Scoundrel in the Regency Ballroom: The Rake and the Heiress / Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem

‘Then I’m here to call on your master, Mr Lytton.’

‘Well, you’re not likely to find him round here, fraternising with tradesmen and servants and ruffians like me, now are you,’ he answered with a grin.

Serena gritted her teeth. He was insufferable.

‘If you care to call at the front door and present your card, I’m sure he’ll be delighted to receive you.’ Without a backward glance, the coachman turned on his heel and strode off.

Struggling to regain her rattled composure, Serena found her way back through the yard to the path that led to the main entrance. As she listened to the clang of the doorbell she put the episode firmly to the back of her mind, took a few calming breaths and tried to remember everything Papa had told her. Her heart fluttering with anticipation, she gave her name to the butler, following in his stately wake as he led her through what must have served as the great hall when the house was first built. It was an immense panelled space with a huge stone fireplace on one wall, the staircase leading to the upper floors at the far end. She was given no time to admire it, however, being ushered through a door in the panelling and deposited in a small sunny parlour, which faced on to the gardens at the front of the house. A fire crackled in the grate. A large arrangement of fresh spring flowers scented the room.

‘Mr Lytton will join you shortly, madam.’The butler bowed and departed.

Serena pressed her tightly gloved hands together in an effort to stop them from shaking and took stock. It was a cosy room, stylish but comfortable and obviously well used. The warm colours of the soft furnishings, russet-and-gold patterned rugs and deep red upholstery, contrasted with the dark wood panelling that covered the walls, all the way from the wainscoting to a decorative rail just above head height.

How would the owner of this enchanting house receive her? It was bound to be an awkward meeting. Though there had apparently been some letters in the early days, her father and Nick Lytton had not met for nigh on thirty years. Serena was not looking forward to breaking the news that Papa had passed away.

Serena paced the room nervously, noticing the detailing on the wooden panelling for the first time. A frieze of roses was worked into the wood, connected by leaves, briars and little carved animals. The last rose of summer left blooming alone. The secret code that Papa had confided in her on that dreadful night when he died of his wounds. The words he had her repeat over and over so that Nick Lytton could be sure of her identity. The phrase had seemed strange, but now she could see it was apt.

What would he be like, this man who held the key to her future? Papa’s age, obviously, and, it was clear from her surroundings, a man of wealth and status. A country squire run to fat, as men of that age were wont to do. Like as not he suffered also from the gout.

‘Nicholas Lytton at your service, madam.’

Serena jumped. She had not heard him come in. The tone of the voice was deep. Cultured. Supremely confident. And horribly familiar. The charming smile she had been composing froze upon her face as she turned around.

He had bathed and changed after his exertions in the boxing ring, standing before her elegantly attired in a pair of biscuit-coloured knitted pantaloons and a tailcoat of green superfine cut close across shoulders which had no need of buckram wadding to emphasise their breadth. A clean white shirt and a cravat tied simply, with a striped silk waistcoat and gleaming Hessians, completed the outfit. Raising her head, she saw a strong jaw line, a mouth curved into what could be a smile, glossy black hair combed forwards on to high cheekbones. And those grey eyes.

Nicholas bowed and moved towards Serena, an arm outstretched in greeting. A pink flush tinged her skin, which had little to do with the heat of the fire crackling away at her back. Amusement lurked as he watched her struggling to make sense of the situation, taking advantage of her confusion to usher her compliantly into a wing-backed chair beside the fire while he took the matching seat opposite. ‘Coffee will be here any moment. You look as if you could do with some, Miss Cachet.’

He was relishing her embarrassment. Serena sat up straight in her chair, forcing her countenance into a look of cool composure completely at odds with the mixture of humiliation and fury she was feeling. ‘Sir, you have already misled me once as to your identity. I beg you not to do so again.’

‘I did not mislead you, madam. I said I had the honour of serving the estate and I do. I rather fancy it was you who jumped too quickly to the wrong conclusion. Perhaps your judgement was clouded by your alltoo-obvious enjoyment of the base spectacle on offer?’

‘There is no need to indulge in more jibes at my expense,’ Serena said icily. ‘I am here to meet Mr Nicholas Lytton on a matter of some import.’

‘As I said, I am Nicholas Lytton.’

‘But—you can’t be! No, no, that’s ridiculous. The man I have business with is an old friend of my father’s.’

‘Ah. I expect you refer to my father.’

‘Yes, that must be it. Of course, your father,’ Serena said with enormous relief. ‘May I speak with him?’

She leaned forwards eagerly. Her flushed cheeks blushed bright against the creamy smoothness of her skin. With her guinea-gold hair and cornflower-blue eyes framed by startlingly long dark lashes, she looked quite breathtakingly beautiful. Nicholas drank in the vision of loveliness she presented, regretfully shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid that will be quite impossible. He’s dead these last ten years.’

‘Dead!’ Many times in the past few months she had pictured this scene, but this particular twist had never occurred to her. Serena sank back dejectedly in her chair. ‘Dead. I did not expect—that is, I’m sorry, but it’s rather a shock.’

