Duty Before Desire (12 page)

Arcadia sat on the edge of the chair, eyes lowered, hands folded demurely in her lap, doing her best to look meek and contrite. She still wasn't entirely sure what she'd done wrong, other than walk down St. James's Street. More than
doing
wrong, Arcadia sensed that she
was
wrong, that she wasn't English enough to suit her aunt, not enough like her mother.

When her uncle resumed his cup of tea and talking over the newspapers with Lady Delafield, Arcadia risked a glance. Her aunt wore a beaded evening gown, a turban topped with two fluffy white plumes, and three looping strands of pearls. Uncle Delafield, too, looked dressed for an evening out in his knee breeches, white stockings, and velvet slippers. Whatever their plans, they did not include Arcadia.

A few minutes later, the butler announced supper. Lord Delafield offered one arm to his wife, the other to his niece, and squired them to the table, a pretty little family tableau.

By the time a course of roasted partridge and creamed parsnips arrived, Arcadia's nerves were frayed to the breaking point. She'd not been able to eat a bite with this terrible suspense looming over her like the blade of a guillotine.

“May I ask you a question, Uncle?” she said, interrupting Lady Delafield's recitation of the works of art they had encountered at the British Museum.

Lord Delafield paused with his fork poised at his lips. He lowered his hand. “Yes, Arcadia?”

“What's to be done with me, my lord? My lady aunt has been angry with me since I arrived.” She cut a glance across the table; Lady Delafield shook her head, in warning or disagreement or dismay, she had no idea. “I didn't know not to walk down that particular street, my lord. You must believe me.”

Her uncle blinked in surprise. “The St. James's business? Yes, yes, I believe you, girl. Just one of those quirks about London.”

The knot in her middle relaxed a fraction, and Arcadia exhaled properly for what felt like the first time in days.

“Although,” Lord Delafield continued, “it
is
a rule, unwritten as it may be, and you broke it.”

Arcadia's mouth went dry. “I'm sorry,” she managed. “But now I know, and nothing like it will happen—”

Lady Delafield's fork clattered to her plate. “And you lost my sister's brooch. And you argued with me in public today. And you force that terrible servant upon us incessantly. And you lie, and you bring scandal to our door,
and and and
!” Pressing the backs of her fingers to her mouth, her ladyship turned her head, as though she couldn't bear the sight of her niece another minute.

Calmly patting his mouth with his napkin, Lord Delafield leaned back in his chair. “Your aunt has a cousin, Fisk, with the living in a village near Derby.”

“So, he is my cousin, as well?”

“He's a vicar,” her aunt supplied. “A man of impeccable moral fiber.”

“I've written,” Lord Delafield said, reaching for his wine, “invited him to come up to Town soon as he can to see if you're suitable.”

“Suitable?” Arcadia echoed dumbly, for the ground had suddenly shifted beneath her chair.

“To be his bride!” Lord Delafield chuckled before tucking back into his supper. “You'll be mistress of your own establishment before Christmas. Won't that be nice?”

No!
Marriage would ruin everything. She'd never make it back to India if she was married off to an Englishman. She'd be trapped on this frigid canker of an island for the rest of her life.

Arcadia clenched her dinner knife in a death grip. “What … surprising news,” she managed, forcing her fingers to release the cutlery. She took up her glass of wine; the rosé sloshed in her trembling hand. “What of Poorvaja?” she asked after a fortifying gulp. “She will come with me, will she not?”

Her aunt's lips parted, but Lord Delafield raised a hand. “Your former nursemaid's services are no longer required,” he said simply. “She's been dismissed.”

Arcadia shot to her feet. “What?” she screeched. “How could you?”

“I gave her a reference,” her uncle protested. “She can find employment.”

“Where is she?”

“Not my concern,” said Lord Delafield. “Nor yours, for that matter.” He waggled his fork at her. “Sit down, gel. Eat your supper.”

Sit down? Eat? How could Arcadia sit down when Poorvaja had been turned out on the streets? How could she eat, knowing that her ayah had no food to fill her own belly?

