Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle

by Stephanie Laurens

  With his usual grace, he bowed over her hand. “Good evening, Miss Winterton. I trust I see you well?”

  Sophie’s mind froze. She had convinced herself he wouldn’t come, that she would never see him again. Instead, here he was, arriving like some god from the darkness outside, sweeping difficulties like Mr. Marston aside. But his expression was impassive; his eyes, as they touched her face, held no particular warmth. Sophie’s heart contracted painfully.

  Glancing about, Jack bestowed a charming smile on the other, much damper, guests. “But pray don’t let me detain you from giving succour to these poor unfortunates.” His smile robbed the term of any offence.

  Gently, he squeezed Sophie’s hand.

  Sophie dragged in a sharp breath. She retrieved her hand and pinned a regal smile to her lips. “If you and Mr. Marston don’t mind, I shall see these others to their rooms.”

  Still smiling, Jack politely inclined his head; Phillip Marston hesitated, frowning, then nodded curtly.

  Determinedly calm, Sophie moved forward to deal with the last of her aunt’s guests. As she did so, Ned slipped in through the door. He grinned at her. “Shall I shut it? Jack was sure we’d be last.”

  Sophie smiled and nodded. “Please.” As she helped Minton ease Lord Thurstow from his sodden coat, she wondered whether Jack Lester had purposely arrived last for greatest effect—or whether his lateness was a reflection of reluctance.

  The heavy door clanged shut on the wild night; to Sophie, it’s resounding thud sounded like the knell of an inescapable doom.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SHE BARELY HAD TIME to scramble into an evening gown and brush out her curls before the dinner gong sounded, echoing hollowly through the long corridors. The meal had already been put back twice to accommodate the travellers and their recuperation.

  With a last distracted glance at her mirror, Sophie hurried out. The corridor was dark and gloomy, the ubiquitous wood panelling deepening the shadows cast by the candles in the wall sconces. Feet flying over the worn carpet, Sophie turned a corner only to find a cordon, formed by two determined figures, across her path.

  Jeremy frowned, threatening sulky. “We can come down to dinner, can’t we, Sophie?”

  Sophie blinked.

  “It’s not as if we’d cause any ruckus,” George assured her.

  “It’s boring here, Sophie. Having dinner with Amy and the twins—well, it’s just not fair.” Jeremy’s jaw jutted pugnaciously.

  “It’s not as if we’re children.” George fixed his blue eyes on her face and dared her to contradict him.

  Sophie swallowed a groan. With all the trials of the afternoon, and those yet to come, she had precious little patience left to deal with the boys’ prickly pride. But she loved them too well to fob them off. Draping an arm about each, she gave them a quick hug. “Yes, I know, loves—but, you see, we’re a bit rushed this evening, and although the party’s informal, I don’t really think it’s quite the same as when we’re at Webb Park.”

  They both turned accusing eyes on her. “I don’t see why not,” Jeremy stated.

  “Ah—but if you don’t get an early night, you won’t be up in time to go shooting tomorrow.”

  Sophie jumped. The deep, drawling voice brought goose-bumps to her skin. But both boys turned eagerly as Jack strolled out from the shadows.

  “Shooting?”

  “You mean you’ll take us?”

  Jack raised a brow. “I don’t see why not. I was discussing the outing with your father earlier. If the rain eases, we should have tolerable sport.” Jack’s blue gaze flicked to Sophie, then returned to the boys’ glowing faces. “But you’d have to get an early night—and that, I fear, means dining in the nursery. Of course, if that’s beneath you…”

  “Oh, no,” Jeremy assured him. “Not if we’re to go shooting tomorrow.”

  George tugged his brother’s sleeve. “Come on. We’d better let Jack and Sophie get to dinner and go find ours before the twins scoff all the buns.”

  Restored to good humour, the boys hurried off.

  Sophie breathed a sigh of relief, then glanced up at Jack. “Thank you, Mr. Lester.”

  For a moment, Jack’s gaze rested on her face, his expression impassive. Then he inclined his head. “Think nothing of it, my dear. Shall we?”

  He gestured towards the stairs. With a nod, Sophie started forward. As they strolled the short distance in silence, she was excruciatingly aware of him, large and strong beside her, her skirts occasionally brushing his boots. He made no move to offer her his arm.

