Just One Season in London (10 page)

Rye looked intrigued, but he said, “You don't seem to be locked up at the moment.”

“She sent me down to the gate cottage with beef jelly for Mrs. Curtis. The new baby's arrived.” It was, she told herself, not
really
a lie—even though the errand had been completed a couple of hours ago.

“Is that a new riding habit? What's up, Soph? Did you lose your horse somewhere?”

“No, I did
not
lose my horse. When was the last time I let a horse throw me? But I wouldn't turn down a ride the rest of the way.”

Without a word, Rye's valet climbed down from the curricle and took a seat at the rear beside the groom. Rye shifted the reins, then reached across to clasp Sophie's wrist and, without noticeable strain, pulled her up into the vehicle. It was hardly an elegant maneuver, and Sophie thought their mother might have had a fainting spell if she'd seen it.

Rye clucked to the horses. “Now tell me what you've been doing to get Mama all in a fuss.”

“
Me?
” Sophie said indignantly.

“Well, it must have been something you did if she set you to counting towels. What are you doing home from Lady Brindle's already? I thought it certain I'd have to come all the way to Sussex to find you.”

“The Season started,” Sophie said glumly.

“You know, I'd heard that somewhere.”

Was he laughing at her? “Well, of course
you
can be amused about it. No doubt you've had a great deal of fun in the city, and you're ready to rusticate again, but for the rest of us…” She frowned. “Why would you have come to Sussex to fetch us? You must know that Lady Brindle would send us home in her carriage when our visit was done.”

“Because I have matters to discuss with you and Mama, and they won't wait.”

Matters to discuss…
That sounded ominous. He'd spoken in what she thought of as his head-of-the-family voice, the one that always sent shivers up Sophie's spine, and her conscience gave an uncomfortable ping. “Did you… happen to meet anyone on your way from the village?” she asked cautiously.

“No. Should I have done?”

“Oh no. Not at all.”

“Then why should it matter… Never mind. You're
not
going to tease me about what could be so important that I would have traveled all the way to Sussex to find you? Perhaps I should warn Mama you must be sickening for something. Sophie, you're going to London—tomorrow!”

Rye would
never, if he lived to be a hundred, understand women.

That much was clear, he told himself a few minutes later as he munched another of Cook's lemon cakes and wondered how long it could possibly take for the kitchen to deliver some real food. He'd been so anxious to get home that he'd left Staines as soon as his wheel was repaired, without even waiting for breakfast—so excited to hear what his mother and Sophie would say about his marvelous news that he'd been prepared to pause at Ryecroft Manor only long enough to change to the traveling chaise and pick up some clean shirts.

The news that they were going to London—in fact, were commanded to appear in the city as soon as humanly possible—should have been greeted with rapture. Instead he was suffering an inquisition worthy of the Middle Ages.

Of course, he'd expected Sophie to look stunned by her good fortune—as indeed she had. But once the news had registered, she should have started to glow with happiness and exhilaration. Instead she'd looked at him with something close to fear, as if he were threatening to hit her over the head with a log. She'd sunk into a chair in the corner of the drawing room, and even now she was sitting bolt upright, not saying a word. Her almost-frozen demeanor was so unlike his little sister's normal behavior that he wondered if she truly
was
ailing.

But perhaps there was a simpler explanation staring him in the face
. James Newstead must be hanging around again
, Rye thought grimly. The way she'd asked so casually if he had met anyone on the road had been a tip-off. That, followed by her obvious reluctance to leave Ryecroft Manor…

Well, the sooner he got Sophie to London and safely married—and off his hands—the better.

But though Sophie's reaction had startled him, his mother's was enough to give a man the shakes. Honestly, he thought, females were impossible. He'd given his mother exactly what she wanted—precisely what she'd been hinting at all year—but she hadn't fallen on his neck with tears of joy and gratitude as he'd expected. Perhaps Sophie was right, and their mother had turned into a madwoman…

“Where have you
been
?” Lady Ryecroft asked. “
Three days
to get home—”

“It wasn't three days. It wasn't even two. I had to have a wheel mended in Staines, and… Wait a minute. How did you know I was even coming home yet? I told you when I left I'd be at least a week in the city, and it's only been…”

“Mr. Wellingham told me,” she admitted.

Wellingham.
Well, that was something of a facer. That broken wheel had been even more of an inconvenience than he'd thought. “You've met him, then?” Rye said warily. “What… what did you think, Mama?”

