He had always been so carelessly certain that his lawyers would find a way to overturn the fateful clause, but as the deadline approached and every legal avenue turned into a dead end the decision loomed over him like a menacing black cloud of doom. He should have instructed them sooner. Dammit, there must be a way!
Nicholas rose to stir the fire, carelessly throwing on another log, stepping back hastily as the sparks flew out on to the hearth rug. He was not going to be forced down a path of another’s choosing. He would not be blackmailed into the bonds of matrimony, not even by his own dead father.
His parent had remarried late in life. Melissa was a malleable widgeon, a young woman content to play nursemaid to a man in failing health many years her senior. To the astonishment of all who knew him, Nick Lytton, after a lifetime of raking, settled contentedly into domestic bliss and became an advocate for the institution of marriage into the bargain. The present Nicholas Lytton sighed deeply. He should have seen it coming, after that last uncomfortable interview.
‘I hear you’ve been causing a scandal again, my boy.’ The chill which his father had caught while out hunting had taken hold of his lungs. It was obvious he had not long to live. Nicholas remembered each breath his father took as a painfully sharp intake, a long drawn-out rattling exhale. What he couldn’t remember now were the exact circumstances of the scandal the old man was so upset about. Some bit of muslin Nicholas had tried to pass off as one of the ton at a party, as he recalled. Yes, that was it, a bet, and he had lost when the lady told a rather warm story and had then been recognised by one of her previous protectors.
Before Melissa, his father would have laughed, but with his second marriage the old man had acquired a pompous righteousness. ‘You’ve shamed our name once too often, my boy,’ Nick Lytton wheezed.
‘For pity’s sake, Father,’ Nicholas retorted, ‘you talk as if I was a libertine. As you very well know, I am scrupulous about confining that sort of thing to the muslin company. As you used to,’ he said pointedly. ‘I never raise false expectations. I would have thought that was something more to be proud of than ashamed.’
His refusal to repent served only to bring down the full extent of his father’s wrath on his head. Nick Lytton had stormed, ranted, cursed and finally, when his son showed no signs of remorse, resorted to threats. ‘I’ll see to it that you can’t carry on this life for ever. You’re turning into a damned loose fish, Nicholas, and by God I’ll put a stop to it, you mark my words.’
The interview had ended then. Nicholas thought no more of it until after his father’s death, when he was informed of the significant change to the terms of his will. He’d laughed and refused to take it too seriously. Until now.
Not even in his salad days had Nicholas come close to being in love, finding that passion faded all too quickly once sated. His dashing looks and flamboyant generosity made him a highly sought-after catch, but not once in all his years on the ton had any lady managed to stake a claim. He was far too careful for that, unlike some of his peers. Poor Caroline Lamb’s latest attempt to avenge herself upon Byron, so it was rumoured, was a thinly disguised roman à clef. Nicholas shuddered at the very idea of encountering the spectre of a rejected lover hovering at a society party, never mind the iniquity of the details of any affaire being bandied about in the press.
No, he made a strict point of confining his amours to women from a different sphere who understood the rules of the game perfectly well. Over the years he had been fortunate in his mistresses, all of whom combined beauty with experience. When he grew bored it was a simple thing to pay them off. No sulks. No pain. No regrets. Just a few trinkets, a generous sum, a goodbye. It suited him. It was how he had chosen to live his life, and he enjoyed it. He saw no reason to change.
Dammit to hell, he would not change. Nicholas consigned Frances Eldon’s letter to the fire. When the lawyers had exhausted every possibility, then perhaps he would force himself to contemplate marriage. Right now he had better things to think about. Like the luscious Mademoiselle Serena Stamppe and her preposterous tale of hidden documents and long-lost friendship.
The friendship part could be true—his father had been wild in his youth. The wars with France favoured many a person wishing to hide their dirty laundry in the hustle-bustle of the Continent; no doubt that Serena’s dear papa was one such. An adventurer of some sort, of a certainty. She was obviously an adventuress herself—she had given herself away with that remark of hers—what was it—an itinerant life.
Stamppe. The name was definitely familiar. He would write to Frances in the morning, tell him to crack the whip over the will, and get him to find out what he could about the lovely Serena and her father. Yawning, Nicholas placed the guard over the fire, snuffed out the candles, and headed wearily for his bed.
In the end, Serena decided not to introduce Madame LeClerc to Nicholas unless it became absolutely necessary—and she refused to allow herself to contemplate just what she meant by that. She made an early start the next morning, leaving her lodgings long before her companion surfaced for breakfast. On the assumption that the search would be dusty work, she wore a simple dress of printed cotton and sturdy half-boots of jean. A short woollen cloak protected her from the early chill of the English spring, and her hair was looped on top of her head, a bandeau of the same material as her dress holding it in place.
Charming was the epithet with which Nicholas Lytton greeted her, himself simply attired in fitted buckskins that clung to his muscular legs, teemed with a dark blue waistcoat and plain dark coat. He clasped Serena’s gloved hands between his for a brief moment on greeting, but made no further attempt to touch her. She could not make up her mind whether to be relieved or not.
They sat together in the small morning room over a pot of coffee, discussing how best to tackle the search using the only clue they had. ‘I suppose it’s safe to assume that the hiding place really is here,’ Serena said. ‘You don’t have any other houses with rose panelling, do you?’
‘No. And both the London house and the hunting box post-date the time you said your father gave mine his papers—over twenty years ago, do I have that right?’
Serena nodded. ‘He told me he sent them not long after I was born.’
‘Where was that?’
‘La Bourgogne. Burgundy—it is where my mother comes from.’
‘So that is where you would call home?’
‘No, Maman’s family did not approve of the marriage. My parents would not talk about it. I don’t think there’s anywhere I’d call home, I’ve never stayed in one place long enough to put down roots.’
‘Why not?’
She thought for a moment, her lips pursed, a small frown drawing her fair brows together. ‘It’s strange, but I’ve never really questioned why. Papa said it was expedient for his—his business interests, but I’m not sure that’s wholly true. He just liked to travel. I’ve lived in some beautiful cities, Vienna, Rome, Strasbourg, and Paris of course, but I’ve always considered myself an outsider. We lived so much, my parents and I, in a little world of their making. I have any number of acquaintances, but I don’t really have any friends of my own.’
‘May one ask what precisely Papa’s business interests were?’
‘Oh, he dabbled in lots of things,’ Serena said vaguely. ‘He preferred me not to become involved in such matters.’
‘Whatever your father was involved with, it must have been lucrative. I could not fail to notice the quality, and expense, of that delightful outfit you wore yesterday. Assuming, of course, it was your father who provided the funds.’
He was looking at her with that curling half-smile that made her pulses flutter and raised her hackles at the same time. ‘You think I have a rich protector? A fat, elderly gentleman perhaps, on whom I bestow my