Scandal (9 page)

She reared back and stared wide-eyed at him.

“Sophie Mercer Evans, you are better than her. Better than this. Go back in there. She can't compare to you. She never will.”

“I can't.” She dissolved into tears again.

He gave her to a mental count of five, and yes, the tears stopped, exactly as he knew they would. “I'll fetch your brother,” he said. “He'll take you home if that's what you want.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

In the parlor, he dispatched a footman to have Mercer's carriage brought around then found Mercer and took him aside. “I beg your pardon,” he said to Fidelia. “I need a word with Mr. Mercer.”

“What is it, my lord?” he asked.

“Your sister is ... ill.” His hesitation was yet another mistake. One of many tonight. Mercer heard it and understood quite well that some other word must have been foremost in his mind. “I've called for your carriage.”

Anger flickered in his eyes. “Bold of you, my lord.”

He grabbed Mercer's arm, hauling him farther from curious ears. “Whatever the cause, forget about Fidelia for five minutes and take your sister home. She's in no fit condition to be seen.”

Mercer took a step toward him. “What have you done?” He only just kept his voice low. “If you've harmed her, Banallt—”

He raised his hands. “I've not touched her, nor am I the cause of her distress. We barely spoke.”

“Then what is the matter?”

Banallt ought to have kept his tongue. He didn't. “For God's sake, man. One of Tommy's mistresses is here, and Sophie, God help her, knows what the woman was to her husband. Why on earth she ever loved that man, let alone loves him still, I'll never understand.”

“I do,” Mercer said sharply.

“Then I fail to comprehend why you continue to stand here instead of looking after your sister.” He ground out the words. “If you won't take her home, I shall, and I won't be responsible for the consequences of that.”

“Stay away from Sophie,” Mercer said. “Stay well away or—”

Banallt turned to see what had caught Mercer's attention. Sophie had come into the room. She'd obviously washed her face and re-pinned her hair. The two of them waited while she made her way to them.

“Is everything all right?” Mercer asked her with a hard glance at Banallt.

“Yes.” She looked up at him grave as ever she was. “I decided you were right, my lord. I'm fine, John. Nothing's the matter.”

Banallt bowed and clamped his jaws shut. “Mrs. Evans. Mr. Mercer.”

“My lord,” she said.

Mercer glared at him.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Reginald Tallboys walking toward them. Good, he thought fiercely. Let her fall in love with a decent man like Tallboys. Hell, let her complete the spell she'd cast on Vedaelin. Either man would do. If she was married to someone else, he could leave her alone. “Good night,” he said.

Eight

Number 26 Henrietta Street, London,
MARCH 16, 1815

 

 

 

SOPHIE DREAMED OF BANALLT THAT NIGHT. SHE HAD dismissed him from her life, but he was haunting her anyway. Out of sheer spite, she thought. He never did like not having his way. In her dream, Tommy had only recently died. She was poor again and living at Rider Hall, wondering how she was going to survive. The bailiff had taken away all the furniture. Rider Hall was empty, with bare windows and empty fireplaces. In reality, the house had not been stripped quite so thoroughly, but she'd felt as empty as the structure was now in her dream.

She dreamed she'd been left a single trunk in which there was nothing but a book she didn't care for, and she needed to write Banallt a note, explaining where she'd gone and what had happened. But she had no pen or ink or paper. Everything was gone. And just as she was about to cry with frustration, Banallt walked through the door, bringing with him the recollection of his lingering glances and memories of their friendship. He handed her pen, ink, and paper, and they agreed she would move into the guard tower at Castle Darmead where she could write as much as she liked. Novel after novel, if she so desired. And because she was grateful, she kissed him. For a very long time because at last she could. The kiss became more. A hungry and needy embrace. She wasn't married anymore. When they parted for air, with her trembling in his arms, he smiled and said, “Have I told you I've remarried? To Fidelia.”

