawl and smoothed a wrinkle from her glove. ‘We should go back.’

Nicholas ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it into something resembling its former stylish disorder and tried to decide what to do. Apologise? No need, surely—he had given her every chance to repulse him. He had done nothing wrong, yet still he felt he had. But then why was she sitting there, looking annoyingly calm, when he was on fire with need, and just moments before he could have sworn she was too. Baffled, he helped her to her feet.

‘Thank you, Nicholas.’

Deliberately misunderstanding her meaning in an effort to rouse her out of her irritating self-possession, Nicholas bowed mockingly. ‘It’s more customary for the gentleman to thank the lady. It was a pleasure, I assure you.’

Serena blushed, and was annoyed at having done so. ‘I trust you are suitably refreshed,’ she said tartly.

‘You’re anxious to resume your search, I suppose. You know, Serena, the papers are just as likely to be lost as hidden.’

‘I’m perfectly well aware that you don’t believe in their existence,’ she snapped. ‘I am also perfectly well aware that I am simply a distraction for you. You’re helping me because you are bored. You kissed me for the same reason. Why the sudden need for honesty—are you feeling guilty? You needn’t, it was just a kiss, as you said. You need have no fear that it raised false expectations.’

‘If we are to talk of false expectations, I think you have raised a few of your own! Dammit, Serena, you said it yourself, that wasn’t a kiss, it was a ravishment.’

The implication made her temper soar, hot words pouring from her like lava from a volcano. ‘There is no need to take your frustrations out on me, Nicholas. You had the good grace to comment yesterday on my enlightened attitude. Would that you had the same. Instead you are behaving all too typically of your sex, happy to blame mine for arousing your desires, equally happy to berate us when they are not fulfilled.’

His voice was steely. ‘I think I am not the only one to be suffering from frustrated desire.’

They stood glaring at each other on the narrow track. Behind them the weak spring sunshine glittered, casting dappled shadows on the lush green verge. In the brief silence her temper abated as quickly as it had risen. ‘You are quite right, I beg your pardon.’

Her simple acknowledgement took the wind from his sails. Nicholas lifted her hand to his lips. ‘You are far more gracious than I. I accept your apology unreservedly, and offer my own in turn.’

She snatched her hand back. ‘Forget it, there is nothing more to be said. Let us return to the Hall, shall we?’

Nicholas nodded in grudging agreement and, linking Serena’s arm through his own, turned back on to the path and led them towards the house.

In London, Mr Mathew Stamppe entered the office in the city of Messrs Acton and Archer, attorneys at law. He was welcomed by the senior partner Mr Tobias Acton, and ushered into a comfortable room at the front of the premises facing out on to the bustle of Lombard Street.

Waving aside the offer of a glass of canary and ignoring Mr Acton’s polite enquiries as to the health of Mrs Stamppe and his son Mr Edwin Stamppe, Mathew cleared his throat and got straight to the point. ‘What is this urgent matter that requires my presence post-haste? It had better be good.’

Tobias Acton assessed the man sitting opposite him with a lawyer’s shrewd gaze. His client was a tall man with a spare frame. Eyes of washed-out blue peered at him testily above the aristocratic Stamppe nose, but overall his features were weak, giving him rather the look of a hunted hare. Mathew favoured the plain dress of the country squire he had been for the best part of the last twenty years, living on his brother’s estates in Hampshire. Under his careful stewardship the lands of the Earl of Vespian were in excellent heart. Mathew had looked after them as prudently as he would have done had they been his own. In fact, Tobias Acton thought, he had looked after them for so long that he probably thought of them as exactly that—his own.

And now they were. The lawyer composed his features into those of a man about to deliver ill tidings. ‘I’m afraid, Mr Stamppe, we have received the saddest of news. Your brother Philip is, I must regretfully inform you, deceased. He died some months ago from injuries sustained when he was robbed, I believe in Paris. Please accept my deepest condolences, sir. Or, I should say, Lord Vespian.’

At last! Mathew struggled to contain the smile that tugged at the corners of his thin mouth. Careful not to show his satisfaction, he shook his head sadly. ‘My dear brother’s passing cannot be said to be a shock, given the way he chose to live, but it is a blow none the less. I shall arrange for the appropriate notices and such, but the main thing is to confirm the legal transfer of the estate to my name. I take it he left his will with you?’

