Scandal (6 page)

Mercer crossed his arms over his chest. “Perhaps you think that during my sister's marriage, we knew nothing of her life. That is far from the case. Your name was connected with Tommy Evans's. I followed your life of scandal because I followed Tommy's. I have more than a small suspicion of the reason Sophie came home so altered. And that reason is closely connected with your name.”

“I am not responsible for the state of their marriage. He made her unhappy long before I met her. Long before I met Tommy Evans, as well. I assure you, I am not responsible for his decision to elope with your sister. I didn't know the man until after he was married.” Because, quite frankly, Tommy Evans hadn't had the money to enter his circle until after he'd secured Sophie's fortune. “Neither did I influence his decision to live in London while she remained at Rider Hall.”

“And yet, as I say, she refused you at Havenwood, my lord.”

“Your point?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps you do love her. I can't know what's in your heart. But she does not love you. If she did, she would not have turned you away.”

“You say she is not unaffected by me. That observation is correct. When I went to Havenwood, I had not seen your sister in quite a long time.” He chose his words carefully. “Not seen nor corresponded with. Am I to have but one chance to convince her of my desire to make her my countess?” He looked Mercer in the eye. “Is that a connection you can afford to turn away?”

Mercer's eyes turned hard. “My lord, I cannot with any conscience at all support your pursuit of her.”

He, too, looked at the roses. “Have I a rival already?” he asked.

“No one who's declared himself, if that's what you mean.”

Well. And so. He wasn't blockheaded about who this potential rival might be. “I'm to be thrown over for Vedaelin? Yes,” he said bitterly. “An earl in the hand may well be thrown over for the prospect of a duke.”

“When you came to Havenwood, I thought you two had quarreled.” Mercer looked at him from under his lashes. “As lovers sometimes will.”

“Sophie was never my lover.” And not for want of his desiring that it should be so.

“And yet you make free with her given name.” Mercer's eyes flashed. “You look at her as if you want to devour her. With a rake's eyes. Do you think me so rustic I am easily fooled by London manners and a lofty title?”

“This is absurd.”

“I was willing to let you apologize and put yourself into her good graces. You did not. Having seen firsthand her reaction to you, I believe you cannot.”

“That's something your sister ought to decide.” Banallt smothered his outrage. Mercer was a reasonable man, he knew that. As calculating as he was himself. Moreover, he believed he was acting in his sister's best interest. And that, ironically, they had in common. “You say you know she's not the girl who eloped with Tommy Evans. I say you don't understand the woman she is.”

“I hope, sir, that if you meet my sister socially, you will do nothing to upset her.”

Banallt realized then that Mercer expected him to bring up Fidelia. He should. He ought to bring to bear every weapon at his command. Before Sophie he would not have hesitated. Now? Threatening Mercer in such a fashion was, alas, too despicable. “We are bound to meet; you know that.”

“But you are not bound to acknowledge your acquaintance with her.”

He drew himself up. He'd had enough of this arrogant puppy. “That's presumptuous of you, Mercer.”

“Lord Banallt.” Mercer scowled. “I very much regret to tell you that you are not welcome here. Nor will you be if you call again. I won't have her miserable, and misery is all she will ever have from you.” He walked to the parlor door and opened it. “Good day, my lord.”

Six

Cavendish Square
,
London
,
MARCH 14, 1815

 

 

 

THE DUKE'S HOME ON CAVENDISH SQUARE WAS EVERY bit as grand as Sophie expected. The ducal coronet was carved in the stone above the door. The entranceway was white marble with columns and a staircase to the upper floors. An enormous arrangement of roses spread a delicious scent through the air. A butler dressed in black from his coat to his breeches answered the door and gravely accepted John's coat and hat and Sophie's coat and muff. “This way, Mr. Mercer, ma'am.”

They followed a liveried footman into the depths of the house. The servant wore a gray wig and forest green livery worked with gold flowers and silver braid. His heeled shoes clicked on the marble floor. The murmur of conversation grew louder as they proceeded down the corridor.

