Scandal (10 page)

John said, “That would be delightful, Your Grace. Sophie, fetch your cloak.”

The day was fine, and Sophie walked with her arm on the duke's. How strange it was to be thinking of him as a potential suitor. John stayed on her other side. She didn't mention to either that she knew Hightower House quite well. Banallt had once brought plans to Rider Hall. He was having the interior remodeled, and he had two sets of plans from rival architects. She'd sat with him while they discussed the merits of the two proposals. Back then, she'd thought if ever she saw the house it would be with Tommy at her side.

She felt uneasy about the visit, even though she knew Banallt would not be there. She could not help feeling she was encroaching on some private retreat of the earl's. Their own area of Mayfair was grand enough to her, but the town houses soon gave way to larger homes. From Edward Street, they took a right to James Street and from there another right onto Gray Street, which was a short street tucked between two longer ones. Hightower House took up the whole of Gray Street, from James on one end to Duke Street on the other. She recognized the exterior from the sketches Banallt had once made when he'd described his London home to her. As they walked to the entrance gate, a black carriage turned onto the street from Duke Street, Gray Street being a convenient outlet for travelers and much quieter than the surrounding streets.

An iron gate ran the length of the Gray Street side of the house, each pole tipped with a gold-painted point. The entrance gate opened onto a cobbled courtyard just large enough for a carriage to turn around in. The exterior architecture betrayed its Gothic roots. The middle, and oldest, section of the house retained medieval gargoyles on the downspouts. The central tower was flanked by Tudor-era wings. The stone was blackened with soot and further discolored where rain dripped from the eaves and gutters. A short flight of stairs led to the double front door. She knew the door was original to the house: heavy black planks crisscrossed with great iron flanges.

At the top landing, Vedaelin reached for the knocker, a roaring lion that was not original to the door. Sophie saw the teeth in the brass figure, the flowing mane, narrow eyes, lips drawn back in a snarl. He rapped on the door.

Sophie held her breath. For goodness' sake, did she expect Banallt himself to answer the door? The carriage heading for James Street was almost to the gate. The vehicle slowed. For no reason at all, her heart tripped.

The servant who answered bowed when he saw the duke. She recognized him immediately. Banallt's most singular servant had at some point, it appeared, been promoted from valet to butler. He wore black but for a white shirt and an absolutely impeccable cravat. He was unattractive and ridiculously tall. Taller than Banallt by half a head, and broader through the chest. His eyes were the color of mud and had a disturbing keenness about them. His crooked nose was flattened across the bridge. One of his ears had been shredded at the top. He looked a brawler and, indeed, had been one professionally before he came to work for Banallt.

“King,” the duke said with perfect familiarity. “A pleasure to see you, as always.”

“Your Grace.” He spoke with a pleasant accent, almost no trace left of northern England in his speech. According to Banallt, his accent had at one time been impenetrable. King gave no sign that he remembered her from Rider Hall, even though he had been there with his employer several times.

“King?” John straightened and looked King up and down. “Not Rupert King, the great boxer? The Rupert King who fought Hampton in aught five?”

The man's muddy brown eyes lit on John with a sharp gaze. “And if I was, sir?”

“Why, then I'm pleased to meet you, that's all! I saw you fight Hampton. That was you, wasn't it?”

“Might have been, sir.”

“I had ten pounds on you.” John grinned. “A left to the jaw and Hampton went down like a sack of”—he glanced at Sophie—“old wheat.”

“Hampton never could take that wicked left, could he, King?” said the duke.

“No, Your Grace, he couldn't: ” King flexed his left hand and stared out into the street. The black carriage made the turn to Hightower House. All three of them turned to watch. A servant appeared from underneath the stairs and ran to the courtyard.

“Heigh-ho!” the coachman called as he brought his team to a halt.

Sophie found herself with the advantage of position. With just a small turn of her head she could watch King eye her and John and she could see the carriage. When the vehicle stopped, the groom put down the steps,
clack, clack.
Then came a deeper
thunk
as the mechanism fully engaged. The groom retreated to hold the head of the lead horse. Someone important was making a call at Hightower House. The caller's identity wasn't certain, because the carriage coat of arms was covered by a black lozenge. For no reason at all, Sophie's heart rattled in her chest. It couldn't be. Vedaelin had said Banallt didn't stay here. She couldn't be so unlucky.

