Regency Rebels: Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss / An Improper Aristocrat

Chapter Five

Perfect morning light, a soft haze of chalk dust, the quiet scratch of a pen—it was a recipe for contentment. Alone in her room, enveloped in her beloved things, Sophie should have been content. Ecstatic, even.

She wasn’t, because the air also hung with the heady fragrance of lilacs. He had remembered her favourite flower. A glorious full vase of lilacs rested on her dressing table, their scent teasing her, their beauty distracting her, the card that had accompanied them tempting her to read it just one more time.

Friends, then.

That was all it said, all he offered.

Sophie flung down her pen and gave up her work as a lost cause. It was time she was honest with herself, she thought as she began to pace the room. Her real problem, the true source of her agitation, was the certain realisation that what he offered was not enough.

She wanted the old Charles back, him and their rich, easy friendship. She wanted the laughing, carefree Charles, the one who, when left alone with a pretty girl, would have gone far beyond one burning caress.

She pressed one hand to the spot he had touched and dug her other palm into her brow. She was mourning the passing of a rake! She must be the only person in all England who wasn’t completely enamoured of the new Lord Dayle. It was the new Charles they admired, the one who was productive, and prudent, and moody, and so incredibly handsome.

The horrid truth was that she wanted that Charles too.

She groaned and started to pace again. She was as inconsistent as he! He who asked for friendship with words and pen, and something else entirely with stormy eyes and fervent touch.

Sophie sighed and came to a stop. There was only one thing she could be certain of: her need for some answers. She had to know where that mask had come from, what had caused that haunted look in his eyes, where the old Charles had gone. Perhaps a better understanding of Charles’s feelings would clarify her own.

Very well, they would be friends. She would chip away at the stone, remove what obstacles she could from between them, and then? Then she would see what happened next.

She dipped her nose in the bouquet one last time, then turned and rang for Nell. If she was going to begin to look for answers, there was no time like the present.

‘Nell,’ she began when the maid appeared, ‘will you let me know right away when Emily returns from the park with the baby?’

‘Yes, miss.’ Nell stopped and looked surprised at the stacks of papers and designs covering the bed, the table, and nearly every flat surface in the room. ‘Lordy, miss, I hope you don’t mind my saying it, but you have been busy. I thought you’d done all you could until you saw the big house?’

‘I have. All this—’ she gestured ‘—is for another project. Something very special indeed.’ In fact, this work represented a dream very close to Sophie’s heart. It was nearly complete, but she was not quite ready to confide in anyone just yet.

‘Mrs Lowder did send word that you should be ready for callers this afternoon. Shall I just run a brush through your hair?’

Sophie laughed. ‘Nell, you are wonderfully circumspect. Yes, thank you, I always do muss it dreadfully when I am working.’

She sat quietly while Nell plucked the pins from her hair. Once the maid had begun brushing with long, rhythmic strokes, she asked, ‘How long have you been with the Lowders, Nell?’

‘Oh, going on seven years now, miss. Usually I’m just the upstairs maid, so I was ever so glad when you came.’ For the first time Nell sounded shy. Sophie guessed she was not used to talking of herself.

‘You’ve done a wonderful job,’ Sophie said warmly, ‘and I shall be sure to tell Mrs Lowder so.’

‘Oh, thank you, miss. I did get to help with Mr Lowder’s sister when she made her come out, and I watched her dresser do her hair ever so many a time, so I had an idea what was needed.’

‘Seven years. And you’ve been in the London house all this time?’

‘Yes, miss.’ The maid sounded a little wistful. ‘Though I’ve thought a time or two that I might like the country.’

Sophie chuckled. ‘I always felt the same about the city. I suppose it’s natural to wonder about what you’ve never really experienced.’ She was quiet a moment and then she cast a glance at Nell in the mirror. ‘I suppose you’ve heard a good deal about Lord Dayle’s adventures, then? He did keep the London papers busy for a good number of years, did he not?’

Nell ducked her head and kept her brush busy. ‘They say he’s reformed now, Miss. Though I admit I was surprised when such a good girl as you are had an acquaintance with him.’

