A small, dissatisfied whisper moved through him. Sebastian raked his fingers through his hair. He was a worldly man; he knew too well what awaited ladies without a protector or the means to be independent. Honor demanded he act, yet how far he would go must be decided, for he would do nothing that imperiled his own household, and though there was blood between them, they were not his family.
Darcy stepped downfrom the carriage after her sisters and paused upon the pavement, steadying herself with a light touch to the door. Russell Square spread before her with its clipped trees and iron railings, the houses set in a noble row, each facade elegant, self-possessed, and very far from anything she had imagined when Lord Raine announced they would be removed from Grosvenor Square to “a more suitable arrangement.”
She had prepared herself for something modest, something set apart from the grandeur of London—somewhere that would make it plain they were to remain hidden, a quiet and inconvenient secret never meant to be brought into the light. Instead, the townhouse before them bore its refinement with effortless restraint, elegant without ostentation.
A swift stab of shame pierced Darcy at her uncharitable assumptions. She knew so little of the earl, and yet had presumed much. That he would receive them with such dignity and consideration unsettled her expectations and stirred a quiet warmth within her chest.
Lord Raine walked ahead, and they followed. In the carriage, Darcy had tried to fix her attention upon her book while he treated them with indifferent civility and did not invite conversation, a reserve her sisters had likely welcomed in their nervous state. It had not stopped her from noticing him. He was darkly handsome—the very image of the sensual rake her mother had always warned her about. In those days, Darcy would roll her eyes and tease that she was hardly likely to encounter a jaded rake. How oddly life had turned out, and now she noticed his beauty so keenly and was unaccountably flustered by it.
At the steps, the girls’ pelisses brushed her skirt as they mounted. The door opened at their approach to reveal a butler of dignified bearing. He bowed to the earl and then to Darcy. She managed a smile, and they crossed the threshold into a hall redolent with the scent of lemon and beeswax. The butler moved to join the seven servants, who were arranged in a neat line. Darcy wished, absurdly, that the hem of her best muslin might gain two inches by sheer will.
Lord Raine’s voice carried with calm authority. “Mrs. Dobson, Finch. These are guests of this house. You will attend to Mrs. Whitley and the young ladies. Mrs. Whitley is widowed. Her sisters are Miss Emelia, Miss Jane, and Miss Sarah. They will have the run of the house and are to be shown every courtesy.”
Darcy inclined her head to the housekeeper and butler. “Thank you for preparing the house for us,” she said, forcing her voice to a serenity she did not feel. Mrs. Dobson’s expression warmed. “Fires are lit in the principal chambers, and hot water is being taken up.”
Lord Raine addressed Darcy again. “A modiste will call tomorrow after eleven to take measurements and provide what is necessary for your wardrobes.”
Her eyes widened, surprise softening her composure. This was a generosity she had not anticipated. “A wardrobe?”
“Yes. Another lady will attend to you with bonnets, ribbons, gloves, and shoes. You are not to concern yourself with the accounts. A carriage will be at your disposal. I will call upon you soon.”
Everything was delivered with the cool composure of a man dictating arrangements already settled.
“Thank you, my lord, I?—”
“There are no thanks needed,” he said with polite indifference.
Before Darcy could find a response, he gave a short bow and was gone. The silence that followed his departure felt like a wave drawing back and leaving them high upon unfamiliar sand. The servants dispersed, and Mrs. Dobson led the way down the hallway.
“Allow me to give a brief tour, Mrs. Whitley. We have prepared four chambers on the third floor overlooking the square. The morning room is to the left, the withdrawing room to the right, and the dining room beyond. A schoolroom is also ready on the second floor beside the library.”
They followed the housekeeper up the broad stairs. The runner yielded underfoot with that springy softness only good padding achieves. Doors opened upon generous rooms. The first looked over the square, the window seats deep and inviting. Fine paper, in a delicate stripe, covered the walls, and a fire burned in the grate. In the corner, a rosewood pianoforte invited her sister closer. Darcy watched Emelia’s hand hover, then retreated, as if afraid to wake the instrument.
They moved from chamber to chamber. The bedchambers were spacious and elegantly appointed, their walls papered in a soft robin’s-egg blue patterned with delicate sprigs. Tall sash windows admitted generous light, framed by wide moldings anddressed in full silk curtains gathered back with braided cords. Each room held a polished mahogany dressing table fitted with a looking glass, a proper washstand with its ewer and basin, and a tall walnut wardrobe for gowns and pelisses. The beds, generously proportioned and raised upon sturdy posts, were hung with crisp white dimity and dressed in counterpanes stitched with fine needlework.
A small hearth stood ready laid for a fire, and beside it a pair of upholstered chairs and a modest escritoire completed the picture of genteel comfort befitting a respectable London townhouse.
Her sisters were awed and delighted. Darcy assigned the rooms with care, keeping the younger girls close. Sarah fretted about sleeping alone, for she had never done so in her eleven years. Darcy smiled her understanding, and Jane readily agreed to continue sharing with her sister.
The servants were prompt and pleasant. A maid named Kitty offered hot water with an open smile. Another, Martha, took their pelisses to be brushed and dried. No one stared. No one smirked. The staff accepted the fiction of Mrs. Whitley with an ease that steadied Darcy more than she could admit. The presence of sisters under the same roof would discourage unkind conjecture; a widow with three young ladies in her care was far from a kept creature, whatever London preferred to suspect.
At last, Mrs. Dobson opened the last door upon the landing. “This would be for you, ma’am, if it suits.”
The chamber looked over the square and caught the soft northern light. Its paper was a pale green sprig, restful to the eye. A handsome bedstead of carved walnut stood against the far wall, the counterpane snow-white and inviting. A small writing desk stood near the window, a neat tray upon it with paper, a quill, and a little inkstand. In the grate, a cheerful fire burned,and upon the mantel a vase of early roses shed a faint sweetness into the warm air. A small parlor adjoined her chamber, and she stepped into it, savoring the elegant serenity of the furnishings.
“It suits very well,” Darcy said, and only then let herself exhale. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Dobson inclined her head. “Shall tea be brought, ma’am?”
“Yes, please. And the morning papers, if it is not too much trouble.”
“They will come at once.”
When the door closed, Darcy set her reticule upon the writing desk and turned a slow circle in the room, allowing herself to feel, for the first time in many months, what it was to enter a place and not immediately plan how to protect her sisters from unforeseen dangers. She drew back the curtain and looked down upon the square. The weather had cleared to a high summer sky washed pale by recent rain. In the garden, children walked with a nurse, their shoes tapping along the path. A barouche rolled by at a gentle pace. The world went on, indifferent to scandal, to fear, to girls who had knocked upon a door with very little to recommend them but truth and need.
A tap sounded, and her sisters spilled into the room.
Emelia turned to Darcy at once, her eyes wide with something like relief, struggling not to be hope. “What does this mean? Is this to be our new home? Permanently?”
