The Widow and Her Duke: The Grand Hotel: Book One Read online

  The Widow and her Duke

  by Felicia Greene

  I am seeking sin.

  Serafine Winters, respectable widow of Peter Winters, looked at her room in the Grand Hotel with a sense of mild crisis. Her stay had been purchased with a portion of her late husband’s funds, reasonable and unlikely to leave her in debt, but the sense of crisis came entirely from within herself. A tense, excitable panic that had her rehearsing the words she was going to say—the things she was going to do, if only she would let herself.

  I endured a loveless marriage.

  I am tired of being a dull, dowdy, respectable widow of thirty-five.

  I am willing to cause a very private scandal.

  All of these potential ways to address a rake seemed to lack something. They sounded cold, almost professional—but then, the transaction would be a professional one. She hadn’t carefully chosen a scandalous hotel in the heart of London, paid a large sum for an elegant room, and planned a night of nameless, faceless pleasure in the expectation of an amateur affair.

  ‘How lovely.’ Martha, the lady’s maid hired by Peter at the beginning of their marriage and already showing every sign of never leaving, relaxed into an attitude of smiling relief as soon as she saw the pleasant room. Serafine had been forced to endure her pursed lips and worried comments as soon as the carriage had left the stifling environs of Rook’s Nest, the manor house she had lived in with Peter. Martha had plenty of opinions about London, hotels and the capacity of women to travel without a male chaperone, and she let Serafine know every single one of them at length. But now they were here, surrounded by well-chosen furniture and wallpaper full of fresh, spring-like colours, her simmering tension had apparently sunk to the deeper regions of her mind for now. ‘This is so much nicer than I was expecting.’

  ‘I’m glad of it.’ Quite why she was supposed to care what Martha thought of a room she wouldn’t even be sleeping in, Serafine couldn’t possibly say.

  ‘Because I was expecting ever so much worse.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Certain parts of this street are meant to be absolute dens of iniquity.’

  ‘Ah.’ Apparently Martha had been reading the more scurrilous sections of the newspapers. She would need to be even more careful than usual when they spoke–if she ever discovered that Serafine had come to London for scandalous purposes, rather than the bloodless pursuit of new gowns and shoes, she would have a staff rebellion on her hands. ‘My goodness.’

  ‘That’s why I was surprised, ma’am. There are hotels with far less of a… well, a suggestion lingering behind their name.’

  ‘But none are so close to the tailoring district, Martha, and I do not wish to spend my precious moments of leisure tramping about all over London.’ Serafine had pored carefully over the names and descriptions of every establishment in this particular part of the city, and was determined not to be beaten. ‘And as you said–these rooms look very pleasant.’

  ‘They do, ma’am. But it’s what’s outside of the room that concerns me.’

  Lord, but she was exasperating. Serafine had been a young, clueless wife when Martha had been engaged, and the woman had been helpful in showing her the best way to use her new status in life—but now that Peter was gone, after a marriage that was at best cold and at worst actively harmful, the woman didn’t seem to realise that Serafine was more than capable of making her own decisions. ‘I see.’

  ‘I’ve heard terrible things about the street to the left of us.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And as for the street on the right, it would turn your hair white to hear it.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘But the worst one, to my view, is the street on the—oh.’ Martha turned, her eyebrows raised. ‘Excuse me. I didn’t see you.’

  Serafine looked with real, immediate gratitude into the placid face of the hotel maid, who was standing outside the door in a perfectly professional attitude of humble expectation. ‘Good day to you. Your name?’

  ‘Sarah, ma’am. A pleasure.’ Sarah looked at Martha with the same calm face, but her tone cooled a little. ‘And you would be…’

  ‘Martha Smith. The lady’s maid.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s good that you’ve come, actually.’ Martha lifted her nose, her voice acquiring a slightly pompous air. ‘There appears to be no berth for me to rest my head in this room–I assume I have a room next door?’