‘Oh, yes …’ Sophie did her best to sound nonchalant ‘.I’ve known Lord Dayle since we were both practically in leading strings.’ She cocked her head. ‘I never truly knew his older brother, though. But you would have been working here when the previous Lord Dayle died?’

‘Oh, yes. Such a shame. I even saw him a time or two, he was as wrapped up in politics as Mr Lowder is. That sorry I felt for his poor mother. Bad enough the son, but then her husband gone so soon after.’ Nell shivered as she twisted Sophie’s hair up and reached for the pins.

‘Phillip died at Waterloo, but I was home in Dorset when Lord Dayle took sick. We all thought it just a minor illness. No one expected he would die as well.’

Nell pursed her lips and concentrated intently on her work.

Sophie watched her in the mirror. ‘There were vague rumours of trouble in the family at home. Did they reach town?’

‘Almost done, now. Such hair you have, miss! You must remember to wear your new bonnet for the picnic tomorrow, it brings out the light in your hair so well.’

‘Nell?’

The girl sighed. ‘It’s just servants’ gossip, miss.’

Sophie sat silent, questioning.

‘They whispered below stairs that Lord Dayle died because he wanted to.’

Shocked, Sophie said, ‘Surely no one believes …?’

Nell shook her head. ‘No, they just said he gave up. Got ill and didn’t fight it, then he just slipped away.’

Sophie turned around in her chair and gave Nell a measuring look. ‘The next time we are at Lady Dayle’s house, do you think you could …?’

Nell’s bright eyes shone. ‘Ask some questions?’

‘Discreetly.’ Sophie paused. ‘You’ve already shown yourself to be loyal and trustworthy, Nell. I know I can depend upon you in this matter.’

The maid straightened, her face proud. ‘Of course, miss.’

A knock at the door startled them both. Sophie called entrance, and a footman opened the door deferentially to announce a visitor waiting below.

With a flustered glance towards the lilacs, Sophie rose. Was it Charles? She gathered her shawl and steadied herself. Good, she could begin finding some answers straight away.

She entered the drawing room a moment later at a sedate pace, chin up, only to draw up short.

‘Lord Cranbourne, miss,’ the butler intoned.

Once again she found her uncle where she had been expecting someone else entirely.

‘Uncle,’ she said in the frostiest tone she could summon.

‘Niece.’ He was equally formal as they seated themselves and the butler offered to go for the tea. He watched her the entire time, his gaze sharply calculating.

As the servant’s footsteps faded in the marbled hall, her uncle spoke. ‘I was annoyed when I first heard you had come to town, I admit.’

‘I am amazed you thought to care one way or another.’

He crossed his legs negligently. ‘It doesn’t look well, you coming here without my sponsorship, but, after meeting you, I’m willing to overlook the matter.’

Sophie inclined her head regally. ‘That does seem to be what you do best.’

He leaned forward, suddenly intent. ‘Look here, niece. We can sit here all afternoon while you flail me with the sharp edge of your tongue, or we can get straight to the point. Which would you prefer?’

‘Whichever gets us finished quickest.’

He chuckled. ‘I’m impressed, my dear, and that is not something I say with any frequency.’ He shook his head. ‘I just never guessed you had any fire in you.’

The tight control she held on her rage snapped. ‘It is impossible that you would know anything about my character!’ She struggled to regain herself as the servants returned with tea.

Heavy silence hung in the room as she poured for them both and wished mightily for Emily’s return.

Her uncle was still entirely at ease. ‘I know more about you than you would think, young miss, never doubt it. I know you resent me, but what’s done is done. We find ourselves now in a situation where we can help each other.’

Determined not to let him see her out of countenance again, Sophie sipped her tea. ‘Your offer comes fifteen years too late, sir. I’m not interested.’

‘Don’t go missish on me now, girl. It took brains and courage to get here without my help. Now I can make sure you go much, much further.’ He leaned back. ‘I have connections. What is it that you want? To be a leading lady of the ton? A political hostess holding her own salons?’ He gestured to her colour-stained fingers. ‘A patroness of the arts?’

She merely shook her head in reply.

‘There is power to be had behind the scenes. True power. Empires are won and lost by chance meetings at a ball, by a loose word let slip over drinks. You could be a great help to me, and I can make sure you meet all the right people.’

