Wayward One (4 page)

“Miss Sera Miller.” She couldn’t add more since she wasn’t sure whom she was there to see.

The butler held the door wider and ushered her into a grand foyer. “Come in.”

He left Sera and her maid without a word. Mary made quite the production of inspecting the area in the way Sera wished she could. She was content with admiring the parquet floor. A beautiful gilt table along the side looked to be from the era of Louis XIV, the Sun King. Piles of accumulated mail littered its surface, as did other detritus fished from a man’s pockets. A bit of wire nestled into scraps of paper. Alongside them were a small stack of neglected calling cards and a silver-chased cheroot case.

Sera nibbled on the inside of her lip and worried the silk cord of her reticule. She’d half assumed that such a fine building in this part of town would house the offices of a well-supported charity. She was coming to regret such an assumption.

Mary bent her neck to stare at the ceiling and let out a quiet, “Gaw Lordy, would you look at that!”

As the maid to a duke’s daughter, Mary normally remained quite refined and circumspect. Sera could resist no further. She looked up.

And nearly dropped her reticule.

To say it was decorated would be an understatement. Soaring two stories overhead above a sweeping staircase, the entire expanse had been painted in a fresco that was nothing short of absolutely gauche.

Sera resisted the urge to fist her eyes like a child.

In a house like this, the entryway ceiling ought to have been pale or plastered. An elaborate fresco might be permitted depending on the subject matter. But this ceiling was painted…in stripes. They were wider at the walls, narrowing toward the chandelier in the center. As if that weren’t enough, the stripes were puce and pale yellow and had been chased with elaborate silver scrollwork.

Too much. It was all too much. The combination was an abomination.

The butler reappeared at the far end of the hall. “Mr. Thomas will see you now.”

She stared at him in stupefaction for a moment, her brain unable to adjust. “Pardon?”

“Mr. Thomas.” He held out an arm to gesture down the hallway. “This way.”

Mary shook her head urgently, obviously in doubt as to the advisability of continuing with such a course. Sera harbored her own doubts as well, but she’d come so far and was unexpectedly close to discovery. She could hardly turn back now, especially if that meant having to admit to her friends that she’d turned cowardly.

The butler escorted Sera and Mary to a spacious but empty parlor that was somewhat more genteelly decorated than the foyer. The walls were papered in striped cream and blue that complemented the upholstered chairs and settee. A table in the corner, draped with silk, displayed daguerreotypes and miniature paintings. A few poorly chosen pieces, such as the badly woven carpet and the painting over the fireplace that was an obvious imitation Barrett, marred the effect of the room.

Mary hovered in the corner, mindful of her duties. Sera barely had time to take in the full surroundings and deem them almost appropriate when a pocket door on the other side of the room opened. A man stepped through.

“You,” she said, unable to hold back the expulsion.

He was the very man she’d run into on the street. The one she’d been unable to keep from her mind. Something about him had niggled at her in a most disturbing manner. She’d supposed it was the attraction she so rarely felt, but now she wondered if it had been another worry. A feeling of familiarity based on…she wasn’t sure.

“Indeed.” He watched her with a wary air, eyes narrowed. His mouth drew together in a shape that verged on plump. How much colder his pale eyes seemed when he wasn’t teasing. “Won’t you sit?”

Sera blazed with a sick lurch of fury. She perched on the edge of the sofa, nails sinking into the polished arm. “I presume you were watching me? That’s how you came to be there?”

He folded his hands behind his back. A stern frown deepened the line between his brows. “I assure you it’s no sort of common habit I indulge. I was aware that your tenure at Waywroth Academy was coming to an end and wished to see for myself what sort of lady they’d molded you into.”

A helpless laugh burned up through her throat. She smoothed the seams of her gloves. “And what, sir, is your opinion?”

Fletcher stepped toward Seraphina as the hot pleasure of her words scorched his chest. Though the manic light in her dark eyes verged on hysteric, she asked for his approval—despite how she soared miles above his status.

He corralled his impulse to wrap a hand around the back of her neck. His brain stuttered out shortly thereafter, unwilling to give free rein to what he’d do then.

He forced a small smile. “My opinion is that you’re most certainly acceptable.”

“Acceptable,” she echoed. Though a hint of confusion twisted her mouth, her shoulders never drooped.

When he’d walked in the room, his gaze had been drawn to her. That was no surprise. But the hot, red flush that colored her pale, rounded cheeks—that had been a shock the likes of which he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Perhaps ever. He wanted to know what had put that color there. He wanted to be the one to
put
it there.

Suspecting it had come from the decorations in his home would suffice. For now.

Half of him was surprised she hadn’t immediately turned up her nose and disappeared, tugging her wide-eyed maid behind her. Sitting on the settee, she looked every inch the proper lady—the sort of refined debutante to whom he wasn’t usually introduced much less permitted relatively unchaperoned conversation.

Her dark hair had been parted down the middle then swept back over her ears in twists and knots. The soft divot that must mark the base of her skull remained out of sight, even when she bent her head. Not for his eyes, nor those of any other man.

He’d lay fifty-to-one odds that the wide, pinkened sweep of her lips had never been any suitor’s bounty. Her purity was a keystone of the life he built. If she’d been left to run wild, or sent to a workhouse, she would’ve suffered the worst abuses. She wouldn’t have such smooth, creamy skin.

“You may very well be the best-behaved young woman in London, but I shall reserve judgment,” he said. “Basing anything more of an opinion on a passing meeting in the street would be precipitous.”

“Indeed. One would dislike being precipitous.” With the faintest sneer in her dark eyes, she spread her palms open against the heavy silk of her skirt. The fine veins that would mark the backs of her hands were concealed by pristine white gloves, the sort of fancy fripperies only ladies could bother with. In the center of his home, she looked precisely right.

