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

‘Who got into a political discussion with him one afternoon, and bought him dinner one night, so they could continue their interesting debate.’

‘And you were served up along with the chops, I gather.’

‘Not outright, but very subtly.’ Charles stopped. Something was nagging at the back of his mind. ‘There is something familiar about all of this, but I can’t quite place it.’

‘Familiar?’ Jack laughed. ‘Good Lord, if this sort of thing is familiar, then I don’t envy you.’ He rubbed his eyes and shook his head as if to clear it. ‘It’s still not a lot to go on. Even if we could find the right man, what would we do, charge him with scandalmongering?’

‘I’d find out who he works for, by God, and I’d make his life as miserable as he has made mine.’

‘It wouldn’t fix the damage already done,’ Jack said philosophically, ‘and it might send you fleeing for the continent. No,’ he mused, ‘I know I scoffed at your idea at first, but I’m beginning to think you have had the right idea all along. Ignore the rumours. If you aren’t visibly affected, maybe he’ll grow tired and move on to play games with someone else.’

‘It’s too late for that,’ said Charles.

‘No, it isn’t. Focus on your work, and your search for a wife. If everyone is discussing which lady you are courting now, they will not be talking about who you poked last year. Even if it was Amply Endowed Annie Ewing,’ he finished with a grin.

‘I’m not sure even that will save me now. The highest sticklers were already avoiding me. That—’ he gestured to the caricature ‘—may well be a killing blow.’

Jack stood, an odd gleam in his eye. ‘It has been a hard couple of years, Charles, for all of us. I would not wish to be saddled with some of the burdens you have carried. But you’ve done well.’ He approached, and clasped Charles’s shoulder. ‘It’s the perfect time for you to take a step back. Look around. Decide, once and for all, what it is that you want. What you want. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you get it.’

Jack grinned, lightening the mood. ‘But for now, you had better get home and get ready for Mother’s dinner party. She’ll shoot us both if we’re late.’

‘I forgot.’ Charles dashed back his drink and rose to shake his brother’s hand. He clasped it longer than necessary, trying to convey his gratitude and so much more. ‘Thank you, Jack.’

It started to rain as he set his tired horses for home. Charles shrugged out of his greatcoat and gave it to his ever-patient groom. He hunched his shoulders as his brother’s words echoed in his head. Decide what it is that you want.

Chapter Nine

Sophie entered Charles’s house poised for battle. If nothing else, at least she would see him, and this interminable wait would be over. She was not good at waiting, and hadn’t been since she was eight years old, and had decided that a year was long enough to wait for an uncle who was never coming. That fateful day she had shed her good-little-girl persona along with her pinafore, climbed the tallest oak in the forest, and found a tousled-haired, kindred soul at the top.

It was poetic justice, she thought as she smoothed her long gloves and twitched her gown into a more graceful fall, that Charles should reap some of the forceful nature he had helped to sow.

Sophie had brought Nell along, and, after a few whispered words of instruction, she sent her off on her covert mission. Before long she was entering the parlour on Lady Dayle’s arm, confident that she looked well, and confident that, whatever the outcome, Charles would no longer be able to ignore her.

Her poise faltered a bit when the first person she saw was her uncle. She arched a brow at the viscountess, who only grinned and urged her forward to greet him. A hostess’s duties soon called her away, and Sophie was left alone with her uncle once more. She had seen him only once since their first, distressing private interview, and that had been at Mrs Dawson’s musical evening. She had been relieved that it had been a public scene with no chance for private conversation. He asked her now if she would join him on the corner settee.

‘I’ve been hoping for a moment with you, niece.’

Sophie agreed. He looked tired, his once-handsome face pinched, as if he were in pain. Fleetingly, she wondered if her father would have resembled him as he grew older.

He didn’t waste any time. ‘I wondered if you had given thought to our last discussion?’

‘I’ve thought much on it, Uncle.’

‘And?’

