For Love Alone (8 page)

Thinking of his association with Simon, Sophy frowned slightly. Abruptly she said, “You know it has always puzzled me, your friendship with Simon.” She glanced at him. “You've never acted like the others. I've never seen you foxed or chasing any of the maids. You've never made indecent suggestions to me. Actually, you were always very kind and polite to me.”

Henry glanced uneasily at Phoebe and, to his dismay, found her intelligent gaze fixed on him. Acutely aware of the younger girl's stare, he cleared his throat, and muttered, “Um. Simon was a, er, good sort.” At the outraged expression on both ladies' faces, he added hastily, “At least he was when I was with him. I know his reputation was, ah, deplorable, but he, uh, never did anything untoward that I ever saw.”

“How can you defend him?” Phoebe demanded hotly, all her sympathies with her sister. “He was a blackhearted monster! He was mean to Sophy and would not even let her visit us after Mama died!”

Henry looked stricken. “Oh, I agree. In his treatment of dear Sophy, he was indeed cruel.” He should have stopped there, but foolishly he rattled on. “Amongst the gentlemen,” he said thoughtlessly, “Simon could be, er, quite jovial.”

It was obvious that neither lady cared for his opinion, and poor Henry spent the remainder of the drive home redeeming his blunder. By the time they reached the Grayson town house, both ladies were laughing at his sallies, and he left them knowing he had been forgiven.

Upstairs in Sophy's bedroom, the two sisters had put aside their bonnets and pelisses and were discussing the afternoon's entertainment.

“It was so exciting to see the Beau himself,” Phoebe said for perhaps the tenth time since they had arrived home. “And to think that he acknowledged us! Marcus will turn green.”

“I thought,” Sophy answered teasingly, “that you had decided London society was boring and you wanted nothing to do with it?”

A thoughtful expression crossed Phoebe's face. “It is boring most of the time, but I must confess there are parts of it that are very, very interesting.” She looked at Sophy. “Don't you find it boring? To be forever dressing and undressing and rushing around to one grand affair after another? Constantly mingling with strangers and forced into the company of people you hardly know? Don't you grow weary of it? I know I would! If it were not for the bookstores and libraries, I would hate every minute of our stay—and I am too young to attend even half the functions that you do! Thank goodness!”

Sophy made a face. “It is not so very bad,” she began slowly, “but I cannot deny that I shall be happy when we return home.” She sent Phoebe an affectionate look. “It will be pleasant, will it not, to be comfortably settled at Gatewood once more?”

Phoebe studied her older sister, thinking she was the most beautiful, kindest,
dearest
creature in the world. “Do you intend
always
to live at Gatewood with us?” she asked suddenly. “Are you certain you will never remarry and go away again?”

There was a note in Phoebe's voice that made Sophy look at her closely. “What is it, sweetheart?” she questioned. “Do you think that I am going to leave you?”

Phoebe glanced away, her lower lip betraying the faintest trace of a wobble. “You do not know how awful it was,” she muttered, “after Mama died, and Marcus and I were all alone at Gatewood.”

Phoebe had been lying on Sophy's bed, Sophy sitting in a chair nearby, and at Phoebe's words she sprang up to clasp her sister in her arms. Brushing a kiss across Phoebe's brow, she said fiercely, “I will never leave you alone again.
If
I were to ever marry again, and that is highly unlikely, it would be with the clear understanding that you, and Marcus, too, if he wished, would live with me.” She hugged Phoebe's skinny little body next to hers. “I would never even consider an offer for my hand from a man you did not like, nor from someone who did not want you with us.”

Phoebe let out a huge sigh. She smiled, and said shyly, “I like Mister Dewhurst.”

“Oh, do you?” Sophy replied with a laugh. “Are you matchmaking?”

Phoebe shook her small golden head. “Oh, no. I would never do that, but he is very nice, is he not?”

“Indeed he is, but I have no intention of marrying him,” Sophy said lightly. “As a matter of fact, I cannot even think of one gentlemen whose wife I would like to be.” To her horror, the dark, barbaric features of Lord Harrington suddenly filled her mind. Shaken by the force of emotion his mere memory could conjure up, Sophy pulled away from Phoebe.

