Smithson took Ilya’s coat.
“Has the mail been delivered?” Ilya passed him, his top hat, gloves, and scarf.
“Not yet, Sir.”
“Bring it through when it arrives.”
“Certainly, Sir.” Smithson placed all the item sin the foyer closet.
“Is it just me or do I smell?” Ilya asked the butler, sniffing the air.
“Of smoke, Sir.”
He hated when he could smell himself like now, cigar smoke sitting stale in his clothes.
“Will you be retiring, Sir?” Smithson stood at the ready.
“No. Arrange a bath and have fresh clothes laid out. I will be motoring.” Marsden had told him of a small manufacturer in London who allowed test drives.
“As you wish, Sir.” Smithson have a small bow and went to arrange the bath.
Ilya took a few moments in front of the foyer mirror and fashioned the pound notes he’d won at Hell’s Hall so they hung out of his waistcoat pockets. Perfect. He looked the part of a reprobate. Family duty done for another day.
The breakfast room, located at the back of the house, overlooked a charming garden. Evergreens commanded attention amongst the bare branches of the deciduous trees. A white gravel path meandered around the acre lot punctuated by large urns currently waiting for spring to reveal their secret occupants. A prize in the city indeed.
“Demetri.” Ilya nodded to his brother as he entered the room, the smell of bacon announcing the breakfast service of eggs, sausages, wilted greens and grilled tomatoes, and his favorite…small pan fried potatoes with plenty of salt and pepper, tossed with parsley.
Demetri sat scanning the freshly ironed morning paper, delivered just ahead of him if Smithson was on time. It was their daily ritual to read the morning papers. Evidence that Ilya was doing his duty if he was mentioned in the columns and fresh fuel for Demetri to have his betrothal canceled.
“Late night?” Demetri glanced up then back to the paper.
“Doing my filial duty.”
Sunlight streamed through the window, one of those bright winter days that made the snow glare in your eyes. Nothing to enjoy after hours of gambling and bouncing women on his knees. The games he’d always played and enjoyed, were now more like work. Who would have thought curtailing his wild ways could be achieved by making them part of his family’s honor? That when he was required to be a rabble rouser into the early hours or face familial disappointment, the acts seemed to lack all interest. Or was it something else? He hazarded a guess it was.
“You know you should read the news section. It’s far more interesting than the gossip columns.” Ilya sank down with a cup of black coffee and drank. The bitter warmth like life blood as each sip poured into him.
“Ah, here it is.” Demetri looked up, gave him a nod of approval, then read out loud.
The Petroski brothers reigned the night at Madam Debuverey’s salon. The writer was informed that the salon was introduced to a range of Russian salon games that, rumor has it, touched the lips of many a female salon member, especially the elusive widow. Invites abound as the Petroski brothers spend their last few nights in the city.
“There was no elusive widow.” Ilya growled. No. Seraphina had scowled at him and disappeared into the night.
“Papers embellish. That works in our favor.” Demetri was already back to the column.
“As requested, the mail, Sir.” Smithson bowed over a silver tray placing it in front of Ilya.
“Thank you, Smithson.” Ilya went through the envelopes on the tray, selected his, then slid the tray over to Demetri.
Ah, and there it was, delivery details.
Demetri looked up. “It’s coming?”
“Today.” The Daimler Racing car, a Phoenix model, the same model as driven by Mercedes to win the Nice-Magagnon-Nice race this March. It didn’t have a roof but that was what fur coats were for. “I’m heading to Joel-Rosenthal’s, he manufactures here in London, if you want to come along? Lord Marsden is arranging for us to test drive one of their electric models.”
“The electric car, doesn’t seem your pace.”
“Well, if you can get on with breaking your betrothal, maybe I’ll have enough time to get to some of the manufacturers out of London before we leave.”
Demetri ignored him, folded the paper and rose from the table. Demetri liked to drive the motorized cars but didn’t see them as anything more than a hobby. To Ilya they were a passion and one he was convinced would change the world.
“I am off to address just that.” Demetri patted Ilya’s shoulder as he walked past. “Good job last night. Drive safe.”
Ilya filled a small plate of fried potatoes and ate standing at the window.
Tonight, was the Fairmont’s Ball.
A chance to redeem himself with Seraphina. Remind her how he could make her feel. Reassure her what she saw was nothing more than a parlor game.
How to address what would be daily gossip column news, the work he had yet to do to create grounds for demanding the annulment of Demetri’s betrothal, was the real problem. Women who whispered poetry to you had soft hearts.
Chapter 7
Seraphina watched Ilya as he and his brother made their way down the dramatic staircase dominating the room with its swirl of stairs. The duo looked far too handsome. General Vladimir displayed his military dress and medals while Ilya wore formal black and whites. The attire looked to have been sewn onto him. His jacket fit his form to perfection, showing his broad chest, his height, his long lean legs. And just by looking at him she smelt that deep wooded cologne of oud and cedar, remembered how it warmed on his body and what it felt like to press her face against that muscled chest and breathe him in.
They disappeared into the crush at the bottom of the stairs. There were so few formal social events outside the Season, that when one was given everyone came. Fairmont’s Ball, held in a small yet opulent ballroom, had grown to be one of the key balls of the Christmas period. People pressed closer together than they wanted along the sidelines as dancers swirled around the floor, men in black and whites and women with bare shoulders, plunging necklines, and waists synched so tight Seph had no idea how they breathed, let alone danced.
Overhead, a ceiling full of chandeliers set the room ablaze with sparkling lights and the orchestra played the best waltzes from Strauss and Tchaikovsky.
And of course, now that the insufferable Prince was at the ball, her heart thumped a little faster and her skin was all the more sensitive. Seraphina hated the way her skin heated and her heart tripped when she saw him. Hated that she was taken with a man so shallow and unreliable that he thought nothing of talking to her as he had at the theatre before she walked into Madam Debuverey’s salon to find him kissing Lady Irvine.
Rodent. Parasite. Libertine.
And yet. Most of that frustration was with herself. She should have entered the salon and joined in the fun. As a poet she was supposed to live life fearlessly, reach out prepared to experience all the emotion, the excitement, the pain that life had to offer. That was how she could convey the passions and trials of life into words, passing those experiences on to others, to those who sat demurely in parlors and dreamed of such things.
Marsden handed her a glass of punch. “Your Prince is here.”