  They descended the stairs and turned towards the drawing-room. Minton was hovering in the hall. “Could I have a word with you, miss?”

  Sophie’s heart sank. “Yes, of course.” With a half smile for Jack, she glided across the tiles. “What is it?”

  “It’s the footmen, miss. That’s to say—there aren’t any.” Looking supremely apologetic, Minton continued, “The old lady apparently didn’t see the need and Mrs. Webb didn’t imagine we’d need more. Even with old Smithers—that’s the old lady’s butler—there’ll only be two of us and that’ll make service very slow. Naughton—Mr. Webb’s man—said as he’d help, but still…”

  Minton didn’t need to spell it out; Sophie wondered what next the evening had in store. Where on earth could she find footmen to wait at table at a minute’s notice “I don’t suppose the coachman…”

  Minton looked his answer. “I’d rather have the maids. But you know how it’ll look, miss, having women wait at table.”

  She did indeed. Sophie’s shoulders slumped.

  “If I could make a suggestion?”

  Sophie turned as Jack strolled forward. He glanced at her, his expression merely polite. “I couldn’t help overhearing. I suggest,” he said, addressing Minton. “That you ask my man, Pinkerton, to assist. Huntly’s man, too, will be well-trained, and Ainsley’s and Annerby’s. The rest I can’t vouch for, but Pinkerton will know.”

  Minton’s worried expression cleared. “Just the ticket, sir. I’ll do that.” He bobbed to Sophie. “All under control, miss, never fear.” And with that, Minton hurried off.

  Sophie knew a moment of blessed relief, superceded by the knowledge that more hurdles doubtless awaited her. She glanced up at Jack. “I have to thank you again, Mr. Lester. I would never have thought of such a solution; I only hope it serves.” The last was uttered softly, a slight frown playing about her brows.

  Not a glimmer of expression showed on Jack’s face as, looking down, he studied hers. “Don’t worry. Such arrangements are not uncommon—no one will remark on it.”

  From beneath her lashes, Sophie glanced up. “Thank you,” she murmured, a tentative smile touching her lips.

  Jack’s hand closed about the knob of the drawing-room door. “After you, Miss Winterton.”

  Sophie entered to find most of the company already assembled. She moved among the guests, seeing that all had everything they needed. Most had recovered from their soaking and regained their spirits. Only Mrs. Billingham and Mrs. Ellis, a delicate lady, had elected to take trays in their rooms. Clarissa was surrounded by her usual little band, Ned included. Her cousin had drawn the other younger ladies into the charmed circle; the sound of shy laughter now ran as a counterpoint to more sober conversations. Her uncle, together with the more mature gentlemen, was deep in discussion of the sport to be found in the vicinity.

  Great-Aunt Evangeline provided an unexpected distraction. She had come down to examine the guests who had invaded her home. Blithely calling Sophie “Maria” and Clarissa “Lucilla,” she happily chatted with the ladies, her remarkable shawls threatening to trip her at every step.

  When Minton announced dinner, the old lady squeezed Sophie’s arm. “I’ll take mine in my room, dear. Now remember, Maria—you’re in charge. Keep an eye on Lucilla, won’t you?” With a motherly pat, Great-Aunt Evangeline retired.

  Dinner, as it transpired, posed no further problems. As one course was smoothly followe
d by the next, Sophie gradually relaxed. She had led the way into the dining-room on the Marquess of Huntly’s arm. He was now seated on her right with Lord Ainsley on her left. A hum of good-natured conversation hovered over the table; everyone was reasonably well acquainted and, so it seemed, determined to enjoy themselves. Further down the board, Belle Chessington had taken on the challenge posed by Mr. Somercote; she was bending his ear unmercifully. Sophie smiled and let her gaze travel on, to where Clarissa and Ned, together with Lord Swindon and Mr. Marley, were deep in discussion of some passingly serious subject. Beyond them, Jack Lester was devoting himself primarily to Mrs. Chessington. Sophie had seen him offer that lady his arm in the drawing-room even as she herself had placed her hand on the Marquess’s sleeve.

  Rousing herself from her thoughts, Sophie conjured a smile and beamed at the marquess. “Do you intend to make one of the shooting party tomorrow, my lord?”