Tobias Acton shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Well, my lord, as to that, I’m sorry to tell you that things are not quite so straightforward. Lord Vespian—your brother, that is—left us none of his personal papers. As trustees we can obviously act with regards to that part of the estate which is entailed, but as to the unentailed property which, as you know, is not insignificant, we have only this.’

He solemnly handed Mathew a sealed packet. ‘Our instructions were to give this into your hands in the unfortunate event of his lordship’s death.’

Mathew took the packet, his rigid countenance giving no sign of the anger rising in his breast at this caprice of Philip’s. Tearing open the seal, he read the contents with impotent fury. Finally, he crumpled the letter into his pocket. ‘It seems, Mr Acton, that I have inherited a niece rather than a fortune. My dear brother has posthumously informed me that he was not only married, but that the union produced a daughter who is his rightful heir. The will and testament supporting this was lodged by Philip with a man named Nick Lytton who, to the best of my knowledge, died ten years since. I can only presume my niece—’ he broke off to consult the letter ‘—the Lady Serena, will stake her claim as soon as she has recovered them from his son.’

Tobias Acton’s brows rose a notch. ‘A most unexpected development, Lord Vespian. May one enquire as to how you intend to handle this somewhat, ahem, delicate situation?’

‘That, Acton, is a question I find myself quite unable to answer at this present moment.’

The next morning, Hughes relieved Serena of her hat and pelisse and informed her that Master Nicholas awaited her in the library, which was situated at the far end of the building. Serena opened the door and stepped into a surprisingly modern room with long windows looking out over a paved terrace. The book cases were mahogany, not the oak prevalent in the rest of the house, as was the large desk behind which Nicholas sat. Above the book cases the walls and ceiling were tempered a soft cream. The hangings were dull gold.

‘This is quite lovely,’Serena said, ‘and so unexpected.’

Nicholas rose from behind the desk to clasp her hand between his in his customary greeting. ‘A description I could easily apply to you.’

She felt his intense gaze probe her thoughts, felt the now familiar fluttering that accompanied the touch of his flesh on hers, however slight. They stood thus for what seemed an eternity, the memory of that remarkable, passionate, all-encompassing kiss hanging almost palpably between them.

A polite cough announced the arrival of Hughes bearing a tray of coffee, which he placed on a small table. Serena poured two cups and handed one to Nicholas before sitting down to sip contentedly on her own. ‘I’ve never learned to make good coffee—this is delicious.’

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. ‘Not exactly an accomplishment you can have had much call for, surely?’

‘On the contrary. There have been times when we were quite down on our luck, Papa and I, unable to afford luxuries such as servants.’

‘Not recently, though. No matter how simple the gowns you wear, I’m not deceived—the simpler the design, the costlier the price, is my experience. You’re tricked out in the absolute finest of everything—gowns, shawls, hats, even those little boots of yours are kid, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘And what, pray, monsieur, would you know about the cost of a lady’s apparel?’

‘As much as you, probably. I’ve certainly paid for enough fripperies over the years, to say nothing of having to cough up for dressmakers and milliners when the lady concerned is a—let us say intimate—acquaintance.’

‘You are referring to your mistresses, I take it.’ She was determined not to be shocked, equally determined to ignore the foolish twinge of jealousy. ‘However, my clothes are from Paris, naturellement, which makes them a little above your touch.’

He remembered her earlier jibe about a protector. What if she had not been joking after all? The idea was distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Au contraire, mademoiselle,’ Nicholas said maliciously, ‘I am well enough heeled to be able to insist that any lady under my protection wears only the very best. And well enough versed in the latest modes to see that your hard times are behind you, if your wardrobe is aught to go by.’

She gave him a direct look, alerted by the harsh note in his voice. ‘You think a man paid for them?’

‘Am I right?’

He spoke nonchalantly, but Serena was not fooled. ‘Yes.’ She waited, but he said nothing, only looked at her in that way of his that made her feel he was privy to her innermost thoughts. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nicholas, stop looking so serious. I meant my father.’

He was unaccountably relieved, but managed not to show it. ‘Well, he must have made you a generous allowance.’ Serena did not deign to reply. ‘Do you still miss him?’ Nicholas asked her after a few moments, his voice gentler now.

‘Of course. We were very close. Don’t you miss your parents?’

‘The cases are rather different,’ he replied wryly. ‘I saw more of the servants than my parents when I was growing up. Outside school, there were various tutors, but being without siblings I was largely left to go my own way—exactly as my father did in his youth. I had money enough to indulge in all my whims, and when I grew older to support my gaming and fund my amours. My father introduced me to his club and a few of his influential friends when I came of age, and that’s about the sum of it.’

