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

‘I suppose I must demonstrate a higher standard of character,’ Charles said with a wry twist of a grin.

‘Higher than what?’ Jack laughed suddenly and the tension in the room became a little more bearable. ‘That wasn’t really you climbing out of the old jade’s window?’

‘Good Lord, no! I’m willing to sacrifice a good deal in the name of politics, but that’s taking the matter too far. In any case, I believe she only flirts with us young bucks to stir her husband up, to get his attention off the quarter of a million military men set adrift with no pensions and back on her. But she’s evidently gone too far this time.’

Charles scrubbed a hand across his brow while he thought. ‘Still, I have to admit this was a master stroke. Whoever is behind this is clever. They’ve negated months of work, and done it by painting me with my own brush. All with no hint of his own identity or agenda.’

‘Someone doesn’t like the influence you’ve begun to gain. How do we track the whoreson down?’

‘First I’m going to find the baseborn idiot who wrote that piece for the Oracle. Whether he wants to or not, he’s going to tell me who his sources are. But it’s not going to be enough to find out which coward is behind this. The damage is done.’ He moved back to the window and gazed out at the gathering intensity of the storm. ‘I’m going to have to give them all something better to talk about.’

Jack nearly choked on his drink. ‘Better than sex and scandal? There isn’t anything the ton loves better.’

‘Oh, yes, there is, little brother.’

‘What?’ Jack demanded as an enormous branch of lightning split the sky.

Into the brief moment of calm, Charles spoke. ‘Marriage.’

His brother’s jaw dropped. Thunder broke open in the heavens. The house shuddered.

‘Marriage? To whom?’ Jack managed to ask.

‘To the most priggish lady you can drag up from the muck of the ton, I should imagine.’ Charles shrugged. ‘It seems clear that the only way I will ever live down the excesses of my past is to secure the dullness of my future. I don’t know, draw up a list. Only the primmest and most proper to be considered. I’ll marry the one at the top.’

Thunder throbbed through the house once more. The windows shook in their frames. Behind them their father’s portrait rattled off its moorings, crashed into the mantel, and flipped face down in front of the fire.

Chapter Two

Her step light, her portfolio swinging and her maid scurrying to keep up, Sophie Westby strode through Cheapside. A gusting wind swept past in brisk imitation of the traffic in the streets, whipping her skirts and challenging the knot holding her bonnet. Sophie raised her chin, breathed deep of the pungent air and grinned in delight. London might be dirty, occasionally rank, and surprisingly lacking in colour, but it was also a huge, bubbling cauldron of life.

After years of quiet country living and near isolation, Sophie’s own life was suddenly beginning to simmer. Furniture design had long been her passion, and in an effort to ease her dearest friend Emily Lowder’s unusually long and difficult confinement, she had indulged them both with an extensive nursery project. It had been a smashing success. They’d had such fun and Emily had been so enchanted with the result, she had quickly swept Sophie up into a redesign of her dark and cluttered drawing rooms. The new suite had been unveiled at little Edward Lowder’s birthday celebration and, to Sophie’s chagrin, the room had nearly eclipsed the cherubic infant.

The grandest lady of the neighborhood, Viscountess Dayle, had been most impressed. Lady Dayle had run an assessing eye over both the new room and its designer, and in a bewilderingly sudden turn of events, she had them all established in town for the Season and for a large, mysterious design project.

Almost before Sophie could catch her breath, she found herself out of Blackford Chase, ensconced in the Lowders’ London home, and finally encouraged to pursue her design work. The result was one ecstatic young lady.

A young lady who perhaps should not have left her coach behind, stuck in the snarl of vehicles blocked by an overturned coal cart. Against her maid’s protests Sophie had climbed down, left instructions with the driver and set off on foot. And she could not bring herself to regret the decision. Walking was so much more intimate. She felt a part of the city rather than a bystander.

‘Paper! The Augur!’ The newsboy hefting his heavy sack of papers looked perhaps ten years old. He had inked-smeared hands, a scrupulously clean face, and eyes that made Sophie’s fingers positively itch for a pencil. An old soul smiled hopefully out of that young face.

‘Paper, miss? Only sixpence and full of society’s latest doin’s.’ He spotted a pair of well-dressed young ladies emerging from a shop across the street and waved his paper high to get their attention. ‘Paper! The Augur! More exciting tales of the Wicked Lord Dayle!’

He could not have used a more enticing lure. Sophie promptly bought a copy, then turned to Nell, the maid assigned to her from the Lowders’ town staff. ‘Will you tuck this away in your bag, Nell, just until we get home?’

The maid looked startled. Sophie smiled at her. ‘I promise to share as soon as I’ve finished.’

Gossip was like gold below stairs, and Sophie knew she had an ally when Nell, her face alight with mischief, took the paper and shoved it under the mending in her bag. The newsboy flashed them both a gap-toothed smile, then a cheeky wink. Nell giggled, but Sophie caught herself unthinkingly reaching for her sketchbook.

No. Not this time. She took a tighter grip on her portfolio and firmly set herself back to the task at hand: reaching the shop of a particularly well-recommended linen draper.

It was a scene that she had replayed with herself countless times in the past week. With so much history, so much energy and so many human dramas unfolding about her, the temptation to put it all down on paper was nearly overwhelming. From the towering glory of the churches, to the saucy curve of the newsboy’s cheek, to the flutter of the fine ladies’ dresses, London was full of sights, textures, and subtle images that she longed to capture in her sketchbook.

