* * *
Giancarlo was under no illusion. Finding Sofia was going to be difficult. Even if she was in London, the city was a sea of people during the Season. He eyed the pile of newspapers on his desk in his suite at the Coburg with distaste. He was down to this: reading gossip pages searching for any mention of his errant wife. It was dismal, really. He was much smarter than this. Giancarlo took a seat behind the desk and gestured to his secretary. ‘Ring for breakfast and we’ll get started.’ She was the sort of woman who could not go unremarked for long. If she’d gone out even once society would have noticed.
He was right. A pot of coffee later, he crowed in exultation. ‘She was here! She went to a wedding, the hypocrite.’ His eyes riveted on the three lines. So little and yet it told him so much. She’d not only gone to a wedding, but a man had sat beside her, a man who’d deliberately come up the aisle to join her. ‘Bring me Debrett’s Peerage. I want to know who Viscount Taunton is. Then, get me invited to the Hammersmith ball tomorrow night. Everyone who’s anyone will be there.’ With luck, that would include Taunton. If that English bastard had touched his wife, he’d cut his balls off.
* * *
The waltzing at the Hammersmith ball had been disappointing, the card rooms had been far more instructive. Giancarlo poured another round of his host’s fine brandy into the tumbler of his new best friend, a young, blond Viscount by the name of Hargreaves who had better tailoring than sense. The young man was an open book, telling him every piece of tonnish gossip under the pale, elusive London sun as they played cards. One might admire Hargreaves’s stylish élan, but the man had no appreciation for discretion, which was fine with Giancarlo. After two weeks in London chasing dead ends, he’d finally found gold.
‘I am wondering if you know Viscount Taunton? I was told to contact him when I was in England.’ Giancarlo led the conversation around to the topic he wanted to discuss most.
Hargreaves gave a wide grin and nodded. ‘We’re good acquaintances when he’s in town. We have the same club memberships. I saw him at a wedding just a few weeks ago.’
That was better luck than he’d had all night. He’d discerned early in a dismal waltz with a gossipy widow that Taunton was not in attendance, much to his disappointment and hers, it seemed. Now, he’d found someone who didn’t just know of Taunton, but was something of a friend. ‘Is he in town at present?’ He kept his tone casual. ‘I should like to see him during my visit.’
Hargreaves frowned. ‘I wish he was. We only meet up during the Season. Our estates are on opposite ends of the country. Goodness knows he should be. The man needs to marry. He inherited last year and now that mourning is behind him, he has to get busy with his nursery.’ He winked at Giancarlo. ‘This year’s crop is a good one, if you know what I mean. If I had to marry quickly, this would be the year for it. There are four heiresses out this Season, twenty girls with respectable titles and another fifteen with notable dowries, and that’s not counting—’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed. A spectacular crop,’ Giancarlo broke in quickly, not wanting his quarry getting side-tracked. ‘So, he’s at his estate?’
‘Likely. He prefers the country more than I do.’ Hargreaves chuckled. ‘I haven’t seen him since the Tresham wedding, Duke of Cowden’s second son, don’t you know?’
No, he didn’t know and didn’t want to know. If he wasn’t careful, he’d have to listen to the details of a wedding that was only significant to him because it was the last place Viscount Taunton was seen sitting next to his wife. ‘Where did you say his estate was?’
‘Somerset...’ Hargreaves waved his hand to indicate he thought Somerset the end of the world ‘...just outside Taunton. Everard Hall. It’s the family seat. He adores it there, loves to fish. He had some hare-brained scheme when he came up to town to invest in alpacas and farm them.’
‘Alpacas? Really? Hmm...’ Giancarlo wondered what the chances were his errant wife had gone with the Viscount. On the surface, it seemed unlikely. A viscount who needed to marry wasn’t exactly in the market for a divorcee. Then again, his wife was very beautiful and the gossip rag had indicated the Viscount had been taken with her—taken enough to leave his seat and join her in the back of the church. Giancarlo worked out the timing. His letter would have arrived by then, she would have been present for the burglary, after all. That meant she would have been feeling desperate. Perhaps she had persuaded the Viscount to take her with him.