‘So you are an only child too. Did you wish for a brother or sister? I know I longed for siblings.’

‘I was an only child,’ Nicholas corrected. ‘I’ve got a half-sister now.’

‘Yes, but so much younger than you—it’s not the same.’

‘She’s about the age Melissa was when my father married her. There’s no fool like an old fool—he was completely infatuated.’

‘But Melissa made him happy?’

‘He died before he could be disillusioned,’ Nicholas said sardonically, ‘but not, unfortunately for me, before he became obsessed with a desire to reform me.’

‘Poor Nicholas.’

There was just a tinge of mockery in Serena’s voice, but Nicholas could forgive her anything when she smiled at him that way, making him feel she understood him very well. He was becoming accustomed to it.

‘I would have thought reforming you a well-nigh impossible undertaking,’ Serena continued teasingly. ‘How on earth did he intend to achieve it?’

‘Oh, he had his ways, believe me. He took every opportunity to lecture me about the benefits of marrying a good woman and the wonders of love. All the usual nonsense that a reformed rake is prone to as he grows old and finds mortality staring him in the face.’

‘That seems a rather jaundiced way of looking at it. Perhaps he really was in love?’

‘Spare me the romantic twaddle, Serena. He was in lust, not in love. And he was a hypocrite, which is something I cannot be accused of. I indulge my passions for gaming, horses and women, but I never play when I can’t pay. I never put a horse at a fence it can’t take. I never trifle with women who don’t know the score. Which is more,’ Nicholas concluded bitterly, ‘from what I’ve heard about my father in his younger days, than can be said for him.’

‘Perhaps that’s part of it—his wanting to prevent you making his mistakes. My father wrapped me in cotton wool for the same sort of reasons, and in some ways—I am only beginning to realise it now—it was suffocating. You, on the other hand, were positively neglected, but that did not prevent your father from wishing to dictate your life.’

‘The difference between us is that I will not allow him to. You, on the other hand, are still dancing to Papa’s tune.’

Serena bit her lip, for he had hit a nerve. ‘For the moment. So,’ she continued brightly, ‘despite your father’s attempts, you have not been converted to the conquering power of love as espoused by Lord Byron.’

‘That deluded romantic! The man has almost single-handedly brought love and languishing back into fashion.’

‘It seems to me that Lord Byron is more interested in indulging his own rather eclectic tastes and encouraging everyone, poor Lady Lamb included, to worship at the altar of his ego,’ Serena said scornfully. ‘In any case, real love doesn’t come in or go out of fashion, as I have no doubt Lord Byron will. You can’t stop it or avoid it. You can’t be cured of it and you can’t dictate how it happens either. Some people never fall in love because they never meet the right person. My parents were fortunate. It may be that your father was too, with his Melissa. It is possible that his wanting you to change your ways was not hypocritical, but a desire for you to be as happy as he was.’ She stopped abruptly, taken aback by the passion of her own response.

‘I’m afraid we’ll just have to differ on that,’ Nicholas said dismissively. ‘It’s a pretty point of view, and you are a charming advocate, but I remain unconvinced. You know less of the world and its travails than you think if you really mean what you say.’

With difficulty Serena managed to repress the hot retort that rose to her lips. ‘I won’t quarrel with you, there’s no point. I won’t persuade you, only experience will do that.’

‘Indulge me, though, by explaining one thing to me before we drop the subject.’

She raised her brows enquiringly.

‘Yesterday by the trout stream you seemed more than happy to encourage me to—for us to—for things between us to take their course. Today you rhapsodise about true love. I’m concerned that we are at cross-purposes.’

‘In what way?’

‘I can never offer you love, Serena, I won’t be such a hypocrite as my father. I can promise you fun, perhaps, pleasure definitely, but it would be a brief idyll, nothing more. I won’t pretend to any finer feelings to ease your conscience. If you choose to pick up where we left off from our kiss, you must do so with your eyes wide open.’

Serena paused for a moment before replying. She was not in love, but tossing and turning in her bed last night, she had been forced to acknowledge the depth of her attraction to him. The pang of physical awareness she had felt when first she encountered him, stripped to the waist in the boxing ring, had grown during the hours they spent together. Hidden away from the rest of the world as they were, time slipped by more and more quickly. Whenever she saw him, the urge to give in to temptation became harder to resist, fuelled by the knowledge that once she had her papers their paths were unlikely to cross again. The sensible voice in her head warned her that to give in to her desires was to risk being burned, but this feeling of rightness when she was with him continued to grow regardless.