  ‘Servants are housed on the first floor, Miss Smith.’ Sarah smiled, even as Martha looked taken aback. ‘Your room is clean and ready for you to use.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous. What if my lady has need of me during the night?’

  ‘The Grand Hotel has staff for this very purpose.’ Sarah continued, completely calm, as if she had been through this same conversation a thousand times before. Serafine, watching in horrified interest, imagined a thousand maids like Martha fighting ineffectually against the hotel rules. ‘We wish for all guests to have untroubled nights.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of anything so silly.’ Martha turned to Serafine, her face reddening. ‘We won’t be doing that. I sleep where my mistress sleeps.’

  Given that Serafine had chosen the hotel to avoid precisely that outcome, her answer was less vigorous than Martha expected. ‘One can’t disobey hotel rules, Martha. Would you wish us on the street?’

  ‘But it’s a foolish rule! Oh, if the master was still here, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell them that I would be given a bed next door to—’

  ‘But he isn’t.’ As quietly and politely as Serafine spoke, Martha’s eyes widened as if she’d received a slap. ‘And so things will be done differently.’

  When it came to speaking to Martha, this was a declaration of war. She hadn’t so much as queried the maid’s choice of soup since Richard had died. Thank goodness Sarah was here, who had apparently noticed the undercurrent of tension flowing between Martha and herself.

  ‘Well.’ Martha’s tone skirted the very edge of politeness, bordering on cold. ‘I see.’

  ‘Henry is already here to take your bags.’ Sarah made a brief, surreptitious gesture with her hand; a young, strapping man entered the room, heaving Martha’s bags onto her shoulders before the maid could do so much as protest. ‘I would advise a walk before the sun sets—St. Michaels is the most splendid church, only a few hundred feet away.’

  ‘But—but—’

  ‘Oh yes, Martha. What a lovely idea.’ Serafine smiled, determined to ignore the anger in Martha’s expression. ‘I know how much you’ve been longing to see St. Michaels.’

  For a moment the room felt icily, dangerously tense. As if they had all moved onto a frozen lake and were waiting for the ice to crack, splinter by splinter. Then, with a curtsey that was as clumsy as it was rudely given, Martha spoke. ‘Understood. Ma’am.’

  The pause before ma’am had to be deliberate, but there was no way Serafine could address it without disturbing Martha’s already fragile acquiescence to the new state of things. ‘I shall call you when I need you.’

  Martha’s silent second curtsey barely counted as a reply. Glaring at the lad with her bag on his shoulders, reserving a look of such withering contempt for Serafine that it was a wonder she didn’t burst into flames, Martha left the room with the loudest, most indignant step that Serafine had ever heard. So full of righteous anger was her tread that it was still audible some minutes later, making itself heard over the thick Turkish rugs of the Grand Hotel floors.

  ‘Well.’ Sarah, to her considerable credit, showed no evidence of the strange encounter on her face. ‘I shall leave you to your evening, if you have no further need of
me.’

  ‘Yes. But—but no.’ The first true obstacle had come, somewhat different from Martha’s odd loss of comportment. How was she to communicate her need for scandal without being incredibly coarse about it? ‘I have an enquiry.’

  ‘Of course you do, ma’am.’

  ‘I intend to spend the majority of my days in London purchasing new gowns. But of course, that can’t take every spare hour I have—I am hardly a young woman preparing for her first Season.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And so I must ask… what does the Grand Hotel and its environs have to offer in the name of diversion?’ Serafine paused, hoping silence would do the important work, before smoothly moving onto her expected finish. ‘Respectable diversions, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Sarah paused. ‘There are at least seven churches within walking distance of this establishment, and the new Palton tea gardens are a short hackney-ride away. I believe they’re adding a menagerie to their scope of entertainments. And Robert Wick’s townhouse has the most marvellous collection of Egyptian relics on the third floor, with tickets said to be reasonably priced.’

