“Don’t expect me,” warned Devellyn. “Is Admeta still talking to that Norwich terrier? The one she thinks is her dead husband?”
“Well, what’s the harm, dear?” she asked. “Horatio is, admittedly, a very fine-looking dog.”
“God knows he’s got more hair than Uncle Horatio ever did.”
His mother grew suddenly impatient. “Oh, Aleric, let’s stop talking about that silly dog,” she said, the hand returning to his arm. “I have something important to say.”
“I was afraid of that.” And he already knew he wasn’t going to like it.
“Next month, Aleric, will be your father’s seventieth birthday, so I mean to open up the house on Grosvenor Square.” Her hand tightened on his arm. “I am giving a ball, Aleric. The first we’ve had since—well, since Greg died. Please, will you just think on it? This may be his last.”
Her fingers still digging into his arm, he somehow managed to nod. “Don’t get your hopes up, Mother, all right?” he finally answered. “Just promise you won’t get your hopes up.”
His appetite finally ruined, Lord Devellyn saw his mother to the door, then promptly returned to the drawing room to resume his drinking and his pacing.
Miss Jennifer Arbuckle was almost asleep by the time her father’s carriage returned from Mayfair to Bedford Place. Sidonie was tired, too, having suffered a tedious evening of smiling and applauding as one debutante after another took the stage at Lady Kirton’s musicale. For Miss Arbuckle, the invitation to such a posh event had been a great honor. The Arbuckles were merchants, whilst Lady Kirton was a wellborn widow, known throughout the
ton
for her philanthropy and her volunteer work at the Nazareth Society.
Mrs. Arbuckle, however, was a frail, nervous woman who was uncomfortable with her new role in life. The invitations which her husband’s wealth now brought their way almost always provoked in her a case of the megrims. And so it was that Sidonie had come into Miss Arbuckle’s life, to teach and to do what Mrs. Arbuckle could not.
As with the Hannadays, Sidonie had been referred to the Arbuckles by a satisfied client. And as usual, they had been told Sidonie was a genteel widow recently arrived from France and the descendant of minor French nobility, all of which was true. Other than to remark upon her faint accent, no one ever asked about her parents, or why she’d come to England. Sidonie certainly did not enlighten them.
As the daughter of a duke—even an illegitimate daughter—Sidonie could have entered polite society if she’d had someone of good standing to make the necessary introductions. But polite society held little attraction for her. Teaching the social graces did, because the income left her nest egg intact. More importantly, it permitted her to move on the fringes of society, which in turn helped her learn all manner of interesting things about the gentlemen of the
ton.
Tonight, however, had not been interesting. Stifling a yawn, Sidonie realized that tonight could certainly have been worse. Miss Arbuckle had accounted herself well at the pianoforte. Sidonie had played the duenna, and despite Lady Kirton’s efforts to draw her out, had hovered in the background as she was being paid to do. Lady Kirton gave the impression of being a charming hen-wit, but Sidonie had sensed a keen intelligence in the woman’s eyes. A heavy veil and an Italian accent would not fool her again, Sidonie feared. From now on, she would have to find another way to deliver money to the Nazareth Society.
Just then, the carriage began to slow. Sidonie reached for her reticule, and the movement roused Miss Arbuckle. Sidonie placed her hand lightly over the girl’s. “You played beautifully tonight, my dear,” she said, giving her a little pat. “Quite as well as any lady present.”
Miss Arbuckle smiled dreamily. “It was a splendid affair, wasn’t it?” she said. “And did you not think her ladyship exceedingly gracious? I think I shall tell Papa to give that Nazareth Club of hers a huge contribution.”
“I believe it is called the Nazareth Society,” said Sidonie innocently. “And a donation, I am sure, would be most welcome. The society houses fallen women, you know, and sets them on the path to a better life.”
By the flickering light of the carriage lantern, she saw the girl blush. “Thank you, Madame Saint-Godard, for going with me tonight,” she said. “Mother always remarks how much my piano has improved since you took me on.”
Mr. Arbuckle’s footman had put down the steps and opened the door. The pavement glistened with recent rain. Sidonie stepped down, then made a pretense of waving them off as she searched for her key. The horses’ hooves rang sharply on the cobblestones as the carriage clattered down the street and around the corner. Sidonie closed her reticule, pulled her cloak a little closer, and set off down Bedford Place in the opposite direction.
