Rakes and Radishes (5 page)

“We’re here!” Henrietta cried.

Well, almost.

After a long day’s journey and a crowded inn with a room beside the privy door, she could see London waiting just beyond the tollbooth—a horizon of slanting slate roofs holding thousands of chimney pots, each streaming little black ribbons of coal into the heavy gray sky. Yet they were stuck with a dozen other carriages, unmoving, as a flock of sheep passed the road. Kesseley stepped out of the carriage, and for a one horrified minute, she thought he was going to inspect the sheep, but he shooed them along and spoke to the groomsmen. He returned to his seat, a mischievous smile on his lips.

“Care for a small tour of London?” he asked.

“Oh yes!” Henrietta slid to the edge of her seat and squeezed his hands. “Please.”

The carriage lurched forward into the mass of other vehicles bearing down upon one another, jostling for position in the dark, narrow streets. Buildings towered on either side, thin stately things, no more than the width of their carriage and painted in soot.

The inhabitants of London concealed themselves in dark coats and capes. Their hard, pale faces seemed closed, like boarded-up windows, and their eyes distant. They moved in great waves through streets, stepping in front of carriages and horses, unconcerned for their own welfare. Henrietta’s nose stung with the sour scent of their perspiration mixed with the stench of animal dung.

She looked at Kesseley questioningly. This wasn’t the London she had read about. He just sat back, expressionless. “It gets better,” he said.

The carriage jerked to a stop. Their groomsman shouted in some menacing, unintelligible language. A heated discussion ensued. Samuel stuck his nose in the air as if he could smell the altercation, and starting emitting deep howls. The carriage turned sharply, and the driver of a wagon of cabbages waved his hands in threatening gestures, letting out a loud stream of foreign profanity.

“Did he speak cant? Real cant?” Henrietta asked.

Kesseley chuckled at her.

“What do you think he said?”

“Something about your mother isn’t married to your father.”

“Stop encouraging her, Tommie,” his mother said.

“I didn’t know you could speak cant, Kesseley?” Suddenly this seemed more romantic than French or Italian or any of those Romance languages.

“Well, I did go to Cambridge.”

The lane twisted through intersecting streets, carriage wheels scraping together, horses biting each other, everyone fighting it out to advance.

Henrietta was watching one exchange between a lady in a loose garish gown and a thick bearded man carrying a barrel on his shoulder, when Kesseley touched her knee. A spark of warmth traveled up her body.

“Look,” he said, nodding out the window.

On the opposite side of the street was a boxlike white building, dominated by four rising columns that jutted out onto the sidewalk.

“Haymarket! Kesseley! There’s Haymarket Theatre!”

“Oh, dear God,” Lady Kesseley muttered.

Henrietta refrained from shamelessly pasting her face to the window like Samuel. There was more shouting, and the carriage made a sudden turn, sliding Henrietta into Lady Kesseley. Henrietta shot back over to her side.

They had left the busy street and entered an open, stately square with a water fountain protected by a black iron gate. Here the houses gleamed a luminous white, seemingly immune to the filth covering the rest of the city. Imposing Greek columns rose up five or six stories to the roofs, so high they were almost lost in the dense clouds. Through the tall windows, Henrietta could see the swag of rich brocade curtains and the gleam of the polished mahogany. Carriages pulled up at the doors and let off ladies who could have stepped from the pages of
La Belle Assemblee.

They drove around the fountain and then turned into a dark, narrow lane. Kesseley pointed to a flat, unremarkable building. “You should know this place.”

Henrietta shook her head.

“It’s Almack’s.” He laughed. “I thought all ladies knew Almack’s.”

This squat building was heaven? She had expected angels, pearly gates and St. Peter standing at the door with a guest list. It looked rather pedestrian.

The narrow street led to a larger thoroughfare bordered with tall stone buildings of understated elegance. On the sidewalks, the most fashionable men that Henrietta had ever seen clicked their canes on the pavers, sporting cravats so elaborate they made Henrietta think of fancy rooster tails.