Hargreaves looked on the verge of launching into another story Giancarlo had no need of. He swallowed the rest of his drink and stood up, checking his watch. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have someone to meet. Thank you for the enjoyable conversation.’ Hargreaves looked disappointed at being robbed of his eager company, but Giancarlo did have someone to meet, a lush widow waiting for him in the library who wasn’t against a little rope play. He also had a decision to make. Did he go to Somerset himself and risk missing her if she wasn’t there, or did he stay, guarding the lair, as it were, and send Andelmo, his trusted body servant, to scout the terrain? The latter might be better. If she was with the Viscount, she had protection. That decided it, he would send Andelmo. He’d consult the train schedules. The man could be there tomorrow.
Chapter Sixteen
There was a certain euphoria to going into town. It was a market day and the weather was good, he was driving the gig with a light breeze in his face and a pretty woman by his side. Conall pulled the gig into the livery and helped Sofia down. She looked fetching today in a white-and-yellow walking ensemble with a straw hat trimmed in the same primrose ribbon. She had a market basket slung over her arm and ‘Every intention of shopping,’ she warned him with a wide smile.
‘I want to look for some pencils and art supplies. Your mother and Cecilia mentioned they wanted to teach the tenants’ children drawing this summer. I’d like to help. I miss my work from London.’
She looked up at him from under the brim of her hat, her smile genuine, her eyes sparkling and something warm blossomed in his chest. This was what goodness looked like; this woman who had overcome her own adversities and was intent on making better futures for those around her. ‘I can recommend a shop that carries art supplies,’ Conall offered as they stepped out into Canon Street and headed towards the market.
Conall manoeuvred them through the vendors’ stalls, past vegetables and breads, past goods made with Taunton wool, stalls with ribbons, toys and fabrics. The diversity and importance of Taunton as a market centre in Somerset was on display today and it made him proud. Soon, his own contributions would be in evidence. Maybe not in a market stall—they had to seek a larger outlet for their goods, but it would be present in the coins people had to spend in the market.
There was already employment on the alpaca farm for the men and work in the house for those interested in entering service. His mother would be able to staff the house and the grounds fully, to say nothing of the jobs that would eventually come as the alpaca project grew and the mill began. There would be mill jobs, shearing jobs, shipping and transport, sales, bookkeeping—the list was endless.
Sofia tugged at his arm, urging him to stop at a booth selling ribbons. She held up two lengths of silk, one in a pale-green, the other in sky blue that matched her eyes. ‘Which one do you like?’ She looked utterly enchanting with the ribbons, her smile wide, and he wondered how long had it been since she’d been happy? Was she truly happy now?
‘They’re lovely, get them both.’ He would buy her a thousand ribbons if they brought her a smile. His words came out strangled as the realisation sucker-punched Conall in the gut. He wanted to be responsible for her happiness. He cared deeply that her happiness was genuine, that it wasn’t forced or an artifice she employed to hide herself. He wanted to remove the threat of Giancarlo Bianchi.
‘Your head was in the clouds back there,’ Sofia whispered with an elbow nudge to his ribs as they moved on.
‘Just happy, just pl
anning,’ Conall admitted. ‘Are you happy?’
She gave him a thoughtful stare as if the question was worthy of weighty consideration and maybe given her background it was. ‘I think I am, for the first time, in a long, long time.’
‘Then we should celebrate.’ Conall stopped by a pastry vendor. ‘We must have some of these. I love Bath buns.’ He grinned at the woman working the stall. ‘We’ll take two to eat now and a dozen to go.’
‘You have a sweet tooth!’ Sofia teased.