Russell Square lay at the north end of Sidonie’s well-lit street, and the walk was but a short one. Lifting her skirts to avoid the damp grass, she circled the statue of Lord Bedford, saw no sign of Charles Greer, then slid into the shadows to wait. Inside the square, little light fell, but the gloom had to be braved. Servants, even good ones, had wagging tongues. It would do her career precious little good if her prospective clients should hear rumors she’d helped one of her students elope.
Sidonie drew her cloak snugger still and paced through the darkness. It must be past midnight already. It was quite possible, she considered, that Mr. Greer would not come at all. Perhaps he had not been sincere in his affections for Miss Hannaday. Or perhaps he was truly terrified of her father. Even if he came, perhaps he wouldn’t find Maurice’s offer of a position tempting. She paused and listened for a moment. There was nothing save for the faint sound of the traffic in High Holborn. In Russell Square, no living thing stirred. She would have sworn it.
Just then, she turned around, and walked straight into an immense, immutable wall. The wall grabbed her. Sidonie screamed.
“Good evening, Madame Saint-Godard.” Lord Devellyn’s voice rumbled deep in his chest. “A fine evening for a walk, is it not?”
Her heart was in her throat, and strong, solid hands were gripping her arms. “Devellyn!” she answered. “Dear God! Must you go skulking about in the dark, creeping up on people?”
The marquess chuckled. “I’ve been accused of many things, my dear, but being light on my feet is not one of them.”
“Your feet are not my concern,” she said. “But your hands
are.
Take them off me, if you please.”
In the dark, she could feel his eyes search her face. “Whatever virtue you possess,
madame,
is safe with me.”
“Whatever
virtue—?” Sidonie considered kneeing him in the testicles. “What do you mean to suggest?”
In the gloom, it felt as though he leaned nearer, for she could feel the heat his big body radiated. “Well, oddly enough, I meant to suggest you kiss me,” he responded. “But I believe you’d slap my face.”
“And quite soundly, too.”
“Ah, always unlucky in love!” he said lightly. “No wonder I drink so much.”
Yes, he probably was drunk, thought Sidonie. He smelled of spicy soap and tobacco smoke and something which might have been brandy. Again, she tried to pull away. This time, he let her go, but very slowly, his heavy, warm hands sliding inch by inch down her forearms, his fingertips fleetingly catching hers. And then the touch was severed altogether, leaving Sidonie to feel inexplicably cold.
The marquess stepped back and lifted his gaze heavenward. He carried something—a black umbrella, she thought—hooked carelessly over his wrist. “I’m exceedingly fond of a late-night stroll myself,” he went on, as if their strange interchange had not just occurred. “I find the night air a remarkable restorative.”
“I suspect you’ve much to restore, my lord,” she said tartly. “I believe, in fact, you are quite inebriated.”
He laughed, but with neither humor nor cynicism. “Let’s just say it took a vast quantity of cognac to wash my dinner down,” he agreed. “Parts of it were hard to digest.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“But enough about me,” he continued. “I should much prefer to talk about you.”
“I should rather not, thank you.”
Devellyn went on as if she’d not spoken. “This fine air aside, ma’am, I cannot think it quite the thing for you to be out here alone,” he said. “I think I should see you safely home. And then, perhaps, out of gratitude, you might invite me in for a rum toddy?”
“I think you should mind your own business, my lord,” she retorted, pointing at the long, lamplit street beyond the statue. “And you should do it in your own house. That would be Number Seventeen, in case you do not recall. You will find it just there, on your left.”
“But I should much rather go elsewhere,” he said. “After all, I am reliably informed I have vulgar purple flock-paper in my dining room, and that my drawing room looks like a cheap brothel. What does your house look like,
madame?
Perhaps I should find it more inviting?”
“I beg your pardon?”
This time, Devellyn chuckled. “You seem to keep saying that to me, Madame Saint-Godard,” he said. “Do you always require so much pardoning? You must be very wicked.”
Sidonie laid her gloved hand on his coat sleeve and leaned nearer. “Let me rephrase that, my lord,” she returned, enunciating every word. “It will be a cold day in hell when I invite you into my home.”
“What ill luck,” said the marquess evenly. “I daresay it’s full of pretty chintz and homey needlecraft, and probably smells of fresh bread or beeswax or—” Here, he leaned forward to sniff her. “Or
that
—rosewater, isn’t it?”
“Gardenia.” She jerked sharply back. “Why do you care?”
