“But he isn’t …” Sophie swallowed and turned a dazed face to Sinclair. “Laurie isn’t …”
Sinclair held up his hand. “Say nothing. Never, ever say anything about it again, Miss Tierney, especially not to a man of law. Accept the verdict and carry on.”
“Best way,” Eleanor agreed.
Sophie swung to her, suspicions sharpening. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew what David was up to.”
“Well, of course.” Eleanor looked serene. “He asked for my help. I thought it a delicious scheme and naturally agreed. I will not explain all the underhandedness, but you did not deserve to be married to that awful man, and as David says, I would do it again. Though I am not as contrite as he appears to be at the moment. Ladies can be much more ruthless than gentlemen, I always say.”
They had all known. Sophie’s gaze went from one to the other—Sinclair with compassion but warning caution, Eleanor gleeful, David grim. David had known the entire situation would disconcert her, but he had no regret over his part.
Somehow Mr. Fleming had convinced a barrister, a slew of solicitors, and a judge of the courts that the Earl of Devonport was incapable of performing in bed. How David had proved such a thing, Sophie could not fathom, nor was she certain she wanted to.
He was duplicitous and determined—that much she understood. Somehow David had threatened Laurie enough that Laurie had agreed to the annulment and set Sophie free.
Sophie rose, her limbs stiff. David caught her arm, ready to assist, but she slid away from him, finding strength once more.
“I thank you, sir,” she said, surprised her voice was steady. “You have done me a great service.”
David’s eyes flickered with pain. “It was my most profound pleasure.” His throat moved in a swallow. “You deserve to be happy, Sophie. To have that chance.”
Sophie made herself nod. “But just now I need … I must …”
She had no more words. Her dry eyes burned as she turned abruptly from David, waved off Eleanor’s solicitous movement, and fled the room.
* * *
“I had the feeling she wouldn’t fling herself into my arms and cover me with kisses,” David said despondently.
“Give her a moment.” Eleanor accepted the whisky Sinclair handed her before he dispensed one to David. “This is a shock for her, however welcome.”
David sank into a chair, unaccountably weary, and downed his whisky, as he’d advised Sophie to, in one dose.
Sinclair gave him a stern look. “If she discovers that courtesans were happy to do you a favor, Fleming, it might not appease her.”
“I’ll keep mum,” Eleanor said. “Promise.”
“No.” David sighed from the depths of his boots. “I will tell her all. Eventually. She deserves to know every horrible lie and my hand in them.”
“I see.” Sinclair resumed his seat. “You wish to make certain she hates you thoroughly.”
“So you can wallow in your broken heart and drive your friends distracted,” Eleanor put in. “You do not always have to be a martyr, David. From the number of times Sophie has asked me about you since her arrival—then pretends to forget asking and inquires again—I would say the lady is smitten.”
“My optimistic El.” David heaved himself from the chair to refill his glass. He lifted it to drink, thought about the rivers of whisky that had run through his body in his life, and clicked the glass to the sideboard. “I might have saved her from dire scandal but I did it by no honorable means, and she knows it. Can she be comfortable with such a man as me? I will depart, and she will become the toast of London and marry some lucky gentleman within the year. She will have many children and grow old and happy.”
Which she deserved. So why did David feel hollow inside?
“No, you don’t.” Eleanor was on her feet, facing him. “You will not run away, my friend. I helped you not only for her sake, but for yours. The devil I will let you retreat to the country like a wounded bear, becoming a hermit for unrequited love. Absolute nonsense. There is no reason for either of you to pine away alone. You will remain in London, and you will attend my supper ball, if I have to have Fortescue tie you up and drag you to it. He would, if I asked him.”
“I know,” David said gloomily.
“It might help you to know exactly why you are no longer facing charges from Mr. Griffin,” Eleanor said, her eyes flashing.
She had no idea how frightening she was when she did that. Explained why Hart was a quiet man these days.
“Would it?” David asked. “I can’t imagine what it has to do with Sophie’s life.”