But she did not intend to succumb to the temptation. Sketching meant taking a step back, imposing a distance, becoming an observer, and Sophie Westby was done with being an observer.

Fate had finally smiled upon her and she meant to make the most of it. That was one reason why today’s errand was so important. Though she as yet had no idea what project Lady Dayle had in mind, Sophie intended to dazzle her. Themes, colour schemes, and any number of preparatory steps could be readied ahead of time and individualised later. When the time came Sophie would be ready with an array of ideas and choices that would quickly highlight the viscountess’s tastes. And when the project was complete, she vowed, Lady Dayle would have reason to be proud.

Sophie could do no less for the woman who had been so kind and generous. And indeed, Lady Dayle had no true idea just how much her kindness had meant, for she could not know that in the very act of bringing her to London, she had brought Sophie that much closer to two of her most heartfelt desires.

First, of course, were the incredible opportunities that could arise from a London project. She smiled when she remembered thinking that Emily’s drawing room had been such a coup. As wonderful as that had turned out, it was as nothing compared to what exposure to the ton’s finest might do. So much might be accomplished if her designs were well received.

Second, and somehow more importantly, Lady Dayle had placed Sophie squarely in a position where she might see Charles again. Her pulse leaped at the thought.

She wondered what Lady Dayle knew of their relationship—but perhaps relationship was the wrong word. Friendship, then, because he had indeed been her friend. Her friend, her companion, her confidante, the knight of her youth.

Anticipation brought a secret smile to her face when she thought of the paper hidden in Nell’s bag. How she loved to read of his exploits. Through the years she had followed his nefarious career with the same glee that she had felt hearing of his schoolboy stunts. She could scarcely wait to tease every scandalous detail from him. It was her favourite fantasy; the pair of them, reunited, sharing laughter and dreams just as they had used to do.

Sophie had always known that some day they would meet again. But now that the distant promise had become a near certainty, she found that it had gained new significance.

How had he changed? What would he have to say to her? Sophie knew she stood at a crossroads in her life, a rare point filled with promise and possibilities ahead. Yet she also knew that she would not be able to settle to any one of them until she had the answers to those questions.

‘Miss!’ came a gasp from behind her. ‘Is it very much farther, miss?’ Nell sounded breathless. Apparently Sophie’s pace had quickened along with her thoughts.

‘Not much farther, I don’t believe.’

For Nell’s sake she slowed her steps and resolved to keep her mind off of the distant past and the uncertain future, and firmly on the task in the present.

It proved easier than she might have imagined, for Cheapside was a treat for the senses, populated as it was with all manner of shops and craftsmen. Sophie wrinkled her nose at the hot smell at the silversmiths, and again at the raw scent of fresh dye at the cloth weavers. She marvelled at the crowded windows of the engravers, but it wasn’t until she reached the tea merchant’s shop that she came to a delighted stop.

The merchant had at one time been blessed with a bowed shop window, but the area had been converted, or inverted, and now held a charming little protected alcove. Like a miniature Parisian café, it held a small table, meant, she supposed, for customers to sit and experience some exotic new flavour before they parted with their coin. It was the seating, in fact, which had so caught Sophie’s attention.

‘Nell, just look at those chairs. If I’m not mistaken, those are true Restoration pieces, sitting right out in the street! Yes,’ she said, rushing forward to stroke one lovingly. ‘The Portuguese arch. Oh, and look, Nell, you must hold my portfolio while I examine the pé de pincel.’

She could never truly say, afterward, just what went wrong. Perhaps the clasp had already been loose, or perhaps she herself accidentally triggered it. In any case, one second she was absentmindedly passing her portfolio back to Nell, and the next it was dropping wide open. Another gust of wind hit just then and all of her sketches and designs were sent skyward in a veritable cyclone of papers.

For a moment Sophie stood frozen in panic and watched as her life’s work scattered about the busy street. Then she sprang into action. First she sent Nell after those that had skipped back down the way they had just come. Then an enterprising street sweeper approached and offered to help retrieve the papers that had fluttered into the street. Sophie gave him a coin, entreated him not to place himself in any danger and sent him off.

She herself set after the bulk of the lot, which had gone swirling ahead of them. She was not heedless of the sight she must present, chasing, stooping, even jumping up to snatch at one desk design that had impaled itself on the pike of an iron railing, but she was beyond caring. These designs were her hopes for the future; she could no more abandon them than she could go quietly back to Blackford Chase.

At last, after much effort, there was only one paper left in sight. It led her a merry chase as it danced mere inches from her fingertips more than once. But each time she drew near another mischievous breeze would send it bounding ahead. Sophie’s back ached and her gown grew more filthy by the minute, but she refused to give up.

And she finally had a stroke of fortune. Just ahead a gentleman stalked out of a printer’s shop, right into the path of the wicked thing. It fetched up against a pair of well-formed legs, then flattened itself around one shining Hessian.

With a triumphant whoop Sophie swept down and snatched the paper up. Oh my, she thought as she caught sight of her own distorted grin, you truly can see your reflection in a gentleman’s boots.

‘Of course. It only wanted this.’ The voice above her was heavy with sarcasm. ‘I can now officially brand this day one of the worst I have ever endured. Now my valet shall berate me as soundly as the rest of London.’

Sophie fought the urge to grin as she slowly straightened up, her gaze travelling the unusual—and unusually pleasurable—path up the form of a well-formed gentleman. A well-heeled gentleman too, judging by the quality of the small clothes, which were buff, and the morning coat, which was, of course, blue, and the scowling face, which was …