A gentleman got out of the carriage. He dipped his head to watch his step and was, for the moment, unaware of his audience. He was not alone, for he stayed at the carriage door and immediately turned his back to the house, holding out his hand. A delicate gloved hand emerged from the carriage, touched his offered one, gripped, and then a young woman came out.

She heard John curse under his breath.

Nine

Hightower House, London,
MARCH 15, 1815

 

 

 

SOPHIE WATCHED THE EARL OF BANALLT TUCK THE woman's hand under his arm. Her chest constricted. Mr. Tallboys was right, then. Banallt was going to marry Miss Fidelia Llewellyn. Why should she mind that Banallt had moved on? Hadn't she expected and hoped he would?

The couple walked, arm in arm, up the stairs, and as Sophie watched them her entire history with Banallt came back. For a time, he had been her only friend during a dark and unhappy period of her life. The way he moved was familiar to her: the elegance of his clothes, the too-long hair, the eerie flatness of his eyes. She was glad they had renewed their friendship. She ought to be equally glad he had found a woman he wanted to marry. In the courtyard, the groom clung to the back of the carriage as the coachman drove the vehicle back onto the street, heading, no doubt, for the mews.

“Is it you, Vedaelin?” Banallt said, tilting his head to see who was there as he ascended the stairs with Miss Fidelia Llewellyn on his arm. The sun was in his eyes and he could not see them well, Sophie realized. He paused. “It is you. Your Grace.” He grinned. “This is a pleasant surprise.” Then he noticed John. “Who's that with you?”

Banallt and Miss Llewellyn came up the final stairs to join them on the landing. Sophie edged away.

“Mercer.” Banallt hesitated. Only an instant. Almost not a hesitation at all. His gaze moved from John to her. His eyes shuttered, and he drew Miss Llewellyn closer to him. Sophie hoped he would find happiness with her.

“What are you doing here, Banallt, making a liar of me?” the duke asked. “I've just been telling Mercer and his sister that you are never here. And now you appear with Miss Llewellyn.” He bowed to the young woman. “Charming, as always, to see you, miss. How is your dear mama?”

“Your Grace.” Miss Llewellyn curtseyed. “Very well, thank you.”

Banallt said, “Are you just arriving or just leaving?”

“Arriving,” Vedaelin said. “And only just. The Mercers are letting a house of mine on Henrietta Street. We've walked here from there.” The two men shook hands. Banallt glanced at Sophie, but she averted her eyes at the last moment and avoided directly meeting his gaze. She'd give anything to have not come here, or at least to have arrived after the carriage so they could have turned back before it was too late. “Have we come at an inconvenient time?” Vedaelin asked. The duke did not care to go, that was clear. “I'll show Mercer and his sister Hightower another day.”

There was another hesitation from Banallt, but he didn't take up Vedaelin's excuse. “Nonsense.” He headed for the door without another glance at her or at John. “I am delighted to see you, Your Grace. Come in, do please, come in.”

King stood aside as Banallt walked in with Miss Llewellyn and Vedaelin. Outside on the landing, John gave Sophie a look she was careful to return as blandly as possible. “There's nothing for it, Sophie,” he said. Strain marked the edges of his mouth. “I won't insult the duke by leaving now. Not when he's practically insisted.”

“Of course not,” she said.

He gestured for her to proceed him, and she went in with him on her heels. Banallt had already taken off his hat and put it into the waiting hands of the formidable King. “What am I doing here?” he repeated to the duke, smiling. A genuine smile from Banallt took your breath, and this one was genuine.

Sophie kept to the corner, out of the way as King took coats, hats, and gloves. At last, though, the monstrous butler, who she knew couldn't bear to hurt any living thing, came round to her and she had no choice but to slip free of her coat. Her arms trembled. She blocked off the emotions racing through her. This was nothing. Meeting an old friend, that's all.