“Please explain, Sinclair, there’s a good fellow.” Eleanor turned in a swirl of skirts and plopped into a chair to enjoy the waters she’d just stirred. Eleanor was a master at that.
Sinclair steepled his fingers. “I was prepared to explain when you arrived today, but understandably you were more interested in my visit to Miss Tierney, and prevented me. I will tell you that Mr. Oliver Griffin is now the principal funder and director of Miss Tierney’s uncle’s excavations of his Roman villa in Shropshire.”
David stared at him. “What the devil? Why on earth is Griffin—?”
“Dr. Pierson will need money, a mountain of it, if he’s to do this thoroughly,” Sinclair interrupted. “I imagine Pierson hoped his old university would sponsor him, but a small villa of the Roman British period, even with an intact mosaic floor, has not drawn much attention. Mr. Griffin, as director of the excavations, will oversee the project, find donors, and possibly interest a museum or his Oxford college. His uncle, a vastly wealthy man, has already promised some funding. Mr. Griffin will no doubt take all credit for this project, though I did tell him that Dr. Pierson must be named as its primary discoverer. Mr. Griffin complied, and agreed to drop all charges against you for this carrot I extended him.”
David groped at the back of a chair and moved himself to sit in it before his legs gave way.
“You offered it. How the devil did you know he’d want Pierson’s dig? Why would he?”
“Miss Tierney told me.” Sinclair spoke calmly but his gray eyes betrayed vast amusement. Confounding David apparently entertained him.
“Miss Tierney—Sophie—told you …”
“Do not speak as though she hasn’t a brain in her head,” Eleanor broke in. “She gathered the intelligence that Griffin is terribly interested in archaeology and greatly disappointed when no one wanted the Saxon antiquities he found in a burial mound in Suffolk. I suspect he is more interested in being lauded and celebrated than doing the actual work, but no matter. Sophie made inquiries, discovered that Griffin has found other burials and been rebuffed as a dilettante several times. She asked Dr. Pierson if he’d consider letting Griffin step into his dig—if he brought piles of cash with him, of course—and Dr. Pierson was delighted. Sophie then asked Sinclair to contact Griffin and offer this exchange.”
Sinclair nodded, infuriatingly calm. “Mr. Griffin proved to be more interested in heading a dig than prosecuting a man for pummeling him.”
David’s lips were numb. “You knew this,” he said to Eleanor. “I was festering in the country reading up on root vegetables, and you could not tell me my sentence would be lifted?”
Eleanor did not look the least bit contrite. “Sinclair and I decided it would be best if you knew nothing until he could present it to you as a fait accompli. If Griffin refused us at the last, you’d have been devastated and perhaps taken a foolish step—left the country or shot Griffin in truth, or some such.”
“You know I’m not a violent man,” David said, affronted. “Unless I’m powerfully drunk, which I haven’t been in a long time. Not since—”
Not since he’d raised his head at Pierson’s breakfast table and seen Sophie’s extraordinary green eyes studying him in curiosity.
“Sophie.” The very name soothed his senses. She’d found a way to ease his troubles even when she’d been uncertain hers would ever vanish.
David sprang up
, his energy returning. “I must go to her.”
He rushed for the door, but found Eleanor in front of him.
“Not yet.” Eleanor put a firm hand on his arm. “Give her time to let her changed situation sink in. She cannot go from being a married woman, however unhappily, to a single one in a heartbeat without some disturbance. She needs to find her equilibrium. Let her alone until my supper ball, which is three nights from now. I expect you to turn up, as I said, dressed in your finest.”
David gazed down at the woman who’d once broken his heart. Broke it, stomped on it, and then offered her hand and asked to be friends. A formidable woman, and a good one. Hart Mackenzie was a lucky man, but Eleanor belonged with him. She never had with David. Good thing she’d been so sensible all those years ago.