“St. James Palace,” her tour guide said, but Henrietta only vaguely heard. For coming out of a wine merchant’s door was a young man with flowing mahogany locks and a pale blue coat.

Edward!

Henrietta’s hand touched the window glass. She wanted to scream his name. The man looked up as if he heard her silent call. A long, narrow nose ran like a line down his face, ending at a small bump of a chin. It wasn’t Edward at all. Henrietta slumped back in her seat, her heart still racing.

The carriage weaved through two enormous squares of connected white-columned homes, one looking just like the next, and then a large expanse of green opened before them, as if London came to an abrupt end.

“Hyde Park,” Kesseley said.

The
Hyde Park! Where the most fashionable people in the world paraded! Henrietta strained in her seat, looking between the trees to see the riders along the famed Rotten Row. Could one of them be Edward?

The carriage rode along the edge of the park, the boughs of oak trees arching over them. On their left she saw grand white houses that resembled decorated Queen cakes with curving bay windows and terraces.

Oh Lud, was one of these Kesseley’s?

But the carriage took a swift turn away from the park and into a grid of row houses, coming to a stop before a plain brown brick dwelling with a wrought-iron gate.

Henrietta sat still as Kesseley and his mother gathered their persons. Surely this couldn’t be their London home?

“We’re here,” he said.

Think of something nice!
“It looks so—comfortable.”

“A sensible house,” he said after they had exited the carriage and stood on the pavement, gazing up at the drab building.

“Those were your father’s words the day he bought it,” Lady Kesseley said quietly. “Of course, he had to fleece a man at some gaming hell in Soho to get the funds.”

The door opened and out stepped a robust man in neat gray livery and a powdered wig curled in tidy tight rows. He had a fleshy sagging face, serious eyes and tight lips.

“Boxly, thank heavens you were free. The agency said you might not be available this year,” Lady Kesseley said.

He bowed. “When the master comes to town, I am never busy.”

Master.
Henrietta never thought of Kesseley that way. Of course she heard him called it numerous times by the servants at Wrenthorpe, but that was in the country. The way the word resounded from this man’s deep, respectful voice sounded so reverent as if Kesseley were, well, an earl. Yet in her mind’s eye he remained the straggly boy always running about the village, his shirts stained with whatever berries he had picked along the roads, various bugs trapped in his pockets.

She followed Kesseley, his mother and Samuel inside. Beyond the entrance, the house dramatically improved. The interior exemplified that clean elegance she could never achieve at Rose House. Cool French blue walls trimmed with a white frieze of delicate plastered vines. A staircase striped with slim white balusters curved down from a stack of small balconies.

“I have a wretched headache,” Lady Kesseley said, pressing her fingers into her temples. “Please take care of everything, Tommie.” She lifted her skirt and hastened up the stairs to the next floor and then disappeared down the corridor.

Henrietta released a deep, mind-clearing sigh. Lady Kesseley’s presence made her so anxious. She felt as if she had been holding her breath since she left the village.

“Boxly, have the carriage taken around and the trunks removed,” Kesseley said. “Make sure Miss Watson’s belongings are brought to the lavender chamber.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Several footmen now swarmed the carriage and the butler hurried down the steps to direct them. Kesseley reached over and pushed the door shut, then turned and gazed at Henrietta.

“Do you approve?” he whispered.

“Oh yes.” She smiled, taking his hands into hers. Then, without thinking, she rose onto her tiptoes and kissed the edge of his jaw. The rasp of male skin tingled her lips.

She quickly stepped back, careful to keep her eyes from his face. “Thank you,” she said, the words almost lost in her breath. She thought perhaps he hadn’t heard, until he brushed her cheek with his fingers, then ran his thumb under her chin and lifted her face.

“My pleasure,” he replied. “Shall I show you to your chamber?” Something hot and deep pulsed in her most private place, as if he had suggested not only showing her the room, but her bed—and what
was
that bulge in his pantaloons?

Oh heavens. This was temporary, she told herself, just excitement from the trip. She loved Edward. She wasn’t supposed to have these feelings for other gentlemen, especially Kesseley. He was like her brother. It was all wrong and quite disturbing.

