“I shall accept your gratitude later, once we’re quit of this place.” Head high, shoulders straight, he led the way from the underground chamber, back out into the foul sewers.
“I daresay, Victoria, I’ve asked thrice for your opinion on this lace.” Gwendolyn Starcasset’s voice at last penetrated Victoria’s reverie. “You look exhausted, dearest. Are you certain you’re feeling well?”
What could have been a petulant tone was as gentle and concerned as that of a young mother, drawing Victoria back to the gilded, laced, and overstuffed private sitting room of the Starcasset residence like a remonstrated child. An untouched tea service sat on the small walnut piecrust table next to the rose-upholstered divan on which she sat. Lemon biscuits and poppyseed scones, along with chestnut cakes, decorated a small, delicate platter. Despite her particular fondness for lemons and chestnuts, Victoria was unmoved.
Gwendolyn, one of the few young women Victoria had befriended during the Season during which she’d met and married Phillip, sat across from her in a wide-armed chair. Her spring green day dress and cornflower ribbons made her appear young and fresh in contrast to the maturity and weariness that seemed to weigh upon Victoria. Gwen’s pale blonde hair was twisted high at the back of her head, with two generous locks rolled into sagging curls on either side of her face.
Victoria never had to worry about sagging curls, for her mane was composed of thick, springy ones, yet she knew that her coiffure wasn’t nearly as elegant as her friend’s. At one time, long ago, it would have been a task labored over with great care. But now, she barely allowed her maid to pin it into a chignon.
“I’m so sorry, Gwen,” she said. “I must confess, I am a bit tired and still recovering from the headache that kept me away from the Bridgerton soiree last night.” Not to mention the task of taking care of the corpse she’d brought home. She couldn’t exactly walk across the front threshold of St. Heath’s Row carrying Briyani’s mauled body. With Sebastian’s help, she’d managed to get it into the small chapel on the grounds, unseen. This morning she’d sent word to Kritanu, who was living at the town house Aunt Eustacia had bequeathed to Victoria. She didn’t know when she’d have the chance to talk with Kritanu, but at least he could be with his nephew.
The only thing that had been simple about last evening’s events was bidding Sebastian good night; she’d expected him to attempt to make his case for why—and how—she should thank him for finding the ring.
He must still have been angry with her for her cutting comments when she found Briyani’s body, for he hadn’t even tried to steal a kiss when he let her off. She couldn’t remember the last time they were together that he hadn’t attempted to tease or coax her into some sort of intimacy, even when she was angry or annoyed with him. Even earlier that evening, in the sewers, he’d made an attempt.
“We missed you, and of course everyone was asking everyone else if they’d called on you, or had seen you.”
Victoria discarded all thought of Sebastian and smiled. “I hope you told them a great tale.”
Gwen smiled back, showing deep, delicious dimples. She looked a bit weary too, or perhaps it was merely the stress of her upcoming nuptials. “Of course—I told them that you were remaining in seclusion until my wedding. Now, everyone will be even more eager to attend.”
“As if marrying the Earl of Brodebaugh isn’t enough of a reason to entice the entire ton and half the king’s court to attend. His style and flair is superb, and his family is certain to spend hugely on the wedding.”
Victoria may have been in Italy for nearly a year, but her mother had made certain she’d not fallen behind in Society gossip. And now that the Prince Regent would be crowned George IV in a matter of weeks, there was even more to gossip about—such as his wife, Queen Caroline, who’d recently returned from years of self-exile in Italy. Despite the scandal that had surrounded her over the affair she’d conducted with her Italian servant, Bartolomo Pergami, the queen had been welcomed back to England by the masses—purely because George was so unpopular, and he hated her.
Victoria dutifully pushed away her grief and weariness, and her potent dislike for nearly everything related to her old life of balls and fetes and musicales, and leaned closer to Gwen. “The lace is very fine, and I think it will be lovely on a wedding gown.”
She wished she really did give more than a fig about these things, but it was difficult to worry over tatting and trims when Briyani lay dead and she hadn’t been able to see Kritanu yet. He was staying at the home he’d shared with Aunt Eustacia here in London; the place where Victoria would move upon leaving St. Heath’s Row—which was yet another thing she needed to attend to.
“Oh, dear, Victoria,” her friend sighed in mock annoyance. “But you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you? This lace, this beautiful Brussels lace, isn’t meant for my wedding gown . . . but for my wedding night. That is why I invited you here, to the private parlor. Why, see, I’ve even had the drapes drawn!” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Ahh!” Victoria picked up the lace again. It was quite lovely—an eggshell white, shot through with shiny, glittering silver thread, tatted into the most intricate miniatures of loops and knots and scallops. “The earl will no doubt find himself speechless with delight.”
“I do hope so.” Gwen beamed, and for a moment, in the glare of her happiness, Victoria was shocked by pure, unadulterated envy.
It shot through her like a bolt of lightning: envy that she’d never have an ignorant life with a man she loved, and who loved her (for it was clearly a love match between Miss Starcasset and her wealthy earl, despite the fact that he was more than two decades older than she). The ugly feeling roiled inside her, threatening to burst free in the form of snide remarks and accusations that she didn’t really mean.
Victoria dropped the lace when she realized her fingers had crumpled it, and a sting of tears surprised her. She forced herself to take a deep breath, to smile, to look at her friend’s beaming face and ask herself: Why shouldn’t she be happy? Some of us have to be. I’ve more than enough angst for both of us.
“And George may soon follow—as you can imagine, my mother has been nagging at him for years now,” Gwendolyn was rattling on. Miraculously, she hadn’t noticed or recognized Victoria’s lapse, saving her from another explanation that would likely make no sense.