‘No. My family would be severely disappointed in me if I failed to bring any home for them.’ Conall put the wrapped buns in her basket and passed her one to eat. ‘Let me take this.’ He put the basket on his arm and took her arm with his other, letting the moment wash over him. This was what it could be like—enjoying the market with a wife, stopping for treats along the way. ‘In the autumn there are apples,’ he told her. ‘Taunton is known for its cider. We have a special cider apple, the Black Taunton, and the cider is delicious. Autumn is beautiful here. The leaves turn colour, farmers harvest their orchards, there are cider-press parties. It’s very festive.’ He was being shameless, tempting her with ideal images of country life in the hopes that she’d be here in September, that she would want to make the marriage regardless of the need for it.
She laughed and licked sugar from her lips. It was not meant to be seductive, but a bolt of yearning shot through him none the less. ‘You live a charmed life, Conall Everard. You have a beautiful home, a lovely family and Midas’s own touch. Whatever you turn your hand to becomes a success.’
Charmed? Guilt pierced his yearning, a reminder that he’d succeeded thus far by employing a certain level of deceit. He’d done his job well if she believed all she’d seen. But it was an illusion—except for the family, he did have a good family. The quality of his home had been tricked out with smoke and mirrors. If she went upstairs she’d see a different story in the bedrooms where curtains were faded and carpets worn thin with age. As for his success, well, that had been a near-run thing and still would be until the first alpaca wool products were ready.
They were out in the sunshine now, away from the crowds as they ate their buns. ‘May I tell you something?’ He should at least attempt to disabuse her of some of her notions. She’d make him out to be a god otherwise. ‘Today is the first day I’ve felt even remotely close to Midas since my father died.’
He finished his bun, trying to find the words to explain. ‘Being an heir is an awkward position. I don’t think people fully understand how morbid it is. You spend your life being trained by your father to take his place, to anticipate his death. Perhaps even to hope for it because you cannot fully come into your potential without it.’ He shrugged, trying to shake off the emotions. He’d never shared them out loud before for fear people would think he was crazy. ‘Secretly, I think second sons have it better. They are free to develop themselves, to explore their interests in a way an heir is not. Our lives are one long morbid waiting game. I wouldn’t want that for my children. I didn’t want my father to die. I would have been willing to wait years if it meant more time with him.’
‘You loved him. He was a good father,’ Sofia offered softly.
‘Yes, he was,’ Conall said slowly, letting the realisation settle around his mind. Amid the grief and the feeling of betrayal that had accompanied his father’s death, it had been easy to forget that. He’d spent a large part of the year being angry at his father for leaving them, for lying to them about the disastrous situation of their finances.
What had he said to his mother last night? That a person shouldn’t be judged by their single failing? But he had done just that. He’d allowed his father’s one failing to weigh against the good. His father had loved him, played with him, taken a hand in raising him, taken him fishing, taught him about the outdoors, while Sofia had had the very worst of fathers, a man who’d sold her into marriage to a wicked, corrupt man in order to cover his sins. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said simply. She would know all that was entailed in those words. Sorry for being maudlin on a sunny day, sorry that she hadn’t known his father, sorry that she hadn’t had a better father herself.
Conall smiled, working hard to restore the earlier levity. ‘Here I am. The local registrar’s office, the place where I can apply for a civil licence. Do you want to come?’ Usually only the groom was needed for the allegation.
She paused, her eyes wary. He sensed her reticence return. ‘It’s just a precaution.’ Conall reminded her, ‘We want to be prepared.’ Thank goodness for the new marriage act that allowed people to marry legally outside the Church of England. He wouldn’t have to go into London for a special licence, or wait three weeks to have banns called.
‘Might I look around? Perhaps I’ll visit the stationer’s for art supplies.’
Conall put a steadying hand on her arm. ‘It’s just a licence. We don’t have to use it.’ Although the thought of not using it left him hollow. In that moment, he knew the truth. He was lost, despite his attempts to convince himself otherwise, that he had this relationship well in hand. It simply didn’t matter that she was the divorced Marchesa di Cremona, the woman who had made a poor foreign marriage, the woman who’d slapped Wenderly for his salacious offer. Unless he could rewrite the rules of society, there would never be a time when Sofia Northcott would be a suitable choice for a man such as him. But he could not shake the idea there was no one more suitable.
She straightened her shoulders. ‘I’ll meet you afterwards. I will meet you outside the Black Horse Tavern.’
