Elizabeth sighed and gave up trying to educate the man. “Just so. Now, if you will kindly deliver your package, I was preparing to take a short nap before the sun comes up.”
“Aye, and here it is.” He hefted the package but did not hand it to her. “An’ this is the poem. He made me practice till I had it perfect. Says to apologize to you because it isn’t smutty enough, but he will leave that sort of thing to a fellow, w’ the name of Horton or Hortense.” He scratched at his wig.
“Do get on with it.”
“Yes, miss.” He pulled at skin on his throat and coughed lightly, as if that might aide his recital.
“Sometime this age, if you please.” She tapped her toe and leaned against the door.
He stretched out his arm, mimicking a great stage actor.
“Here is a gift for you, my sweet.
Perchance to see what might’ve been,
To dream of what might yet be.
Ponder the raiment of lilies, dear.
What radiant cloaks they might wear?
Or not wear, when next they meet?”
He lowered his arms indicating his performance was over.
“Go on. Where’s the rest of it?”
“That’s it, miss.”
“Hardly a poem, is it? An abysmal ditty, at best. He required you memorize that? In the middle of the night.” She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “You have my sympathy. He might just as well have written it on a scrap of paper and told you to toss it at me.”
“Oh, I don’t know, miss. It’s as fine a poem as any, I expect. Rhymes, true enough, don’t it? Sweet. Meet. Dear and wear. P’rhaps not exact, but it sounds—”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth had enough of St. Evert’s pathetic poetry and his absurdly devoted manservant. She seized the bundle from him and pushed the door shut with her foot. Carrying the gift to her bed, she set down the lamp, untied the knot, folded back the paper, and unfurled the contents. There on her bed lay the most horrid coat in all of creation. A coat made out of the exact fabric of her gown. She held it up to the light.
“Good heavens. I must say, he was right. It is a great deal more interesting than the dull thing he wore tonight.” Elizabeth ran her fingertips over the orange satin collar. The preposterous coat would have made a mockery of her dress. It would have been the laughingstock of the ball, of the season. She would have been teased and mocked for months.
Why hadn’t he worn it?
The ridiculous thing smelled vaguely of him. Pressing the collar to her nose, she recognized the smell of his shaving soap and that other scent, the musky male scent that spoke only of him. Elizabeth slid her arms into the sleeves and smiled at the way they hung down past her fingers.
What had he said in the poem? Something about lilies, my sweet, when next we meet. She ran to the door and threw it open. Where had that idiot servant gotten to? She had to hear that poem one more time. Had it been a warning or a promise?
The hall stretched empty and dark in both directions. The marble floor felt cool on her bare feet as she tiptoed away from her room. Thinking she heard the rustle of movement, she turned and whispered, “St. Evert?” There was only stillness in response.
Silly that she should call his name. Sillier still that she should think he might appear in her hallway in the middle of the night. Even more absurd, the dreadful sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach when he did not.
She murmured his name one more time and reluctantly turned back to her room. Her mind was playing tricks on her now. She thought she glimpsed his shadow at the end of the hall. Imagined him reaching for her. She must be delirious for want of sleep. His poem had sounded more like a warning, a threat, than... than what?
What had she hoped it might be? Foolish girl. Ladies must not lose their heads nor their hearts. She shut her door and leaned against it, listening for the sound of his footsteps. Unsure of what she would do if she heard them.
The remainder of the night, Lord St. Evert twisted and yanked on his bedcovers, mauling them into tangled disarray during a dismal attempt to sleep. He kept hearing Elizabeth call him, whisper his name. But of course, that was ridiculous. She held him in contempt. Typical behavior of her inbred aristocratic species. Gad, how grateful he was for having a commoner for a mother. He couldn’t stomach the ton and their haughty ways. A wagonload of pampered milksops, the lot of them. It was nearly choking the life out of him to play their game. He put his pillow over his head to drown out the sound of her voice calling him.
“Lord St. Evert? Capt’n. Wake up, sir. You give me orders, sir. I was to wake you. Now, have pity on me and wake up. Captain.”
“Sergeant Biggs, if that is you. I will have you drawn and quartered.”
“Very well, captain, but I was doing no more’n my duty. Following your orders, sir. The young lady received a note. She left the house not five minutes ago.”
Valen tossed the pillow to the end of the bed and sat up. “What note? From who?”
“Well, it weren’t from the Queen Mother, I can tell you that. Written on plain paper, and whoever it was only give the maid a ha’penny to deliver it directly to the lady.”
Valen swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “And you’re just now telling me about it? Devil take it, man. Where are my boots?”
“I expect you’ll be needing a good deal more than that. The watch might be alert to a fellow wearing nothing save his boots.” Biggs handed him a stack of clothing.
“For pity’s sake. Don’t stand there jawing me to death. Get the rest of my
