Dangerous to Love (36 page)

Flynn’s description raised all kinds of speculations in Julian’s mind. He could not help wondering at the closeness between mother and daughter which Flynn had mentioned.
What kind of confidences had passed between them—a woman who was humiliated by her husband’s unending infidelities and a young girl who was on the threshold of womanhood? If he was right in what he was thinking, it explained why Serena had fought against the irresistible attraction that had leapt between them almost from the moment they had set eyes on each other. Did Serena think that he was cast from the same mold as her father? Did she really believe that he would turn out to be another Allardyce?

Of course she did! He had seduced her and offered her the position of mistress. What else could she think of him? I
would no more think of taking up with your kind than I would with thieves and murderers.
Your kind. She wasn’t disparaging his humble beginnings.
Libertine! Faithless libertine!
Those were the words she most frequently employed when her hackles were raised. It was his reputation with women which galled her. Even at Ranelagh, it was his women that she had flung in his teeth. Good God, didn’t she realize that if he had had her, there would be no women now to regret?

He thought of something else. At Ranelagh, he had been with Lady Amelia, and Serena must have known what to make of that. She had given him such a look, then had slunk away like a whipped cur. He swallowed, remembering the look she had thrown him.

I thought I loved you. I thought I loved you.
God, what had he thrown away?

“At any rate,” said Flynn, breaking into his thoughts, “that’s all beside the bridge, now, ain’t it? You’ve got your life in America and Serena is appy with ’er Mr. ’Adley, or she will be once you do the ’onorable thing and burn that certificate of marriage.”

Whatever response Flynn had hoped to hear was dashed with Julian’s next words. “You’re right, of course, and the
sooner it’s done, the better. I suppose we should both be present when I destroy the evidence, otherwise Serena will always wonder whether or not her marriage to Hadley is genuine?”

With those unfeeling words, the marriage of Serena and Mr. Hadley seemed to take a giant step forward in Flynn’s mind, and he sipped his brandy in glum silence.

“You’ll arrange it, Flynn?”

“What?”

“A meeting between Serena and myself so that we can both be present when I destroy the evidence of our Fleet marriage?”

“That may be impossible to arrange the way things stand.”

“The way things stand?”

“The wagers in all the coffee’ouses, the rumors and speculation—you knows what I mean.”

When it was evident that Julian did not have the faintest idea to what he was referring, Flynn enlightened him.

“It will soon blow over,” was Julian’s callous response to what Flynn told him.

Flynn regarded him in pent-up silence before bursting out, “That’s easy enough for you to say. Nobody thinks any the less of a gentleman for ’is peccadilloes, yes, and that piece what you ’as been taking up with. You and Lady Amelia ’as nothing to lose. It’s Serena’s virtue that is being questioned; it’s ’er reputation that is tarnished.”

Julian was genuinely amused. “No one who knows Serena,” he said, “would ever take her for a woman of easy virtue.”

“Is that so?” retorted Flynn scathingly. “As I remember, you did once. And ’ow do you account for those two rogues who accosted ’er this very afternoon, when my back was turned, yes, and did their best to ravish ’er?”

For the first time since planting his fist in Julian’s face, Flynn had the satisfaction of seeing the expression he wanted to see. Julian’s nostrils were flared. His brows were down. His gray eyes had lightened to an arctic transparency. Under Flynn’s fascinated gaze, a hot tide of color rose from throat to hairline. The voice that addressed Flynn put him in mind of distant thunder.

“If anyone has laid a finger on my wife,” said Julian, “he will answer to me for it.”

   It was no great feat to discover the identities and lodgings of Dick Montrose and Salty Saltcoat. They were young provincials who had come up to town to acquire a little polish by mixing in polite society. When they became bored with polite society, they had attached themselves to the young dandy set who devoted their energies to drinking, gaming, and wenching. Julian and Flynn found them in the Magpie and Stump, their regular haunt, absorbed in a game of cribbage. The ladies who hung on their shoulders were not precisely ladies.