Getting to her feet, she avoided looking at her sister, and murmured, “Shall we go downstairs and see if Marcus is home? You can boast about the Beau bowing to us and make him positively envious.”

Irritated with herself for allowing thoughts of Lord Harrington to enter her mind, Sophy was somewhat preoccupied during the remainder of the day. A quiet evening for the two ladies had been planned, each one declaring her desire to curl up with a book. Marcus, of course, was going out for the evening and would not be home until very late.

With an effort, Sophy refrained from asking where he was going and with whom. He was very much the young gentleman about town these days, and she tried not to hover. It was not easy for her. Marcus might be all of nineteen, but he was still her younger brother, and London could be a dangerous place.

Her restraint was rewarded when, on the point of leaving, Marcus turned, grinned at her, and said, “Sutcliff and Jarrett and I are going to Vauxhall Gardens and perhaps later to one of the gaming clubs. I promise not to lose the family fortune.”

“I should hope not!” Phoebe responded tartly. “Uncle Edward's habits are bad enough.”

Marcus's face darkened, and he shot his young sister an unkind look. “I am not,” he said stiffly, “Uncle Edward!”

Bowing jerkily to Sophy he stalked from the room. Sophy turned to Phoebe. “Did you have to say that? He is nothing like Uncle Edward, and you know it.”

Phoebe hunched a shoulder and fixed her gaze on the book in front of her. “He needs reminding every now and then,” Phoebe said gruffly.

Sophy thought the comment unfair. Marcus, for all his ardent desire to cut a swath through London society, displayed no signs of the determined rake and gambler. His amusements so far had been perfectly normal and acceptable: shooting at Manton's Shooting Gallery; boxing at Gentleman Jackson's; attending cockfights, bearbaitings and horse sales at Tattersall's. Evenings were often spent in the company of his two boon companions, attending various social functions with the occasional foray, like tonight, to the many gambling houses and clubs with which London abounded.

She was uneasy about his friendship with Sir Alfred Caldwell, but so far Marcus had shown no desire to be a seducer of innocents, nor to dedicate his days and nights to the pursuit of drink and gaming. Sophy was proud of him. And as for Uncle Edward . . .

Her brow wrinkled, and she was bitterly conscious that Edward's eager embrace of every vice imaginable made life exceedingly difficult for them all. Not only was he depressingly irregular with the monies legally due Phoebe and Marcus, Sophy was also gallingly aware that he was going through her father's fortune at an alarming rate. And until Marcus turned twenty-one, there was nothing that they could do about it.

When she had arrived at Gatewood after Simon's death, one of the first things she had done was to visit the family solicitor, Mister Thomas Brownell. He had been overjoyed to see her, his concern for the family obvious, and the news he gave her was disturbing indeed. Baron Scoville had no control or say in
her
affairs, but with her siblings it was an entirely different matter.

Her father's will clearly gave his brother-in-law a free hand and dangerous access to all of the family fortune. Fortunately, and it was the only good news she had received, a huge portion of the estate was entailed, which prevented Edward from selling their home out from under their feet, and the vast tracts of land that went with Gatewood. On the other hand, there was nothing to prevent him from bleeding the estate dry, as he was doing. The most Sophy could do was badger and cajole her uncle to do the right thing: renounce his rights and allow her to see to the care of her brother and sister
and
the stewardship of their remaining fortune.

Gazing blankly at the opened book before her, Sophy snorted. He was certainly willing to allow her to care for Marcus and Phoebe. What he would
not
do was release control of the family fortune, or what remained of it.

Rage surged through her when she thought of shifts she had been forced to undertake to keep Marcus and Phoebe in the manner which was their right. She had spent huge sums of her own money on Gatewood, trying to restore it to its previous grandeur. And, of course, since dear Uncle Edward was so wayward with paying the quarterly allowances which would have seen to all that, it was Sophy who frequently paid the day-to-day living expenses for her brother and sister.

