Elspeth nodded. “As far as I know, weather permitting.” She reached for Sinclair’s hand. “I am so glad you decided to come with us.”
“Perhaps I, too, need an adventure.”
“I think we all do.”
Sinclair kissed her cheek. “Now. Go. He is waiting.” And with that, Sinclair slipped from the dressing room, closing the door.
Elspeth turned, facing the opposite door, the one leading to her husband’s bedchamber, and took a deep breath.
Her husband.
The words still felt strange, in her mind and on her lips.Properly, he had said, and it had taken almost a month for the contracts to be finalized and the banns read in church. She had spent the time packing, writing letters, visiting the modiste, and walking out with Timothy inthe park. At first questions had come at them from every corner, but the viscount, who had taken the news with unexpected aplomb, had begun to pay suit to another woman within ten days. He had announced his availability at Almack’s, telling anyone who would listen that at his age, he had no time to waste if he desired more children—a comment which had appalled the patronesses of Almack’s, and they had withdrawn his voucher for the season.
Her last visit to the modiste had been the past Tuesday, to finalize her wedding gown, a glorious creation of emerald-green silk with short, puffed sleeves. A floral-patterned gauze of green and white overlay the skirt, with a wide ribbon at the waist. When he saw her in it early that morning at the cathedral, Timothy’s eyes gleamed as if he had just discovered Christmas meant presents galore, and the eagerness in his gaze that had caused Elspeth to feel heat rush through her every fiber.
That same expression had been turned toward her continually over the next few hours, making the wedding breakfast at Embleton House—with its much larger ballroom than at Inmarsh House—feel interminable. Every few moments, she had wanted to flee, to rush from the assembly and find a carriage, a cab, anything that would take her way from all the people. The event lasted until after three in the afternoon, after which she had returned to Inmarsh House to collect a few things and rest. Then she and Sinclair had arrived here—for this.
This moment.
This . . . now.
She took a deep breath and opened the dressing room door.
The bedchamber, quiet and dark, looked undisturbed, except for a low fire in the grate.
“Timothy?”
Silence.
Elspeth’s abdomen clenched, and her stomach roiled.Where is he? Has he left me already?
Suddenly the door from the hall burst open, and she yelped as Timothy rushed in, his banyan open and flying about, a small gold cylinder in his hand. His face glowed with joy, his smile radiant, as he seemed unaware that only his silk shirt covered his body.
“Elspeth! Come with me! You must see this!” He grabbed her hand, tugging her toward the door, then he stopped abrupt, looking her from braid to hem. “Dear God in heaven, you are gorgeous!” He blinked, then pulled on her arm again. “But you must come.”
Confused but enthralled by his glee, Elspeth raced to keep up with him, her bare feet padding heavily on the carpet as they climbed the servants’ stairs from the third floor, passing the fourth and charging down a short hallway on the fifth to the attic door. Up yet another narrow flight of steps, the boards of the attic rough on her soles, until they reached a window, already propped open, letting in the chill air of the night.
Timothy finally paused, a wide grin still brightening his face. He dropped her hand. “I will go first, because I need to place this down safely.” He raised the hand still cradling the cylinder. “Then I will help you through.”
Then he stepped through the window as if he had done so all his life. He disappeared from view only seconds, then reappeared, holding out his hand. “Come with me.”
“We are going out on the roof.”
“Yes! You must see this!”
Feeling exposed and vulnerable with nothing but her night rail to cover her, Elspeth gathered up fabric and stepped over the windowsill and out onto the roof. The night air felt cool, clearing her head, although she soon caught a whiff of the river and the streets below.
London seldom smelled like a country meadow.
Even with Timothy tugging her hand, she stepped gingerly along an open space to where he had spread a thin mattress—much like that from a child’s trundle bed—out on the flat roof. Blankets and pillowscreated mounds around the edges, and in the center of one of the pillows lay the gold cylinder.
“What is all this?”
“A surprise. Brush your feet off and sit down.”
She did, flicking away the bits of dust and grime that had clung to her soles during their scamper upward. He helped her settle, then reached for the cylinder. Made from burnished gold, it appeared to be a large cup with a sloping top, almost like a Bavarian stein, although the top was flat. Around the outside, a painted enamel ring depicted a bawdy-looking party, with joyous folks taking part in a lively dance.
“That’s exquisite.” She looked up at him. “But what is it?”