Poorvaja could be anywhere in this dreadful city. Lost, with nowhere to turn. Anything could happen to her. The footpad who'd accosted Arcadia in Hyde Park wasn't the worst London had to offer. Poorvaja might be snatched off the street. Raped. Killed. Who would notice the loss of one Indian woman?

Even if her aunt and uncle couldn't recognize it, Poorvaja was far more than a servant; she was Arcadia's family. She couldn't abandon her now. But what could Arcadia do? She knew as little of the city and its ways as Poorvaja. If she went barreling out into the streets, she'd soon be as lost as her beloved ayah.

With a heavy
thud
, Arcadia fell back into her chair. A gnawing sense of loss opened in her heart.
Oh, Poorvaja.
What could she do?
What could she do?

“There now,” Lady Delafield said with a sniff, “you're behaving more the thing already. I was perfectly correct about that maid's influence over you. Reverend Fisk will be just the husband to set you to rights.”

Husband.
The word caused a sick roiling in her gut.

What could she do? She had no one to appeal to for help—

Well. There might be one person. One man who had offered her help.

Arcadia still believed his offer had not been sincere, but with nowhere else to turn, she had to try.

“And?” Sheri turned the note over and frowned at his own name scrawled on the other side. He flapped the nearly empty page at French. “Is this all?”

“Yes, my lord,” his manservant answered.

“Is the messenger awaiting a reply?”

French shook his head. “She gave no instructions beyond delivering the letter into your hands.”

“She?”

“A maid, I believe, sir, judging by her dress.”

Sheri snorted. Leave it to Miss Parks (whom he presumed to be the cryptic AP) to botch something as simple as a clandestine communication. “Useful information, a time and place, would be too much to hope for,” he groused.

And, naturally, being Miss Parks, her missive carried the tone of a summons. Nary a
please
or
upon your leisure
to be seen.

What could she have to say that was so important? Sheri thought she had made her dislike of him perfectly clear. He might have been a bit … stringent … in listing her faults, but she didn't have to be quite so emphatic in her refusal of his offer of help in finding her stolen property.

The tale of Miss Parks's promenade down St. James's had London's gossips abuzz. His involvement in the fiasco was also known, but, unjust it might be, it was not he whose reputation suffered as a result of the misadventure.

In the depths of his soul, Sheri's bruised pride took a bit of pleasure in Miss Parks's scandal. Really, just the very tiniest amount of pleasure. A crumb, which he was properly ashamed of himself for feeling and which he tried to ignore.

Still, the mystery presented by her note was not one Sheri could ignore, and so, lacking any other direction, he sent a note 'round to Lord Delafield, openly, by way of French, requesting the honor of Miss Parks's company for an afternoon ride in Hyde Park. So quickly came his lordship's affirmative reply, Sheri wondered whether the lady had actually been given any notice or say in the matter.

The following afternoon, he presented his card to Delafield's footman and was escorted into the front parlor, where he was left resting on his nankeen-clad laurels with nary a cup of tea for distraction. His eyes skated over the furnishings he'd seen the several times he'd attempted to call upon Miss Parks. In particular, his eye was drawn by a decorative screen in the corner comprised of a gilt-framed triptych of floral banalities. The garish thing was an affront to good taste.

At last, Delafield came into the parlor. Gray of beard and bald of head, the baron's clothes looked a little tired, a touch loose in the knees and elbows, where they had stretched from much use.

“Zouche,” he said, waving Sheri into a chair while he took his own seat. Incongruously, the older man looked like a schoolboy in the headmaster's desk, sitting with back straight, leaned slightly forward, legs together, hands fisted on his knees. “M' wife has bid me to inform you that her niece is all but engaged to another, and she wishes to know—”

“
Ahem!
”

Lord Delafield's gaze flicked to the screen in the corner.

Had an audience, did they? Through his quizzing glass, Sheri regarded the older man. “You were saying, sirrah?”

