The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (18 page)

Sophia dismissed the idea immediately. Mrs. Mason had far more important matters to
see to.

Besides, wasn’t such a task meant to be something every lady of the ton performed
without issue? Sophia
realized with acute irritation that the revelation did little to help.

Sophia looked up from the letter and stared out the window into the approaching night.
She did love Langdon—it would be impossible not to love the man. Then why was she
suddenly struggling to make sense of something she’d hardly ever considered before?

She scribbled mindlessly while rereading the list of complaints. A lady could do much
worse than to suffer such, of course.

Sophia dropped the quill and savagely blew out one of the two candles lighting the
room. She allowed the
gloaming to settle about her and soothe her contradictory mind.

Sophia set down the quill and took up the letter, folding the paper until it was no
bigger than a quail’s egg.

“And yet,” she repeated out loud, pulling open the small drawer of the desk that housed
her unused quills and depositing the letter within.

Such a silly turn of phrase—as if one could forget every
truth that had been before in favor of newly unearthed findings.

Sophia slowly closed the drawer, watching the letter disappear into the desk.

Truths were far more complex. Hardly the sort of information to be sorted out according
to one’s wishes.

13

“You cannot be serious.”

Nicholas stopped just inside the door of his apartment and stared with stunned disbelief
at the transformation before him.

Mouse bumped into him. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Bourne,” he apologized, circling
around Nicholas’s still figure to stand next to him. “Whoa, looks like something from
a story my mother used to tell me. ‘Arabian Nights’ it was.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Nicholas asked absentmindedly, distracted as he continued to
stare at the changes to what was once his comfortably shabby home.

“Singh,” he called out, a growing irritation adding to his already tense nerves.

Mr. Singh appeared from behind a flowing orange silk drape that now divided the entryway
from the rooms beyond, Langdon at his side. “Welcome home, sahib. And to you as well,
young Mouse.”

He was dressed in a deep umber tunic and loose breeches that were decidedly not British.
His turban was snowy white and exactly matched the impressive teeth displayed in his
ear-to-ear smile.

“Perhaps you would tell me what the hell happened to my apartment,” Nicholas snarled,
looking about at the elaborate paintings of Hindu gods that now adorned the walls
before walking in the general direction of the
drawing room. “Should I be wary of elephants? A monkey or two, perhaps? Did you have
something to do with this, brother?”

Nicholas realized he was only marginally joking about the animals and stepped lightly
as he made his way to the drawing room. He tossed his hat on a new and overly bright
settee before pouring himself a drink from the crystal decanter on the side table.

“I’m afraid I cannot take any of the credit,” Langdon replied, settling easily on
one end of the settee.

“Sahib, do not be foolish,” Singh answered as he and Mouse followed. “There are no
monkeys to be found in London.”

Nicholas considered asking Singh if he’d actually gone looking, but decided it was
best not to know the answer. “All right, then, no monkeys—thank God. That leaves the
rest of this.” He gestured at the room.

“Surely it is obvious, sahib,” Singh replied, removing Nicholas’s discarded hat from
the settee and crossing the room to place it on an ornate goddess hat rack. “If you
would like, though, I would be most pleased to explain.”

“Yes, I would like,” Nicholas said, carrying his drink to the settee and sitting down
next to his brother. “Blast, Singh, this sofa is overstuffed. And it does not bear
the imprint of my body as the other did.”

“I believe you meant to say it is stuffed, as the previous sofa appeared to have been
stripped of any padding necessary for it to be comfortable,” Langdon interjected,
taking Nicholas’s glass from his hand and pouring the brandy into a potted plant near
his end of the sofa.

Singh crossed the room to join Mouse. The boy was apparently struck speechless. He
stared wide-eyed at the colorful, sumptuous, exotic splendor of the room’s furnishings.
“But you are correct, sahib. It is very unlike its predecessor.

“Now, young Mouse,” Singh continued, turning his attention to the boy. “You may go
downstairs and assist Mrs. Clark, the new cook, with preparations for the evening
meal. And I believe you will find sweet sugar biscuits. Ask before taking one. Cook
has a temper,” the man warned, then shooed the boy from the room.

“Cook?” Nicholas wondered aloud, absentmindedly accepting the now empty glass from
Langdon. “I have a cook?”

