Page 38 of The Sea Siren of Broadwater Bottom
Nervous as she was, dinner went a good way toward assuaging Elissa’s fears about mixing in such exalted company. She fell easily into conversation with her dinner partner, Mr. Peter Ferguson, a wealthy businessman whose father was Scottish and mother was from the Bengali region of India. He had russet skin and mischievous brown eyes, and, having grown up in India, spoke nine languages including High Persian. Elissa had dabbled a bit in High Persian, as she was fascinated by all of the great classical languages, and Mr. Ferguson was so obliging that he cheerfully conversed with her in High Persian and even assisted her with a few points of pronunciation.
It wasn’t just Mr. Ferguson. Everyone seated around her could not have been kinder or more welcoming. Elissa had never been in such convivial company, and by the time the ladies left the gentlemen to their brandy, she was starting to think that attending this house party might not be a complete disaster.
The ladies repaired to the portrait gallery. Lady Morsley and Cassandra fell into a lively discussion of the viscountess’s charity, the Ladies’ Society for the Relief of the Destitute. After a few minutes, Elissa excused herself to look at the artwork.
She strolled past paintings of the Madonna and Child and a naval battle she thought might be Cape St. Vincent, then paused before a pair of paintings, one depicting the Roman Forum as it looked today, the other imagining it in its full glory.
“Precisely where I expected to find you,” a deep voice said from over her shoulder.
She turned and smiled at Edward. It appeared that the gentlemen had finished with their brandy. “Am I so predictable?”
“I did not mean to imply such. But these are my favorite paintings, and I suspected you might like them, too.” He offered his arm. “How are you enjoying yourself?”
“Very well, thank you. I was nervous at first, but everyone has been so kind.” She gestured to the skirts of her borrowed dress. “And thanks to your sister, I don’t feel completely out of place.”
“You look beautiful,” Edward said. His eyes, full of sincerity, were midnight blue in the candlelight.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
A bark of laughter from the far side of the room reminded her they were not alone, and she should take care not to gape. She turned to the painting of the Forum as it looked today, pointing to a string of columns that were still standing. “This was part of the Temple of Saturn, correct?”
“Just so. And here, to its left, is the—”
“Fauconbridge, there you are,” came a slurred voice. Elissa turned and saw a gentleman with ruddy cheeks and more than a slight paunch.
“Uncle Mortimer,” Edward said, turning to Elissa. “Miss St. Cyr, might I present my uncle, Colonel—”
“Oh, we can skip all that rot,” the colonel said, waving his arm. This had the effect of throwing him off balance, and he lurched to the side before righting himself. “I need to borrow you for a moment.”
Lord Redditch, whom Elissa recognized, came up behind the colonel and clasped him on the shoulder. “Leave him be, Morty. Can’t you see he’s found finer company than you?” He gave Elissa a wink.
“I’ve five quid laid against your father regarding a question of a mathematical nature,” the colonel continued, undeterred. “They all say I’m wrong, but I won’t accept their verdict. And why should I, when we have our very own Senior Wrangler on hand to decide it?”
Elissa felt Edward’s arm twitch beneath her hand. She glanced up at him and found his expression completely blank.
Lord Redditch attempted to draw the colonel away. “Come, Morty. It’ll keep.”
The colonel rounded on Lord Redditch, swaying. “He can spare one minute for his uncle,” he said, his voice rising. Along the length of the gallery, curious heads turned their way.
“I’ll be right there, Uncle,” Edward said. As Lord Redditch steered the colonel to the far side of the room, Edward turned to Elissa, his smile tight. “I am sorry. I will return momentarily.”
Elissa squeezed his arm before releasing it. “There is no need to apologize. I quite understand.”
Edward hastened across the gallery, and Elissa returned to her study of the paintings. After a moment, she heard the colonel bark, “What?” She peered over and saw that Edward had his hands up in a placating manner.
“Oh, dear. There goes the colonel again,” a feminine voice drawled in Elissa’s ear.
She turned to see an elegant young lady with dark hair and dark eyes. “Is the colonel often in his cups?” Elissa asked.
“Constantly,” the girl replied. “I am Araminta Grenwood.”
Elissa smiled as she sank into a curtsey. Truly, everyone was showing her such kindness. Look at Miss Grenwood, coming over to introduce herself as soon as she saw Elissa standing alone. “I am Elissa St. Cyr.”
“The Viscount Grenwood is my father,” Miss Grenwood added. Elissa got the impression that she was being warned against assuming they were equals just because they both had a ‘Miss’ before their names.
“Oh. How—how lovely,” Elissa said, struggling to think of an appropriate response. “My father is Julian St. Cyr. He was Lord Fauconbridge’s tutor.”
“Ah, so that is how you came to be here.” Miss Grenwood looked Elissa up and down. “That is a very fashionable dress you have on.”