  ‘I see.’ Serafine adjusted her skirts, trying to judge precisely how to phrase her next question. This maid seemed worldly, at least–she couldn’t bear the idea of attempting to communicate the true reason for her stay at the Grand Hotel to a girl who would faint, or go into hysterics, or gossip. ‘There are very many respectable ways in which a lady can pass her time.’

  ‘Oh yes, ma’am.’ Sarah paused, looking at Serafine with a little more frankness in her light blue eyes. ‘Very many respectable ways.’

  ‘A very high number.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘But… but I have had the misfortune of coming across tongues that say differently when this establishment is concerned.’ Serafine briefly looked away, studying the view of the bustling street outside. It was difficult to judge how subtle a double meaning one could use with staff, but if she didn’t try she could very well be stuck attending church services or eating tasteless sandwiches in the latest tea house. ‘Especially concerning women with… with…’

  ‘With looser morals, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes.’ Serafine turned back to Sarah, impossibly relieved to find nothing more than deeply professional discretion on the young woman’s face. ‘I do hope I haven’t caused offence by mentioning it.’

  ‘Of course not. Many ladies have mentioned the same rumours. All of them have been very keen to avoid these less respectable women.’

  ‘As am I.’

  ‘Of course you are.’ Sarah paused. ‘Which I assume means that you would like the know the details of where said women congregate in this hotel. So you can avoid them.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Avoid them most studiously. Both the ladies and–and–’

  ‘And the thoroughly rakish gentlemen that accompany them.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Well. The first place to avoid would be the Grand Coffee House–you may have seen it on the other side of the street when you arrived. All of our most disreputable clients congregate there, and there are said to be most licentious levels of both anonymity and immorality. Why, a lady could visit there under a false name and indulge in profoundly unacceptable behaviour.’

  ‘My goodness.’

  ‘And even within the walls of the main structure, where ladies and gentlemen of a certain quality reside, there are pockets of unfortunate behaviour that flourish despite the greatest efforts of the management. If a lady was to walk along the Blue Corridor after eight o’clock in the evening, for example, she would find the very worst gentlemen taking advantage of the billiard tables.’

  ‘The very worst gentlemen?’

  ‘Absolutely. Gentlemen who are willing to consort in the most sinful fashion with ladies they barely know, or don’t know at all.’ Sarah’s tone was one of appropriate shock, but her eyes had a calm, knowing quality to them that comforted Serafine. ‘Truly terrible.’

  ‘Astonishingly so.’

  ‘But now you know all about the Blue Corridor, so you can avoid it.’

  ‘Indeed I can.’

  ‘Is there anything else you require, ma’am?’

  ‘No. No, I suppose there isn’t.’ Serafine thought rapidly. ‘I... I suppose the corridors are well-guarded after dark.’

  ‘Oh, yes, ma’am. In the less salubrious parts of the establishment.’ Sarah paused. ‘Of course, in the more respectable rooms where the expense is a little greater, such as this particular corridor, there is no need to guard anything at all.’

  ‘Because people here are so–so very respectable.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And… and Martha?’

  ‘Servants are encouraged to enjoy the various diversions that this establishment offers, and not disturb their mistresses.’ The faintest hint of a flicker in Sarah’s calm expression was evidence enough that she doubted this in Martha’s case, but she continued. ‘If you require the presence of your personal maid, ma’am, you may ring directly for her in the servants’ quarters. If you require a servant of the hotel, you may simply ask any attendant you see.’

  A fine system, as well as one apparently designed to separate meddlesome servants from their thrill-seeking masters and mistresses. ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘I’m glad you find it so, ma’am. May I bring you some refreshment? Perhaps a little barley water?’

  ‘Tea, I think. Very strong tea.’ Serafine paused. ‘And later, champagne.’

  ‘Of course, ma’am.’ Sarah curtseyed, a slight smile on her face as she turned to leave. ‘Welcome to the Grand Hotel.’