Sophie closed her eyes in pain. She’d spent too much of her life hoping for some kind of attention from her uncle. Now here he sat and she only felt ill. He wasn’t interested in her, only in what she could do for him. Perhaps, she thought for the first time, she had been better off without his attention.

‘You are more like your mother than I thought possible,’ her uncle continued. ‘She had beauty and intelligence and spirit as well. But she chose poorly, and look what it got her. A few years of love in a colonial backwater and a watery grave.’ He sat straighter and stared intently at Sophie. ‘Don’t repeat her mistakes.’

‘I thank you for the confidence you have finally shown in me, sir, but I am not feeling at all well just now.’ She could stay no longer. What he did not know was that Sophie had her mother’s temper as well, rarely raised, but devastating in scale. One minute more of this and she would be throwing his offer, along with her cup of tea, in his face. Only the thought of Lady Dayle’s and Emily’s disappointment stayed her hand. She took comfort instead in imagining his reaction when all of her plans were revealed. ‘Pray, do excuse me.’

He rose and gave a short bow before declaring in a hard voice, ‘I’ll give you some time to consider. Don’t dawdle, Sophie. Together we can accomplish much.’

Shaking, Sophie rose. It was the first time he had ever called her by her name. Her anger fled, leaving her aching and empty inside. With a barely audible farewell she hurried out and up the stairs. The lilacs mocked her as she entered her room and flung herself upon the bed. First Charles and now her uncle—who would ever have guessed that getting all the things she thought she wanted would be so horribly disappointing?

She cried then, hard, racking sobs for the little girl who had only wanted someone to love her, and for the grown woman still searching.

Lord Cranbourne watched her leave. He turned and stalked out to his waiting carriage, fiercely ignoring the pain once again radiating down his left arm.

The chit was going to be a problem. He had enough trouble this spring chasing after a political appointment that should have come easily, and, far more worrying, dealing with his own body’s betrayal. Throw a headstrong brat into the brew and he might not be able to vouch for the outcome.

Inconstancy. Unpredictability. He was unused to such, yet they seemed suddenly pervasive, hanging thick in the air, obscuring his vision, fouling his plans. He was a man used to being in a position of strength, of knowing all the variables in myriad situations and understanding ahead of time where the players were connected and how the final act would play out.

In a world where knowledge was power, he was a very powerful man indeed, albeit, as he had hinted to his niece, behind the scenes. For most of his life it had been enough, but lately, when faced with these reminders of his mortality, he found he wanted more. He wanted just a bit of the glory and recognition due him, and he wanted it with a fierceness that surprised even himself.

Now he stood on the verge of gaining his objective and his carefully laid plans were fragmenting. He clenched his fist to his chest against another pain and cursed out loud. He was not going to go down without a fight.

When the carriage rocked to a stop, Cranbourne stepped down on to Green Street and walked gingerly up the stairs. He’d feel better after a good stiff drink. He left his coat with a footman, and calling for his secretary, headed for his study.

‘You’re sure that message went off to Philadelphia as planned?’ he asked the compact, extremely efficient man.

‘Indeed, yes, sir.’

‘And we can expect a reply, when?’

‘Two weeks … maybe three at this time of year.’

Cranbourne grunted. Three weeks. He was glad he’d had the foresight to send his inquiries earlier. Judging by the obstinate look on his niece’s face, he might need some help from that direction.

‘If I may, sir? You have a visitor in your study.’

‘Wren, is it?

‘No, sir. It is Mr Huxley.’

‘What? Old Huxley, here?’ he paused outside the study door.

‘No, sir, the young gentleman with the maps, if you will remember?’

Cranbourne wrinkled his brow and longed for that drink and a few minutes of peace. Serious matters were afoot. He needed to think. ‘Maps? Oh, yes.’ He sighed. He’d done a favour for a very useful friend, and hired one of his sons to do some detailed survey work. Heaving a sigh, he went in.

‘Lord Cranbourne, sir.’ The young man rose, blinking like an owl from behind a thick set of spectacles. ‘I have good news. The project is completed.’