Long after she'd risen in the morning, images and emotions from the dream came at her. She didn't need to write anymore, but the fact was the stories had never gone away. The difference was that now she kept them in her head rather than writing them down. As for Banallt marrying, he'd told her himself that he must. His title required it. Whoever Banallt decided to marry, she would always feel a little pang of regret, which was ridiculous. The Earl of Banallt would never be faithful.

She sat at the desk in her room on Henrietta Street and remembered all the nights she'd stayed up to write when Tommy was alive. Words that supported her. All her life, she'd made up stories. When Tommy left her without funds, she'd done the only thing she could: write her stories down. She took out paper, but instead of dashing out the history of a knight determined to reclaim his birthright, she made out a list of items the house needed and that had not been fetched from Havenwood. Paper, for one.

At half past one John came home. He burst into her room without a pause between knocking and his entry. She put down her pen. “What is it, John?”

He grinned. “You'll never guess who I've brought home with me!”

His smile was always infectious, and she smiled back. “The Prince of Wales?”

John tweaked the end of her nose. “No, Sophie. An admirer of yours.”

“John.”

“It's Vedaelin.” He put a hand on the top of her desk and leaned over her. “Change your gown. He practically invited himself here when I told him you were home.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “The Duke of Vedaelin?”

“He admires you, I tell you. Just think of it, Sophie!”

“He's a duke.”

“Get dressed. Wear that green striped gown. It's the best you've got, and the color flatters your eyes. He's already got his heir, Sophie. He is free to marry for love, and last night at Cavendish Square ... I promise you, I am not the only man to have remarked he was taken with you.”

“He's old enough to be my father, John. He's not interested in me.”

“He is, I tell you.” He tweaked her nose again. “Now get dressed.”

She pushed her brother away. “Be gone.”

“And do something with your hair.”

“Very well, John.” She made a shooing gesture. “Go.”

“Change your slippers, too.”

“Go.” She called Flora and swapped her dress for her green striped afternoon frock, even remembering at the last minute to change her slippers and tie a green ribbon in her hair. Then she went below stairs and met with the cook before she proceeded to the parlor. What if John was right and the Duke of Vedaelin wanted to court her? She wasn't sure what to think of that.

A servant brought in tea and cakes purchased from the confectioner's down the street and laid out the table. Sophie was glad to busy herself brewing tea. John's words made her look at the duke differently, and she wasn't best pleased with her brother because of it. She did find Vedaelin more than a little attractive, though. He didn't look at all his age. He might easily pass for ten years younger. He was a sensible man. Levelheaded. A bit proud, but then he was a duke, after all.

“I should like to add my thanks, Your Grace, to my brother's, for securing us such a lovely house,” she said when she'd dropped sugar into his tea.

“I'm pleased if you like it, Mrs. Evans.”

“We like it very well, thank you.”

“Mercer,” the duke said. “What plans have you to show your sister the sights?”

“Sights?” John said.

Sophie hurried to fill John's puzzled silence. “We've only just arrived, Your Grace,” she said. “We've not had time to think of seeing anything.”

“Have you not been to Bond Street yet?” Vedaelin smiled at them both. “If my memory is accurate, young women adore shopping.”

“I'm most unnatural then,” Sophie said. She kept her cup and saucer perfectly balanced. “I find shopping tedious.”

John polished off his second iced cake. “My sister is more likely to make the nearest subscription library her second home.”

“Indeed?” the duke said. Sophie couldn't tell if he approved of women who read or not. She'd not be able to write if she were married to him. The wife of a duke could never engage in something so undignified.

“I'm sure you'll be impressed with me,” she said, hiding her thoughts behind a sip of her tea. She smiled when she lowered her cup. “This morning, after you left, John, I walked as far as Oxford Street and admired the buildings along the way.” Henrietta Street backed onto Oxford Street, so she hadn't been adventurous at all. “After having seen your home, Your Grace, I'm determined to learn something of architecture. Your home is lovely.”

“Thank you.” He looked pleased at that, and so did John. She was proud of herself for managing the change of subject so deftly.