At sight of Julian, the gentlemen went parchment-white, but they recovered a little when Julian greeted them pleasantly and made no move to unsheathe his smallsword. Flynn had insisted to Julian that this could not be settled with pistols or foils, lest Serena’s name attract even more scandal than it already had.

There was a quarrel. Julian did not like the way Mr. Montrose tied his cravat. Flynn took exception to the sneer on Mr. Saltcoat’s handsome face.

“My advice to you pretty boys,” said Julian amicably, looking from one to the other, “is to leave London on the first available stage. Gentlemen, if I find you here tomorrow, I may be a little out of humor, which would not bode well for you. Tell them, Flynn.”

“Castrati,” said Flynn gleefully. “Then your pretty voices would match your pretty faces.”

Hands reached for the hilts of weapons, but before they could be unsheathed, both Julian and Flynn, fists flying, had launched themselves simultaneously at their respective targets. It was over so quickly that Julian felt thoroughly cheated.

But fortune smiled on him. Some of the regulars, grossly put out by the way these swaggering fops were forever throwing their weight about and walking off with the choicest women, decided they’d had enough of it. Jeers and catcalls quickly degenerated into shoves and pushes. Someone smashed a chair against a table and raised it threateningly. There was a silence, then a roar. A tankard went flying and the battle was joined.

It was a grand dustup and the major was a grand gentleman, as all readily agreed when, honor satisfied, the combatants retired to the bar to enjoy several rounds of drinks that Julian generously sponsored. Only Dick and Salty did not join in the celebration. When they came to themselves, they slunk away as Julian’s back was turned, and booked seats on the first stage that was leaving London.

Some time later, accompanied by a band of well-wishers, Julian and Flynn staggered their tuneful way toward St. Dunstan’s Court. At the side door to Julian’s house, the procession halted. Julian squinted down at Flynn. He was swaying alarmingly, Flynn noted and put out a hand to steady him.

“I have been meaning to ask you,” said Julian, his speech more precise than Flynn had ever heard it, “why you are still attached to the Ward household? A young man of your abilities, Flynn, could do so much better for himself.”

“And so I shall, when the time is right.”

“Why not today? I could use a good man like you.”

Flynn fingered the emerald at his earlobe. He shifted restlessly. “You’ll never ’ear me say it,” he said, “so don’t go setting no traps for me.”

Julian smiled. “I thought as much. Poor Flynn. Poor me. Poor Mr. Hadley, and all buggers like us.”

Doffing his hat, he executed a long and courtly bow to his boon companions. The effect was somewhat spoiled when, finally straightening, he mistook his direction and entered the wrong house. With one last cheery wave, he shut the door.

The procession of men stared dumbly at that closed door. Their eyes lifted when a light flared to life at an upstairs window. Suddenly, several piercing shrieks in quick succession ripped the silence, followed almost instantaneously by the blast of a blunderbuss. A moment later the front door was wrenched back on its hinges and Julian came rocketing down the steps, coattails flying, pursued by the wronged husband.

It was just one more lurid tale to increase Serena’s disgust of him was Julian’s last woeful thought before he pitched on his face at Flynn’s feet.

   When Flynn returned to Buckingham Street, he discovered that Serena had waited up for him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, making an angry motion with one hand to encompass his small bedchamber.

Noting inwardly that Flynn was forgetting to drop his aspirates, a sure sign that he was foxed, Serena said coolly, “I wanted to talk to you. What has happened to your face?”

Flynn glowered at her. “Do you know what time it is? What will people think if they find you here, alone with me, in my room?”

“What will people think?” Her brows knit together in perplexity. “Flynn, this is Serena. No one will think anything.”

As he advanced into the room and she had a closer view of the several marks and bruises on his face, she gasped and ran to him. “Flynn, who did this to you? Was it Julian?”

He slapped her hands away as she made to touch him. “Didn’t you hear me? You shouldn’t be here alone with me. We shall talk in the morning, in the breakfast parlor.”