“God bless you, El.” The last dregs of David’s lethargy burned away. He took Eleanor’s hands and kissed her cheek. “You are too damned good to me. I will do as you command.” He grinned. “You are also terrifying. Small wonder Hart looks pale.” He kissed her cheek a second time and darted around her, avoiding her half-hearted swing. “Adieu, my friends.” He turned at the door and made a flourishing bow to her and Sinclair, the tall, quiet barrister who’d stood by him through it all. “And thank you. I am a most favored man.”
With that, he left them, his head full of plans, his heart light.
Chapter 16
Sophie had never worn such a gown before. Made of rippling pink and green silk, it swept from a tight bodice to a flowing skirt, gathered in back with a knot of cloth roses. The bodice was cut a bit lower than she was used to, and very snug in the waist, its sleeves whispers of gauzy silk. Her washed and brushed hair was piled on her head in wonderful curls, a few of which cascaded to her shoulders. A simple necklet of pearls completed the costume. Isabella, to whom the Mackenzie ladies turned for all things fashion, had said the necklet was enough.
Sophie agreed. Already news of her annulment had spread through Town, and people stared as she moved about the ballroom. Always best to look elegant when one was the subject of all attention.
Too many tonight asked her, “What will you do now?”
Sophie had no idea. Simply breathing was enough.
She privately concluded she’d return to her uncle’s in Shropshire, not to hide, but to do something a bit more interesting than the same round of gatherings with the same people night after night.
As for the man responsible for her annulment…
She had not seen him. David had remained absent since the day Sinclair brought her the papers, and Eleanor had stated bluntly that she’d told him to leave Sophie be.
Wise, Sophie thought as she drifted through the crowd, a gracious smile on her stiff lips. The stares and sometimes blatant pointing unnerved her, but she kept her head high.
She suspected she would have made a grand fool of herself if David had returned to the house in the intervening days. She’d have flung her arms around him and covered him with kisses then backed away and shouted at him. And then rushed at him for more kissing.
She wanted more than that—if David had turned up, she might have torn his clothes from his body. She wanted to touch him, to kiss his skin…
Better to shout at him. He’d saved her and made her an object of fascination, pity, and amusement at the same time. She’d heard the whispers of Limp-Prick Laurie during her outings with Eleanor in the last few days, seen the sympathetic glances from the same whisperers. Laurie, it was rumored, had taken a sudden journey to the Continent. The widow he’d wished to marry rather abruptly turned her attentions to another.
The ballroom Sophie moved through—quickly enough that none could engage her in conversation—was full. Eleanor had invited most of the polite world tonight, presenting Sophie to them as Miss Tierney.
The Mackenzie brothers, tall Scotsmen in formal kilts, mingled with the guests. Hart busied himself being the important man he was—making everyone dance to his tunes, Eleanor had murmured to her while gazing at him in open affection.
Cameron, the tallest of them, spoke animatedly about horses to a fascinated group. Ainsley stood near him, adding to the conversation, her love for her husband obvious.
Mac Mackenzie laughed loudly with his cronies, his charm in evidence. He drank lemonade, as did Isabella at his side. They were a vibrant and lovely pair, warming all around them.
Daniel Mackenzie, young and exuberant, led his wife about with apparent pride. Violet was a beautiful woman, with whom Sophie had already become friends. Their baby daughter, Fleur, was tiny and sweet.
Sophie had only briefly met Ian Mackenzie, the brother those outside the family regarded as mad. Ian didn’t look mad to Sophie as he walked through the crowd with Beth at his side, both of them calm and quiet. True, Ian did not engage in lively conversation like his brothers, but he did speak to people, usually after listening to them a time before breaking in with an apt observation.
Three of the McBride brothers had come as well—the fourth, Stephen, was with his regiment and his wife in Africa. Patrick and Rona, the patriarch and matriarch of the family, older than the others, were having a fine time. They’d raised the younger McBrides, Ainsley had told her. Sinclair had brought his wife, a merry-faced lady called Bertie. Sophie knew she’d started life in an East End gutter, but she was as stylish and gracious as any lady here, even if she winked at Sophie behind their backs.
