Page 27 of A Hint of Scandal (The Mismatched Lovers #2)

T he Star was a much superior establishment to The Malt Shovel, being one of Oxford’s premier coaching inns. Badger had already sorted out their rooms for them, and Serafina heaved a silent sigh of relief at discovering she would not be expected to sleep top to toe with some strange woman in a crowded bedroom that night. Elsie had waited there with Badger, the horses and the landau, so when Serafina was shown up to her room by a chambermaid who looked only about twelve years old, she found Elsie had unpacked her bag for her and even had a jug of water and a basin ready to wash the dust of travel off her hands and face.

“I’m right sorry, miss,” Elsie said, clasping her own reddened hands in front of her. She didn’t look much older than the chambermaid, although Serafina had been reliably informed she was eighteen. “It were nice warm water when I had it brung up here. If I’d’a known you was going to be such a long time I’d’ve waited on your arrival a bit longer.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” Serafina said as she dunked her hands in the tepid water. The grubby feel of that back street tavern needed washing off her skin. Nobody in it had looked very clean, and she’d turned down a drink when offered one. No way of ascertaining the receptacle it arrived in would have been washed since it was last used. She could only assume that Max, as a soldier, possessed a robust health up to dealing with the stray infections one might encounter in a less than clean hostelry. Why the vicar of St Michael’s had described it as respectable, she had no idea. Perhaps it had been until the old landlord had died.

That was better. With still wet hands she removed her pelisse and bonnet and attacked her face with her flannel. A mirror would have been useful, but none were apparent. With hands made skillful by many years of having to look after herself, she adjusted her hair, tucking in any stray strands that had been able to escape in the course of their adventure. “Does my hair look all right?”

“Miss, you look beautiful.”

Serafina had to laugh. Elsie could not have very high standards if she thought her new mistress was beautiful, or maybe she was courting favor. “Thank you, Elsie. You may go down to the kitchens and get them to feed you. I’m dining with Captain Aubrey but will be back up for you to help me out of my gown in an hour or two. Mind you’re up here waiting.” How odd it felt to be ordering a maid about. She’d never presumed to tell Letty’s maid to do anything, and of course had never had one of her own. What a luxury to have someone to help her for once. She bestowed a grateful smile on Elsie lest the girl assumed she’d been told off.

A few minutes later, feeling a little lightheaded, both from the sensation of having a maid all to herself and also from undoubted hunger, she descended the stairs to the private parlor Max had again commandeered for their repast.

He was already there, looking little different from how she’d left him, although perhaps he too had taken a wash as strands of his hair looked wet, which, if it were at all possible, rendered him more handsome than ever. She quelled the pang of regret that theirs was not to be a true marriage and stiffened her spine. She mustn’t think about that.

He held out a chair for her with a little ham-fisted awkwardness. “I hope you’re hungry. I ordered three courses and the fare at a coaching inn is inclined to be stodgy and filling.”

She took her seat, smoothing her skirts down and reflecting that it would be her first meal in a coaching inn. First time in one, to be exact, never having been out of Milford that she could remember. Not until that fateful journey to London. “That will suit me well, as it feels as though it’s a long time since luncheon. I think I was too nervous about our investigation to have done justice to the food presented to us then.”

The twelve-year-old maid came in bearing a tray with two bowls of brown soup. It tasted faintly meaty, but what it consisted of remained a mystery, and even the girl couldn’t say when asked. For a short while they ate in a companionable silence.

Max broke it. “Now we’ve discovered the wedding did indeed take place, and was between my brother and this Abigail woman, and on top of that appears to be legal, what do you suggest we do next? You seem to have about you the makings of an excellent investigator. Better than me, at any rate. I don’t think my soldiering career has prepared me in any way to fathom out a mystery. If that’s what you could call this. Although so far, it seems quite straightforward.”