“You, Flynn, are in your cups,” she said.

He laughed without humor. “I was never more sober in my life.” Swinging away from her, he moved to the wash-stand and poured water from the china pitcher into the basin. Wringing out a cloth, he dabbed at his face before turning to face her.

“Look at yourself!” he said, snarling at her. “In your night rail! Serena, this is not decent. Haven’t you heard of footmen seducing their mistresses?”

She gave a crow of incredulous laughter. “Flynn, don’t be ridiculous. I’m too old for you. Who on earth has been putting these notions into your head?”

“There is only three years’ difference in our ages.” He was deadly serious, and her smile faded. “It happens all the time. Don’t we both know of ladies of your own rank who have eloped with their footmen? Do you want to elope with me, Serena? Is that it?”

She moved quickly to the door. “I wish you would tell me,” she snapped, “why you are trying to spoil our friendship.”

“When we were children, we could be friends. We are not children now.”

“Fine, if that’s the way you want it.”

She hesitated and he growled, “Get out of here before I finish what those two bastards started this afternoon.”

The door banged behind her. Flynn remained frozen for a long time, then suddenly groaning, he flung himself on top of the bed.

In the morning, when he entered the breakfast parlor, Serena eyed him warily. Flynn was all smiles.

“I ’as a faint recollection,” he said, “that you was waiting up for me last night, but I was so foxed I ’ardly knows if I imagined it or not.”

The wariness gradually left her eyes. “You were like a bear with a sore paw,” she said.

“And now I feels like a bear with a sore ’ead.”

Everything was going to be all right between them. Serena let out a relieved breath. When the door opened to admit Catherine, she picked up her cup and drank from it. She and Flynn had yet to have their talk. Not in his bedchamber, nor in hers, she decided. Those days were gone forever. Flynn was right. It wasn’t decent.

She glanced at him covertly over the rim of her cup. It was evident to her that Flynn did not remember a word of what had passed between them the night before. She didn’t want him to remember, or she would never be able to be natural with him again.

“I think I shall go for a walk,” she said.

“Be sure to take Flynn or one of the maids with you,” said Catherine absently.

“Flynn?”

They left the breakfast parlor together.

T
he problem with summer was that the sun never set before ten o’clock and, even then, twilight lingered for a long while after. For those who were intent on pursuing some clandestine end, such as highwaymen and burglars or ladies who had a secret assignation to keep, the long summer nights could prove extremely awkward.

Such were Serena’s thoughts as she glanced at the clock on the mantel, noting that a whole minute had passed since she had last taken stock of the hour. Outside her window, the gloom was deepening. The only sounds in the house were clocks ticking and odd groans and creaks as both house and servants settled themselves for sleep. Through the open window, she could hear watermen calling to each other across the river and the occasional tolling of a bell.

She was nervous, naturally. When the clock chimed, it would be time to leave the safety of her bedchamber and set off for her rendezvous with Julian. Even now, the boatmen would be waiting for her, only a stone’s throw away from Ward House, at the York Water Gate. They would row her downstream to Blackfriars Stairs, whence Julian’s sedan, with an escort to protect her, would convey her to his gaming house.

Pacing restlessly, she paused to examine her reflection in the looking glass. Pride had dictated that tonight she not disgrace herself. The ladies in Julian’s gaming house, as she well remembered, were no frumps, but rather dazzlers of the first order. Though her own blue silk was
remade to bring it into vogue—tight-fitting bodice and waist, moderate hoops, and yards of silver lace ruffles at her elbows and throat, Julian would never know it. Her fair hair was undressed and curling loosely to her shoulders, not from preference, but because a lady who had taken to her bed feigning a headache could hardly ask her maid to dress her hair as though she were engaged to go out for the evening. It was bravado that had prompted her to affix a black silk patch at one corner of her mouth, and sheer vanity that had persuaded her to rouge her lips and cheeks.