Elliot McBride was quieter, but devastatingly handsome. More than one woman looked his way, but his wife, Juliana, at his side, was the only lady that held his gaze.
Sophie tried to calm her agitation by watching the Mackenzies and their friends, keeping herself to herself as much as she could without snubbing Eleanor’s guests.
Until, that is, a knot of people at the end of the room parted, and she saw David standing near a long window that led to the garden.
The window was closed against the night’s chill, its panes reflecting the chandeliers and the broad-shouldered man in black frock coat and Scottish kilt. He looked straight at Sophie.
Sophie’s heart pounded as she drank in his hard body, the way the kilt hugged his hips. She’d never seen David in Scottish dress before, and she decided it much suited him.
A couple making their way to the dance floor nearly ran into her, and Sophie skittered aside with an apology. She realized she could no longer be a stone, and forced her satin-slippered feet toward the window. The distance was only a dozen yards in truth, but it felt like miles.
David watched her come, making no attempt to go to her. She had no idea how he would receive her—was he angry at her for not sending word to him? Or indifferent about their time apart?
“Good evening,” she managed when she halted an arm’s length from him. So she might say to any acquaintance.
“Good evening.” David ran his blue-gray gaze up and down her, making her blood burn. “Lovely gown.”
“Isabella chose it. You look …” Sophie faltered, biting off her true words. Delectable, beguiling, desirable.
David spread his arms, a hint of his wicked smile returning. “Hart insists on a show of force from his Scottish cousins. Great-great aunt Donnag might have married a Duke of Kilmorgan, but her brother, my direct ancestor, married an Englishwoman. Hart barely forgives me for that, but if I bring out the kilt once in a while, he lets me be.”
Sophie hid a nervous smile. “He is fond of you.”
David glanced at the large Mackenzie who was holding his audience in thrall. “Perhaps. I’ve been loyal to him, if nothing else.”
“They are all very fond of you.” Sophie’s speech was stilted, her words polite, as though she spoke to a man she barely knew. “I’ve been living in this house for a while now, and your name comes up often.”
David’s eyes flickered. “That is alarming.”
“Not at all. The ladies speak of you highly. The gentlemen too.”
“Even more alarming. I wonder what they want me to do for them?”
Sophie’s amu
sement bubbled up, dissolving some of the tension inside her. “Must you always mock yourself?”
“Mocking myself makes others’ mockery easier to bear.”
She softened. “You are a fine man, David Fleming.”
His restlessness quieted as he studied her face. The room behind Sophie seemed to fade, the music and chatter muted.
“My life will be worth living if you truly believe that,” he said. “Damnation, Sophie, I wanted to come to you, to see you, to make certain you were well …”
“Eleanor told me she kept you away.” Sophie slid closer to him, unable to stop herself. “I wanted to see you too. To thank you …”
“No.” David held up his hands, his voice taking on a savage note. “I do not want your thanks or gratitude. It’s not what I want from you.” He closed his eyes briefly then gave himself a shake. “I am supposed to be thanking you for deflecting Griffin. How the devil you managed it, I don’t know, but I liked learning that you are as devious as I am.”
Sophie shrugged, the gauze of her sleeves rubbing her shoulders. “I overheard an interesting bit of conversation that made me ask questions, is all. I was glad to find the one thing Mr. Griffin wanted more in life than taking vengeance on you.”
“Exactly.” David’s snake-like grin returned. “How do you suppose I work the magic I do? If I could take you under my wing and teach you—ah, what havoc we could wreak!”
Sophie couldn’t stop her laugh. “We’d be feared the length and breadth of England.”
“Scotland too. It would be delightful.” David’s amusement faded. “Except it’s hell to pretend you only a friend when you are standing so close to me, in that dress.”
“Where should I stand? And in what frock?” She left off teasing. “I am proud to call you friend, David.”
A Rogue Meets a Scandalous Lady: Mackenzies, Book 11 Page 16
