Kasey Michaels (41 page)

“So do I, Upchurch,” Bramwell said affably. “I know you have a mole shaped much like Lord Sheridan’s profile stuck to your—”

“Bram!” Sophie protested, jumping up to take Lord Upchurch’s arm and lead him to a nearby chair. “You just sit down now, my lord, and allow me to pour you some brandy. You look wretched.”

“Well, I
am
wretched, you know. Can’t remember when I’ve been this wretched. Except perhaps for that time I was cold and wet after being caught out in a rainstorm, and backed up too close to the fire to warm m’self and—no, no! I can’t think of that now. It’s Sir Tyler, Selbourne. The journal wasn’t enough for him.”

“It wasn’t?” Sophie turned from the drinks table, the snifter of brandy in her hand. “But His Grace met with you all this afternoon, showed you the journals
Maman
had kept on each of you, and then you all threw them into the fire, yes? You have His Grace’s word, my word—the past is gone, burned up and forgotten. I must say, my lord, that I’m sadly disappointed if you’re intimating that the duke of Selbourne’s word in the matter cannot be taken as gospel.”

There. She’d sounded quite duchesslike. Sophie was rather proud of herself, and Aunt Gwendolyn was smiling at her, as if she, too, was pleased. This being a duchess couldn’t be all that difficult. A “Your Grace” here, another “Your Grace” there. Sprinkle a few “the duke feels,” or “the duke says” into the conversation, and keep your chin high as you did it. Nothing could be more simple. She’d learned a lot from Isadora, more than she had realized. And she was going to do just fine. It was all a matter of dazzling others, this time with what was soon to be her most impressive title.

“But it’s not
me
saying it, Sophie... er... Miss Winstead,” Lord Upchurch protested. It was obvious that, even in his agitation, he had noticed her new air of superiority, of consequence. “I’m quite content with the way things worked out. Satisfied, you know. But it’s just as I said. Tye—Sir Tyler? He’s up to mischief.”

Sophie looked to Bramwell, who was eyeing Lord Upchurch carefully. “Sir Tyler,” he said. “Yes, you did say that, didn’t you? Not Lord Buxley, and not you. Just him?”

“Exactly! Oh, Your Grace, he’s impossible to calm. He wanted Buxley and me in with him, but we won’t go that route. Discussed it between ourselves, you know, and decided against it. But I thought I should warn you.”

“This is all my fault, Bramwell,” Lady Gwendolyn lamented, wringing her hands. “If I hadn’t said anything to Amelia—”

“Hush, Aunt Gwendolyn,” Sophie said soothingly, dropping to her knees beside the older woman, patting her hands. “Lord Upchurch can’t be the least interested in that right now,” she went on quietly, hoping the woman took her meaning. The journals had been burned. Buxley and Upchurch seemed satisfied. But, if they knew Lady Gwendolyn had read them? Well, they’d be all for tossing her into the fire along with the journals then, wouldn’t they?

Bramwell must have been thinking much the same thing, as he quickly said, “Thank you, Upchurch, for coming to me so quickly, being so honest. Did Sir Tyler share his plans with you, or are you only aware that he intends some sort of retribution?”

Lord Upchurch looked confused for a moment, as if he was trying to sift all the words through his brain, sort them out into smaller ones he might better understand. “Oh!” he said at last. “You want to know what Tye plans to do, don’t you?”

“No, Upchurch, I don’t, actually,” Bramwell said, something in his tone alerting Sophie to the fact that nothing Lord Upchurch had said had come as a surprise to him. “But, out of idle curiosity, I’ll ask anyway. Do you or Lord Buxley know what Sir Tyler Shipley has planned?”

The older man shook his head and sighed. “Haven’t the faintest idea. He asked us, we said no, and he went off. Madder than fire, you know. Always was a bit of a hothead.” He looked to Sophie. “But I felt I should warn you. Always liked your mama, you know. Wouldn’t want to see anything bad happen to the daughter.”

Bramwell removed the snifter from Upchurch’s nerveless fingers even as he laid an arm across the man’s shoulders and maneuvered him toward the hallway. “Assure yourself, Upchurch, that you have my most sincere appreciation for having come here tonight. But I believe I can take it from here, all right?”

Lord Upchurch looked back over his shoulder, to Lady Gwendolyn, who was waving good-bye to him, to Sophie, who smiled and gave him one of her very best shrugs. “Well, if you think so, Selbourne—Your Grace. But, I—”

“Bobbit,” Bramwell broke in. “His Lordship was just leaving. Has Baron Lorimar arrived as yet?”