“What should I think, Rye? My son is consorting with moneylenders…”

“It's not at all like that. He's not a moneylender; he's—”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Sophie give a little nod. It was the first sign of life she'd shown since she'd staggered into the drawing room and perched on the edge of that chair like a plaster statue. “A banker,” she murmured.

“That's what I said,” Lady Ryecroft went on. “You had an appointment with him, Rye; he called on me when you did not keep it. If that is not consorting with moneylenders—”

“It wasn't an appointment exactly. He said he'd like to look the house over first, that's true, but he seemed confident, just from my description…”

Lady Ryecroft made a noise that Rye had never before heard coming from anything except a teakettle. She sat down on the nearest sofa with her hands over her face. “Oh, my dear. I never intended you to do anything so rash. I know how much you want to give Sophie a Season…”

Finally she'd come round to something easy—a subject where he knew the correct answer. “I certainly do, Mama.”

“But to borrow money against the manor to fund it, Rye… To risk your heritage! I
cannot
allow—”

“How dare you accuse me, ma'am! I did no such thing. I would never risk the manor.” He took a deep breath. This next bit wasn't going to be easy. “But if Wellingham's still interested after seeing the place, then I
am
going to rent it to him.”

Lady Ryecroft's head came up with a snap. “You're going to…
what?
”

She looked so horrified that he quailed for a moment. “Lease the house. But only for the Season, Mama.”

“To a
moneylender
?”

Rye was beginning to see the humor in the situation. “At least with a moneylender there's no question his pockets are deep enough to afford it. You see, Mama, Wellingham's banks have made him so wealthy that he's thinking of retiring and buying an estate. So he's been looking for a house in the country that he could lease for a while…”

“But why
this
house?”

“…to decide whether he really wants to move out of London. Since we're not going to be here anyway, I offered to lease him the manor.” He added hopefully, in case the main point really hadn't sunk in for her yet, “And we truly can use the rent money, because even though Lady Stone has invited us to stay with her, Sophie will need gowns and whatnots. As you will too, if you're to chaperone her round to all the parties. For that matter, Mama, you might even find someone in London who's to your taste.”

She glared at him.

All right, Rye thought, that joke had gone sadly wrong. He ran a finger under his neckcloth in an attempt to loosen it. Where in the devil had he lost his way? For the life of him, he couldn't see it.

Women! He would
never
understand them.

***

Though Rye
had told her flatly they would leave for London the next day, it was plain to Sophie that their departure could never be carried out so quickly. For one thing, even after Lady Ryecroft had stopped ranting at the idea of leasing out their home, she went on at some length about how impossible it would be to pack in less than a week.

Rye pointed out once more that they were bidden not only to come immediately, but to bring only enough clothes to get by for a few days, since they would need everything new anyway. And, he added cheerfully, he had better leave the ladies to it and get over to the village right away to finalize terms with Robert Wellingham, who—he said—was truly the most friendly and approachable of men.

That comment sent Lady Ryecroft off again, and she shrieked something about how moneylenders always presented themselves as the best of pals—until it was time to collect what was owed to them.

Sophie was too busy feeling ill to pay much attention. What if, during his comradely chat with her brother, that
most friendly and approachable of men
backed out of his offer to rent the manor, because he'd promised to take Sophie to London instead? She'd only been trying to relieve Rye of the expense of her care and start making her own way in the world, but what if she'd managed to ruin everything for all of them?

Or what if Wellingham slipped up and mentioned the conversation he and Sophie had had by the gatekeeper's cottage? Not only would Sophie never see London then, she'd count herself lucky if Rye didn't dig a deep, dark dungeon and lock her in it forever.

And even if Wellingham didn't mention Sophie's plan to Rye…

That, she thought, might be even worse. For that might mean he expected her to keep to their agreement despite the changing circumstances—
do you swear that you will not disappoint me, Miss Ryecroft?
—and turn up in the village in the morning, ready to go.

And if that was the case, what would he expect from her?

She thought the afternoon would never end—and the longer her brother was absent, the more certain she was that Wellingham must have told Rye everything. Perhaps they were even laughing together—Rye and that
most friendly of men
—about how silly she'd been.

No. If Rye had any inkling of what she'd been plotting, he wouldn't be laughing. It would be the dungeon, for sure.

But finally Rye returned, slightly worse for wear—having made serious inroads into the innkeeper's stock of brandy, Sophie thought darkly—but plainly delighted at being able to reach an even better deal than he'd hoped for. “For, once he saw the surroundings, Mama, he felt even more compelled to carry through the bargain,” he said triumphantly.

