Regency Rebels: Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss / An Improper Aristocrat

Shaking, Sophie rose. It was the first time he had ever called her by her name. Her anger fled, leaving her aching and empty inside. With a barely audible farewell she hurried out and up the stairs. The lilacs mocked her as she entered her room and flung herself upon the bed. First Charles and now her uncle—who would ever have guessed that getting all the things she thought she wanted would be so horribly disappointing?

She cried then, hard, racking sobs for the little girl who had only wanted someone to love her, and for the grown woman still searching.

Lord Cranbourne watched her leave. He turned and stalked out to his waiting carriage, fiercely ignoring the pain once again radiating down his left arm.

The chit was going to be a problem. He had enough trouble this spring chasing after a political appointment that should have come easily, and, far more worrying, dealing with his own body’s betrayal. Throw a headstrong brat into the brew and he might not be able to vouch for the outcome.

Inconstancy. Unpredictability. He was unused to such, yet they seemed suddenly pervasive, hanging thick in the air, obscuring his vision, fouling his plans. He was a man used to being in a position of strength, of knowing all the variables in myriad situations and understanding ahead of time where the players were connected and how the final act would play out.

In a world where knowledge was power, he was a very powerful man indeed, albeit, as he had hinted to his niece, behind the scenes. For most of his life it had been enough, but lately, when faced with these reminders of his mortality, he found he wanted more. He wanted just a bit of the glory and recognition due him, and he wanted it with a fierceness that surprised even himself.

Now he stood on the verge of gaining his objective and his carefully laid plans were fragmenting. He clenched his fist to his chest against another pain and cursed out loud. He was not going to go down without a fight.

When the carriage rocked to a stop, Cranbourne stepped down on to Green Street and walked gingerly up the stairs. He’d feel better after a good stiff drink. He left his coat with a footman, and calling for his secretary, headed for his study.

‘You’re sure that message went off to Philadelphia as planned?’ he asked the compact, extremely efficient man.

‘Indeed, yes, sir.’

‘And we can expect a reply, when?’

‘Two weeks … maybe three at this time of year.’

Cranbourne grunted. Three weeks. He was glad he’d had the foresight to send his inquiries earlier. Judging by the obstinate look on his niece’s face, he might need some help from that direction.

‘If I may, sir? You have a visitor in your study.’

‘Wren, is it?

‘No, sir. It is Mr Huxley.’

‘What? Old Huxley, here?’ he paused outside the study door.

‘No, sir, the young gentleman with the maps, if you will remember?’

Cranbourne wrinkled his brow and longed for that drink and a few minutes of peace. Serious matters were afoot. He needed to think. ‘Maps? Oh, yes.’ He sighed. He’d done a favour for a very useful friend, and hired one of his sons to do some detailed survey work. Heaving a sigh, he went in.

‘Lord Cranbourne, sir.’ The young man rose, blinking like an owl from behind a thick set of spectacles. ‘I have good news. The project is completed.’

But inspiration had hit Lord Cranbourne just as the mid-afternoon sun glinted off Mr Huxley’s dishevelled blond hair. The boy was the right age, tall, shaped well, and easy enough to look at if he would lose the barnacles. ‘Good, good,’ the old man said as he took the papers the puppy handed him. He barely glanced at them. ‘Yes, you’ll do. Sit down, my boy.’ Cranbourne sank gratefully into his own chair.

‘You will find the map completely updated, sir. I walked practically every inch of Lancashire myself. Every lane, farmer’s track and footpath is noted.’ He handed over another folder. ‘The only thing missing, I dare say—’ he smiled ‘—is who is on the roads at present.’

‘Yes, very thorough,’ agreed Cranbourne, but his mind was racing. Perfect. At the least, young Huxley would serve as a very creditable distraction, but if matters came to a head between his niece and himself, then the man might be more useful yet.

‘Here’s the additional information you requested as well: innkeepers and way-station holders in the district, and what I could find on meeting places, debating societies and reformist connections.’

‘Excellent. Tell me, do you go out into society much, Mr Huxley?’

The boy blinked again, startled. ‘No, sir.’

‘It’s time you started, then. How many years have you, three score?’

‘Just eight and twenty, sir, but I fail to see how this relates to the project you hired me for.’

‘I’ve got a new project in mind. Got a niece coming out this Season. I could use a good man like you to squire her about a bit, ask her to dance, take her for a drive now and then.’

