One
Waiting for Handley toplay his card, Sebastian Thorne, the Viscount Cotereigh, frowned across the crowded drawing room.
“That woman in the dreadful washed-out burgundy dress,” he said. “Eight, no, nine seasons out of date. I’ve seen her before. But where?”
Handley glanced up, sparing the well-populated room a once-over. He gave a short laugh, already looking back at his cards and reordering them to his satisfaction.
“Sticks out like a carbuncle, don’t she? That’s the Pretty Pariah, Lady Pemberthy’s niece.”
Beckford, sitting across the small table, his cards held carelessly enough to reveal half of them, twisted round in his seat.
“The Pretty Pariah’s back, is she?”
At two-and-twenty, Beckford was a boy and Sebastian would’ve reproved him for staring, but the woman was heedless. She stood with her slim, straight back towards them, herattention on the three old matrons enthroned near the fire, as far from the window and the draughts as they could be. The ancient lady in the middle was their hostess, Mrs Fishbourne, and this afternoon saloon party was of her devising, now in its thirtieth year. A London institution, and extremely tedious, but one had to attend such things. Everyone else did.
Beckford turned his scant attention back to the card table. “Didn’t realise it was that time of year.” He grimaced at the cards he held, chose one, half pulled it from the pack, then changed his mind, sliding it back in and choosing another. Judging by the card he finally tossed onto the pile, Sebastian wasn’t entirely sure he understood the rules of the game.
Turn taken, Beckford picked up his glass. “It’s like swallows.” He waved his glass towards the window behind their table where a cold grey sky did its best to pretend spring wasn’t blooming and the trees weren’t ridiculously pretty with white and pink blossom. The three old matrons were right to sit by the fire. The breeze stealing through the gaps around the big sash window had sharp fingers. Sebastian felt it and ignored it.
“Every spring she arrives in London, squawks a lot, and kind of…annoys you, by making you think of things you don’t normally think about, soup kitchens and orphans and things, then she flies away again and you forget all about her. Until the next year.”
Beckford might not have paid any heed to the card Sebastian had just laid down, but it’d made Handley curse. Now Handley deepened the furrow in his thick-set brow, pulling his attention from the game long enough to scowl at the younger man.
“Beckford. What on earth are you raving about?”
“You know…” Beckford gave another wave of his glass, the red liquid sloshing nearly to the rim. Sebastian looked from the wine to the Pretty Pariah’s dress. No, the colour wasn’t really similar. The burgundy wine was rich and vibrant and glowed even withthe grudging, cloud-filtered sun. The dress was old and faded, drab and unloved. It annoyed him. Clothes were simple. There was no excuse.
“You know…” Beckford repeated himself. “Don’t they say swallows come all the way from Africa, or some such place? So whenever you see one, you always end up thinking of far-off exotic places and how big the world is, and how little of it you’ve ever seen, and that maybe…maybe you should take up being a sailor, or something. Travel. Live.” He almost spilt his wine again with another wave of his hand. “That’swhy swallows are annoying. Because I don’t want to do any of that, dammit. I like London. Africa would be dreadful. So hot.”
Sebastian raised an eyebrow in silent response, methodically working on the assessment of the cards in his hand. Handley, as usual, was more forthright.
“What the devil?” He was always red about the face, but now it crept higher up his thick neck and into his weathered cheeks—if he wasn’t at cards, he was normally at hounds. “No one thinks anything of the sort, you fool. I see swallows and think dammit, months until there’s good hunting.”
“Beckford is a romantic,” Sebastian murmured to Handley, his voice pitched to a mournful apology.
The younger man gave an indignant laugh. “Devil a bit, Cote. Insult me, will you?”
“Not at all. We’re all romantic now. It’s the fashion, you know.” Still with an apologetic murmur, he reminded Handley, “It’s your turn.”
Handley scowled at his cards, but Sebastian’s attention lifted from the game. Across the room, the Pretty Pariah straightened and walked away from where their hostess held court, going to a far corner which was in the social hinterland of the room, being both near the door and a heavily laden tea table.
Her aunt sat there. He recognised her now. Lady Pemberthy—another old matron, but rosy, round, and smiling rather than stern. She had an empty plate on her knee and was deep in conversation with a thin young man who had, an hour previously, subjected them all to a lecture on Tudor architecture. Their hostess believed her saloon parties should be exemplars of intellectandpleasure, and they therefore failed dismally at both.
Sebastian shifted in his seat, subtly easing a shoulder stiffened by boredom. Already there had been some musical performances. After this respite for conversation, there were to be more.
The Pretty Pariah bent to say something to her aunt. Then she took her aunt’s empty plate and went to refill it with more cakes and pastries. None for herself, he noted. And he wasn’t the only one watching her. The young architectural enthusiast had his slightly bulbous eyes fixed upon her upright, elegant figure, though the aunt chattered on, oblivious.
Sebastian remembered now. It was at this same party, but last year, that he’d seen her. That’s why she looked familiar. And he’d noticed her for the same reason he had just now. She was beautiful.
Her brown hair was an ordinary shade, and her eyes were an ordinary blue—last year, turning around in the crowded room, he’d found himself accidentally in her way and been close enough to see their colour. Azure eyes, a little grey around the iris, regarding him with barely suppressed annoyance. He’d murmured some brief word of apology, to which she’d smiled faintly and carried on her way. He’d watched her go. Then forgotten all about her.
Ordinary colouring, ordinary height, ordinary build… But the bone structure of her face was delicate in its subtle, understated perfection. It was a fresh, natural, timeless beauty—women like her had always been, and would always be, considered beautiful.But the dress…her manner… She stood at the tea table as brisk and stolid as a maid. She tramped back to her aunt with the laden plate as pragmatically as a farmer, wearing clothes his housekeeper would have sniffed at. Beckford was right. She was extremely annoying. It was a complete waste of a beautiful woman. And that was evenbeforeone considered her politics.
“And now it’syourturn, Cote,” said Handley, the smugness of a smile in his voice.
Sebastian snapped his attention back to the game. It took him a moment to recall what cards he held. He glanced at the cards on the table, chose his, and set it down. Handley stifled another curse. Sebastian smiled.
“That smirk don’t bode well for you gentlemen,” said a new voice, rough yet languid. Velvet dipped in tar.