Serafina set her spoon down, wishing his presence were not quite so distracting. No matter how much she told herself to think about him differently, she couldn’t. The man exuded some kind of physical aura that she was finding increasingly hard to ignore. She pulled herself together with a huge effort. “I think our next call is upon the lady in question. We don’t know where her son was born, so we can’t check the birth records in the parish register for that place. And besides which, it would only have his baptismal records, so it wouldn’t give us an accurate birth date. He could have been baptized any time from straight after birth until he was at least a year old. And I think we have to assume that he was born and baptized in London, which is a huge place with hundreds of possible churches. We could search for a year and not find him anywhere.” She nodded with determination. “No, we must concentrate on the woman calling herself Countess of Westbury.” She refused to give her the title properly.

Max nodded. “But how do we find her?”

“You said she’s threatened to come to Bratton to visit your brother. Well, if she wants to do that, she must come first to your nearest town and stay in some hostelry or another. I doubt she would travel down and try to see him on the same day. And you said she was intending to meet with your brother three days after the letter came. Which is the day after tomorrow. So, in the morning, we should return towards Bratton. Where is your nearest town? I’m afraid my geographical knowledge of the British Isles is not good.”

“The town of Marlborough lies about five miles south of Bratton. It’s on a good coaching route to the West Country with a number of excellent inns. I would think she would be staying there. If she catches the mail coach in London, she could be down there in not too many hours. Far more quickly than our journey from London.”

“That sounds likely. And if she intends to travel five miles north, then she will be arriving tomorrow by stagecoach, and will need to arrange transport for herself for the following day. We need to be in Marlborough to welcome her, I think.” Plotting their next move proved to be almost the distraction she required. She took another spoonful of the soup.

Max nodded. “A wise move.”

They finished their soup, the empty bowls being removed by the girl, and started on hearty plates of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. To her surprise, though, Serafina discovered that her appetite had died to nothing, despite the quality of the food. She picked at the meat and potatoes in an effort to look as if she was eating, but could barely swallow a thing. And to her further surprise, Max seemed afflicted in the same way.

Eventually, he pushed his plate away and leaned back in his seat. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me, but I find my hunger has vanished.” He shook his head in what might have been perplexity. “That’s not like me at all. When you’re a soldier on the march you learn to eat at every opportunity that presents itself. And eat everything that’s put in front of you.” He regarded her out of troubled eyes.

As she was feeling the same, a sudden thought flashed into her mind. “I feel similarly afflicted. Might we be sickening for something? Could we have caught some dreadful disease in that back street inn? It did seem to be a very dirty place.” The thought of Max falling ill sent a chill to her heart, only to be assuaged when it was followed by a much more comforting image of her tending him in his need and nursing him back to health. For which he would be eternally grateful and fall in love with her on the spot.

She shook her head to clear that tantalizing image. If he had contracted something, then so had she, for they both had the same symptoms. And if both became ill, it would fall to Elsie and Badger to tend to them.

“I suspect if we had caught something at The Malt Shovel, then it would not have manifested itself so swiftly.” He reached across the table and put his hand on her forehead.

She nearly jumped backwards out of shock, only the fact that she’d been longing for him to touch her all evening prevented this. How warm his hand was. How gentle.

“No fever,” he said, dropping his hand. A flush of color had appeared on his cheeks though, that she suspected might match the heat flaring on her own. On an impulse, and before she could stop herself, Serafina reached out to lay her hand on Max’s forehead in return. Cool and dry. “No fever here, either.” Oh, how she didn’t want to drop her hand but keep it pressed to his skin. However, she did, more heat rising to her cheeks. And his.

Dessert, when brought in, was undertaken in a rather awkward silence.

As soon as she’d pushed the dessert, which was apple pie, around her bowl a few times in a token attempt to pretend she was eating it, Serafina excused herself, careful not to look Max in the eye. “I’m sorry, but after such a long day, I confess myself tired and in need of my bed.” How formal she sounded, but after the awkward moment when they’d touched one another, she couldn’t stay any longer. The silence stretching between them gaped too wide and uncrossable.