“Has there been further word of Napoleon?” she asked. The duke could not possibly care to hear of her reading habits, and if he was not the sort of man who cared for women who read, then it was best to avoid that subject. “Is it true Napoleon is in Paris already?”

“Ah,” Vedaelin said. His cup clicked against his saucer. “You are a woman of intellect, Mrs. Evans.”

Again, whether he thought that admirable or not Sophie could not guess. No matter how much John wanted it, she wouldn't pretend she was an empty-headed female without a serious thought in her mind. Really, there was no reason at all to think the duke was being anything but polite to her. “Napoleon's whereabouts and his intentions are on everyone's mind, Your Grace. Like everyone else, I wonder if we are to go to war again.”

“Yes,” John answered. “We must.”

“Such a disagreeable subject,” Vedaelin said, “when the company is so very charming.”

Sophie kept still. John's guests at Havenwood had always been political, and he'd never objected when she voiced an opinion or showed an interest in the subject. The duke had just reminded her that not all households welcomed the female point of view. “Do you think we women don't worry of such things?” she asked. “It is our sons and husbands”—she looked at John—“and our brothers who will go off to fight, after all. If there is war, not all of them will return.”

“Sophie isn't like most women, Your Grace.” John leaned over the tray of cakes and took two more. It's a wonder he wasn't fat. He wasn't at all, though. “She never has been, I'm afraid. Even as a girl, she was—” He caught himself. Sophie was certain he'd been about to call her odd. “—unique among girls.”

The duke looked at her over his cup, fingers poised to lift. “That is abundantly plain. Tell me, Mrs. Evans, do you never wish a moment's respite from the worry?”

She set aside her tea. He was a man of another generation. His ideas about women weren't very modern. “What women wish for and what reality we face are worlds apart, Your Grace. What woman can forget her worries when the lives of her loved ones are at stake? Such a state of affairs can never be far from our minds. You've done nothing but breathe the news since it was first whispered in Whitehall. But I learned of Bonaparte's escape only recently, when my brother told me. Naturally, I am curious, and anxious, to know what Britain will do in response. But, do please forgive me. You are correct. We should speak of more pleasant subjects while we may.”

Vedaelin bowed his head. “With that, I wholeheartedly agree. If you do not care for shopping and you've a mind to admire architecture, then perhaps you would enjoy touring some of the great houses of London Town. What do you think of that as a pastime, Mrs. Evans?”

“I should like that exceedingly,” she said. “In Duke's Head we have no Christopher Wren to admire, and Palladio never came to our corner of England, though we have a fine Norman church. Will you make me a list, Your Grace? I'll begin first thing tomorrow.”

John paused in his selection of another petit four. “My sister has an appallingly methodical mind, Your Grace. Give her a task, and she'll see it through and provide you a detailed report afterward. If you give her a list of houses, expect a reckoning from her of every one she's visited and her observations of them all. Fully catalogued and indexed.”

“John, really.” She smoothed her skirt.

“It's so, Sophie. Don't deny it.” He addressed the duke. “I've abused her talents horribly since she came back to Havenwood. It's why I've brought her to London this time. Without her there's no hope of my staying organized.”

The duke leaned back in his chair. “We are but a short walk from Gray Street, and there we can see Hightower House. It's a lovely day yet. Shall we go?”

“Hightower?” Sophie asked. Her heart misgave her. “Isn't that Lord Banallt's home?”

“It is.” Vedaelin nodded. “Banallt keeps other quarters in Town. Mrs. Llewellyn and her daughter are resident there for the season. The housekeeper is delighted to show the house, though, I can promise you that. Hightower is an extraordinary example of sublime architecture.” His enthusiasm for the subject was comforting. He didn't object to any and all of a woman's intellectual pursuits. “If you are to study the great homes, Hightower must be on your list. What do you say, Mrs. Evans?” He smiled, and Sophie decided that she did like the duke. “Shall we walk there and permit you to make your first ledger entry?”