Page 11 of A Hint of Scandal

Chapter Six

Of course, no gentleman came to offer to escort Serafina into supper, although Letty had by then quite a crowd of eager admirers vying for the honor of her company. Once Serafina had returned with their somewhat sticky glasses of lemonade, Ogden and Araminta reprimanded her for their state, then seemed to forget all about her presence. As soon as the last dance finished and supper was announced, without another word, nor even a glance her way, they departed into the supper room in a swish of Araminta’s silk gown.

Serafina looked about herself, wondering if she should just follow them in, but the ignominy of going in alone put her off, and of course, she wasn’t au fait with the etiquette of a ball and whether that would even be the right thing to do. Everyone else seemed to be going in with someone, even if it was only a friend of the same sex, and she would stand out if she went in by herself. People would stare and even perhaps pity her, something she couldn’t abide. She glanced with longing towards the doors out onto the terrace.

A few people had been going in and out of them all evening, both ladies and gentlemen, often in the company of one another, so perhaps for a tryst or two. She’d been keeping an especial eye out to make sure no young man tried to take Letty out there, given Letty’s propensity for indiscretions. But now everyone was busy with heading off to eat, she could perhaps try the terrace herself, in safety, and escape the fug of rich scent and hot bodies, and the noise of raucous chatter that could never include her. A little bit of peace, unobserved by any other guests, would be a pleasant change. A whole hour of peace seemed suddenly the most attractive thing in the world.

As unobtrusively as possible, head down to avoid eye contact, she slipped around the edge of the dance floor until she reached the nearest doors. It was going to be cold out there after the heat of the ballroom, but after all, she was well used to being cold at Milford House, so what would that matter?

No one took any notice of her as she slipped into the curtained alcove that contained the double doors, took hold of the handle, and let herself out.

Not so cold as she might have expected as spring could not be far off, but a dampness hung in the air that brought with it the unpleasant tang of coal fires from neighboring houses. Not really the fresh air she was used to in the countryside, but better than the shared, stuffy atmosphere inside the house. She inhaled some deep breaths, immediately feeling better.

A graveled terrace ran along the entire back of the house, with low stone balustrades that must overlook whatever garden, at present invisible, the house possessed. It being London, the garden would of necessity not be large. Half a dozen oil lamps on head-height iron posts illuminated the terrace with a soft golden glow, and a few ornate metal tables, their chairs empty, were scattered across the gravel. Not a single person with whom she might be forced to share her haven.

Good.

But ballgowns, however plain, were not made to keep their wearers warm and cozy while out of doors at night. She shivered as she closed the doors behind herself, and wrapped her arms around her torso. Anything was better than having to go into supper by herself, though. And being away from her brother and his family, even if just for an hour, was something to be savored. She so very rarely had any time to herself, as Araminta always kept her busy waiting on them all.

Indeed, if there was nothing for Serafina to do, Araminta delighted in making some useless task up. She’d been known to dispatch Serafina to make an inventory of the linen cupboard, to itemize what was stored in the lofty attic of the house, and to count the ducks on the lake below the house before now.

Curiosity about the garden got the better of her, and on wary feet she crossed to the far side of the terrace, the gravel crunching under her slippers. Two lamps stood at the top of a short flight of wide stone steps, leading down into the dark garden. Perhaps there might be a summerhouse which would be a little warmer? Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as her old nurse had liked to say. Before Araminta had dismissed her for being, in her opinion, too lenient with the seven-year-old Serafina.

The steps were wide and shallow, and as her dress had no flamboyant train, Serafina was able to negotiate them with ease. A wide path continued down into the gloom, past a circular pond that might have proved to hold goldfish had it not been so dark. Beyond that, the bright lights of the house played upon the many glass windows of what did indeed appear to be a summerhouse. What luck. An octagonal one of wood, with a conical tiled roof.

Shelter indeed. Supper should take at least an hour, and this might prove to be the warmest, most secluded spot to spend that hour. Out of the prying, embarrassingly sympathetic gazes of the house servants. The pity of the other guests would have been bad enough, but the pity of servants was something she could not stand.

