from his considerate valet.
‘Nick, you dog, get up.’ Standing in the doorway was Charles, Lord Avesbury, a notable Corinthian and Nicholas’s best friend. Closing the door behind him, he strode over to pull back the window hangings before sitting himself on a chair by the dressing table.
Nicholas sat up in bed. ‘Lord, you must have made an early start. What the devil brings you here? Not, you understand, that I’m not delighted to see you, but your timing is appalling.’
‘I was staying with the Cheadles,’ Charles replied. ‘It’s not more than fifteen miles away. There was talk of a picnic or some such nonsense today, so I thought I’d make my escape for a few hours.’
‘I see. Lady Cheadle still hopeful, is she?’
‘It’s my mother’s fault. She and Lady Cheadle are bosom buddies. She will have it that it’s the dearest wish of her heart to see me leg-shackled to her friend’s eldest daughter.’
‘And you, Charles? Is it the dearest wish of your heart, to wed Penelope Cheadle?’
‘Steady on, Nick, I wouldn’t put it that strongly. I’m getting on though, about time I was setting up my nursery. I’m turned thirty.’
Nicholas stretched up to tug the bell for his valet. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Charles. Rather you than me. I’m going to get dressed. Go down to the breakfast parlour, Hughes will bring you some coffee. I’ll join you shortly, then you can tell me all the news.’
‘Not much to tell. Truth is Nick, you’re mostly the news at the moment.’
‘Don’t tell me my duelling opponent has inconveniently died?’
‘No need to worry on that score, he’s making an excellent recovery. You may come back to London whenever you’re ready. No, it’s not the duel. Get dressed, we can talk over breakfast. I’ll be dammed if I’ll sit here with you when you’re not even wearing a nightshirt.’ Refusing to be drawn any further, Charles retired downstairs.
Nicholas did not tarry over his toilette, joining his friend in the breakfast parlour some twenty minutes later. Charles was gazing out of the window where a long line of men were scything the lawn. He was a good-looking man, famed for the perfect cut of his coats, which he had always from Weston, and the intricacy of his cravats, which he always tied himself. He was neither as tall nor as well built as Nicholas, but he had a leg shapely enough to look well in the tight pantaloons and tasselled Hessians he wore—from Holby, naturally—and his amiable countenance showed surprisingly few signs of wear despite his solid membership of the hard-drinking, hard-playing Corinthian set.
As Nicholas entered the room, Charles raised his quizzing glass. ‘I’m not sure I like the way you’ve tied your cravat. These country ways are making you lax. Time you were back in town.’
Nicholas laughed, sitting at the table to carve some ham. ‘I was never so fastidious as you, Charles. Tell me, for I’m on tenterhooks, what on earth can have made me the talk of the ton.’
‘Hear you gave Diana Masterton her congé.’
‘Yes, she was becoming tedious in her demands, I told Frances Eldon to pay her off. Don’t tell me that’s it?’
‘No, of course not. At least…’ Charles took a sip of coffee. ‘Bumped into your cousin Jasper at White’s the other day. Asked me if I knew aught about the Cyprian who’s keeping you company here. Wondered if she was the reason you’d rid yourself of the fair Diana. Needless to say I couldn’t tell him anything, except that I doubted the truth of the rumour, since you’re always so careful to keep your fancy pieces at a safe distance.’
Nicholas paused in the act of cutting into the slice of ham on his plate, frowning at his friend. ‘She’s not a fancy piece.’
‘What!’ Charles exclaimed, startled into spilling his coffee. ‘You mean to tell me it’s true, there’s a woman here? Come on, Nick, that’s not your style. What are you thinking of?’
‘She lodges in the village, not here. And I’d like to know how Jasper found out about her.’
‘I never thought to ask. Wouldn’t surprise me if he bribes your servants though, sort of thing he would do. Seemed mighty put out about it in any case, on account of your birthday being so close.’
Nicholas gave a sharp crack of laughter. ‘So that’s what he’s worried about. He’s well off the mark—I have no intentions of marrying Mademoiselle Stamppe.’
‘Oh, so she’s French,’ Charles said dismissively, as if that explained everything.
‘No, English actually, although she’s lived on the Continent all her life.’
‘What’s she doing here with you, then, if she’s not your mistress?’
‘It’s a long story, Charles.’
‘You can’t fob me off so easily, Nick.’ Lord Avesbury took an enamelled box from his waistcoat pocket and flicked it open expertly with the tip of his thumb. ‘Tell me the whole tale.’Taking a delicate pinch of snuff, he sat back in his chair with a grin. ‘Anything’s preferable to Lady Cheadle’s picnic party. Go on, I’ve got all day.’
Cautiously skirting over the more personal aspects of their relationship, Nicholas recounted the events of the past few days.
Charles listened, running the full gamut of emotions from incredulous to sceptical. ‘So what’s in those papers of hers, then?’
‘Her father’s will and proof of her identity.’
‘Why would she need proof of her identity? Sounds a bit shady to me. And now I come to think about it, her name sounds familiar too. Can’t put my finger on it just at the moment, but it’ll come to me. What’s in the will?’
‘I don’t know. She promised she’d tell me, but events yesterday got in the way somewhat.’
‘Events?’ Charles laughed. ‘I see. That’s what you meant by my bad timing. Take it she’s a looker, then, your mademoiselle?’
A bell clanged in the distance. Nicholas stood up, looking towards the door. ‘You’ll see for yourself in a few moments. I fancy that’s her now.’
Serena entered the parlour a few minutes later. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Hughes didn’t mention that you had company.’ She had been so busy rehearsing over and over in her mind the speech she intended to deliver to Nicholas that it quite overset her composure to find he was not alone.
Nicholas came over to take her hand in his familiar clasp. ‘Serena, this is Charles, Lord Avesbury, my dearest and oldest friend. Charles, may I present Mademoiselle Serena Stamppe.’
Charles produced his quizzing glass to inspect the goddess who had appeared before him, his brows rising as he took in the perfection of Serena’s beauty. She was dressed in a printed cotton dress of Turkey red, the small puffed sleeves intricately