“Just now, Your Grace,” the butler answered. “He and Sir Wallace await you in your study.”

Bramwell gave Lord Upchurch a last bracing pat on the back, then stepped back into the drawing room. “Sophie? If you’d join us...”

“What’s happening, Sophie?” Lady Gwendolyn asked, grabbing on to Sophie’s forearm, detaining her. “Something is going on, isn’t it?” She released her grip. “But, no, no. I shouldn’t ask. If I don’t ask, I won’t know. And if I don’t know, I can’t tell. It will be better that way, I believe. Much better. You just run along, dear. I’ll sit here and yell to Mrs. Farraday, ask her opinion on the weather. And then she’ll tell me all about her new heather-colored yarn. Again.”

Sophie dropped a kiss on Lady Gwendolyn’s hair, then quickly followed after Bramwell, taking his arm as he assisted her down the stairs. “You’ve done something, haven’t you, Bram? What have you done? You told me that taking the journals to the uncles this afternoon would fix everything, and it did—for two of them. But not Uncle Tye, yes? So what did you do? And why haven’t you told me about it?”

“I was a trifle busy, darling,” he answered, as they turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs and headed toward his private study. “Making love, losing a fiancée, gaining another, burning books—it made for a full afternoon. And I barely slept last night, you know. Why, I’m surprised I didn’t fall facedown in the pudding at dinner.”

“You’re a mean, mean man, Bramwell Seaton,” Sophie declared, glaring at him through slitted eyes. “You were simply protecting me. Admit it!”

“Protecting
you
?” Bramwell threw back his head and laughed out loud. “Protecting the woman who thinks it her responsibility to fix everything, to make everyone happy, to solve all the problems of the world? Hardly, darling. I was protecting
myself
. Now, let’s see what Wally and Lorrie have been able to find out, all right?”

“Lorrie and—oh, never mind,” Sophie said, sighing. “
Maman
always said we women must sometimes allow our men to be masterful.”

“God bless her,” Bramwell responded, then gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before opening the door to his study. “Gentlemen!” he called out happily enough. “How went the hunt? Was I right? Please tell me I was right. I’d enjoy appearing brilliant in front of my darling, soon-to-be-wife.”

“Probably owe Bobbit a packet for that one,” Sir Wallace commented. “That, and you have to become Sad Samuel’s bosom chum for—what was it, Lorrie? A month?”

“Why, Sir Wallace,” Sophie trilled, batting her eyelashes at him. “Whatever do you mean? It almost sounds as if you’ve made some sort of
wager
among yourselves, yes?”

Sir Wallace slapped his forehead so hard he winced. “I’m a dead man! Lorrie, shoot me. Make it quick. Painless.”

“Relax, Wally,” Bramwell said, escorting Sophie to a chair, then taking up his place behind the desk. “She knows. She has known from the beginning. And, now that I think about it, you might want to shoot Lorrie. Thanks to him and his schemes, you’re probably the poorer by several hundred pounds.”

“Later, Wally, later,” the baron said as Sir Wallace turned to him questioningly. “For now, I think I should answer Bram’s question. Yes, my friend. You were right. Straight down the line. And Shipley has seen the advantages in accepting your conditions with all the civility with which a man fairly foaming at the mouth is capable.”

“So it’s over then, before it could even begin. Good, as the whole notion of what he must have been planning was fairly ridiculous. You both have my thanks. Would you two care for a drink?”

“Over? What’s over? What was Sir Tyler planning to do?” Sophie had spent the last moments looking from Bramwell, to the baron, to Sir Wallace, back to Bramwell—and she didn’t understand anything she’d heard, seen. “Bram, I think I really must insist—”

“We’ll have that drink later, Bram,” Baron Lorimar said, winking at Sophie. “I think you two should have some time alone. Wally? Stand up, we’re leaving.”

“But—but we just got here, Lorrie! We haven’t even said our best wishes to Sophie here, or Bram. We really ought to do that, you know. Only polite. Condolences first, to Bram, for having been tossed over, then congratulations, for getting Sophie here to say she’ll marry him. It’s only right.”

“Wally,” Bramwell said threateningly.

“Come here, sit down. Say three words, stand up. Leave.” Sir Wallace threw up his hands and got to his feet. “All right, Bram, I’m going. Don’t have a dashed idea why, but I’m going. Good evening, Sophie. Are you sure you want to marry Bram, here? You’ll have the devil of a time understanding him, stap me if you won’t!”