“Well, you saw
my
drawing room,” he said, missing her point. “Appalling, was it not?”
“You’d just conked me on the sconce with a carriage door, my lord,” she answered. “Frankly, I did not spare your drawing room a thought.”
“That’s just as well,” he answered. “It is truly hideous.”
“Well, how very dreadful that you’ve been reduced to living here in Bedford Place with us lesser mortals,” she retorted. “I am sure it is not at all the rarefied existence to which you are accustomed.”
Devellyn roared with laughter. “Oh, Madame Saint-Godard, you have no idea how low my standards can go,” he answered. “I meant only that the house is rather…uninviting. And empty.”
“The latter, I collect, is your own fault.”
“Yes,” he said dryly. “I hear that a lot.”
At that, Sidonie was compelled to choke back a burst of laughter. What on earth was she was doing, standing there in the dark parrying words with a scoundrel? “Really, Lord Devellyn, you must go home now.” She spoke firmly, as if to a child, and gave him a little push.
“I cannot,” he said. “It would be ungentlemanly to leave a lady alone in the dark.”
“I came here alone in the dark,” she said. “Go
away.
Please. I have…I have an appointment.”
He grew very still for a moment. “Ah,” he finally said. “I have interrupted an assignation.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The marquess laughed hollowly. “My dear, one has appointments in the daylight hours,” he said. “And engagements in the evening. But anything after the stroke of midnight, oh, that is most definitely an assignation.”
“Well, who would have guessed the Devil of Duke Street was such an astute arbiter of social standards!” said Sidonie tightly. “Perhaps the patronesses down at Almack’s should hang up their tiaras and leave you to it?”
“You have a sharp tongue,
madame.”
“And you seem remarkably willing to tolerate it.”
Despite the darkness, Sidonie had the unsettling sensation the marquess was staring deep into her eyes. “Can I not pique your interest, then, in even the smallest of ways,
madame?”
he asked, sounding remarkably sober. “Do you find me so very unattractive?”
Sidonie’s eyes narrowed. “You are strikingly handsome, and, I daresay, all too aware of it,” she managed. “But I am meeting someone, and I wish for privacy. Do you mind terribly?”
The marquess hesitated, and for a moment, she almost believed his concern for her safety was real. “Very well, then,” he finally said. “I shall go, but under two conditions.”
“I rarely bargain, my lord.”
“Yes, I thought as much,” he agreed. “But they are very small conditions.”
“Small,” she echoed. “The first, then?”
He took the umbrella from his wrist, and handed it to her. “I wish you to take this.”
“It is not necessary.”
“That is why it is called a condition,” he returned. “The rain, I fear, is not over.”
“I thank you, then.” Sidonie folded her hand around the crook, which was still warm from his wrist. “What is your second?”
“I wish…” He broke off, and his voice suddenly gentled. “I wish, Madame Saint-Godard, to know your given name.”
She watched him quietly for a moment. “Sidonie.”
“Sidney,”
he repeated. “How…lovely. But is that not—well, is it not normally a man’s name?”
“Si-doh-NEE,”
she corrected, trying not to laugh. “Please say it properly if you must say it at all.”
“Oh, I mean to say it,” he agreed. “Even if only to whisper it to myself when I am alone in the dark. But for now, I think I shall presume upon our newfound friendship and just call you Sid instead.”
That took her aback. “I am sorry,” she said stiffly. “Only my family does so.”
“Your family? I thought you had none.”
She looked at him incredulously. “How would you know?”
Devellyn laughed again. “My dear Sid!” he chided. “A man of my reputation can hardly afford to employ total lackwits. Did you imagine you could keep sending your Miss Meg across the street to flutter her eyelashes at my poor footman and have him come away knowing nothing in return?”
Sidonie drew back. “Why—how dare you! I did no such thing!”
But she had, indirectly, had she not? Julia had told Meg to go see what she could find out about the marquess. But Julia had not, apparently, told the girl to keep her mouth shut.
Devellyn sensed her uncertainty. “Ah, she is caught out!” he murmured. “Madame Sidonie Saint-Godard, a lovely French widow of somewhat mysterious origin, who has lived in London all of eleven months, eight of them in Bedford Place, and who has no family—or at least none her servants know of. Your husband was a sea captain. He died of a tropical disease in the West Indies. Soon thereafter, your mother also died, leaving you a small inheritance.”