What on earth was she to do now? Trying desperately to rally her thoughts, she took covert stock of the man opposite. She knew nothing of him save that he could box well and that he took outrageous liberties. Exactly the sort of man Papa would have taken great care to keep well away from his daughter. Perhaps because their life was somewhat unconventional, her father had always been very protective, almost overly so. Naturally, she was banned from the gaming salons. Since their somewhat ambiguous position in society made it impossible for her to socialise in more respectable circles, however, the opportunities to meet men—eligible or otherwise—were few and far between. In fact, Nicholas Lytton was the first man to have kissed her, though she wasn’t about to tell him that. He was insufferably arrogant enough as it was. Serena grappled for a solution to what appeared to be an insoluble problem. She was to trust no one save Nick Lytton. Yet Nick Lytton was dead. There seemed to be no way to avoid confiding in his son if she were not to leave empty-handed.

Still, instinct that had nothing at all to do with Papa’s urge to secrecy and everything to do with Nicholas Lytton himself made her reticent. That fight. That kiss. The unexpected effect the man himself was having on her. The watchfulness that lurked there, despite the nonchalant way he sat in the chair. Recalling the scene in the stable yard, a heat swept through her, which had naught to do with embarrassment. Shocking though it was to admit it, she had enjoyed the sight of Nicholas Lytton semi-naked, his muscles rippling. When he kissed her, her first instinct had not been to draw back as propriety demanded, but to pull him close, to feel for herself the warm skin, the crisply curling hair, the cord-like muscles and sinew. She had never had such lustful thoughts before. Now was certainly not the time to have them again. Looking up, she became aware of his close scrutiny.

Giving herself a mental shake, Serena sat up straight and licked her lips nervously. A raised brow encouraged her to speak. ‘Your father’s death makes my errand more problematic, but it does not make it any the less urgent. I believe I must enlist your help.’

‘Must? I sense a reluctance to confide, Miss Cachet. Don’t you trust me?’

He was toying with her. ‘Why? Would I be unwise to do so?’

‘That you must decide for yourself, when you are better acquainted with me.’

‘Sadly, I do not intend to spend long enough in your company to become so,’ Serena replied tartly. ‘I am come to reclaim some papers, which my papa entrusted to yours. They are personal documents that he did not want to risk losing on the Continent. You must know that we led a—well, an itinerant life there.’

‘You’ve just recently arrived in England then?’

‘Yes, from France. This is my first visit.’

‘Allow me to compliment you on your command of our language.’

‘I am, in fact, English, Mr Lytton,’Serena said stiffly. ‘My father was English, we always spoke that language at home. I can understand your being suspicious—my turning up here unannounced must give a strange appearance—but I assure you I am no fraud. Nor am I a French spy, if that is what you are worried about.’

‘Touché, mademoiselle. I’m afraid you’re doomed to disappointment, though, as I know nothing about your papers. I’ve been through all my father’s effects long since. If they were here, I think they’d have turned up by now.’

‘But they must be here! Are you sure he said nothing before he died—could he have perhaps lodged them with his lawyer?’

Nicholas frowned, puzzled by the earnest note in her voice. ‘No, I would have been informed if he had.’

‘You must remember something. Surely your father mentioned Papa’s name at some point?’

Her desperation aroused Nicholas’s curiosity. Whatever her tale, she had quite obviously not told him the whole of it. Her lovely face was fixed on him with such a look of entreaty as would melt all but the hardest of hearts. He could not but wonder what effect gratitude would have on her. ‘Perhaps if you could tell me a little more, it may prompt my memory.’

‘They are private papers, of no value to anyone else. My father’s name is on them.’

Her very reluctance to expand was intriguing. ‘Cachet?’

Serena bit her lip, more aware than ever of his too-penetrating grey eyes. Though he maintained his relaxed posture, she was under no illusions. Nicholas Lytton distrusted her, and she could not really blame him. ‘Not Cachet, Stamppe.’

‘Stamppe? Then Cachet is your married name? My apologies, I must have misread your card, madame.’

‘I’m not married. My name is also Stamppe.’

‘Yet your card says Cachet.’

‘Yes, because—oh dear, this is most awkward.’ Serena risked a fleeting glance up, caught her host’s sardonic expression, and looked quickly down again. Nicholas Lytton was smiling sceptically. In her lap, her fingers twined and intertwined, weaving a complex pattern of their own devising, which all too clearly betrayed her discomfort. She clasped them together and forced herself to meet Nicholas’s gaze properly. ‘Cachet means seal. My real name is Stamppe, though I did not find that out until my father informed me of it on his deathbed. He had a whimsical sense of humour.’

At this, Nicholas gave a twisted smile. ‘Amazing what facing mortality will do to a parent.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I sympathise, mademoiselle, that is all, having had a similar experience. It must have come as a surprise.’

‘A shock. Papa died very suddenly; he was the victim of a violent robbery. I find it difficult—I still find it hard to accept.’ She paused to dab her eyes with a handkerchief plucked from her reticule.