Nicholas would take whatever she offered, provided she stuck to his terms. His feelings for her were of a fleeting nature. It had been unintentional, but his reaction to her eulogy on true love was a timely warning. ‘My eyes are very wide open,’ she told him with certainty. ‘We are not at cross-purposes, I assure you.’

Did that mean she would grant him more than a kiss? It was on his mind to ask her, but he thought better of it. ‘I have some business to attend to for the rest of the morning,’he said instead. ‘I’ll join you after lunch.’

Mathew Stamppe, lately become Lord Vespian, had had a busy morning, which included a long-overdue visit to the dentist, a fitting with his tailor and various commissions for his good lady wife. The existence of a niece, a chit of a girl heir to the fortune that was rightfully his, vexed him beyond words and continually dogged his thoughts. Tobias Acton had advised him to sit tight and wait on her contacting him, but this, Mathew had decided, was not a course of action to which he could inure himself.

His next piece of business took him to a flash tavern just off the Fleet where he was to meet up with an ex-Runner recommended by his club doorman. Mathew sat uncomfortably in a booth, warily eyeing the unsavoury clientele of the dimly lit room, relieved that he had taken the precaution of leaving all his valuables, save the required purse of money, safe in his lodgings.

A short, compact man in a greasy brown coat approached him. ‘You Stamppe?’ he enquired loudly.

‘For pity’s sake, man, keep your voice down,’ Mathew hissed.

The man smiled. ‘No need to worry on that score, squire. Folk in here have learned the hard way to mind their own business, if you get my meaning. Now, let’s see the readies.’

He bit delicately into one of the coins from the bag which Mathew handed him. Satisfied with the quality, he called for a glass of fire water and awaited instruction.

Mathew’s orders were vague. When pressed to be more specific, he flapped. ‘Just do whatever you see fit, I want no details.’

The ex-Runner smiled knowingly. He had come across the type many times before. Happy enough to pay someone else to do their dirty work, but too squeamish to think about what they had paid for actually entailed. It suited him well enough. He signified his agreement by raising his glass in a toast before tossing it back with a satisfied smack of the lips. Then he was gone.

After a lunch alone, Nicholas still being engaged upon business, Serena flicked through some volumes of Shakespeare in a half-hearted way, searching for the source of the last rose of summer quotation. By the time he joined her she was heartily bored.

‘Forget about that for today, let’s play cards instead,’ he said, lounging in the doorway.

‘Cards,’ Serena exclaimed in surprise.

‘Yes, why not? Can you not play?’

‘Very well, actually. Whatever you want.’

‘Piquet?’

‘If you wish. But just for penny points.’

Nicholas laughed. ‘I’m considered to be a very good player.’

‘Oh, I’m not worried,’ Serena said airily, ‘I’ve played a lot of cards in my time.’

‘Another of the skills learned at dear Papa’s knee, no doubt,’ he quipped.

She chuckled. ‘If only you knew.’

‘Since you’re so confident, we should make the stakes more interesting. A forfeit.’

‘It depends what you have in mind.’

‘You’re expecting me to say a kiss, but I won’t be so predictable.’

His smile was irresistible. ‘What, then?’Serena asked.

‘A lock of your hair. Something with which to remember our time here.’ He surprised himself at the fancifulness of his request, was still more surprised when she agreed.

‘Deal,’ she said, handing him the cards with a glint in her eye that should have worried him.

As the rubbers progressed it became clear that Serena’s claim to skill had been no idle boast. Nicholas was losing steadily.

‘Well, I make that—let’s see…’ Serena added up the score and showed him the total.

‘Confound it, I never lose by such a margin. Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure,’Serena said smugly. ‘Now you must pay the forfeit.’ She opened her reticule, producing a pair of embroidery scissors, brandishing them before him triumphantly. He ran his fingers through his carefully cropped hair, much alarmed. ‘Give me those, I’ll do it.’

Serena shook her head. ‘To the victor the spoils, Nicholas. What was it you said, “I never play when I can’t pay”?’

‘You’re enjoying this.’

She nodded primly, her eyes brimming with laughter.