He, in return, was stiffly polite, the easy camaraderie of earlier vanished. “Of course. I must apologize for tiring you. I wish you a goodnight, Serafina.”

The girl had brought in a bottle of brandy, and as she left, Serafina saw Max pouring himself a goodly measure and draining it in one gulp. She could have done with one of those herself, but it was too late now. Besides, she was indeed exhausted, and they had an early start in the morning.

When she’d gone, Max poured himself a second generous measure of the brandy and knocked that back in one as well. A third followed. He had a mind to drink himself into oblivion tonight. Already he felt as though he were floating on a warm, somewhat brandy-scented, cushion. He didn’t want to think about Serafina and the way she’d touched his face but, of course, he did. How could he not?

In an attempt to remain objective, he decided to try assessing her attributes. That should keep any other disturbing thoughts at bay. She was the cleverest woman he’d ever met, of that he was certain. Not only did she have a proven deep knowledge of all things Egyptian, but she also possessed a mind astute enough to formulate an investigation such as the one they were pursuing. In fact, she was far better at it than he was, and he didn’t care. That in itself endeared her to him. If only it might endear him to her, but the more he got to know her, the less he felt he could offer.

He poured himself another generous brandy but this time only sipped it. They did have an early start the next morning and he didn’t want to oversleep or have a hangover—or both. Not the impression he wanted to give to the woman he was becoming increasingly attached to. That was it. He was attached to her as he would become attached to a dog. As he had indeed become attached to that cur dog he’d found in Egypt. She was like a particularly clever dog. He would tell himself that every time he found his thoughts wavering in her direction.

The thought that she might not approve of being compared to a dog raised its head. He wouldn’t tell her, of course, so she would never know. He’d loved that dog. He’d found it roaming the streets of Alexandria with a string tied to its tail in such a way that it was trailing a load of rubbish behind it. How grateful it had been when he’d rescued it. So grateful it had followed him back to where he had his accommodation. So he’d fed it, and it had been his for the few months they’d been in Alexandria. And he’d had to leave it.

He wouldn’t think about that. He had, in fact, found a street boy who used to hang about asking to polish the English soldier’s boots, and asked the boy to look after Dog. Whether the boy had continued to do that, he had no way of knowing.

But unlike Dog, Serafina was going to belong to him forever. If one could use the word belonging. His heart did a little unexpected leap. No penance in that. He’d done what his brother had asked of him, he was engaged to be married, the Common License would have arrived at Bratton by the time they returned, and he rather liked the young woman he’d asked to be his wife.

But was that all? Did he perhaps have feelings for her that he’d never expected? Never thought he could have. Was he not enjoying this trip with only her for company more than he’d thought he would? She was indeed good company, and he had to admire her intellect. Might it only be those two things that were attracting him? Or was there something else as well? Might he, beyond all expectation, actually be falling in love with the girl?

This required another glass of brandy. And then he’d better stop because his thoughts were becoming fuddled. He couldn’t be in love with her because he didn’t have the capacity to do so. To fall in love, that was. He’d reached almost thirty years of age and never loved anyone, except perhaps Dog. So how could he now be feeling this unsettling sensation in his stomach that had robbed him of all inclination to eat? Was that what being in love with another human being was? He’d rather expected it to be like the love he’d had for Dog. And it appeared it wasn’t. If he was in love, that was. And he doubted he could be with a fierce determination. Because if he was, this marriage was going to prove more than awkward. For he was not the sort of man young ladies fell in love with. Indeed, no one could love him. Especially not a young lady of Serafina’s intelligence.

He had to push these thoughts out of his head. Julian was what mattered right now. And little Freddie’s succession rights. That was why they were both here.

Depression settling over him, he downed yet another glass of brandy, and on none too steady legs, wound his way upstairs to the room he’d taken for himself.