* * *
Sofia wandered the stalls, making her way towards the stationer’s store on St James, her mind replaying the day: each conversation, each touch, each smile, a pearl of its own. She’d never had a day like this, strolling around a market on a good man’s arm, whose wish was to make her happy, to ask after her happiness. And he’d shared part of himself with her today, speaking of his father and his feelings. Had she ever been that close to anyone before?
Oh, she had to be so careful! If she wasn’t, she’d have herself falling in love with him and the fantasy of their sham marriage. She’d forget all the reasons she couldn’t really go through with it. She could play at the engagement, she could even let him get the licence. But she prayed he wouldn’t have to use it. She could only disappoint him no matter how hard he argued to the contrary, no matter how much she wanted to believe those arguments.
Lost in her daydream, she’d not paid attention to her surroundings. Her skin prickled and Sofia paused at a booth selling wooden toys, pretending to admire a carved doll. Someone was watching her. Surreptitiously, she looked about the market to quiet her jangled nerves. But she found only the usual array of people: a man slouching against a booth, a woman with a basket full of produce, customers haggling over prices. The sights and sounds were to be expected. It was an act of appeasement. No one here knew her and no one knew she was here. She was just another customer at the market.
Still, she’d feel better if she moved. Sofia hurried away from the stall, crossing the street and taking refuge in the stationer’s shop. The shop was quiet and she lingered over the assortment of pencils and papers. But her gaze strayed out the window, the sensation of being watched remained, suggesting she had not only been watched in the market—she’d been followed. Which meant someone knew who she was. That list was short.
Cold fear made her stomach churn even as she sought to reason with her runaway imagination. She rapidly made her purchases, trying to keep a sense of normalcy about her actions. If she was imagining the stalker, she would look silly and paranoid for running. If she wasn’t imagining it, she didn’t want to alert her stalker to the fact that she was aware of them. She gathered up her purchase and fixed her mind on one goal: getting to the Black Horse Tavern. If she could just reach Conall, all would be well.
She stepped outside, looking left, then right before hurrying on. Just two streets to go. She
was nearly there. She breathed deeply, repeating the mantra she’d concocted since stepping out of the stationer’s: there was nothing to fear. She was safe. She could see the sign for the inn from here, everything would be...
A man bumped into her from behind, causing her to stumble. She fell, going down hard on her hands and knees, the impact of the fall making it hard to breathe. The contents of her basket spilled on to the pavement. Instinctively, she reached for the children’s pencils, gasping for air. A man’s dirty boot came down on the pencils, snapping them inches from her hand, his hand tangling in her hair and jerking her head back to look him in the eye as she choked on fear and recognition. She couldn’t get her body to co-ordinate its effort, couldn’t find enough air to scream, couldn’t find enough strength to fight him as he dragged her into the alley, away from prying eyes, eyes that might bring help.
‘My pardon, Marchesa.’ The man leered, showing off a dirty face and a mouth missing teeth. She trembled with shock, the brick wall at her back the only thing holding her up. She could not faint. It would all be over then. He would carry her off. She’d thought never to see this man again, this man who’d been her jailer, entrusted by her husband never to let her out of his sight. It was a duty he’d done exceedingly well. He’d made her life a living hell.
‘I’ve been missing you, my pretty trollop. Il Marchese will be glad to know you’re safe.’ He put his face close to hers, close enough to smell the garlic on his breath. ‘Aren’t you tired of this game yet? I always find you.’ He yanked more forcibly on her hair, causing her to make a choking mewl of pain. ‘Maybe you like it, though. Maybe you like what we do to you afterwards, hmm, my pet? Il Marchese is planning a special welcome for you this time. I’m to give you a taste if I found you.’ A knife flashed in his free hand.
‘No, please. No cutting.’ Too late, she’d forgotten not to beg. Three years of freedom had made her forgetful. He gave an evil growl and she shut her eyes tight. But the cut never came.
A Marriage Deal with the Viscount--A Victorian Marriage of Convenience Story Page 15