He made a dive for the scissors, but she quickly put them behind her back. ‘Kneel before me, Mr Lytton,’she commanded, ‘I would not wish to ruin your coiffure.’

He held her gaze as he knelt, a wicked smile curling the corners of his mouth, his eyes reflecting the laughter in hers. ‘You will regret this, mademoiselle.’

‘I don’t think so. Stay still.’ She bent over his head. Her dress brushed against his face, which was disconcertingly close to her thighs. Heat rushed through her body.

‘I told you you’d regret it,’ Nicholas said wickedly, his voice muffled by the material of her skirt. ‘I, on the other hand, am finding this position rather delightful.’

Serena froze. Was that his breath she could feel through her petticoats? A quick snip and a lock of silky black hair fell into her hand. ‘There, you can stand up now,’ she managed breathlessly.

He gazed up at her with such a smile that her knees almost buckled. ‘Why don’t you come down here and join me? It’s very—good God!’

‘What is it?’

‘The last rose of summer left blooming alone. I’ve just remembered, it’s a song. And there it is. Come here.’

‘Very funny. Get up.’

‘No, I mean it,’ Nicholas said. ‘Look.’

She carefully placed his curl in her reticule with her scissors and dropped to her knees beside him. He took her by the shoulders and pointed her at the fireplace. Two panels decorated with delicate plasterwork filled the gap on each side between the mantel and the book cases. On one the figure of a man held a flower stalk in his hand. On the opposite panel was a tomb, around and on top of which the petals of the flower were scattered.

‘Oh!’ Serena clapped her hands together in excitement.

‘The last rose of summer. Melissa used to sing it—damned melancholy thing, but it tickled my father. He knew the poet who wrote it, years before it was set to music. I can’t think why I didn’t remember until now. Go on then, they’re your papers, see if you can find the latch.’

The panels were not large, starting from the wainscoting and ending at head height. Carefully, Serena felt her way around the edges of the one on the right, with shaking fingers seeking a gap or a mechanism, but there was nothing. She tried again. Nothing. Disappointed, she sat back on her heels.

‘Maybe it’s on the other one. Let me try.’ Nicholas joined her, kneeling on the floor beside the panel depicting the young man and the flower stalk. As Serena had, he felt his way around the panel. Then he looked more closely at the stalk, which seemed to be detached from the plaster beneath it. Carefully, he twisted it. It turned. The tombstone with its rose petals slid back to reveal a cavity in the wall. Inside lay a small packet sealed with red wax, a name written in faded ink on the front.

Serena reached in. Philip Stamppe, his last will and testament. Her father’s name leapt out from the paper in flowing script. She felt herself go faint, and staggered to her feet.

Nicholas poured her a small measure of brandy. ‘Sit, drink this.’

Serena drank, spluttering as the cognac seared the back of her throat. Then drank some more, savouring the calming effect of the liquor. ‘I’m sorry, it’s the shock, seeing his name, that’s all. I’m better now.’

He was almost as shocked himself, to find that the papers actually existed. As the implications began to make their way into his brain, Nicholas cursed inwardly, for now his precipitate action had ensured that Serena had no further reason to stay and he was not ready for her to go. Not yet.

She turned over the little packet of documents on her lap, but made no attempt to break the seals.

‘Am I permitted to know what they are?’

She was sorely tempted to tell him everything, but to do so would be to call a halt to whatever this thing was between them, and she was not willing to do that. Not yet. ‘My father’s will,’ she conceded, ‘and some papers confirming my identity.’

‘You don’t seem particularly overjoyed to see them.’

She looked up. ‘I expect you are, though. It means I won’t need to trespass on your time any longer.’

‘Must you go straight away?’

‘I ought to.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘I know.’

Nicholas stared frowningly out of the window. ‘Leave it another couple of days and I’ll be able to escort you myself. I should have news of my duelling opponent by then, and in the meantime I can show you a bit of the countryside. Do you ride?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Good. We’ll go riding tomorrow,’he said decisively.

‘I should go to London tomorrow.’

‘Stay. Let us have a day’s grace, without worrying about papers or panelling or—or anything.’

Serena folded the documents into her reticule along with the lock of Nicholas’s hair as she thought through his suggestion. He had not pressed her as to their content. Did that mean he didn’t care, or he didn’t want to know? And if she stayed another day, what was implied? More than just a gallop across the countryside, or was she reading too much into it? He would not take what was not freely given. She believed him, but she did not trust herself. Already, part of her had rushed ahead like a stampeding horse, looking forward to the morrow. She tried to rein it in. ‘A day’s grace,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’d like that’, though even as she spoke, doubt seized her.