  Serafine waited for a long time, until both the distant sound of Martha’s angry footsteps and the nearer, calmer rustle of Sarah’s skirts had faded into the ether. Then, holding her hand to her mouth, she allowed herself the luxury of a giddy, unfettered smile.

  Things were going well. Mysteriously, spectacularly well, at least thus far. Her troublesome maid had been bloodlessly removed from her side, her room was both clean and pleasant to look at, and–and despite every mental obstacle she had placed between what she wanted and methods of obtaining it, she was closer to scandalous fulfilment than she had ever been in her life.

  All she had to do was take the final step.

  She dined in her rooms alone, as every respectable woman did. Yes, she was here for sinful reasons, but there was no point in drawing attention to herself. A girl of seventeen could go into a common dining room and attract the correct sort of scandal, even be praised for her dashing air–especially if she was very rich–but a woman of her age would merely look desperate. And even if Serafine was desperate, somewhere deep within her, she knew that putting such desperation on display wouldn’t help her achieve her unusual goal.

  The food was delicious, if somewhat French in its execution. Serafine ate her pigeon in cream sauce at her desk, rather enjoying the lack of maids and the ability to look out of the window as she ate.

  The coffee house was bustling on the other side of the street. Serafine finished her pigeon, peeling and slowly eating an apple as she began to dream.

  What would it be like to enter one of those places? Frightening, no doubt–but thrilling. To slip behind that dirt-streaked door, past all of those raucous groups of men drinking coffee and debating the political matters of the day, and find oneself in the throbbing, beating heart of London’s seedier side.

  Maybe there would be a nameless, handsome man there who could give her what she needed. A taste–a mere taste–of every passionate thing she had missed over the course of her marriage, without the complications of sentiment. Some rake without a title, without status—without anything but the desire to please her.

  That lingering, forbidden thought had become something of an obsession in these lonely, sterile months. Being the widow of Peter Winters allowed one no freedom; other widows, sure in their love of their late husband, sank happily into a life of gardens, dogs and charitable causes with a wide circle of friend
s. Serafine, who had never loved her husband and had never expected love from him, had never created a world that could sustain her after Peter’s death.

  Even the manor house felt cold. Like it wasn’t her own, despite the decorative changes she had made. Here in the Grand Hotel, in this warm, luxurious room, she felt more at home than she did back in the country…

  … and the Blue Corridor wasn’t far away.

  Gently pushing her plate to the side, thanking God that Martha had gone to the evening service at St. Michaels, Serafine adjusted her clothes. A tuck here, a pleat there, and the respectable grey crepe she had arrived in looked suitable for an entirely different purpose. A slight tug of her tightly-pinned hair, allowing a rebellious curl to escape… there.

  She didn’t feel ready. She felt tired, nervous from the long journey, and rather full of pigeon. But if she didn’t take the first, tentative step towards a more colourful life, she would be trapped in this grey, hideous netherworld forever.

  The more respectable parts of the hotel were easy to navigate. She had already seen the reading room, with its large palms and window overlooking the park, and the open door revealing chairs and tables had to be the dining room. Serafine floated past all of them, hoping that Martha’s church service was a lengthy one–she would hate to be interrupted before she had even reached the most disreputable rooms in the establishment.

  After a long, fruitless period of wandering, finding nothing but delicately painted corridors and cyclamens in porcelain vessels placed upon small tables at intervals, a flash of indigo caught her eye.

  The Blue Corridor certainly lived up to its name. Its inky depths seemed to stretch from one end of the hotel to the other. The ceiling was patterned with hundreds of small gold stars; Serafine lost herself for a moment, gazing up at their glittering, artificial splendour, before gathering herself with a small shiver.

  At least it wasn’t dark. Plentiful candles were set at intervals in niches in the wall, burning brightly. But what would they illuminate–especially in the rooms she could see on either side of the corridor, their doors half open, strange sounds and shadows making infinitely clear that this was no place for a lady?