But inspiration had hit Lord Cranbourne just as the mid-afternoon sun glinted off Mr Huxley’s dishevelled blond hair. The boy was the right age, tall, shaped well, and easy enough to look at if he would lose the barnacles. ‘Good, good,’ the old man said as he took the papers the puppy handed him. He barely glanced at them. ‘Yes, you’ll do. Sit down, my boy.’ Cranbourne sank gratefully into his own chair.

‘You will find the map completely updated, sir. I walked practically every inch of Lancashire myself. Every lane, farmer’s track and footpath is noted.’ He handed over another folder. ‘The only thing missing, I dare say—’ he smiled ‘—is who is on the roads at present.’

‘Yes, very thorough,’ agreed Cranbourne, but his mind was racing. Perfect. At the least, young Huxley would serve as a very creditable distraction, but if matters came to a head between his niece and himself, then the man might be more useful yet.

‘Here’s the additional information you requested as well: innkeepers and way-station holders in the district, and what I could find on meeting places, debating societies and reformist connections.’

‘Excellent. Tell me, do you go out into society much, Mr Huxley?’

The boy blinked again, startled. ‘No, sir.’

‘It’s time you started, then. How many years have you, three score?’

‘Just eight and twenty, sir, but I fail to see how this relates to the project you hired me for.’

‘I’ve got a new project in mind. Got a niece coming out this Season. I could use a good man like you to squire her about a bit, ask her to dance, take her for a drive now and then.’

‘I hadn’t really thought to …’

‘Nonsense. The girl’s a beauty, educated; she’s just new to town and doesn’t know many people in society. You can’t stay a bachelor for ever, sir. I thought to give you first crack at her.’

‘You do me an honour, sir, but I have given no thought to taking a wife at present.’

‘Oh, well.’ Cranbourne shrugged. ‘The chit’s got no money, unfortunately, but I’d be disposed to look kindly upon her husband. To be his patron, perhaps.’ He gazed shrewdly at the young man. ‘I belong to a committee of importance or two, you see, and I had thought to propose a few more mapping expeditions. Who knows what might come of it? A project encompassing the entire island, perhaps.’

Mr Huxley blinked once more. ‘Perhaps if I just met her, sir.’

Chapter Six

The day of the proposed expedition to Sevenoaks dawned bright, with a slight crispness in the air that boded well for comfortable temperatures later. The company gathered early in Bruton Street and quickly separated into travelling groups. Lady Dayle elected to ride with Emily, her husband and their little boy in the closed carriage. Jack enticed Sophie into his showy cabriolet. Two more carriages, carrying servants, the baby’s nurse, and the picnic, stood waiting. And Charles? He stood on the steps, suppressing a sigh as his own smart curricle rounded the corner, heading back to the mews.

‘I don’t mean to be a bother, Lord Dayle,’ Miss Ashford assured him again, ‘but a journey of several hours in that contraption? And all the way back, too? I’m not sure Mama would approve.’ She gave him an arch look. Charles had the impression that it was meant to be flirtatious.

Charles smiled at her. ‘I would gladly give up the chance to drive my bays in exchange for the pleasure of your company, Miss Ashford. We are very glad you could join us today.’

She thanked him with pretty words, but her eyes did not meet his. In fact, Miss Ashford was directing a look of displeasure somewhere else entirely.

It was a man who drew her attention, a battered-looking man in a ragged regimental coat. He walked slowly towards the group, until he was a few feet from Jack’s rig. There he stopped, snatched his hat from his head and spoke in urgent tones too low for Charles to hear.

‘I’m sure I feel all the pity that is due someone like that, and the compassion for which my own gender is known,’ Miss Ashford said in an equally low voice, ‘but I cannot think Mayfair a suitable place for him to wander. Should you do something, my lord?’

‘I am confident that Jack will handle the matter appropriately,’ Charles answered. And, indeed, he saw his brother reach for his purse. He was stalled by Sophie, who leaned down to speak with the grizzled veteran. Clearly startled to be so addressed, the soldier answered her. Sophie continued to speak—indeed, it looked as if she were questioning the man closely. Soon she reached into her reticule, pulled out a scrap of paper and scribbled something on it.