Nicholas took her hand and pulled her to her feet. His smile was warm, drawing from her a response that banished everything save a tingle of anticipation, a rush of pleasure. ‘Come on, then,’ he said to her, ‘I’ll walk you back to your lodgings.’

‘Tiens, I thought you were never coming back, mademoiselle, I was about to send someone out in search of you.’ Madame LeClerc, arms crossed impatiently, greeted Serena from the doorway. Dressed in her habitual black, her pale eyes peering shortsightedly at her charge, she had the look of a well-fed mole startled from its burrow.

‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,’ Serena said soothingly. ‘Let’s go in. You’ll be wanting your dinner.’

‘Pah,’ Madame LeClerc said contemptuously, though whether she referred to Nicholas’s retreating figure or dinner was not clear. Once inside, she commenced her habitual lament. ‘I am tired of waiting, Mademoiselle Serena, when will we be on our way?’

‘Not so very long now,’ Serena said patiently, ‘my business is almost concluded.’

‘Business! Is that what you call it. The whole village is talking of you,’ Madame LeClerc said spitefully.

Serena turned from the mirror where she had been tidying her hair. ‘You shouldn’t listen to idle gossip, Madame LeClerc, I’m sure there must be more productive ways for you to pass your time.’

‘What am I to do here, exactly’ Madame responded angrily. ‘The women dress in sacks and aprons. When I try to advise the cook on how to make a nice French ragoût, she orders me from the kitchen. And now there is a strange man pestering me with silly questions.’

‘What strange man?’

‘A round man with a greasy coat. He knocked on the door and talked at me. I don’t know what he said, but I thought he was a person most suspect.’

‘He was probably just lost; I shouldn’t worry about it.’

‘That is all very well for you to say, mademoiselle, but you leave me alone all day when you go off to the big house. What if he had ravished me, what then?’

Serena spluttered with the effort of turning her giggle into an unconvincing cough. ‘I am relieved he did not.’

‘Much you would care if he did!’

Realising that she was genuinely upset, Serena spoke more soothingly. ‘I promise you we won’t be here for much longer. Now let’s forget about strange men, and eat whatever nice English food our landlady has prepared for us before it gets cold.’

They sat down to dinner at the table in the parlour, but Madame was not content to drop the subject of village gossip. ‘They say you spend all day in the company of this Monsieur Lytton. They say that you are his mistress,’ she informed Serena through a mouthful of rabbit pie. ‘They say you must be, given his reputation with the ladies.’

‘I’m not interested in gossip,’ Serena replied sternly.

‘Yes, but, Serena—Mademoiselle Cachet—you should be more discreet; your papa would not be pleased.’

‘C’est mon affaire, madame, none of your business. Since Mr Lytton’s father was one of Papa’s oldest friends, I’ll thank you to hold your tongue. Eat your dinner; I want to hear no more of this.’

It was only village gossip, but it worried her none the less. She did not doubt that much of the speculation had originated from Madame LeClerc herself, but that was no consolation.

Retiring early to the privacy of her chamber, Serena finally broke the seal on her father’s will with shaking fingers. By the time she had worked her way through the lengthy and highly technical content, her candle was guttering, throwing strange shapes onto the walls. The sums of money mentioned staggered her. Until now, she had not quite believed it was true, so outlandish had been Papa’s tale, but the facts were there in parchment and ink. She was indeed an heiress, a considerable one.

Getting out of bed, she folded the documents carefully into a drawer of her jewel case before taking out the necklace Papa had given her for her last birthday. It was a simple but beautiful piece of jewellery, a gold locket with a sapphire in the centre, surrounded by a pattern of tiny diamonds. She opened it and carefully placed the lock of Nicholas’s hair inside, unable to resist pressing upon it a little kiss. Then she snuffed the candle and climbed wearily into bed.

Lady Serena Stamppe. It sounded so strange to her ears. Not at all like herself, but like someone in a book or in a painting. Someone far more dignified, older, more refined than she. Lady Serena. The Honourable Lady Serena. Nicholas would be amused. No, Nicholas would not be at all amused. She would not think about that. Not yet. Not until after tomorrow.

Next door, Madame’s snoring stopped. Taking this as a good omen, Serena fell into a deep sleep.