Mr. Singh nodded pleasantly. “Ah yes, sahib. You see, when I asked whether the maid
knew how to prepare curry, she became very offended and informed me that she neither
knew how to cook curry nor anything else. I apologized profusely for the misunderstanding,
upon which she was kind enough to explain the English servant system.”

“Maid?” Nicholas snarled.

“Oh yes, sahib. Her name is Molly,” Singh continued. “A very pleasant young woman—though
I find it odd that your English servants appear to be rather limited in their abilities.
Still, I did not think it wise to attempt any alterations of the current accepted
practices. And so you have a cook.”

“All because of curry?” Nicholas asked.

“Precisely.”

Nicholas held the glass out and waited for Singh to take it. “And does this cook know
how to prepare the dish?”

“No,” Singh admitted with patent disappointment. “Once she has settled in, I will
teach her. As I mentioned, she has a temper …”

“Most cooks do,” Langdon offered sotto voce, earning a brotherly punch to the arm.

“And the redecorating? Was that done in the name of curry as well?”

“Sahib, have you forgotten everything of your time in India?”

“Yes, brother, tell us—”

Nicholas held up a hand in warning to Langdon. “Singh, I have talked more in the last
week than I did the whole of last year. Please, just explain all of this.”

“Very well, sahib,” the man replied simply, then took a seat across from Nicholas
and Langdon. “One cannot reside in a home that does not nurture the soul and revitalize
the spirit.”

“And my old furniture did not accomplish this nurturing business?”

“No, sahib,” Singh answered, shaking his head slowly. “It was old and neglected. Sad
and in ill-repair. Such things cannot feed the soul nor the body.”

Nicholas could not shake the sense that Singh was drawing parallels between him and
the shabby former contents of the apartment. “Well, there is little to be done about
it now. Let us renew and revitalize—or whatever the hell this is meant to do. How
did you pay for all …” he waved a hand in a gesture that encompassed the room “… this?”

“Oh, that was quite simple, sahib—more so than I thought it would be. The maid told
me to procure the cook using your name. When that proved successful, I did the same
at the shops where I found the wares you see before you.”

Langdon chuckled.

“Of course you did,” Nicholas answered dryly. “And my room? You left it untouched,
yes?”

“Oh yes, sahib,” Singh said, disappointment in his voice. “The finery for your chamber
will not be delivered until the end of the week. I apologize, sahib, but we must be
patient.”

“That is one way of looking at things, Singh,” Nicholas
replied. “Not necessarily what immediately comes to mind. Still, an option.”

His friend smoothly rose from the sofa as if levitating by the power of goodness and
well intentions alone. “Now I will go and see how our young Mouse is coming along.”

Nicholas watched Singh float from the room, then turned his attention to his brother.
“And you? Making a habit of dropping in, are we?”

“Should I concoct an elaborate story,” Langdon asked, “or simply start with the truth?”

Nicholas scrubbed at his jaw. “Do save me the time.”

“It’s to do with Maplethorpe.”

“Of course it is,” Nicholas groaned. It wasn’t enough that he’d poured out his bloody
heart to Sophia on the street an hour before. Now he was expected to endure a tongue-lashing
from Langdon.

And one he rightly deserved.

“I understand you were inebriated,” Langdon began with caution.

“I believe I might save us both a bit of time,” Nicholas announced, standing and stalking
to the side table. “Let me see, where were we … Ah yes, I was inebriated—bloody good
and inebriated, in fact. I started the quarrel with Maplethorpe and he did everything
within his power to end it peaceably.”

Nicholas paused to pour himself a large glass from the decanter and took a drink.
“I wasn’t having any of it, you see.”

“And what was the quarrel about?” Langdon asked, settling back onto the comfortable
cushions of the sofa.

Nicholas took a second drink and thought for a moment. “Do you know, I’ve no idea.
Doesn’t matter, really. There are times when a man simply needs to fight for no good
reason.”

Langdon furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”

“You would not understand, Langdon,” Nicholas replied, tossing back the rest of the
brandy. “Because we’re not alike—not at all. And the sooner you stop trying to reform
me, the better.”

He’d relented earlier, on the street with Sophia. He’d given in and been honest because
he wanted to think it would mean something to her.

He poured himself another brandy and finished it in one swallow.

“Is that what you’re doing now?” Langdon asked in a somber tone. “Are you in need
of a fight?”

Nicholas picked up his glass and the decanter, then moved to quit the room. “Stop
being so damn insightful, brother. It makes the rest of us rather pale in comparison.”