He studied her face, that twinkle in his eyes now burning as bright as Sirius. Nor could she allow him to have feelings for her, she reminded herself. For a second, she had lost sight of her mission. Get Edward back and find a perfect, wonderful, loving wife for Kesseley. She stepped away, sliding her chin from his fingers. But when he held out his arm, she had no choice but to take it. She kept herself rigid, making sure no additional parts of their bodies touched, as he led her up the stairs to the third floor.

He opened a squat white door at the back of the landing, and sweet lavender-scented air wafted into the hallway.

“After you.” He bowed.

She and Samuel walked into a snug room, like a little hideaway. Immediately the hound rolled on his back and squirmed about on the cream-colored carpet. Lavender paper with a subtle leaf pattern covered the walls. A commode draped in white muslin had been set with an oval mirror, washbowl and pitcher. Centered on the back wall was a gray marble fireplace flanked on either side by two square windows curtained in soft white and lavender floral chintz and before the fireplace stood a petite oak writing desk and cushioned chair.

The room continued behind the stairs where the ceiling slanted, forming an alcove over a tiny bed that was hidden behind cotton drapes embroidered with tiny flowers. On a petite round side table, fresh lavender sprigs rose from an etched crystal vase.

“Where did they get lavender so early in the year?”

“It’s a secret. I can’t tell.” He winked.

“Thank you, Kesseley. I always wanted to come to London, and this…” she gestured about her room, “…is perfect.”

He didn’t reply, just gazed at her, a softness in his deep gray eyes. Oh no.

“Well, I—I guess I should freshen up or umm…something,” she stammered, suddenly painfully nervous.

He turned and pulled the servants’ bell. “Ring if you need anything, and I’m next door, so you can always bang on the wall.”

“You’re next door!” Henrietta gasped.
That shouldn’t be proper.
He laughed, clearly amused by her discomfort.

“Would you like a bath brought up?”

Bath! She couldn’t be naked with him just a wall away! What if a servant accidentally left the door open and he walked by and saw her? Yet her blood quickened at the thought of him studying her naked breasts, her belly, her thighs, the same way he now gazed at her face.

“Umm, no thank you. I’ll j-just use the washstand.”

A young woman in a crisp starched dress appeared at the threshold.

“Please bring up some fresh water for Miss Watson,” he said.

“As you please, my lord.” The servant curtsied.

“Come, Samuel.” Kesseley clasped the doorknob and waited for his hound to amble out of the room, then shut the door.

“And send up the bath for me,” she heard him call after the servant.

Oh worse!
The image of naked Kesseley with water running down his wet sinewy arms flashed in her head.

“What is happening?” she squeaked.

She pounded her head with her palms, trying to clear her head.
No luck.

Think of something else. Anything.

She hurried to the opposite wall and peered out the window down onto the little bricked courtyard. Stone walls ran down a small alley, partitioning courtyard gardens and mews. Below, a man lifted her trunk from the parked carriage, while another servant unhitched the horses and took them aside to be brushed.

She moved to the writing desk and lifted the top, finding a neat stack of stationery and a book. Volume I of
The Secret Suitor
by Mrs. Alexander Fairfax. This was her third novel and not one of her best, but still very good. Strange it should be here. She never imagined Lady Kesseley would approve of Mrs. Fairfax, much less have her novels available to guests. She set the book aside for later and pulled out a piece of stationery, sat down, crossed her legs very tightly together and began composing a letter to her father.

Next door she heard a muted heavy thud, like an iron tub being dropped on the floor, then the gurgle of water and footfalls. She tried not to envision Kesseley removing his clothes, letting them fall to the floor, revealing his smooth hard chest, the taut lines of his thighs—his sex dangling between his legs like Michelangelo’s
David.
But the image got stuck in her head, like a bee trapped in the house, buzzing on the windowsill.

Her knuckles turned white as she tightened her grip on her pen, forcing herself to concentrate on each word she wrote.

We have arrived in London. It was a long—

There was a quiet rap at her door. She jumped, causing ink to splatter all over her letter.