Sweet as the Devil

by Susan Johnson

  One wall of the lofty timber-framed space was given over to a fireplace large enough to roast an ox. A long monastery table capable of seating forty fronted the hearth. An area adjacent to a lengthy window wall facing an inner courtyard displayed artworks in various stages of development, while the remainder of the commodious hall was occupied with an array of comfortable chairs and sofas distributed over an ancient oak floor covered with colorful Oriental rugs.

  Several more bottles of wine were brought in and set out on the monastery table, Jamie’s men added a number of whiskey bottles, servants carried in additional platters of hearty fare for the male guests, delicacies for the ladies, and an evening of conviviality ensued.

  Guards had been quietly posted outside. Jamie had spoken sotto voce to Douglas on the drive. Douglas in turn had indicated those men who’d take first watch with a nod or a look or a cryptic hand signal, and the chosen had drifted off into the darkness during the milling bustle of their welcome.

  The next several hours were occupied in companionable drinking and conversation. The farmhouse hospitality was free and easy, the guests and lodgers mingling in friendly bonhomie, considerable liquor bridging the gap between artists and soldiers-cum-sportsmen with much merry laughter underscoring that rapport.

  Chairs had been pulled up surrounding the sofa and chairs where Sofia, Jamie, Amelia, and Ben sat. Others found places on the floor or perched on chair arms or sofa backs in close enough proximity to join in the conversation—centered largely, once the polite courtesies had been exchanged, on the happenings in the art world: who was showing where, who was selling what, the particular projects various artists were engaged on, and the usual complaints about the lack of discriminating taste in those who styled themselves art critics.

  With the crowd essentially composed of bohemian artists, eventually the inevitable question was breathlessly posed to Jamie by an inebriated young woman: how had he met their darling Sofia?

  “You tell them, darling,” he said with a smile, diverting the question to Sofia; he was unsure what she wished them to know.

  Sofia’s answer was a neutral, edited version. “I met Jamie at Countess Minton’s. I was painting her portrait, he was visiting, and we found we both liked . . .” She impudently paused and, catching his eye, gave him her sweetest smile.

  “Art,” he smoothly interposed, thinking he’d like to wring her neck. “We both liked art. My mother was an artist, you see. Quite a good one,” he shamelessly prevaricated.

  “Portraits, wasn’t it?” Sofia blandly noted.

  “Watercolor landscapes, darling. You don’t listen,” Jamie replied, equally blandly. “I even showed you one.”

  “Sorry, dear. Perhaps I had too much to drink.”

  “I believe you did.”

  It was impossible to shake him, she disgruntledly thought. The man was nerveless.

  “As I recall,” Jamie went on in silken tones, “our impromptu trip to Scotland was based in part on your avid wish to taste my prized estate whiskey.” He surveyed the attentive throng, most of whom were waiting for Sofia to pitch into him for his slur. “A more than compelling reason from my point of view,” he added with a smile for the assembly. “And I did coax you as well, didn’t I, dear?” he acknowledged, turning a much more personal smile on Sofia, whose chair flanked his.

  She held his gaze for a lingering moment, not sure whether she should be angry or not, but certain of one thing at least. She was thoroughly enchanted by this chameleonlike man who was never disconcerted or embarrassed, always calm—or almost always, she pleasantly thought, recalling the violence of his passions. “Indeed you did. You can be most persuasive,” she purred.

  “In what way?” a female voice jocularly inquired. “Details, details, darling.”

  “Hush, Cynthia. You’re drunk.”

  “Well so are you.”

  “And so are many of us,” a male voice interposed. “But not so drunk as to completely forget our manners.”

  “Here, here,” a tipsy guest agreed. “Now pass the bottle.”

  As glasses were refilled, the conversation turned to less personal topics, and before long, several guests were spontaneously inspired to perform. Some sang: music hall tunes, opera arias, original music of every stamp. Others recited poetry, from classic or original works. A diatribe or two was delivered on the question of women’s rights or the state of contemporary politics, and a beautiful young man expounded in the most flattering way on Ruskin’s worldview.

  It was an impressive array of talent.

