The Scoundrel and I - Katharine Ashe Page 0,22

the modiste. “Thank you, Seraphina. This gown, the jewelry . . . It is all perfect.”

“And your coiffure,” she said, scanning the smooth coils, upswept and decorated with a sparkling tiara. “Penelope is an artist with hair.” She grasped Elle’s gloved hand. “Now, ask me what it is you have been eager to ask me all evening.”

Elle’s mouth opened, but Seraphina squeezed her fingers.

“Dear Elle, you have the most transparent face.”

Elle looked her directly in the eye. “You and Captain Masinter are clearly very fond of each other.”

“We are devoted.”

“Why aren’t you married? To each other. Plenty of cousins wed.”

Seraphina’s eyes smiled. “I was married once. My husband died several years ago.”

“Did the experience sour you on marriage?”

“Not at all. He was considerably older, of course. But he was kind. No, I am not sour on marriage. And I adore Anthony. He is the best man I have ever known. But, Elle, he is not my cousin as everyone likes to pretend.”

Elle felt abruptly sick. He could not have brought her to his mistress’s house; it seemed so unlike him, and unlike Seraphina as well. But what else could this beautiful, independent woman be, to command the attention of such a man? From what Minnie said, men of the aristocracy took mistresses as often as men of the common class drank gin.

“He is my half-brother,” Seraphina said. “From the other side of the mattress, as it were,” she added with an expressive nod.

“Oh.” Such relief filled her throat that she could manage nothing more.

“You wish to know if I am acknowledged by our family,” Seraphina said. “And if not, why Anthony acknowledges me.”

Lips caught between her teeth, Elle nodded.

“Our father, Sir Benton, was a diplomat for many years. On one occasion while traveling in the East, he happened upon a beautiful Turkish girl. Men sometimes being what they are, he temporarily cast aside his marriage vows. When he returned to England, he forgot the Turkish girl, but nine months later my grandmother reminded him. My mother had perished bearing me, you see, and her mother brought me here to be raised in the comfort of wealth. Sir Benton’s wife would not have it. She had five young sons and four young daughters of her own, and she did not like the idea of having yet another, especially not a little brown nut of an infant that was proof of her husband’s infidelity. They sent me to Sir Benton’s youngest aunt, a widow who had once lived abroad not far from where my mother had grown up, as it happened. Great-aunt Seraphina raised me as her own bastard, rather than as my father’s.” She smiled. “Thus, cousins.”

“But they believe you are a cousin only?”

“Everybody knows the truth, of course. Our paths cross infrequently, though, so they rarely have reason to cut me directly.”

“Captain Masinter does not cut you. He obviously cares for you.”

“He protected me from them. He still does. I told you he is a good man, Gabrielle,” Seraphina whispered, turning her to face the man walking toward them from the back of the house. “Be kind to him.”

In the candlelight, his eyes glimmered with admiration. Elle could hardly breathe.

“Well,” she said, “shall we get on with this little charade?”

He offered his arm. “My lady.”

Before the house he handed her up into Seraphina’s carriage, then climbed in. It was dark within, save a glimmer of light from the lamp on the street, and when the coachman cracked the whip even that light vanished.

“Don’t suppose you speak any foreign languages?” he said in an unexceptional tone.

“Foreign languages? A little French. My mother was a schoolteacher before she married my father.”

“Liked him that much, did you?”

This time she did not resist her smile.

“The lady’s voice reveals all,” he murmured.

“I am not a lady, Captain. If you fail to remember that tonight I am afraid you will be horridly disappointed when I prove myself incapable of pretending it.”

“You are a lady, Elle, tonight and every night,” he said in an altered tone, deeper, sending the nerves scampering back into her stomach. “But tonight you will be more than a lady.”

“What do you mean?” she said warily, wishing she could see his eyes.

“Transparent as rain on a spar deck. Open your mouth tonight, and you’ll blow the whole deal to shrapnel.”

“Blow the— What?”

“You’re far too direct, Elle. And earnest.”

“I—”

“Don’t take me wrong. Dashed fond of your directness. And your earnestness, truth is, it turns me inside out. But my uncle’s a prize snob. Thinks