Mr Xavier drew in a long breath and let it out, his eyes darting all about the hallway. Was he calming his emotions or choosing his words? ‘His father died falling from a cliff.’
‘Oh dear.’ Serena’s hand flew to her mouth in horror. ‘That is awful.’
Mr Xavier’s head dipped, and he scuffed at the floor with his shoe. ‘Yes, it was.’ He jerked his head up again, lips pursed together. ‘Now and then, my uncle tries to tempt fate. I don’t know why.’ He shoved his hands deep into his pockets then smiled. ‘Although you have the knack of doing what I could never do.’
‘What is that?’ Serena frowned at him, still trying to take in the tragedy of Mr King’s father.
‘Uncle Ed listens to you.’
It was a simple statement, but one that brought heat to Serena’s cheeks and she demurred. ‘Well, I don’t know. I have spent little time with him, but I have discovered that bringing the danger or impropriety of his actions to his attention has very little effect. Somehow, appealing to a different side of his nature seems to divert his mind.’
His intense gaze rested on her face. ‘I can see why.’ Mr Xavier continued to stare at her for a moment before clearing his throat and averting his eyes. ‘I mean, it is obvious my uncle esteems you. I suspect that is why he heeds you.’
Serena reached out and touched his forearm, wanting to reassure him. ‘He esteems you as well. He sings your praises often.’
This time, colour infused Mr Xavier’s neck and he pulled his arm away from her touch. ‘It pleases me to know.’
Serena smiled at him until she realised an awkward silence had fallen between them. She feigned a shiver. ‘I am off to my room to change. Good afternoon to you, Mr Xavier.’
‘And to you, Miss Bellingham.’ He bent his head in deference as she turned away.
Days passed, and true to Mrs Jones’s word, Serena had neither sight nor sound of Mr King. Whatever the woman had said to her brother, he had ceased searching Serena out. Not even during her walk on the shore on Sunday. He appeared at none of the family meals. Serena had even listened at the library door after supper to see if he had joined the menfolk to no avail. She shouldn’t have been watching for him. It was better this way, wasn’t it? But although Mr King had been inappropriate, forward and even taken liberties with her, Serena missed him.
On Monday, she put all hope aside of glimpsing her captor. On Mondays, the extra staff came to give the house a thorough clean, and he never showed his face. Why, Serena could not say. That is how it had been since she’d arrived. Perhaps, he wanted to keep out of their way. An implausible reasoning. Perhaps he didn’t care for them. Maybe they were too far beneath his genius to approach. That sounded more characteristic of him, particularly set alongside his attitude towards her father’s attempted theft. Criminals in the house must be distasteful to him. And yet, at the same time, it didn’t fit with the man she had begun to know.
Serena fought the temptation to go to his rooms and see how he fared. Why should she wish to attend him? She’d wanted this distance, hadn’t she? Then why was she continually drawn to him? Serena groaned as she hurried from her room to the laundry. A busy day of work might purge her of such thoughts. Not that she had high hopes for any success. Mr King had invaded her every waking moment.
It was nearing the dinner bell when the front door resounded with a heavy knock. She straightened but made no move to answer it. She refused to get herself into trouble again. Anybody might be at the door ready to cause strife.
She eased out a slow breath when soon enough voices drifted from the open door. A small commotion erupted, followed by Mrs Jones calling out in a sharp tone.
‘Miss Bellingham!’
Who would call at the house for her? Serena stiffened, but wiped her hands and smoothed her skirts before making her way to the entryway. Dare she hope Papa, Julianne and Rachel visited. Oh, how wonderful that would be. But most likely Mrs Jones needed her help with something.
‘I’m here, Mrs Jones. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s not for me, but it’s what these folks can do for you.’
Although the words sounded clear enough, the meaning was lost on Serena. A slight frown creased Mrs Jones’s brow. Serena dragged her gaze from the housekeeper to the visitors—a man and a woman, dressed well and wearing broad smiles.
Mrs Jones made the introduction. ‘Mr Thomas Broughton and, pardon, what did you say your name was again? Madame ...?’
‘Madame la Monde.’ A sultry voice purred from the woman whose skirts stretched as wide as fashion allowed, and whose hair tumbled in thick curls beside her heart-shaped face.
‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Sir.’ Serena dipped a brief curtsy, still at a loss as to why they wished to call on her.
Mr Broughton nodded in response. ‘Miss Bellingham. Mr King has commissioned us to create you a new wardrobe.’
‘A cupboard for my clothes? I already have one.’
Madame la Monde tittered behind gloved fingers. ‘No, my dear. New clothes for your cupboard.’ It might have sounded like an insult, but her expression was warm and friendly. In fact, she reached out her hand to clasp Serena’s fingertips, a flimsy shake if ever she felt one. But the action sent a waft of what must be a French ambergris perfume to her nostrils. Oddly though, Madame la Monde did not have a French accent as Serena expected by that name. Curious.
‘I don’t understand,’ Mrs Jones yet frowned. ‘How did Mr King commission you when he has not left the house for weeks?’
Mr Broughton chuckled at that. ‘Well, you see, he wrote to me several weeks ago. But I was