  Such a cultured environment had nurtured and fashioned the expectations, judgment, and unbridled individualism of the woman at his side, Jamie reflected. It explained her indifference to the aristocratic world where titles often distinguished only mediocrity. It explained as well, he more luridly thought, her creative imagination; she had a true genius for sexual play.

  Not a thought he could reasonably pursue with so many eyes on him.

  He refocused his attention on the pretty woman performing the latest music hall ditty instead. But he kept one eye on the clock. He wanted to leave as soon as dawn broke, because, by now, there were men in England looking for them.

  As midnight approached, Ben and Amelia’s friends began wandering off to bed amidst talk of rising early to paint—morning light of particular freshness and purity, apparently. Jamie’s men made no mention of retiring, although they politely withdrew to the monastery table after the other guests departed.

  Douglas knew that Sofia hadn’t yet had the opportunity to speak privately with her mother.

  Sofia’s parents occupied a small sofa upholstered in Titian red linen. Jamie and Sofia sat opposite them in comfortable club chairs of buff leather.

  Amelia Eastleigh was still a recognized beauty at fortytwo, slight and fair like her daughter, slender and supple in a Grecian-style gown of Nile green charmeuse. Ben bore a striking resemblance to a Viking of old—blond, tall, sturdy as a tree, the elder of the pair by a dozen years, Jamie guessed. He was clearly patrician despite his casual dress, a kind of quiet dignity distinguishing his manner; a younger son no doubt with money but no title.

  “Ben, pour more whiskey for Lord Blackwood.”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Jamie said, his drink largely untouched. “It’s getting late.” He directed a glance ripe with significance at Sofia. “We do have to leave early, dear.”

  Sofia smiled at her mother. “I’m being prodded.” But she didn’t immediately broach the subject for which she’d come. Instead she said, “It was so wonderful to see everyone again. Avery is gloriously funny as usual, and Henrietta missed her calling. She should be on the stage. Not to mention Georgie. Her description of Bertie in pursuit was hilarious. And Janie—I’ve never seen her sing so well, in fact . . .” Her voice trailed off. She carefully placed her wineglass on a small table, then turned to her parents. “I’m afraid there’s no tactful or delicate way to say what I have to say.”

  “Really, dear, you’ve been nervous all night.” Her mother’s smile was benevolent. “Go on, darling. You know you can tell us anything.”

  “I met someone you once knew, Mother.”

  Amelia and Ben exchanged quick glances, and Ben reached out to take Amelia’s small hand.

  They know, Jamie thought. They’ve been waiting years for this moment.

  “Whom did you meet, dear?” Amelia’s voice was controlled with some effort, her fair skin slightly flushed.

  “Prince Ernst.”

  Amelia stifled a small gasp.

  Ben put his arm around Amelia’s shoulder, drew her close, and bending low, whispered something in her ear. When he raised his head, he met Sofia’s gaze with a calm directness. “We were hoping to avoid this. Incorrectly, perhaps, but I assure you, not out of any animus.”

  Sofia looked from one to the other. “Would you ever have told me?”

  “No,” Amelia blurted out before Ben could speak. “I didn’t see the point.” She smiled up at Ben before
turning back to Sofia. “We argued about it, but I always insisted the decision was mine and no one else’s.”

  Incomprehension numbed Sofia’s mind for a flashing moment, quickly replaced by a flood of muddled emotions: chagrin, regret, reproach—a sense of injustice prevalent.

  “I didn’t want the scandal to touch you,” her mother softly said, interrupting Sofia’s tumultuous thoughts. “I didn’t want my misdeeds to become yours.”

  “But you were married,” Sofia said. “Surely that’s not scandalous.”

  Amelia gently sighed. “It wasn’t that simple. I wasn’t sure of anything after Ernst disappeared. For all I knew I could have been the object of a grand hoax and nothing more than a fleeting amusement. When word of Ernst’s marriage appeared in the London papers, I didn’t know what to believe.”

  “Your father was from a much different world, Sofie,” Ben submitted, his voice subdued. “Nobles of his rank don’t play by the same rules as ordinary people—or more aptly, by any rules.”