Wasn't this what she'd wanted all along? For Banallt to find happiness with another woman? She looked everywhere but at Banallt and Miss Llewellyn. Veins of pale pink striated the white marble floor. The windows flanking the door were mullioned in three parts, the middle pane higher than the outer ones, with diamond panes of glass. The same pink-veined marble had been used for the columns that flanked the interior entrance to the house. Overhead, cherubim rested on clouds in a domed blue sky. To the right, past the marble columns, a staircase spiraled upward. Red and white tulips filled a Chinese vase in a marble-lined niche.

“I maintain a presence here,” Banallt was saying to Vedaelin in his familiar drawl. Banallt had always been vital, and never more so than now. He was a difficult man to ignore. Sophie's heart thrummed with the force of his personality. “As well you know.” His eyes moved from the duke to John and, at last, to Sophie. She kept her distance from them and wished vehemently that she could just disappear. Oh, to have that power just once in her life. She would call on it now, to be sure.

“Miss Llewellyn,” John said. He hesitated before taking her hand and bending over it. He'd lost his usual smile, and Sophie couldn't help thinking he, too, must feel the discomfort of being here.

“Mr. Mercer, Mrs. Evans.” Miss Llewellyn was a tall girl, but slender, and of a height that went well with Banallt's. And John's, for that matter. “I'm very pleased to see you both again.” Sophie had to admit that Miss Llewellyn's manners were faultless. She turned her exquisite smile on John. She wore a white gown trimmed with pale yellow. Matching ribbons with tiny silk flowers were threaded through her dark hair. A white rosebud was pinned to her bodice. She touched the rosebud now. “Thank you for the flowers, Mr. Mercer. They were lovely.”

Flowers? Sophie looked at John, astonished.

Her brother bowed. “You're quite welcome. You were a lovely partner at supper last night.”

Miss Llewellyn's attention stayed on John. Sophie's brother was a handsome man; handsome enough that even a woman as lovely as Miss Llewellyn might look twice. But whatever had possessed him to send the young woman flowers? What a farce that would be if Miss Llewellyn fell in love with John. Banallt would never permit it. But if he did? She would be Banallt's relation.

“You brought them here for a tour of Hightower House, did you?” Banallt said easily.

“Yes, indeed,” Vedaelin said. “Mrs. Evans has embarked on a study of London architecture. I had the brilliant idea of bringing them here to see Hightower House. There is your Caravaggio and your library to show them, too.

“And here you are.” He addressed his goddaughter with rather a sharp look, Sophie thought. “Fidelia, my dear, if you wish to go to your mama, please do.”

Fidelia leaned against his arm. Her cheeks had faint spots of pink. “Are you going to show them yourself, Banallt?”

“Yes.”

“Then I'll stay with you, if that's agreeable.”

Banallt looked at Fidelia with his eyebrows raised. “Certainly,” he said.

Hightower House was beautiful beyond all Sophie's expectations. From the exquisite marble in the entrance to carved wooden walls in the corridor, the house was made to overawe. Banallt led them up the gentle spiral of the stairs and gave them a commentary on the architectural history. Inigo Jones had rebuilt the rear of the house in the previous century, and more recently, Adam had been hired for the interior.

Sophie kept a step behind the men and Miss Llewellyn, who stayed near Banallt. Although, from Sophie's vantage, she noticed the young woman looked over her shoulder at John rather too often.

The Caravaggio,
Rest on the Flight into
Egypt, hung in a drawing room three times the size of theirs at Henrietta Street. Sophie was soon lost in examining the painting. She hardly noticed when the others wandered away. She remembered when Banallt had told her he'd bought it. At the time, she'd thought he'd paid a frightful price—one that would have kept Rider Hall staffed and her in comfort for the rest of her days. The painting was lovelier than she had imagined. She could stand here for hours and not take in all there was to see. She jumped when Banallt said, “Do you admire it as much as I said you would?”

She cocked her head. “I think I do, my lord.”

“The angel reminds me of you,” he said, lifting a hand toward Caravaggio's barely draped angel. Sophie turned her head toward him, her eyebrows raised. “A compliment,” he said. “I intend it as one and it is one. Please take it as such.”