She glanced across at Phoebe's bent golden head and thought of Marcus's delight at being in London. She regretted none of it. She would do it all again in a flash, but she
did
resent her uncle's blatant abuse of the trust her father had given him.

She did not blame her father. There was no way he could have known he would die so unexpectedly, or that his wife would not live to see her children reach their majority. Sophy's bottom lip drooped. Not that her mother would have been much of a brake on Edward's spending habits, but as his sister, Jane certainly would have been able to exert more influence over him than a mere niece could.

With a sigh, Sophy forced her thoughts in another direction. Dwelling on the perfidy of Baron Scoville's actions only infuriated and depressed her. Determinedly burying her nose in the book before her, Sophy put all thoughts of her uncle from her mind, and she and Phoebe enjoyed their quiet evening together.

Her sleep was not quite so tranquil—she dreamed again of Lord Harrington. Upon awakening she could not fully remember the details of the dream, only the memory of his green eyes, mocking and daring her. Cursing him roundly and herself as well—having lived with Simon, she knew an astonishing variety of oaths—Sophy faced the day wishing fervently that she could depart immediately for Gatewood and leave Lord Harrington and her uncle far behind.

 

Grimly resolved to enjoy herself, Sophy promptly agreed the next day to an evening at Vauxhall in the company of Lord Coleman and Sir Alfred Caldwell, along with another couple, Mr. and Mrs. Randal Offington, neighbors from Cornwall who were visiting for a few weeks.

The outing went well. The group enjoyed a fine meal in one of the supper boxes, watched the Cascade and fireworks, and listened to the fine voice of the well-known Mrs. Bland. The Offingtons, married only a year, were near to Sophy in age and were particular favorites of hers. She liked their easy company enormously.

It had been decided to end the evening with a stroll along the tree-lined Grand Cross Walk, which traversed the gardens, and Sophy was relaxed and cheerful as she set out with her friends. Gaily lit lanterns marked the way, and Sophy was enjoying herself, occasionally stopping to talk or wave to a few people she had recently met in London. All in all the evening had been lovely, even if Lord Coleman and Sir Alfred persisted in paying court to her.

The sight of a tall, commanding figure striding purposefully toward her was the first blight on the evening. It was bad enough, Sophy thought waspishly, that he boldly invaded her dreams—must he also show up in reality?

Harrington was accompanied once again by Percival Forrest, and to Sophy's dismay, they seemed perfectly happy to merge with her group once greetings and introductions were exchanged. She was not quite certain how he accomplished it, but in a matter of minutes, Lord Coleman and Sir Alfred had been displaced from her side, and it was Lord Harrington's hand on her elbow politely guiding her down the graveled walkway.

There was silence between them as they walked, although Sophy was dizzingly aware of him, the strength and size of him, and the seductive, almost caressing, warmth of his hand on her arm. She sought desperately for the light repartee that usually came so easily to her tongue, but her mind was blank. Utterly.

Like a mechanical doll she walked with him, conscious only of the man beside her, the soft, night air, and the suddenly sinister forest crowding near. The rest of the group had disappeared, and Lord Harrington deftly turned her down the notorious Dark Walk.

Outrage churning in her bosom, she stopped abruptly and glared at him. “I do not know quite what you think you are doing, but I demand that you return me to the others
immediately
!”

Ives glanced down at her, seeing the angry flush on her cheeks and the molten gold of her eyes, and decided that temper became the lady. His lips curled briefly. And wouldn't she just delight in separating his head from his shoulders if he dared to tell her so!

“What are you smiling at?” Sophy demanded suspiciously, not at all pleased that her request seemed to amuse him.

“Is one forbidden to smile in your company, Lady Marlowe?”

“Of course not! You may smile all you wish,” Sophy replied grandly, “once you have returned me to my friends.”

A gleam entered in his eyes. “And if I do not?”

Sophy's bosom swelled. “If you do not,” she said coolly, “I shall know you for a blackguard.” Her chin lifted. “And I do not acknowledge blackguards. Ever.”

Ives laughed. “Dear Butterfly, is this how you keep such rogues as Coleman and Caldwell in line? By threatening to refuse to acknowledge them?”