Sophie jumped up to kiss both the two departing gentlemen, not sure what they had done for her, but convinced they had just made her future brighter. Then, once they were gone, she turned on the man she would share that future with, and said, “You have five minutes, Bram. Then I may simply have to strangle the truth out of you.”

“What, no offer to light my cheroot?” Bramwell replied smoothly. “You aren’t about to pour me a glass of wine, fetch me a footstool, rub my weary brow? Isn’t that the way to get what you want from a man? Well, I’m disappointed, I must say so.”

“Bramwell...” Sophie ground out from between clenched teeth, doing her best to look threatening, then gave it up as a bad job and ran around the desk to all but throw herself in his lap. “What did you do, darling? What brilliant, wonderful thing did you do?”

“Marvelous,” he said, kissing her cheeks, her nose, her mouth. “Brilliant, wonderful,
and
marvelous. You forgot that one.”

She gave an exasperated cry and began to tickle him unmercifully, until he caught her hands in his and surrendered.

“All right, all right, I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you all of it,” he said, laughing. “Shipley wasn’t content with the mere burning of the journals because there was still someone who could talk, who couldn’t be bound by his word of honor.”

“Aunt Gwendolyn? He meant to hurt Aunt Gwendolyn?”

“No. Shipley’s an idiot, but not that much of an idiot. It’s
Ignatius
, darling. Shipley plotted to shut one of us up, definitely—but it was that damned parrot.”

Sophie leaned back against the desk, her hands clasping the edge. “Ignatius? But—but what possible damage could Ignatius do to Uncle Tye?”

To answer her, he lifted her onto the desk, so that she watched while he went to the corner of the room and pulled the shawl from the parrot’s cage. “Coachie, Ignatius,” he said. “Coachie.”

Ignatius dipped his head a time or two, fluttered his clipped wings and, in a near-perfect imitation of Sir Tyler Shipley, called out: “Demmed coachie!
Squawk
! Quick! My flask! Secrets to tell!
Squawk
!
Squawk
! Demmed coachie! Secrets to sell! Quick, my flask!
Squawk
!”

Sophie still didn’t understand, and said so.

“Neither did I, darling,” Bramwell admitted, lifting the cage from the table. “Until I remembered that Ignatius did his little trick in Shipley’s presence. Something in his reaction jostled a memory somewhere in the back of my brain. There was nothing about Ignatius in your mother’s journals, which confused me at first, until that jostled memory became clearer. After that, it was a fairly simple matter to ask Lorrie to do some checking for me.”

He walked back to the desk and took Sophie’s hand in his as he walked fiancée and parrot toward the door. “Secrets to tell, Sophie. Secrets to sell. Demned coachie.”

Sophie concentrated on the words, but didn’t feel in the least enlightened. “No, I still don’t understand. I want to, but I’m totally at sea. Bram, would you please just tell me?”

“It had to be about nine or ten years ago, I imagine,” he said as they walked down the hallway to the foyer. “Before he gave you the parrot, and during my single Season in Town. Shipley’s coachman was beaten into a jelly, nearly killed, right here in the city, inside Shipley’s own stables. I remembered it because it caused quite a stir, with all of Mayfair checking under their beds, sure that murderers were everywhere.”

“Go on, please,” Sophie said, nodding to Bobbit before starting up the staircase.

“Think about it, Sophie. We were at war. Shipley worked in His Majesty’s government. He may have been selling secrets, he may not have been. At this late date, I don’t suppose it matters. Then again, it may have been the coachie who had secrets to sell, such as where he was driving Shipley. I think that more likely, to tell you the truth.”

“Where he drove him? To Wimbledon, you mean, don’t you—to see Maman, yes?”

“As Shipley was and is married to a very rich, very jealous woman, yes, I do mean Wimbledon. Sir Tyler has a fairly prodigious temper, and he was always good with his fives. I think his coachman was blackmailing him, frankly, threatening him—and that Shipley took umbrage with that idea.”

“And beat his own coachman,” Sophie said, shivering. “Is the coachman dead? I mean, did he beat him to death? Because, if he did, we certainly cannot allow him—”

“The man lived, Sophie, although he chose to depart for a less violent climate somewhere in Wales. Still, Ignatius must have heard Shipley, absorbed those few words the man spoke in anger, and now he trots them out anytime someone says—” he hesitated, looking down at Ignatius. “Well, you know the word, Sophie. So dear Uncle Tye gave Ignatius to you, to hide the evidence as it were, and now you’ve brought Ignatius with you to London, where he immediately performed his most dangerous party trick. You can see how that might unnerve Shipley, make him want to turn your beloved parrot into parrot soup.”