  Once the covers were removed, Sophie led the ladies back to the drawing-room. The gentlemen were disposed to linger over their port, yet there was still an hour before the tea trolley was due when they strolled back into the room.

  As ladies and gentlemen merged, then fractured into the inevitable smaller groups, Sophie wondered how to keep them amused. She hadn’t had time to organize any of the fashionable little games that were so much a part of country-house parties. She was cudgelling her brains for inspiration when Ned stopped by her chair.

  “We thought we might try charades, Sophie. Jack mentioned it was all the thing for the younger crowd.”

  Relieved, Sophie smiled. “By all means; that’s an excellent idea.”

  She watched as Ned and Clarissa rounded up the younger members of the party and cleared an area of the large room. Many of the matrons seemed disposed to look on indulgently. Rising, Sophie glanced about—and found her uncle approaching.

  Horatio beamed and took her hand. “You’re doing magnificently, my dear.” He squeezed her fingers, then released them. “Lester’s taken Huntly, Ainsley and Annerby off to try their luck at billiards. I’ll just go and have a word with Marston.” Horatio glanced about the drawing-room. “The rest I fear I’ll have to leave to you—but I’m sure you can manage.”

  With Mr. Marston off her hands, Sophie was sure of it, too. Belle Chessington seemed reluctant to let Mr. Somercote escape, which left only Mr. Chartwell, Miss Billingham and a few relaxed matrons for her to take under her wing. Sophie smiled. “Indeed, Uncle, it seems we’ve contrived amazingly well.”

  “Indeed.” Horatio grinned. “Your aunt will be delighted.”

  TO SOPHIE’S RELIEF, the rain cleared overnight. The morning was damp and dismal, but sufficiently clement to allow the shooting party to proceed. By the time the ladies descended to the breakfast parlour, the gentlemen had taken themselves off. Even Mr. Marston had seized the opportunity to stretch his legs.

  The ladies were content to stroll the gardens. Sophie went up to check on the twins and Amy. She eventually ran them to earth in the attics; their nurse, who had been with the Webbs for many years, had had the bright idea of turning them loose in such relatively safe surrounds. The trio were engaged in constructing a castle, later to be stormed. Great-Aunt Evangeline was with them. Sophie left them to it and went to look in on her aunt. She found Lucilla sleeping, which of itself spoke volumes. Mimms confirmed that her aunt’s indisposition had eased, but she was still very weak.

  The gentlemen returned in time for luncheon, an informal meal at which their prowess with their guns was discussed and admired, the ladies smiling good-naturedly at claims of prizes flushed from coverts or taken on the wing.

  Listening to the genial chatter, Sophie spared a thought for Lucilla’s expertise. Her aunt had selected her guests with a knowing hand; they had melded into a comfortable party despite the presence of such difficult elements as Mr. Marston and Mr. Somercote.

  But by the end of the meal, the rain had returned, gusting in from the east in leaden sheets. By unvoiced consensus, the gentlemen retired to the library or billiard room, while the ladies took possession of the morning-room and parlour, to chat in little groups ensconced in the comfortable armchairs or wander in the adjoining conservatory.

  With everyone settled, Sophie went to the kitchens to confer with Cook. Belowstairs, she stumbled on an army, the depleted ranks of Aunt Evangeline’s aged servitors swelled beyond imagining by the maids, coachmen and valets of the guests, as well as the doyens of the Webb household. But all seemed to be cheery, the bulk of the men gathered about the huge fire in the kitchen. Minton, beaming, assured her all was well.

  Climbing back up the stairs, her chores completed, Sophie decided she could justifiably seize a moment for herself. The conservatory had proved a most amazing discovery; it was huge and packed with ferns and flowering creepers, many of kinds Sophie had not before seen. She had had time for no more than a glimpse; now, she pushed open the glass door and slipped into the first avenue, half an hour of peace before her.

  As the greenery surrounded her, Sophie closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The humid scent of rich earth and green leaves, of growing things, tinged with the faint perfume of exotic flowers, filled her senses. A smile hovered on her lips.

  “There you are, Miss Winterton.”

  Sophie’s eyes flew open; her smile vanished. Swallowing a most unladylike curse, she swung round to see Mr. Marston advancing purposefully upon her. As usual, he was frowning.

