Beauty And The Brooding Lord. Sarah Mallory
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Timothy from her list of prospective husbands, but at the Downings’ party the following day, he sought her out and told her he had come with the sole intention of apologising for his absence from the Grindleshams’ rose garden. He begged for the opportunity to make it up to her and Serena decided she would at least listen to what he had in mind for her entertainment. After all, he was extremely fashionable and very handsome, with his black curls and Grecian profile, and there was no denying that he had about him a dangerously rakish air. She decided to give him another chance.
His proposal that he should escort her to Vauxhall when it opened for the Season was too tempting to resist. He painted an alluring picture of the two of them, cloaked and masked, wandering through the gardens and marvelling at the mechanical exhibits such as the famous waterfall.
The clandestine escapade appealed to Serena’s adventurous soul and she dismissed the tiny voice inside that urged caution. She must allow Sir Timothy to kiss her, just once, for how else was she to know if she would like him as a husband? And from all she had heard there was no better setting for a romantic interlude than Vauxhall, with its shadowy arbours and dark avenues hung with coloured lights.
Serena knew it was one thing to allow a hopeful young man to steal a kiss in a shadowy alcove of a private ball—which she had done once or twice—quite another to go off alone with a gentleman to Vauxhall, but Elizabeth had already told her that she and her family were going to the gardens that night and if it went horribly wrong, if she found she did not like being kissed, or Sir Timothy should become importunate, she would seek them out and beg their protection. That would be humiliating and once Henry knew about it he would probably banish her to the country for the rest of the Season, but one must be prepared to risk all in the search for a husband. All she needed now was to work out a way to slip out of her brother’s house without raising any suspicions.
* * *
Her plans came to fruition two days later, at breakfast, when the butler brought in the post and delivered a letter to Serena. Dorothea looked up.
‘What have you there—is it a love letter from one of your beaux, perhaps?’
Dorothea’s arch tone grated, for Serena knew quite well that correspondence between herself and any gentleman who was not related to her would be highly improper. However, she replied calmly and with perfect honesty, ‘It is from Mrs Downing. She invites me to join her party at Vauxhall tomorrow evening.’
‘Vauxhall?’ Henry looked up from the perusal of his own post. ‘It is not at all the place for young ladies, especially tomorrow, for it is May Day, when all sorts of common folk will be out celebrating. I have no doubt that the disreputable among them will be masked, too.’
‘Mrs Downing sees no harm in it,’ replied Serena. ‘Mr Jack Downing will be with them, too.’ She glanced at her sister-in-law, upon whom the young man’s name acted like a talisman.
‘Henry, my dear, I do not see there can be any harm in it, if she is with the Downings. And I believe Madame Saqui is performing. I confess I should very much like to see her myself. I am told that last Season she ended her display by running along the tightrope with fireworks exploding all around her.’ Dorothea picked up her coffee cup. ‘Perhaps we should go as well, I doubt we would be able to obtain a supper box at this late notice, but we might enjoy the spectacle.’
Serena held her breath. Her own plans for tomorrow evening would have to be drastically changed if Dorothea and Henry decided to go to Vauxhall.
‘To go all that way and not be able to sit comfortably for supper?’ Henry’s mouth turned down. ‘Bad enough that we should be mixing with heaven knows what class of person, but if we cannot sup in our own box it would be insupportable. Besides, I am already promised to dine tomorrow at White’s.’
‘I could report back to you upon Madame Saqui’s performance,’ Serena suggested. ‘Then you may decide if it is worth the effort for another time.’
Henry turned an approving gaze upon his half-sister. ‘An excellent idea, Serena. I am sure, if this rope dancer is any good, you will wish to see her again.’
She gave him a dazzling smile. ‘Indeed I shall, Henry. And perhaps you will order the carriage to take me to the Downings’ house tomorrow evening. Since they live en route, I do not wish to inconvenience them by making them come out of their way to collect me.’
With the matter thus settled, Serena breathed a sigh of relief. So far, everything was going to plan. Her hints last night to Elizabeth had resulted in the Downings’ timely invitation, which had aroused no suspicions. Now she must carefully pen a note to be delivered tomorrow evening, regretfully crying off because of a malaise. She sipped her coffee. A malaise called Sir Timothy Forsbrook. She did not like deceiving her friends, but it must be done, if she was to find lasting happiness.
* * *
Serena dressed with care the following evening, choosing a high-waisted evening gown of lemon satin with an overdress of white gauze. As befitted a demure young lady she tucked a fine white fichu into the low neck of her gown. Lemon satin slippers, white kid gloves and a white crape fan completed her ensemble and over everything she wore a cashmere shawl, its wide border embroidered with acanthus leaves. Sir Timothy had promised to provide a domino and mask for her, because for Serena to carry such items would only invite comment from her brother or his wife.
Darkness was already falling when the Hambridge carriage pulled up at the Downings’ house in Wardour Street. Serena stepped down and airily told the coachman there was no need to wait. She stood on the pavement, making a show of fussing with her reticule until the coach was out of sight, then she turned and ran quickly back to the chaise waiting further along the street. Sir Timothy jumped down as she approached.
‘You have come!’
‘Of course, did you doubt it?’ She laughed as he handed her into the chaise. ‘I sent my letter of apology to the Downings this morning. They will have set off for Vauxhall a good half-hour since.’
‘So, no one knows where you are. My clever, adorable angel.’ Sir Timothy tried to take her in his arms, but she held him off.
‘Not yet, someone might recognise us!’
He released her and threw himself back against the padded seat. ‘Little chance of that in this poor light. But there is no hurry.’ He lifted her fingers to his lips. ‘We have all night. Tell me instead what you have been doing since we last met. I want to know every little detail.’
* * *
It was already growing dark by the time Rufus Quinn left London. The meeting at the Royal Society had gone on longer than he had anticipated, but he could not pass up the opportunity to talk with the celebrated astronomer Miss Caroline Herschel, who rarely came to London. After that he had taken advantage of the moonlight to drive home, rather than spend another night in town. He had no time for society, everyone was too set up in their own importance. If people weren’t vying for superiority they were all wishing to line their pockets at someone else’s expense. Quinn hated it, and had only allowed himself to be dragged to the Grindleshams’ ball because he wanted the Titian. In the event, Quinn had merely told Grindlesham to name his price and the painting had been his. He had wasted an evening watching the overdressed popinjays cavorting around a ballroom when he could have been at home enjoying a glass of his excellent claret and reading a good book.
Even when he had slipped away to enjoy a cigarillo he had been interrupted by an insufferable cockscomb who had wanted him to make himself scarce. Quinn had soon sent him about his business, but damme if the fellow had not gone off with never a thought for his mistress! A smile tugged at his lips as he remembered her reaction when she arrived. Spirited little thing, though, the way she had stood up to him. No tears or vapours. Reminded him of his Barbara, God rest her soul. His good humour faded, but he shook off the threatening black mood, blaming it on fatigue.
By nursing his team, Quinn usually managed the journey into Hertfordshire without a break, but tonight he felt unaccountably tired. Another yawn broke from him. Confound it, he would have to stop if he was not to fall asleep over the reins.