It was only when she had gone that he realised she had still offered him no explanation for her willingness to make love to him.
The air in the public room of the King’s Arms, the tavern owned by the legendary heavyweight Thomas Cribb, was stifling. Acrid wood smoke from the roaring fire hung heavy, despite the grimy windows flung open wide to the street. The pungent aroma of unwashed human bodies mingled with the smell of spilt ale and cheap spirits.
Jasper Lytton paused on the threshold, wearing the habitual sneer that marred the handsome lines of his countenance. Of late the place had become overrun with the hoi polloi, so much so that even the distinction of being invited to partake of daffy within the sanctity of Cribb’s own private parlour was become a dubious pleasure. He raised his quizzing glass to survey the room. From the window embrasure a thin man beckoned with a long white finger. Jasper joined him reluctantly.
‘I th-thought you weren’t going to turn up, Jasper. I’ve been here an age.’ The man spoke with a slight stammer. He was young and elegantly dressed, but dissipation was already taking a heavy toll, thinning his hair, etching a deep groove on either side of his mouth. The pale eyes were bloodshot. His hand shook as he reached for the decanter to top up his glass, filling Jasper’s at the same time.
‘God, Langton, you look like hell.’ Jasper lolled on the hard wooden seat, watching his friend’s hand tremble with malicious pleasure. Though Langton could give him at least five years, and he himself drank harder and gamed deeper, no one would take Jasper for the senior man.
‘S-so would you, in my position. Well, do you have it?’
Jasper shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to meet the other man’s gaze. ‘No, not yet.’
‘You promised! I need it back immediately. If I d-don’t have it—God, you know what these people are like.’
‘Only too well, I introduced you to them myself, remember?’ Watching his friend gulp down the fiery liquid, Jasper felt a minute twinge of guilt. It wasn’t as if the five thousand he owed Langton was such a great sum, but it was a debt of honour. Introducing Hugo Langton to his own moneylender of choice had been intended as a stalling tactic, nothing more. Carefully reaching into his jacket pocket, Jasper withdrew a small roll of notes. ‘There’s two hundred here on account. I’ll get the rest soon. I just need a run of luck.’
‘Or your cousin to bail you out,’ Langton muttered, snatching at the money.
Jasper’s smile hardened. ‘That’s unlikely. Nicholas made it perfectly clear that he wouldn’t be towing me out of the River Tick again.’ The bitter memory of that last uncomfortable interview with his cousin still rankled. Why couldn’t Nicholas see that paying off Jasper’s debts for him was simply advancing money that would be rightfully his in the very near future anyway?
‘How long is it now until the great day?’
‘Less than three months.’ He’d be lucky to hold his creditors at bay that long. There were bailiffs at his lodgings. Duns at his club. Damn Nicholas, why was he making him wait?
Across the table Langton emptied the dregs of the decanter into his glass. His hand no longer shook. The rough liquor gave him courage. When he spoke his voice was free from its stammer. ‘Three months, and you’ll be a rich man—provided your cousin doesn’t get leg-shackled in the meantime.’
Jasper’s thin lips tightened. Waving an imperious hand at the beleaguered landlord for more brandy, he quelled the panic that threatened to overwhelm him every time he thought of the consequences were his cousin suddenly to announce his nuptials. ‘He wouldn’t do that,’ he said grimly.
The fierce look that he drew forced Langton to cower back in his seat, all thoughts of teasing banished. ‘If you s-say so. I merely thought…’
‘What have you heard?’ Jasper asked sharply.
‘Just a rumour. Came from Charles Avesbury, if you must know.’
‘Avesbury,’ Jasper exclaimed. ‘He said Nicholas was to be married?’
‘Well, not as such. But he did see the lady in question. Said the two of them were smelling of April and May.’
Jasper scowled. ‘We’ll see about that.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Never you mind.’ Jasper pushed back his chair. ‘I have business to attend to.’ Swatting the landlord’s arm from his shoulder, Jasper indicated, with a careless nod of the head, that the new decanter was Langton’s responsibility. Without a backward glance he strode for the door of the inn, casually kicking a flea-bitten terrier from under his feet.
‘Business,’Langton mused, pouring himself another glass of brandy. ‘Dirty business, if I’m any judge.’
At mid-morning the next day Nicholas’s travelling chaise and four arrived outside Serena’s lodgings. After a curt greeting, he stood by the chaise, watching as she supervised the loading of her luggage, admiring the graceful figure she cut in her woollen travelling cloak, the gold of her hair glinting under a poke bonnet.
Yet another sleepless night had taken its toll on Serena’s mood. She had expected Nicholas to be angry, but had not anticipated he would feel quite so betrayed. Castigating herself for not having been truthful with him from the start only served to make her feel worse, however, for she could not ignore the fact that only by doing so had she come to know him so intimately.
As her dressing case and jewellery box were stowed inside the chaise, Serena wearily acknowledged the truth of the matter. She had fallen in love with Nicolas Lytton, plain and simple. No wonder his touch set off such extreme sensations. No wonder she felt a fizz of excitement every time she looked upon his handsome figure. No wonder she felt as if the sky was falling down when she thought of a future without him. She loved him. She wished with all her heart it had been possible, just once, to make love with him. Now her only consolation was that he had no idea of how she felt. And that was how it must remain, for if ever he had an inkling of her feelings—knowing Nicholas—he’d probably see it as another form of entrapment.
He helped her into the coach, his expression unreadable. Serena disposed herself beside her boxes as he took the seat opposite. The coachman pushed shut the door and they were away. She leaned back against the squabs and closed her eyes. She was exhausted, but sleep would be impossible with Nicholas sitting so close that his knees brushed hers. He was angry still. She knew better than to try to coax him out of it, could only hope that at some point on the long journey ahead his mood would mellow. Today should be a time for looking forward to whatever her new life would bring. She had an uncle, an aunt, perhaps even cousins. She was rich. She was in the fortunate position of being able to suit herself, neither beholden to an employer nor dependent upon a husband. The future was hers to define. Yet she could not bring herself to think about anything other than the brooding man sitting impassively opposite her. As they left High Knightswood behind, Serena fell into a troubled doze, her head resting awkwardly on her shoulder.
Nicholas watched, torn between frustrated desire and guilt. A surfeit of brandy last night had failed to prevent their last conversation replaying over and over in his mind. Serena was right, she had not really deceived him. He had asked Frances Eldon to investigate her because he knew her story was not the whole truth. And she was, unfortunately, right about his willingness to be deceived. He wanted her so much that he had deluded himself. Had failed to examine closely the inconsistencies in her story, the apparent contradictions in her character. It was a bitter pill to swallow, that she had also ultimately saved him from breaking his own damned rules. He had not compromised her, but he could not stop imagining what it would have been like if he had.
This morning he had an aching head and an