  “Really, Miss Winterton, I cannot tell you how very displeased I am to find you here.”

  Sophie blinked; one of her brows rose haughtily. “Indeed, sir?”

  “As you should know, Miss Winterton.” Mr. Marston came to a halt before her, giving Sophie an excellent view of his grim expression. “I do not see how your uncle can reconcile this with his conscience. I knew from the first that continuing with this affair was unwise in the extreme. Unconscionable folly.”

  Sophie straightened her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I fear, sir, that I cannot allow you to malign my uncle, who, as everyone knows, takes exceptional care of me. In truth, I cannot follow your reasoning at all.”

  Mr. Marston appeared to have difficulty restraining himself. “What I mean, Miss Winterton,” he finally replied, his tones glacially condemnatory, “is that I am shocked to find you—a young lady whom I consider of sound and elevated mind and a naturally genteel manner—here.” He paused to gesture about them. “Quite alone, unattended, where any gentleman might come upon you.”

  Sophie hung onto her patience. “Mr. Marston, may I point out that I am in my great-aunt’s house, within easy call not only of servants but many others whom I consider friends? Is it not all the same thing as if I had chosen to walk the pavements of Covent Garden unattended?”

  Mr. Marston’s grey eyes narrowed; his lips were set in a thin line. “You are mistaken, Miss Winterton. No lady can afford to play fast and loose with her reputation by courting—”

  “Really, Marston. No need to bore Miss Winterton to tears by reciting the Young Ladies’ Catechism. They all have to learn it by heart before being admitted to Almack’s, you know.” Jack strolled forward, green leaves brushing his shoulders. His expression was easy and open, but Sophie saw a glint of something harder in his eyes.

  The sudden rush of mixed emotions—relief, nervousness and anticipation among them—on top of her rising temper, left her momentarily giddy. But she turned back to Mr. Marston, lifting her chin challengingly. “Mr. Lester is correct, sir. I assure you I need no lectures on such topics.”

  She made the comment in an even voice, giving Mr. Marston the opportunity to retreat gracefully. He, however, seemed more intent on glowering at Jack, a futile gesture for, as she shifted her gaze to her rescuer’s face, Sophie found he was watching her.

  She would have given a great deal, just then, for one of his smiles. Instead, he simply bowed, urbanely elegant, and offered her his arm. “I came to collect you, my dear. The tea trolley has just been brought in.”


  Sophie tried a small smile of her own and placed her fingers on his sleeve.

  Phillip Marston snorted. “Ridiculous! Taking lessons in comportment from a—” He broke off as he met Jack’s gaze.

  One of Jack’s brows slowly rose. “You were saying, Marston?”

  The quiet question made Phillip Marston glower even more. “Nothing, nothing. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Winterton, I find I am not in the mood for tea.” With a curt bow, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the greenery.

  Sophie didn’t bother to stifle her sigh. “Thank you again, Mr. Lester. I must apologize for Mr. Marston. I fear he’s labouring under a misapprehension.”

  As they strolled towards the parlour, Sophie glanced up at her knight-errant. He was looking down at her, his expression enigmatic.

  “No need for apologies, my dear. Indeed, I bear Marston no ill-will. Strange to say, I know just how he feels.”

  Sophie frowned, but she got no chance to pursue his meaning; the tea trolley and the bulk of her aunt’s guests were waiting.

  WHEN SOPHIE AWOKE the next morning, and tentatively peeked out from under the covers, she was met by weak sunshine and a pale, blue-washed sky. She relaxed back against her pillows, feeling decidedly more confident than she had the morning before.

  The previous evening had passed off smoothly, much in the manner of the first. The only exceptions had been the behaviour of her suitors, who, one and all, had recovered from the dampening effects of their arrival and were once more attempting to pay court to her. That and the behaviour of the elder Miss Billingham, who had all but thrown herself at Jack Lester.

  Sophie grimaced, her eyes narrowing. After a moment, she shook herself. And rose to meet the day.

  She looked in on Lucilla on her way downstairs. Her aunt was sitting up in bed sipping her morning cocoa. “Indeed, I would love to see how things are progressing, but I still feel quite weak.” Lucilla pulled a face. “Maybe this evening?”