The open barouche arrived just then, and Charles, busy handing Miss Ashford in, missed the end of the strange encounter. He gave the order for the party to set off, and noticed as they drove past the unfortunate man that he clutched the paper tight in his hand and stared after the departing Sophie with a look of dazed surprise.

Charles could not know what she had said to the man, but he recognised that vacant look. It was an expression commonly seen in Sophie’s vicinity. He’d worn it himself more times than he could count.

She was a force of nature, his Sophie, and he suspected that her power, like her beauty, had only grown with her. Just look what had happened at Lady Edgeware’s ball. A few minutes alone with her and he had forgotten his role. Forgotten his debt. Let down his guard and laughed like he hadn’t since Phillip had died.

She fascinated him, yet he was terrified of her. She knew him too well. So easily she had discovered the chinks in his armour. He could never let her look inside. She might discover that there was nothing left underneath.

They would be friends, he had told her, though they both felt that spark, that potential for more. It was that instantaneous jolt he felt in her presence, perhaps, that sizzling reminder that a man did indeed exist under the viscount’s shell, that frightened him most of all.

Because she was still Sophie. Still outrageous, outspoken and slightly out of step with the rest of the world. They were qualities he had always enjoyed in her—now they were the very reason he must avoid her.

He had already lived life his own way, for his own pleasure, ignoring the strictures of society, and what had it got him? Only a hellish reputation at first, but too quickly followed by a dead brother, a dead father, a lifetime of remorse and a title that he hadn’t ever wanted.

He’d never coveted the viscountcy, but he was saddled with it now, and it came with an enormous debt to repay. It was clear that, if he ever meant to pay that debt, sacrifices were required, the first and greatest of which was his freedom.

He knew now that his theory was sound. Society was quick to judge, but easier to manipulate. They had fussed and worried over his past like a dog with a bone, but all he had needed to distract them was a bigger prize: his bachelorhood.

A few dances with the right debs, a compliment here, a witty rejoinder there; all he’d had to do was show a proper interest in making one of their darlings his viscountess, and suddenly his wickedness became youthful high spirits, his transgressions were forgiven, and invitations began piling up again.

His political prospects had improved as well. He’d been approached at Lady Edgeware’s ball by Sir Harold Luskison, an influential member of the Board of Trade. The gentleman had stuck to polite conversation at first, but eventually he had given Charles a friendly slap on the back and approved his attention to Miss Ashford.

‘I know you’ve been down a rough road recently,’ Sir Harold had said. ‘Avery’s nonsense is easy to ignore, but together with the character assassination in the papers? It becomes more difficult.’

Charles had started to speak, but the man had stopped him. ‘I know I’m not the only one who has noticed that all of those published escapades are shades of a murky past.’ He had flashed Charles a conspiratorial grin, ‘Do you know I myself was caught up in one of your pranks, once?’

Charles groaned, but Sir Harold appeared lost in fond remembrance. ‘It was that contretemps you got up to at the Lady’s Slipper. Do you recall it?’

Recall it? How could he forget? The tavern in the Strand was the scene of the most notorious brawl he and his cronies had ever got mixed up in. The owner had been in a fury and had had Charles and his friends thrown into the street. He’d even threatened to send the bill for repairs to Charles’s father.

Sir Harold was still grinning. ‘You make a fine rum punch, lad. Not too proud to say I sampled a cup myself.’

Charles rubbed his brow and hid his eyes. The very next night, he had set up camp outside the pub, with a small cauldron fitted out like a woman’s shoe, in the likeness of the tavern’s famous sign. He had mixed up his best rum punch and ladled it out for free to every comer, ruining the pub’s business and infuriating the owner all the more. The man had called the watch and Charles had been lucky to escape.

‘It took me all day to put together that cursed shoe.’ He dropped his hand and returned Sir Harold’s smile. ‘Do you know I still have it?

The man laughed. ‘I dare say there’s not one among us who couldn’t rake up a hairy tale or two from our youth. I just wanted you to know you have your defenders. The energy and dedication you’ve shown since you inherited has done you good.’

Sir Harold had gestured toward the dance floor then. ‘Good gracious, not since that dreadful Fitzherbert woman has anyone’s courtship been so closely examined. But you are doing well. A steady girl of good family and reputation will prove your sound judgment and lay your past to rest.’