He would keep her there. The crown jewel to top off his empire.

But it wasn’t time yet. If Fletcher brought her into his world too early, before he’d become respectable, she’d only be chipped away bit by bit by his corruption until the woman that remained was a paste copy.

A shy smile curved her mouth and made her dark brown eyes glitter. “You realize we’ve yet to be introduced?”

Of course. He was terrible with the basic niceties. “My apologies. I’m afraid we’ll have to introduce ourselves. I doubted you’d want anyone privy to this meeting. Not if you like the position in society you’ve attained.”

“I’m sure you know my name, so the need to introduce myself falls by the wayside.” She rose to her feet, extending one graceful hand.

The simple motion awakened memories he’d long thought dead. She’d been as proper upon their first meeting, though the gesture had seemed much more amusing on a girl with only six years to her name as opposed to his dozen. She’d done it again at ten, when they’d met the second time around. He’d been amazed that four years dependent on only her erstwhile mother had kept her flawless. After her mother’s death alongside Fletcher’s father, he’d resolved to make sure she stayed that way.

“I am Fletcher Thomas.”

She bobbed a graceful hint of a curtsy, one that very efficiently put him in his place. “I must admit this has taken an unexpected turn.”

He gestured to a pair of chairs by the fireplace. There was once a time when he’d have thought the spring air plenty warm enough. In fact, he would’ve reveled in its sweep through the dirty streets. Now he ordered fires lit in every room. Partly because he could, partly because it was the sign of a well-heeled household.

She sat, tucking her skirts under herself. On the surface, she looked every bit calm and prepossessed. But years of sitting at disreputable card games had taught him to find every tell and hint as to a person’s true feelings. Between two gloved fingers, she rubbed a flounce of her dress.

He sat across from her, thankful the chairs were set an appropriate distance apart. No acceptable reason could justify wishing to know how she smelled. Or wanting to take her by the elbow to inspect some of the more outré decorations of his home. The architect Fletcher pressed into decorating service had insisted they were the first stare of fashion, but he’d always been slightly uncomfortable. Seraphina would know for certain.

Fletcher wasn’t sure where to begin. “That is all my responsibility, I am sure. I shouldn’t have been in your street.”

She shook her head. “Far be it from me to restrict your movements about the city.”

“Perhaps I could have had better timing.”

“That much I’ll agree to.” She dropped her gaze to the thick carpet. “Why?” Her voice had gone softer. Almost…afraid. Her dread raked knives over his skin. “Why me?”

He blew out a deep breath. She didn’t know who he was, or what he controlled, yet her eyes tracked his every movement. As if his words were important. As if she was simply interested in him as a man.

“I knew your mother.”

“Mama?” She jerked back in her seat.

“Not like that. It was…a passing acquaintance, of a sort. But I knew of her dreams for you. When I came into money at approximately the same time she passed on, it seemed only natural to make you a beneficiary of my good fortune.”

The corners of her mouth quirked up. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Thomas, but there is nothing about that which is natural. Not in this neighborhood.”

He pressed his lips flat against the grin that wished to sneak out. That was the Seraphina he remembered. Sweet and kind, yet able to see directly to the heart of him.

Her eyes went wide and her lips fell open to reveal the white flash of her teeth.

“Digger,” she breathed.

Every bit of him froze. Even his blood chugged to a standstill within his veins, like a locomotive that had burnt through its coal. That name carried the memories of youth, a vulnerability he’d managed to shake off years ago. But also a time when kind, gentle Seraphina had been entrusted to his protection.

They hadn’t known each other long as children. Only six months while her mother had worked—on her back—for his father. Mac Thomas had moved both Seraphina and her mother Aggie into the large ramshackle manor he dubbed a mansion. When their parents had disappeared for three days of rousing good times, the task of tending Seraphina had fallen to Fletcher.

Not that he’d minded. The way she looked up to him had been refreshing. Being ten and two and tending a girl half his age had been daunting. Still, he’d kept her clean and fed, even inventing a fairy tale when she confessed how her mama helped her sleep. Mac had kicked Sera’s mother out not long after that. He’d taken Aggie back four years later, and Fletcher had only days to savor the return of Sera’s sweet joy before Mac and Aggie died.

“No one’s dared to call me Digger in a long time.”

“I take it to mean you’ve quit picking pockets?”

He chuckled. “Among other things. I suppose school couldn’t precisely erase your memories.”

“No,” she said with a smile that hinted at more. Scored lines that weren’t quite dimples appeared low on her cheeks.

“It’s probably for the best.” If she ever forgot where she’d been raised, she might not appreciate everything he’d given her, nor everything he had yet to provide. “It will probably come as no surprise many might frown on the source of my income.”

Her smile faded, stealing some of the light from her eyes. “You took over your father’s interests?”

That was such a simple yet true way to phrase it. He’d taken over his father’s empire. The graft, the theft, the pandering. All of it his and all of it what Seraphina was better off knowing nothing about. He could shelter her from all of it.

“I don’t often go into detail about such.”

“Understandable.” Her gaze dropped again, and a tiny line scored between her dark brows. Something about the carpet displeased her. He’d replace it before she returned to this room. “I’m saddened you haven’t contacted me before this, however. We were as close as siblings once upon a time.”

The echo of long-forgotten fairy tales flavored her words, as if she imagined them Hansel and Gretel, skipping hand in hand into the woods. The quicker she shed those fantasies, the better. “You’ll have to trust it’s for the best, Seraphina.”

Her shoulders drew up another inch. A tendon along her slender neck jumped into stark relief. “I prefer to be called Sera.”

“Sera?” It wasn’t the right name for her. Not by half. The moniker called forth images of day-old bread and exhausted, weary women. “Truly?”