“John,” she whispered when they were shown into a salon with angels cavorting on the ceiling. She came to a halt inside the doorway. Brilliantly dressed men and women filled the room. “You said this was a small party. An intimate one.”

Her brother patted her arm. “It is small.” He laughed. “For His Grace. There'll be even more guests after we've dined.”

“There must be forty people here.” In all her life, she'd never been at a party half as large. Before her marriage, she'd been too young to attend her father's gatherings. Judging from the bills that came her way, Tommy did his entertaining in London.

“You see?” His mouth turned up at the corners. “An intimate supper.” He raised a hand to acknowledge someone across the room. “Let's find Vedaelin and get you formally introduced, Sophie.”

Sophie pushed away her nerves and smiled. She knew the value of an entrance, and while she didn't expect to make a grand one, neither did she wish to be seen as timid or embarrassed. John needed her to make a good impression, and she intended to do so. Her gown was more than appropriate for a woman of her age and station in life, and John had brought their mother's diamonds from the vault at Havenwood. Her mother had let her wear them once and they'd made her feel beautiful. She wasn't an antidote by any means, but she had almost nothing of her mother's looks about her. At least the diamonds helped.

The duke's guests had separated into distinct groups. In one corner of the room several people were gathered around a gentleman playing the mandolin. He was quite good. Others sat on chairs or sofas; still others stood in conversation, some serious, from the looks of it, others not in the least. One day she would write a story in which her heroine came to London. Her villain would be first seen leaning against a wall, examining every female to enter with a haughty expression.

“There he is. What luck! With everyone you ought to meet.” John's hand tightened on hers, and she hung back at the pressure of his grip.“This is important, Sophie,” he said. “Most of the men you're about to meet run Britain.” He touched the tip of her nose. “So, Sophie, please. On your best behavior. No outrageous opinions.”

“John, I'm not a child who needs to be reminded of her manners.”

“Your Grace,” John said when they reached a group of gentlemen standing at the side of the parlor. Sophie scanned the gentlemen for John's patron. She knew the Duke of Vedaelin was fifty-six. She imagined him gray haired or nearly so, soft about the middle, but with a gravitas to tell the world he was a duke. She would not have been surprised to find he still wore a wig. So many older gentlemen did. None of the men here wore wigs, and the portly ones—there were a few—were too young, too old, or not grand enough. She'd looked up the duke in
DeBrett's
months ago when John first began talking to her of his political ambitions, and so she knew His Grace was the third duke, a widower with three sons. His heir was finishing at Oxford, the second son just beginning, and the third recently commissioned to the navy.

“Ah,” said a voice from somewhere in the back of the group. “Is that you at last, Mercer?”

The men closest to John and her moved aside, and a whip-thin man whose dark hair was tipped with gray came forward. He had swarthy skin, as if somewhere in his past was an Italian or perhaps a Spaniard. He was a slender man with dark eyes. He had reached that age, that maturity of life in which he seemed ageless as older men so often were. They clasped hands. “Yes, Your Grace,” John said. He tugged on Sophie's arm. “I've brought my sister to meet you, as promised.”

“Mrs. Evans,” the duke said. He reached for her gloved hand. She curtseyed, and when she'd straightened, the duke continued to hold her hand. He didn't look anywhere near his age.

“Your Grace. Thank you so much for the lovely flowers you sent to Henrietta Street.”

Vedaelin's smile was warm yet did little to dispel his penetrating gaze. He reminded Sophie of a hawk, and a hungry one at that. John was six feet tall, and Vedaelin was only an inch or two shorter. He was decidedly handsome. “You are the sister of whom I've heard so much.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” John said. He made the formal introduction and Sophie curtseyed, again, aware the other gentlemen among the duke's companions were staring, some with open curiosity.

“Mrs. Evans,” Vedaelin said, taking her hand in both of his. The lines of his face bespoke experience, a man who'd seen too much of life not to understand his place in it and the consequences of the power he wielded. “Shame on you, Mercer. You never mentioned your sister was a beauty.”

