Page 48 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

Lady Harker smiled brightly. “Yes, that’s right. We are going to have tea in front of a nice warm fire. Does that not sound a treat?”

A footman opened the door of the carriage before Sylvia could reply. Sebastian exited without a word. He handed down his sister and then extended his large, gloved hand for her. The servants were all watching. She could not make a scene. Neither could she bear to see any of her former society acquaintance. “To whom does this house belong?” she asked under her breath.

Sebastian’s face was rigid. “To the Earl of Radcliffe.”

She drew back instinctively. “Oh, but you know I cannot—”

“The proprieties have all been observed, Miss Stafford. My sister is here, as you see. She is a highly respected married lady. You will be quite safe. Now, if you will allow me.” Sebastian extended his hand again.

This time she took it, permitting him to assist her down from the carriage. Her heart was beating so rapidly she thought she might swoon. Tea? At Sebastian’s own house? Surely this was not a good idea!

“The fire is blazing in the library,” Lady Harker said as they proceeded into the marble entry hall. A sweeping staircase curved gracefully to the floors above and a magnificent gas chandelier hung from the center of the high ceiling. “It will be nice and warm.” She divested herself of her bonnet and gloves and handed them off to a supercilious-looking butler.

Sylvia did the same, smoothing her frayed hair with an unsteady hand as she followed Lady Harker down the hall. Sebastian walked behind them at a distance. She did not even see him again until they entered the library.

It was indeed a warm room, the rich furnishings and dark paneled walls making it feel even more so. At Lady Harker’s bidding, Sylvia seated herself on a sofa upholstered in striped silk damask. Lady Harker settled beside her. Sebastian sat down across from them in an oversized armchair, his large frame as taught as a coiled spring. She was not the only one who was nervous then, Sylvia thought. At least that was something.

“Oh dear!” Lady Harker leapt to her feet in a rustle of starched petticoats. “I have only just remembered about the preserves for our tea! I must have a word with cook. Pray excuse me a moment, Miss Stafford. I shall be back in an instant.”

Sylvia watched in wide-eyed astonishment as Lady Harker darted out of the library. The heavy door closed behind her with a soft, but significant click. Sylvia stared at it for a moment, too stunned to speak. “She’s not coming back, is she?”

“No,” Sebastian acknowledged. “Not until I summon her.”

Sylvia fixed him with an accusing glare. “And just what do you mean by this, my lord? You assured me that your sister would remain—”

“Never mind my sister,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “We need to talk.”

“We might have done so in the carriage. Or in the Dinwiddy’s front parlor. You needn’t have brought me here—”

“We must speak alone. Without any chance of disturbance. It is the sole reason I have come to London.”

Her hands were resting at her sides. At his words, her fingers tightened into the sofa cushion. “You came all the way to London to speak…with me?”

“You left me no choice, Miss Stafford. Had you remained at Pershing but a few hours longer we might have discussed this there. I confess I would have preferred it. I had not planned to ever set foot in London again. In truth, I had not intended to ever leave my estate. If you knew the pains I have gone through to see you again—”

“You should not have come,” she said.

“Miss Stafford—”

“It is all too much for me, can’t you see that? I am not part of your world anymore. To be here with you…in your own house and surrounded by all of these things. It makes me terribly unhappy. And I have worked so hard not to be unhappy. You cannot know—”

“I do not wish to make you unhappy.”

“Then I beg you, please, summon your sister. Pray send for your carriage to take me back to Cheapside.”

Sebastian’s jaw hardened. “If that is what you wish, I will certainly do so,” he said. “After you have listened to what I have to say.”

She clasped her hands in her lap. “There is nothing you could say.”

He looked at her a long time, his face grim. He was dressed just as he had been years ago whenever she saw him about town. Black, fine wool trousers and matching waistcoat, a crisp white linen shirt, and a fitted black frock coat that set off the magnificent breadth of his shoulders. Shoulders that were presently bunched with tension.

“I have discovered what happened to your letters, Miss Stafford,” he said.

She stared at him, stunned. She had been expecting a proposition—a formal offer to become his mistress. Isn’t that why he had come to London? “I beg your pardon?”

“You said that you had given them to your maid to post. Your maid who is now employed by Lady Ponsonby.”

“Button,” she said, hardly recognizing her own voice.