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Chapter Fifteen

Sebastian

“ W hat are we to do now, Pip?” Stretched out on the chaise in the drawing room in St. James’s, Sebastian cut a piece of the apple in his hand and offered it to the marmoset.

Pip munched on the fruit, providing no helpful suggestion.

Though it was past noon, Sebastian had yet to stir from this place. He simply hadn’t the motivation to do so.

Now that the excitement of presenting the pigeon to Mrs. Lawrence had worn off and she had taken the wind out of his sails with her calm reaction, the reality of his situation had settled in.

“Back at square one.” He let his head fall onto the arm of the chaise and stared at the ceiling.

The weight of his siblings’ situation weighed heavily on him now that there was no prospect of Mrs. Lawrence’s fortune. What was he to do now? And with the Court of Chancery expecting evidence of his suitability as a guardian soon?

The answer was not at all evident.

And yet, there was a sadness that permeated his entire body and mind, entirely separate from the burden of helping his siblings. His affection for Mrs. Lawrence had been genuine, his anticipation for a future by her side true .

He had been falling in love.

But she had never reciprocated. The entire time, she had been making calculated moves, letting him believe she was seriously considering his suit while doing her level best to humiliate him.

And humiliate him she had.

How had he missed the signs? How had he not seen through the facade?

He had been duped, fully and completely. But he would never let her know that.

He had been so certain she would end the ruse when she saw the pigeon. She had not, however. She had continued to play along.

And so had he, for his pride had demanded as much. He would not let her have the last laugh.

Sebastian sat up suddenly, not bothering to stop Pip when the monkey took the remainder of the apple from his hand and ran away with it.

“You are right, Pip,” Sebastian said. “The game must go on. If Mrs. Lawrence wishes for a suitor, she will have a suitor—devil fly away with subtlety.” The more aggressive he was in his attentions to her, the more she would be forced to admit that she never intended to accept an offer from him.

Pip’s only response to this was to take another bite of the apple, which he was guarding in the corner.

What would a suitor do? Beyond forever darkening her doorstep, of course.

His gaze landed upon the escritoire, and a little smile curled the edge of his lip.

Sebastian went to the seat at the desk that faced the window and took out a sheet of paper. He dipped the quill in ink and set it to the paper.

There was a period of silence, interrupted only by Pip’s chewing, before the quill began to scratch across the page .

Selina, thou art like a roast, so rich, so rare, so fine,

Yet also like a well-aged cheese, pungent and divine.

Thy hair doth flow like river’s tide, so soft, so full, so free,

A bird would gladly build its nest if left nigh unto thee.

Like ivy creeping up the wall, my regard for thee shall grow,

And wrap thee in its sweet embrace, till ne’er thou canst let go.

It was by far the worst bit of poetry he had ever read, much less written, which was precisely why he could not stop smiling. Mrs. Lawrence hated poetry, even at its best, and this was poetry at its worst. He had also taken leave to use her given name, which he imagined she would despise.

He could ill spare the money, but he sent a bouquet of red roses to accompany the poem, wishing he could be a fly on the wall to watch Mrs. Lawrence’s reaction.

The next morning, a servant sought him out to inform him of a delivery, and Sebastian shot up from his chair.

He hurried to the entry hall, where a bandbox sat on the table there, a note atop it.

He broke the seal in a hurry, eager for her response.

To Mr. Drake, Purveyor of Fine Verse and Peculiar Compliments,

Thy words were rich, thy rhymes most rare, thy sentiments divine,

And thus, I send a gift to thee, in form as bold as thine.

A fruit so fair, its crown held high, its gold a hue sublime,

Its sweetness, like a poet’s verse, doth ripen over time.

And cheese, so strong, hath ripened well. Its scent doth linger true,

A potency much like that bestowed by sonnets writ by you.

A little smile curling the edge of his lip, Sebastian opened the bandbox as Pip galloped up beside him, then hopped onto the table.

He coughed and stepped back, the stench overpowering him.

Pip lingered for a moment, then ran off and took refuge through the nearest open door.

Covering his nose with a hand, Sebastian stepped toward the box and peered inside. Beside the wheel of cheese was something he had seen representations of but never beheld in person: a pineapple.

He stared at the exotic fruit for a moment—the vibrant gold color of the bottom half, the spiked green leaves at the top. The cheese he understood. He had likened her to it, after all, and she was having her revenge upon him with its pungent odor.

But the pineapple…

Pineapples were rare, exotic, expensive. Perhaps it was nothing to someone like Mrs. Lawrence to pay for such a thing, but given her feelings toward him, why share it with him?

When the footman cut into it at dinner that evening, the reason became apparent: the fruit was entirely rotten inside.

Yorke and Fairchild drew back in disgust, but Sebastian merely smiled .

“Well played, Mrs. Lawrence.”

That night, he lay awake for some time, trying to decide upon his next move. They were playing at chess now, and he would settle for nothing less than checkmate.

Should he offer more grotesque verse? No. That was too predictable.

A gaudy and hideous set of jewelry obviously made from paste? Tempting, but money was in short supply, even for counterfeit pieces.

Something more than this child’s play was required.

Enough of their interactions had been happening in private; it was time to challenge Mrs. Lawrence’s pretenses by seeing if she would agree to a more public courtship—and perhaps just how committed she was to acting as though she returned his affection in private.