Her eyes now accustomed to the lack of light, she approached the summerhouse with some confidence that none of the other guests would have felt the need to retire to such an inhospitable retreat, especially not during supper. She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Despite the many windows, the darkness within was deeper than that of the garden, and an unused, musty smell tickled her nostrils. This being the tail end of winter, with spring only sniffing at the year, doubtless no one had been in here for a number of months, nor would anyone venture down here for several more months yet to come. A summerhouse was a thing for late spring and summer only.

There appeared to be a circular, cushioned seat around the circumference of the interior. Not that she could see all of it. The far side was thrown into almost complete darkness by the proximity of several tall trees that must overhang it. Undaunted, Serafina settled herself on the left of the closed door, smoothing out her skirts and uttering a sigh of pure relief. It was still chilly in here, but not as cold as the night air of the garden. She could definitely sit out here for an hour, and no one would miss her until supper was done with. Araminta would only then miss her when she discovered she was in need of her dogsbody to run some errand.

She leaned her head back on the window and closed her eyes, tiredness washing over her. Since their arrival, she’d been kept running about after everyone, doing the work of the servants no one had seen fit to take on in advance. She’d lit fires—only in Ogden and Araminta’s room, of course, made breakfast and brought it on trays to the bedrooms, helped Mrs. Cottrell, the housekeeper with any of the tasks she was too old to accomplish herself, as well as spent hours perfecting the hairstyles for both Letty and her mother. She never minded helping Letty, who was always such a joy to prettify, but Araminta had proved to be the most exacting of subjects for whom her hairstyle was never quite good enough. Even tonight she’d had to spend over an hour doing her sister-in-law’s hair and it still hadn’t met with her satisfaction. A single word of thanks would have made it all the more bearable, but none had been forthcoming.

At least, though, she now had an hour to herself. A little nap might be nice, or just a little quiet contemplation. She breathed deeply and allowed her body to relax, ignoring the chill creeping up from the flagstones into her feet. This was better.

For a long minute, she noticed nothing but her own breathing and the gentle soughing of the branches above the summerhouse. She smelled nothing but the musty dust and her own light perfume, lent by Letty in an uncharacteristic moment of generosity.

Wait. Was that a slight shuffle as of something moving across the flagstone floor?

She stopped breathing and listened, ears straining. Could there be rats in here, as there were in the stables at Milford? Or worse? What sort of wild animals might exist in a city? Something that had escaped from a menagerie? She knew those existed in London. Somewhere.

No. That wasn’t the sort of noise scuttling rats made. And that second, less intrusive sound was of someone else breathing. Faint, but definite. She’d always had exceptional hearing. Or maybe of something else.

She swallowed, glancing out of the window behind herself at what now looked to be the very distant lights of the house. All the other guests would be in the supper room, chattering away, making so much noise of their own they’d hear nothing at all if she screamed. They’d be oblivious to the danger she might be in.

Sitting very still, and trying to keep her own alarmed breathing as quiet as possible, she listened harder.

That was definitely someone, or something, else breathing. Over there, in the darkest part of the summerhouse. If she jumped up now and flung the door open and ran, would she be able to get away from whoever or whatever it was? Suppose it was an escaped lion? She glanced down at her gown. She’d be hampered by long skirts and her flimsy little satin slippers, and a man, which she wanted to be almost sure this must be, would catch her in a few short seconds, possibly before she even got the door open. A lion certainly would.

It must be a person. She wouldn’t think about the possibility it was an escaped wild animal.

It could be anyone. A homeless vagabond of some kind, perhaps, who’d wandered in here to get out of the cold. Or maybe a burglar out to spy on the house he intended to rob when everyone had gone home or to bed. Or just a plain murderer, lurking here with the intention of bludgeoning or stabbing or shooting the first party guest who was unwise enough to come his way. Just as bad as a lion. Logic had no place in her tumbled thoughts.

And she would be that unwise party guest, found dead in here in the morning. In a pool of her own blood.

She could hear him moving. Just the rasp of fabric, but it came to her as clearly as if he’d been shouting. And with it the faint scent of gentleman’s cologne… a little hint of lavender and citrus, not unlike the cologne she remembered her dear papa as having worn. But… a villain wearing gentleman’s cologne? How likely was that? And definitely not a lion.