But surely bankers weren't in the habit of giving out more money than was strictly required of them… Had he made a higher offer because he expected something from Sophie?

The next morning she managed to get out of the house for a ride, pleading to her mother that, despite the press of impending departure, it would be only good manners to deliver the news to her friend Emily in person.

Once at Emily's house, however, Sophie could barely concentrate. Fortunately Emily laid her friend's absentmindedness to excitement, and Sophie was able to excuse herself after just a few minutes.

On her way back through the village, she stopped at the baker's shop.
Just in case
, she told herself. Not that she expected there would be any message, for surely Rye had made their plans known to Robert Wellingham…

“A sweet bun as usual, miss?” the baker's daughter said with a smile and a wink. “There's a special one set aside for you today.”

Sophie's heart sank. Sure enough, she noticed as she took the bun, there was a tiny slit on the bottom of the dough.

She waited till she was well out of the village before she bit carefully into the bun, and her mouth went dry as she felt a slip of paper catch in her teeth. She rode as far ahead of her groom as she could, then reined in her horse and paused to read the message.

I did assure you,
Mr. Wellingham had written,
that I would make arrangements for your trip.

So now he was trying to take credit for the entire thing. As if it had been his idea in the beginning. As if Rye had had nothing to do with it.

Well, that told her all she needed to know about Mr. Robert Wellingham—and glad she was indeed that she wasn't going to be relying on
his
good nature to get her to the city!

It was a good thing she'd stopped at the baker's, however—for now she could go to London without a care. She could have a good time and not give another thought to Wellingham.

Not another single thought.

Ever.

***

Almost befo
re Miranda could catch her breath, it seemed, they were on their way.

Packing for a three-month stay would normally take weeks, but Rye had been firm—and in fact, Miranda could scarcely argue with Lady Stone's advice. The Ryecroft ladies would need entirely new wardrobes if they were to be fashionable; there was no sense in dragging along things that they could never be seen wearing in the city.

As a result, they had almost no baggage—just a few trunks in the second coach, along with Rye's valet and her own lady's maid.

It wasn't until she was in the carriage, forced to sit still and with time to think, that Miranda began to fret about leaving Ryecroft Manor to the care of a tenant about whom they knew so little. “We didn't even have time to put away treasures,” she mused as they paused at an inn for refreshment and to change the horses.

“What treasures?” Rye asked bluntly. “Carstairs will defend the silver with his life, and as for the rest, you can send him a list of things to hide, if you must. In any case, Wellingham isn't going to hurt anything, and he's not the sort to snoop. Plus, there's no managing wife to upset the servants by counting all the linens.”

Miranda shot him a stern look. It was true, she had to own, that Mrs. Carstairs had seemed relieved when Miranda had stopped turning out the darkest cupboards and begun packing to leave instead.

Rye went on blandly, “…and no wild children to break things. The man is a perfect tenant.”

“One wonders, if he intends to be entirely alone, why he wanted so much space,” Miranda said tartly. “And what if he decides to hold house parties? Anything might happen if he brings in a rabble of guests.”

“Then I'll dun him for repairs, and the moment we return home, you can order all the new curtains and carpets your heart desires, Mama. He can stand the nonsense.” Rye drained his tankard and paid the innkeeper for the ladies' tea, and they went back out to the carriage.

Miranda had to admit that the payment from Rye's tenant for a three-month lease had been generous indeed.
Is it too generous?
she wondered and admitted to a lingering fear that Rye wasn't telling her the entire truth. Why would a man like Robert Wellingham even want to take a house in the country, all by himself, much less be willing to pay such a startling amount in order to do so?

But she had to admit the money would make things far easier. Rye had declared that the entire lease payment was to be available for Sophie's come-out. “And you're not to go cheeseparing now,” he had told Miranda. “It's ready money we weren't counting on, so we can invest every penny of it in Sophie's future without hurting the estate. Sophie's to have the best—and so are you.”

Miranda had to admit that a new dress or two for herself wouldn't come amiss, and being able to choose fabrics and styles without considering how much the garment cost would be even more welcome. But of course it was Sophie who mattered, not herself. She was dreaming of dressing her daughter in lace and ruffles and tulle—pink would be insipid with Sophie's vibrant coloring; Miranda made up her mind to try a minty green instead, as well as a soft lilac—when they reached Grosvenor Square.

Sophie had been peeking out the window since the outskirts of the city had come into view, wide-eyed and eager. But now she settled quietly back into her seat, looking pale as she gathered up her bits and pieces and stuffed them into her reticule.