  Sofia smiled ruefully. “Having met him, I have to agree.” “It wasn’t as though your mother could openly dispute his marriage to the Princess of Bohemia. Or rather that she wished to under the circumstances,” he finished, directing a loving glance at Amelia.

  “I understand,” Sofia said, realizing how her mother must have felt at the time, abandoned, bewildered, perhaps lovesick as well. “It must have been very difficult, Mama.” Her emotions were still in turmoil, though, for she faced the consequences of that long-ago passion. “The reason I stopped by was not only to let you know that I’d met Prince Ernst,” Sofia said, exchanging a quick glance with Jamie, “but also to tell you why he came and sought me out.” She went on to explain in a severely edited account the reason the prince had come to London looking for her, explaining only that Rupert’s death had prompted his search. “So,” she finished, “I was face-to-face for the first time with a man who called himself my father.”

  “I’m so sorry, darling. It must have been a shock.” Her mother’s voice was contrite. “But I was never quite sure what to say to you even if I’d chosen to tell you; it all happened so long ago it hardly seemed real anymore.” Amelia gazed at her daughter with affection. “Although I never regretted for a second that you were born of that whirlwind affaire. But in all honesty, dear, I always felt that Ernst’s world wouldn’t be to your liking. I hope I wasn’t wrong.”

  “No, you weren’t,” Sofia assured her. “Nor would Ernst have welcomed me had I confronted him . . . until now,” she realistically added. “I did tell him rather clearly that I wasn’t interested in becoming a princess. Much as I sympathize with the loss of his son, I told him that I have a comfortable life of my own.” Sofia nervously scanned the room at the sudden reminder of the monster who’d murdered Rupert, and her voice quivered slightly as she continued. “The truth is, however, I’m not quite sure . . . what to do. Without an heir, Ernst’s principality reverts to the crown.”

  “He has an heir in you,” Ben pointed out. “Isn’t that sufficient?”

  “Yes, yes, certainly—you’re right,” Sofia quickly replied, unable to reveal Von Welden’s continuing malevolence.

  “It’s really just a matter of instituting some legal procedures,” Jamie interposed, his voice deliberately mild. “The Austrian judicial system is fearfully antiquated, unfortunately, so a certain amount of political influence and money is necessary to oil the bureaucratic wheels. There’s no question that Prince Ernst’s sovereignty will be upheld; it’s just a matter of time.” And one man’s demise. Jamie made a show of looking at the tall case clock in the corner. “It really is getting late,” he said, wishing to put an end to the conversation before too much was said. “If you’ll excuse us.” He stretched out his arm and touched Sofia’s hand resting on her chair. “Morning comes early, dear.” He came to his feet.

  Sofia didn’t move. “Are you sure we can’t stay for a few days?”

  Amelia took note of the entreaty in her daughter’s gaze. “We’d love to have you extend your visit,” she pleasantly said. “Please consider staying, Lord Blackwood.”

  Jamie smiled politely. “My gillies are expecting us. Perhaps some other time when we’re not traveling with so many friends. I feel we’re imposing.”

  “Nonsense,” Ben gruffly remarked. “You’re not imposing in the least.” He glanced at Sofia. “Perhaps you’d like to stay on, Sofie dear, and travel to Scotland later.” He wasn’t entirely sure of the relationship between his stepdaughter and this man who traveled with a small army. A hunter himself, he’d taken note of their weaponry; it wasn’t for hunting. “Amelia, do coax Sofie into staying on with us. We haven’t seen her for so long.”

  “Really, dear, I wish you would,” Amelia said warmly, smiling at her daughter. “The landscape is gorgeous this time of year, and the spring light is simply stupendous. Ben and I hardly come in to eat we’re so eager to capture the colors on canvas. We can send you along to Scotland in a week or so.”

  “Why don’t I return later this summer instead,” Sofia tactfully suggested, knowing it was impossible for her to stay. “I promised Jamie I’d come to see his estate; he’s described it in such glowing terms I’m quite looking forward to our holiday. Which reminds me, I need some canvas and paints. I was too lazy to pack much.”