‘I hadn’t really thought to …’

‘Nonsense. The girl’s a beauty, educated; she’s just new to town and doesn’t know many people in society. You can’t stay a bachelor for ever, sir. I thought to give you first crack at her.’

‘You do me an honour, sir, but I have given no thought to taking a wife at present.’

‘Oh, well.’ Cranbourne shrugged. ‘The chit’s got no money, unfortunately, but I’d be disposed to look kindly upon her husband. To be his patron, perhaps.’ He gazed shrewdly at the young man. ‘I belong to a committee of importance or two, you see, and I had thought to propose a few more mapping expeditions. Who knows what might come of it? A project encompassing the entire island, perhaps.’

Mr Huxley blinked once more. ‘Perhaps if I just met her, sir.’

Chapter Six

The day of the proposed expedition to Sevenoaks dawned bright, with a slight crispness in the air that boded well for comfortable temperatures later. The company gathered early in Bruton Street and quickly separated into travelling groups. Lady Dayle elected to ride with Emily, her husband and their little boy in the closed carriage. Jack enticed Sophie into his showy cabriolet. Two more carriages, carrying servants, the baby’s nurse, and the picnic, stood waiting. And Charles? He stood on the steps, suppressing a sigh as his own smart curricle rounded the corner, heading back to the mews.

‘I don’t mean to be a bother, Lord Dayle,’ Miss Ashford assured him again, ‘but a journey of several hours in that contraption? And all the way back, too? I’m not sure Mama would approve.’ She gave him an arch look. Charles had the impression that it was meant to be flirtatious.

Charles smiled at her. ‘I would gladly give up the chance to drive my bays in exchange for the pleasure of your company, Miss Ashford. We are very glad you could join us today.’

She thanked him with pretty words, but her eyes did not meet his. In fact, Miss Ashford was directing a look of displeasure somewhere else entirely.

It was a man who drew her attention, a battered-looking man in a ragged regimental coat. He walked slowly towards the group, until he was a few feet from Jack’s rig. There he stopped, snatched his hat from his head and spoke in urgent tones too low for Charles to hear.

‘I’m sure I feel all the pity that is due someone like that, and the compassion for which my own gender is known,’ Miss Ashford said in an equally low voice, ‘but I cannot think Mayfair a suitable place for him to wander. Should you do something, my lord?’

‘I am confident that Jack will handle the matter appropriately,’ Charles answered. And, indeed, he saw his brother reach for his purse. He was stalled by Sophie, who leaned down to speak with the grizzled veteran. Clearly startled to be so addressed, the soldier answered her. Sophie continued to speak—indeed, it looked as if she were questioning the man closely. Soon she reached into her reticule, pulled out a scrap of paper and scribbled something on it.

The open barouche arrived just then, and Charles, busy handing Miss Ashford in, missed the end of the strange encounter. He gave the order for the party to set off, and noticed as they drove past the unfortunate man that he clutched the paper tight in his hand and stared after the departing Sophie with a look of dazed surprise.

Charles could not know what she had said to the man, but he recognised that vacant look. It was an expression commonly seen in Sophie’s vicinity. He’d worn it himself more times than he could count.

She was a force of nature, his Sophie, and he suspected that her power, like her beauty, had only grown with her. Just look what had happened at Lady Edgeware’s ball. A few minutes alone with her and he had forgotten his role. Forgotten his debt. Let down his guard and laughed like he hadn’t since Phillip had died.

She fascinated him, yet he was terrified of her. She knew him too well. So easily she had discovered the chinks in his armour. He could never let her look inside. She might discover that there was nothing left underneath.

They would be friends, he had told her, though they both felt that spark, that potential for more. It was that instantaneous jolt he felt in her presence, perhaps, that sizzling reminder that a man did indeed exist under the viscount’s shell, that frightened him most of all.

Because she was still Sophie. Still outrageous, outspoken and slightly out of step with the rest of the world. They were qualities he had always enjoyed in her—now they were the very reason he must avoid her.

He had already lived life his own way, for his own pleasure, ignoring the strictures of society, and what had it got him? Only a hellish reputation at first, but too quickly followed by a dead brother, a dead father, a lifetime of remorse and a title that he hadn’t ever wanted.

He’d never coveted the viscountcy, but he was saddled with it now, and it came with an enormous debt to repay. It was clear that, if he ever meant to pay that debt, sacrifices were required, the first and greatest of which was his freedom.