Sophie breathed deep. Daringly she took his hand—it was cold and thin. ‘There was a time, sir, when I would have given anything to have received such a show of interest from you. But I’ve had to make my own way, forge my own happiness, for too long now to submit myself to anyone else’s ideas for my future.’

‘Stubborn girl! You could choose—’

‘No, sir,’ she interrupted. ‘I’m afraid we are both too wilful to get along together in the manner I think you are suggesting.’

He withdrew his hand from her grasp. ‘I’d expected as much.’ He gave her a look she thought might be regretful. ‘But I’d hoped I was wrong.’

‘I would like it if we could find our way toward some kind of relationship.’

He was silent a long time. So long she thought he might not answer at all. When he finally spoke, he avoided her eye. ‘I wondered if perhaps you remember. Did your father ever speak to you, of me, when you were a child?’

‘Yes, of course. He had your likeness in a miniature, which he often showed me. He told me tales of your childhood. He loved Cranbourne House.’ It was the earl’s principal estate, situated five and twenty miles from the small estate where Sophie had grown up. She had never seen it.

‘And, your mother?’

Still, he looked away, where Sophie could not read his face. She understood what it was he was asking. ‘She spoke fondly of you.’ Now Sophie was the one looking down at her hands in her lap. ‘It was one of the reasons I was so looking forward to living with you.’

A trill of nearby laughter distracted them both from their sombre thoughts. It was a party, after all, and life did go on, despite old hurts.

‘Well, then …’ Her uncle had recovered and was motioning someone toward them. ‘You’ll recall Mr Huxley, won’t you?’

The gentleman reached them and made his bow. Sophie and her uncle stood to greet him. She did indeed remember him—her uncle had gone out of his way to present him at Mrs Dawson’s. Sophie had wondered at it, as the two seemed as unlikely a pair as she had ever seen.

An odd, but likeable gentleman, Mr Huxley had talked at length of his map collection.

‘A pleasure to meet you again, sir.’

‘The pleasure is mine, Miss Westby. Will you take a stroll about the room with me?’

‘Yes, you young people run along,’ her uncle agreed. ‘There’s a discussion on the Corn Laws going on over there that needs my insightful input.’

The realisation struck Sophie suddenly that her uncle might be matchmaking. Nevertheless, she laid her hand on Mr Huxley’s arm and allowed him to lead her off.

‘Your uncle tells me, Miss Westby, that you have been travelling a great deal into Kent.’

‘Why, yes, I am involved in a project that takes me there every few days of late.’

‘Which roads do you travel? I’ll wager a monkey that I know a route that will shorten your travel time by at least a quarter of an hour.’

Finally dry and presentable, Charles made his entrance after most of the guests had arrived and dinner was nearly ready to be announced. He went first to his mother, to apologise for his lateness, and found her chatting with Miss Ashford.

His mother simultaneously scolded and embraced him. Miss Ashford greeted him with her customary cool courtesy. He supposed he should be grateful that she acknowledged him at all, considering the escalating scandal surrounding his name. Indeed, he was grateful, he told himself sternly. He noticed that a few of the other young ladies his mother had invited for his benefit were not to be seen. Her very presence tonight was a testimony to Miss Ashford’s loyalty and character. He resolved to devote himself to her this evening, and to firmly suppress the small part of him that wished to feel more than gratitude for his future bride.

Miss Ashford’s father, however, requested a moment of his time, and Charles could not but agree. The baron drew him aside, and gestured to the long, crowded room full of glittering guests.

‘A nice evening,’ he said. ‘Perfect mix of business and pleasure.’

‘Thank you, sir. I hope you and your family will enjoy yourselves.’

‘No doubt. Womenfolk are in alt planning that charity ball.’

Charles nodded his sympathy. Miss Ashford had indeed struck upon the idea of a charity ball, and showed more enthusiasm for it than anything he had yet seen in her. ‘It is very good of your daughter to devote herself to such works.’