Delafield tucked his chin. “Miss Parks is a gentlewoman of good breeding, noble connection, and some fortune.” He spoke slowly and nodded as he went, as though reciting from a script. The baron cleared his throat. “She—Lady Delafield, that is—wishes you to know—”

“
Ahem!
”

“—wishes
to
know,” Delafield corrected, voice raised and obviously ruffled by the off-stage prompts of this scene's director, “whether you plan to present a rival claim for the gel's hand, and if not, to tell you to sod off.”

“
Oh!
”

His lordship gave a mutinous smile at the affronted gasp, triumphant in his moment of improvisational rebellion.

“So,” the reluctant actor concluded, “what are your intentions towards Miss Parks?”

Before Sheri could stop it, a laugh blurted from his lips; he attempted to cover it with a cough but might have just made himself sound like a vital organ was about to erupt from his mouth. His
intentions
? Good Lord, he couldn't remember the last time anyone had asked Sheridan to declare his intentions towards a woman. In the past, his designs had always been straightforward: either he meant to dance with a woman, bed her, or charm her with witty conversation at social gatherings. Sometimes a combination of more than one of those options, but those were the only intentions he ever had.

To his mind, this was simple, too. He was only responding to her request for a meeting. But the Delafields didn't know that, he realized. While he might ask Elsa to go for a drive without anyone batting an eye, one did not engage the company of a young, unmarried miss unless one had
intentions
, honorable or otherwise. He knew this; he did. But he had no prior experience in calling upon a respectable young lady for a solo outing. Shouldn't this conversation with a male relative occur somewhere down the line, not before the horses had left the starting gate? Ye gods, for the sin of granting Miss Parks's wish for a surreptitious conversation, he'd inadvertently blundered into a courtship.

“It's a little soon to say,” he prevaricated.

The older man's lips retreated into the white bristles of his mustache and beard, his brow creased in a deep, severe eleven.

Their unseen audience tutted.

“That is,” Sheridan hastened to add, “I've only just met Miss Parks. She's an interesting young lady, isn't she? One doesn't encounter a girl like her often.”
Ever
. He'd never met anyone who was so well traveled, yet disastrously innocent; or one with a sing-song voice that said the most outrageous things. “Which is why I thought it would be nice to get to know her a bit by going for a drive.”

He tapped his quizzing glass against his palm. Realizing he probably appeared an anxious suitor, he stuffed it back into his pocket. Sheridan was thirty years old and had more experience with females than any other ten men put together. He did not get
nervous
over some Indian-bred chit.

“She's to be married,” Delafield stated, “and soon. Won't have you wrecking everything.”

Odd. Miss Parks had mentioned nothing about an engagement, pending or otherwise. She'd given every indication of wanting to return to India, but how could she do so if she was wed?

“If I may be so bold as to inquire, my lord, who is the lucky bridegroom?”

“The Reverend Mr. Fisk, cousin of my wife. D'you know him?”

“I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure.”

Perhaps this was the answer to the mysterious summons: Miss Parks must want rescuing from her drab country vicar. “Well,” Sheri said, rising smoothly, “I can assure you, my lord
and lady
,” he loudly added for the screen's benefit, “that I most certainly harbor no improper intentions towards Miss Parks. We're just off for a little drive.”

“Glad to know it,” his lordship drawled.

A moment later, Miss Parks appeared. She wore a blush muslin dress that was too pale a color for her. A woman possessed of her strong features should complement them with bolder fashions.

As if she secretly agreed with him, her shoulders were once more draped with the silk shawl he'd seen her wear before. It was a stunning cerulean blue, edged in a paisley motif, each crooked, jewel-tone teardrop embroidered with intricate floral designs.

Atop all perched a straw bonnet trimmed with enough lace to clearly point to Lady Delafield's influence.

Ordinarily, such a mismatched ensemble would have given him dyspepsia. But on Miss Parks, the look was charming. It was so very
her
, he supposed.

He sketched a bow. “Miss Parks.”

She curtsied in return. “Lord
Sheridan
.” She emphasized his name when she said it, turning it into a playful reminder of the outrageous
Lord Nothing
nickname she'd given him.