  While Ben didn’t dispute Sofia’s laziness, what bothered him was that Sofie was wearing someone else’s frock, the dress clearly not her style. Why was she traveling without her own clothes or her usual green leather trunk?

  Additional factors fueling his unease about this Scottish holiday.

  Jamie turned to Sofia, his brows lifted faintly. “Are you coming, darling?”

  “You go. I’ll be up shortly. I haven’t had a chance to quiz Mother on all the latest news and scandals in the art world,” she added with a playful grin.

  Dare he insist? If Sofia kept drinking. who knew what she’d say?

  “Speaking of news!” Amelia exclaimed. “I’d quite forgotten! A telegram arrived yesterday for Lord Blackwood. We thought it was some mistake. Ben, where did we put that envelope?”

  “I’ll get it.” Ben rose from his chair.

  Instantly on alert, Jamie said, “I’ll come with you.” Who the hell knew he was here? More aptly, did the wrong people know he was here? “Don’t stay up too late, darling,” he said, the fiat in his voice only thinly veiled. “I’m going to wake you early.” Perhaps extremely early depending on who sent the telegram. With the merest lift of his chin, he summoned Douglas to his side, and together the two men followed Ben from the room.

  “He’s stunning,” Amelia murmured as Jamie disappeared from sight. “You’re going to paint him no doubt. He’s utterly lovely in a brute sort of way, much different from your other beaux. Almost indifferent I’d say, except the way he looks at you quite discourages that notion. I suspect you’re enjoying yourself,” her mother added with a small smile.

  “Very much so, Mother. He can be very attentive.”

  “Always an attractive feature in a man, isn’t it? He’s nicely dressed as well; European tailoring has a certain flair. I almost took out my sketchbook as he lounged in his chair, nursing his whiskey and watching you. I can’t decide, though—is his tailor Venetian or Viennese? The lapels suggest the Venetians. They like a bit more drama, not to mention the complementary color of the stitching on his pockets. I particularly like his elegant waistcoat, such a glorious pongee silk. And his coat of angora wool is very suggestive of Venice—any enormously expensive fabric delights the Venetian eye.”

  Sofia grinned. “Only you would notice a man’s clothing. Would you like me to ask him the name of his tailor?”

  “No, no—actually yes,” Amelia amended with a piquant twinkle in her eye. “There’s an elderly lady who sews for all the old, moneyed Venetian families.” She pursed her lips in musing thought. “I forget her name, but I believe that colored stitching is her trademark. And while we’re on the subject of clothes,” she added
with a disapproving glance, “where in the world did you find that horrid dress?”

  “It was a gift.”

  Her mother lifted her brows. “Obviously from someone without taste.” Amelia’s wardrobe was in the avant-garde of fashion, as was her daughter’s.

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t care to hear that.”

  “Surely, you don’t mean—”

  “No, Mother. A barrister friend,” Sofia lied.

  Amelia snorted. “That explains it. Such a weary lot, barristers.”

  “Some are pleasant enough, Mother. You entertain Lord Parker from time to time.”

  “Only because he’s Ben’s cousin.”

  “And also because he’s your best bridge partner.”

  Her mother’s lashes drifted downward. “Very well, I stand corrected. Martin has some fine qualities. Now tell me the truth,” she said, curtailing their current topic, using the stringent tone mothers used to command honesty in their children. “Why exactly are you going to Scotland? I can’t imagine Ernst allowing his ADC to go on holiday when he’s in London. As I recall, your father was rather a selfish man.”

  Sofia looked her mother straight in the eye, having learned as a child that an evasive glance tainted one’s credulity. “The prince seems not to have changed in that regard, but he and Jamie must have come to some agreement. I only spoke to Ernst briefly, so I wouldn’t know what they arranged,” she lied. “Ernst was entertaining other guests at the time.”

  “A woman, you mean,” her mother said.

  Sofia shot her a quick look. “Does it bother you?” Good. A change of subject.

  Amelia shook her head. “Too many years have passed. I’m sure if we met again neither of us would find each other as charming as we once did. And I dearly love Ben—I have for ages.”