“What?” John's eyebrows headed for the ceiling. He grinned. “Do you mean Sophie? My sister?” He ended on a note of feigned incredulity.

“Of course I mean your sister. A more compelling woman I've never met.” He shot an amused glance at John then returned his attention to her, continuing to hold Sophie's hand. “Or have you another beautiful sister hidden away somewhere?”

Rather than greet her and let her go, which Sophie had expected, Vedaelin brought her into the circle of gentlemen. There were more than she'd initially thought. Two or three had been standing in the shadow of a column, and she simply hadn't seen them when they approached. Her heart tripped, because one of the gentlemen was Banallt, and he was watching her intently.

Her reaction to seeing him shook her confidence. John looked at her, and she realized she'd taken a sharp breath. “What is it?” he asked softly.

“Nothing.” Their meeting again was bound to happen. She just hadn't thought it would be so soon. She didn't believe in Banallt's disappointment over her, if even he had been so affected. All the same, her heart beat faster. His effect on her had not altered. Vedaelin began to introduce her.

Male eyes moved from her brother to her. She kept her smile. The contrast between her and John was striking, she knew. He so tall and dark with his curls and green eyes, and she... well. She was quite the opposite. John had always been the beauty of the family.

Though her attention stayed on the duke, or the man to whom he introduced her, Sophie remained aware of Banallt. She'd never seen him in a social setting before. Her previous interactions with him had been exclusively at Rider Hall. He looked splendid and very much at ease.

The earl wore buff trousers tonight, cashmere and very daring. His burgundy coat was cut rather long in the back. His waistcoat was striped gold and cream, his black cravat tied
à la Mathematique
across pure white linen. He'd already tugged on it enough to destroy the symmetry required of the knot. That about him had not changed.

Cabinet ministers, nearly all of them. One of the gentlemen was Major William Haggart of the Guard Dragoons. He was, Sophie knew, a close friend of Banallt's and had already shaken hands with John. He leaned heavily on an ebony cane as he waited to be introduced to her. He'd been wounded at the battle of Salamanca and was lucky, Sophie knew from Banallt first, but later from John, to have kept his leg.

“Major Haggart,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”

He bowed over her hand, leaning heavily on his cane as he did so. “I assure you, the pleasure is mine, Mrs. Evans. We admire your brother immensely, you know.”

Banallt was the last to be introduced.

She curtseyed to Banallt after Vedaelin presented her. She spoke without any inflection to betray the pounding of her heart. As always, his eyes trapped hers with that dark silver gaze. He did not reach for her hand, nor did she offer hers. Best not to. “A pleasure to see you again, my lord.”

He bowed, a slight nod of his head, as cold and haughty as she'd expected of the duke. Seeing Banallt like this, among his peers, disturbed her. It made her feel she'd misjudged him, or that he'd deceived her all this time, pretending to be barely acceptable company rather than a man others held in esteem. “Mrs. Evans.”

What a cold, cold voice. She was not used to that from him, either. Silence fell, one of those awkward moments that sometimes happen. She was too aware of John watching her and of Banallt's gaze on her, and she was deathly afraid she'd say the wrong thing. Banallt's face might lack any semblance of warmth, but that didn't stop him from being outrageously handsome. “Are you well, my lord?” she asked.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said. He looked bored. Excessively bored. And why wouldn't the infamous Lord Banallt be bored by a woman as undistinguished as she was? She felt she was confronted by a stranger. The man she'd known at Rider Hall was not this man. Not at all. She turned away only to be stopped by a question. “I know you've always wanted see the City. Are you enjoying London now that you're here at last, Mrs. Evans?”

For all his cold demeanor toward her, he wasn't going to pretend they had a small acquaintance. Just as well. Others always knew more than one expected. Best not to make a secret of it. His association with Tommy had been well-known. She turned back. “I've not seen much of Town, but yes, thank you.”