Scoundrel in the Regency Ballroom: The Rake and the Heiress / Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem. Marguerite Kaye
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