Elissande Edgerton
Elissande. A beautiful name. Almost cutting, like a mouthful of sharply faceted gems. And lovely, clever Elissande wished to meet Freddie at close to midnight, well after the ladies had retired, far away from the drawing room and the billiard room, where the gentlemen still lingered.
A rendezvous alone, in a remote part of the house—with Lady Avery in an overexcited state of anticipation.
He had entirely underestimated Miss Edgerton’s interest in Freddie, it would seem.
Elissande trembled. This made her nervous. Her aunt was the trembler, not she. She had steady hands and eyes that remained unblinkingly limpid no matter how terrified she was.
Perhaps she could use the trembling to her advantage. A lady meeting a gentleman at an unorthodox hour ought to tremble a little, ought she not? It would give her suddenly unleashing passion a touch of authenticity, and that, in turn, might inspire Lord Frederick to a more heartfelt response.
She touched her shoulders. She’d unraveled the stitches that held the top of her nightdress together. Underneath her robe, it literally hung on by a thread. A tug with any force would split it in two and send the anchorless halves sliding toward the floor.
And what have you found this time, Miss Edgerton? Lord Frederick would ask.
And she would gaze upon him as if he were the Second Coming itself. Oh, forgive me, sir. I know I shouldn’t have, but ever since we met, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.
At least that last part was mostly true.
She breathed deeply, out, in, out, in. It was time. She pulled her robe tight, prayed that she wouldn’t rend her nightdress before its time, and left her bedchamber to head to the green parlor.
The light was on in the parlor. Japanese prints depicting the four seasons took up the walls. Vases and incense holders of jade echoed the lotus leaf hue of the silk wallpaper. Large, clear bottles, raised to chest level on custom-made stands, contained intricately crafted model ships—prisoners, just like her.
And she was alone in the room.
She blinked. She’d meant to arrive a few minutes after Lord Frederick. He should be here already, a little startled at her informal state of attire, perhaps, but eager and impatient to see exactly what too-good-to-believe treasure she’d uncovered.
No fire had been laid in the grate. After two minutes or so pacing madly about the room, she realized she was trembling far worse, as much from the chill in the air as from a sudden onset of panic—her plan was worth nothing without Lord Frederick.
Her hands inched near the flame of her hand-candle, hungry for its meager heat. She breathed fast and shallow. The air smelled of turpentine, from the furniture paste the maids had applied.
The mantel clock striking the hour made her jump. It was the time she’d stated in the unsigned note, with its wax seal already broken, that she’d left outside Lady Avery’s door. Midnight. The green parlor. My heart sighs for you. And she knew Lady Avery had discovered the seemingly accidentally dropped note, because throughout the evening, she had scrutinized the gathering incessantly, trying to discover which love-demented pair dared set an assignation right beneath her nose.
And now it was all for naught.
Numbly, Elissande extinguished the light in the parlor and headed out toward her uncle’s study—to avoid running into Lady Avery, who would most likely be coming from the direction of the front hall. Beyond the study were the service stairs. She would return to her room that way.
She came to a dead stop outside the study. She’d specifically informed her guests that the study was off-limits. But the study door was ajar and the light was on.
She pushed the door open the rest of the way. Lord Vere stood before the cabinets, opening them one after another, humming to himself.
“Lord Vere, what are you doing here?”
“Oh, hullo, Miss Edgerton,” he replied cheerfully. “I’m looking for a book. I like to read before I go to sleep, you see. It’s better than laudanum by far. Two pages—sometimes two paragraphs—and I sleep like a baby. Nothing like it, especially Latin verse. A bit of Latin verse and I won’t get out of bed before ten o’clock in the morning.”
She was surprised he could read at all, let alone read in Latin. “I’m sorry, sir, but you are in the wrong place. The books are in the library, not here.”
“Ah, no wonder. I thought this was the library—was just telling myself what a bizarre sort of library it was.” He stepped out into the passage. “I say, Miss Edgerton, what are you doing here? Haven’t the ladies gone to bed already?”
“I forgot something.”
“What is it? Can I help you find it?”
She was about to say she’d already found it when she realized that she had nothing on her except her hand-candle.
“I can find it myself, thank you, sir.”
“Please do let me help.”
This was the last thing she needed—to be possibly caught with him by Lady Avery. But Lady Avery had not yet arrived. Judging by the lack of footsteps anywhere near, she would not arrive for another minute or two, plenty enough time for Elissande to march back to the green parlor next door, pick up any old bric-a-brac, pronounce it found, and get rid of Lord Vere.
So that was what she did, Lord Vere in tow. Once in the green parlor, with only her hand-candle for illumination, she headed directly for the mantel, grabbed the nearest object, and said, “There. I have it.”
“Oh, what a nice snow globe,” said Lord Vere.
She could have picked up something else, anything else. The malachite candlestick, for example. The plain Chinese urn that held the spills for starting a fire in the grate. But she hadn’t picked up anything else; she’d picked up the snow globe with a miniature village inside: church, high street, snow-covered cottages—the last Christmas present Aunt Rachel had given her, eight years ago.
It had snowed that Christmas Day. Her uncle, in one of his moods, had disappeared somewhere by himself. Elissande had persuaded Aunt Rachel, whose health had improved steadily under Elissande’s care, to come outside for a walk in the snow. They’d made a topsy-turvy snowman. And then, somehow, they’d begun a snowball fight.
It had been a spirited battle. Aunt Rachel had good aim—who would have guessed? Elissande’s overcoat had been full of the splattered remains of snowballs that had hit her straight and true. But she hadn’t been so bad herself either. How Aunt Rachel had run screaming from her, and then laughed hysterically as she was hit squarely in the bottom.
She could see her aunt, her not-yet-graying hair escaping her bun, her face pink from exertion, bending down to form another snowball. Only to suddenly freeze, still crouched low, as she realized that her husband had returned.
Elissande never forgot her uncle’s expression: anger, followed by a frightful flash of pleasure, of anticipation. By her laughter, her rosy cheeks, by the mere fact that she was at play, Aunt Rachel had betrayed herself. She had not been completely broken. There was still youth and vitality left in her. Her uncle, of course, could not allow this grave offense to pass unpunished.
Aunt Rachel had not left the house since.
Elissande glanced at Lord Vere, who seemed fascinated by the snow globe, which she herself could not bear to look at. He stood very close to her. She took in his broad shoulders, his strong neck, and the rather unbelievably perfect sweep of his brows. He did not smell of cigar smoke tonight, but only of foliage—belatedly she noticed his boutonniere, a sprig of hard green berries pinned to a leaf of fir.
Could she bring herself to marry him, knowing there was nothing else to him, a pure void behind those already vacant eyes? Could she tolerate a lifetime of his prattling and bosom staring? Could she smile at him for the rest of her days?