Page 19 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms
Heat crept up her neck.‘Good evening.I’ve never been inside a mansion like this one, and I am perhaps overeager.Apologies for my abruptness.’
Johannes opened the door to the cab and offered his hand.Leaning heavily against him, she stepped down and onto the street.The early days of spring, full of new shoots and fresh green leaves erupting along branches, had lengthened the days but not changed the chill of the nights.The last vestiges of daylight had disappeared during her drive through the congested roads towards Honeysuckle Street, and against the soot of night, the grand house at the top of the stairs glowed luminescent.
‘There are so many stairs.’Cascading like a white waterfall, the path from the road to the entry must have been fifty steps high.She forced herself to take them in the same manner as a stable adult would, one per rise, but after only two strides, her knees cried out, and her hip joined in for good measure.
‘Are you going to be a gentleman?’Florence chided, balancing against the balustrade.Johannes startled, then offered his elbow.Florence slipped her hand through the crook of his arm and anchored herself between him and the rail.
‘Forgive my lack of manners.I was awestruck,’ he said.
‘It is a beautiful house,’ she said with a rush of relief.Between him and the rail, she could manage.
‘I am not talking about the house.’
The uneven flicker of the gas lamps from the street and the house competed to cast and dispersed shadows that danced across his cheeks and lit sparks in his eyes.Heat wound through her like a glow from a newly lit stove, but this was not embarrassment.She’d preened for too long before the mirror, admiring the fall and flow of this new dress—an elegant ballgown of sage green, trimmed with white and a scant few pink ribbons.The careful seamstress had found a way to conceal her back and highlight her breasts.Florence knew she looked pretty.She pulled at her short cape, a gorgeous extravagance she’d never even owned before.
‘When was it built?’She studied the triangular gable, half out of wonder, half as a pretence to cover her slow steps.
Left right.Left right.
‘Guess,’ Johannes replied, his march matching her pace.
She leant harder against him and craned her neck to take in the roofline.It shone a radiant white against the blanket of night.
‘Palladian.Before the battle of the styles?’
‘Delightfully free of that inane war, yes.’
‘1730.’
He sucked in a breath.‘So close.A decade earlier, and you have it.’
‘Older than the duke’s house?’
‘Oldest house in the street.Still standing, that is.There may have been other places before, but there are no records of them.’
With a gush of relief, Florence took the final step onto the landing.From the inside, warm yellow light spilled through open doors and arched windows, splashing the odd rainbow prism against the ground.Johannes led her through the double doors.Above them, plates of rose-coloured stained glass spelt out the wordSobieski.
Johannes tipped closer, his voice a rough whisper.‘The rumour has always been that a German archduke bought Miss Delaney this house in gratitude for being her first lover.But no one knows for sure.Rumours never stick with Miss Delaney.’
‘Half her luck.All I got from George was a kiss on the cheek and asweet dreams.’Florence clapped her hand over her mouth.‘Goodness, that was obscene.I shouldn’t have said that.’
Johannes smothered a laugh.‘You are—’
‘Crass?’
‘Refreshing.As honest as a wood beam.’
His looks, his smooth compliments, the perfect cut of his suit… all of him combined was nothing short of dangerous.Florence unbuttoned her cape, and he lifted it from her shoulders.
‘Would you like champagne?’he asked.
‘I’ve never had champagne.’Florence spoke as she turned, only to meet his retreating back.‘I am not used to London society.Don’t leave me to make small talk,’ she pleaded, but he was already walking away.
‘No fear of that.Johannes only speaks in deep thoughts.’
Florence froze.She pivoted, half expecting to find the flawless woman from the Aster dining room, or a variation of her.But instead, she was faced with two women around her own age.One with dark hair and a very pregnant belly, dressed in emerald green; the other a blonde wisp with fresh daisies in her hair, wearing light blue.The pregnant woman extended her hand.
‘Rosanna.I am Johannes’s sister.This is our neighbour, Miss Elise Hartright.And you are Mrs Murray.’The sister raised her eyebrows with a pointed look at her companion, but the silent conversation was over before Florence could decipher any of it.
