“Yes, Bram. But if she had known how the late duke and her mother died? No. I’d wager Sophie would still be in Wimbledon, had she known that, had she realized just how deep your humiliation would be at having to present her. And then there’s her own mother’s memory. She wouldn’t want to have her mother tarnished all over again, not to that extent. Ah, Bram, we all of us should have known. I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself. But Hell and damnation, man, it’s not enough to go about milling down idiots like Farnsworthy. There are too many of them, for one thing. You have to tell her, Bram. Tell her now, today, before somebody else does.”
“I’ll kill the man who tells he,Bramwell bit out, glaring at his friend.
“Yes, I believe that, having just seen Farnsworthy. But it won’t work, Bram. I’m fond of her too, very fond. Just ask Bobbit, if you don’t believe me. He’ll soon be listing to one side, for all my coins now in his pocket. But we have to be commonsensical about the thing. Some day, some way, someone is going to let it slip. Or tell her on purpose. She has to know, know it all, before that happens. This is an understandably sore subject with you, as your father was involved. Do you want me to do it?”
Bramwell was tempted, sorely tempted. But he shook his head, knowing he couldn’t take the coward’s way out. Not on this one. The coach pulled to a halt at the curb in front of their club, and the two men got out, pausing on the flagway as the duke assured his friend that he would tell Sophie the truth. The whole truth. Tonight.
“Just don’t let her put her tail between her legs and run away from London, Bram,” the Baron warned as they entered the club. “She’s got to stay, got to see this through now that she’s started it. You must make her understand that. For Sophie’s sake. For you, for me, for all of us. She’d take all the sunshine with her if she left, this rainy day notwithstanding.”
“You’re in love with her?” Bramwell asked, something tightening painfully, deep in his chest.
“No, Bram. But I could have been,” the baron answered, waving to Wally, who was sitting across the room, a drink already in his hand. “Unfortunately, that’s not how I see all of this falling out. But I’m her friend, Bram. Her very good friend. And I’ll not see her hurt. Not by the ton, not by anyone, if you take my meaning. Now, shall we see how Wally’s doing, pimping for his mother and aunt? From that frown, I’d say it’s not going well, poor silly old sot.”
Bram followed his friend through the maze of tables and chairs. “Then you know what Wally’s been about these past few days?” he asked, hoping Lorrie didn’t also know who had put their mutual friend up to the ridiculous stunt, then realizing that the Baron had to know. Wally couldn’t keep his mouth shut if all their lives depended upon it.
“When he stood in my foyer yesterday, eyeing my footman like a racetrack tout? I thought he was going to ask one fellow to strip, to show him his muscles. How could I not know? And yes, before you ask, I do know all of it, and I think Sophie’s plan brilliant. Wally’s already added two footmen to his mama’s staff, and a second majordomo, one his aunt once employed, although why they’d need two in that small household I couldn’t know. Oh, and a cook. The cook is fat, and bald, and French into the bargain, but Wally does enjoy a fine crêpe, so he figured it couldn’t hurt.”
Bramwell threw back his head and laughed aloud, the first bit of good humor he’d experienced since that disastrous evening at Almack’s. “That’s Wally for you, Lorrie. If he can’t make the females of his household happy, he’ll at least find a bit of pleasure for himself. Now, not a word to him about Sophie, all right?”
The baron gave a single, nearly imperceptible nod, then they crossed the room and joined Sir Wallace at the table. “How goes the hunt, my man?” he asked as a waiter rushed up, eager to take their order for wine.
Bramwell told the servant what they wanted, then settled back in his chair to listen to Sir Wallace’s story of his exploits of that morning, banishing thoughts of what lay ahead of him that evening, when he would have to tell Sophie what she needed to know.
“My aunt was smiling this morning,” Sir Wallace was already informing an attentive Baron Lorimar. “Smiling! Can you picture it, Lorrie? Don’t, if you don’t want to. It’s not a pretty image, I assure you. But she was. Smiling, that is. Not pretty. Never been pretty.”
“She resembles your mother to a great degree, Wally, as I recall. Twins, ain’t they?” the Baron pointed out, so that Bramwell found himself coughing into his hand to cover a laugh.
Sir Wallace spread his arms wide as if inviting his friends to inspect his less-than-imposing appearance. “Yes, Lorrie, twins. And I look like the both of them. Is that enough for you?”
“I think your mother’s nose might be a trifle less florid,” Bramwell put in as the servant set two bottles and as many glasses in front of them, then withdrew once more. “What say you, Lorrie?”
Sir Wallace dismissed any answer the Baron might give with a wave of his hands. “It’s working, gentlemen. I had only faint hopes at first, but it’s working. And the crêpes are outstanding. Had six just this morning. I think I’ll take Noé with me when I go. I’m already hunting up a place, you understand. Nothing too fine, but with a full kitchen, and room for Noé. I’d be a fool to give him up.” He picked up his wineglass, then set it back down without taking a sip—or draining the glass, as was his custom. “Lord love Sophie. I know I do. How is she, by the bye? I haven’t been by to see her since Almack’s.”
Bramwell was saved from answering when he heard his name being called from halfway across the room. He turned in time to see Sir Tyler Shipley advancing toward him, two other gentlemen in tow. Bram decided he’d rather not have been rescued from answering Sir Wallace, for Uncle Tye was looking extremely agitated. As were the other two gentlemen.
Rising to his feet, Bramwell bowed slightly to each of the men in turn. “Lord Upchurch, Lord Buxley, Sir Tyler. How good to see you all.” He was lying through his teeth, of course, as Lord Upchurch was a loose screw of the first water, Lord Buxley had been host to the most infamous house party in recent memory, and Sir Tyler was, plain and simple, a very unlovable man.
“Good to see you, Selbourne, good to see you!” Lord Upchurch responded heartily, reaching out to take Bramwell’s hand in both of his, then pumping it up and down as if trying to wrench it from his wrist. “I just got in from Surrey, you know, leaving Lady Upchurch there nursing one of the granddaughters. Measles, you know. Poor sprite, our Annabella, but anything that keeps Julia in Surrey and away from the shops has my vote, you know. Heard my little Sophie is in Town, and just had to tell you how happy I am to hear you bear her no ill will over that business, well”—he lowered his voice and leaned in close—“over the balcony, you know.”
Bramwell extracted his hand from his lordship’s two-fisted clutches and, barely suppressing a smile, answered, “Yes, my lord. I know.” Behind him, he heard Baron Lorimar choking slightly as it was that man’s turn to disguise a laugh in a cough.
“Did she bring Giuseppe with her? The little rascal’s still above ground and making mischief, ain’t he? Miss that flea-bitten monkey, you know, but it took such a shine to Sophie I just couldn’t bear to separate them when Buxley here came on the scene and Constance and I—well, enough of old history. Julia never could abide Giuseppe anyway, you know. Made me sleep in the dressing room until I agreed to get rid of it, as Julia was going through one of those woman things, you know, and was always finding something to complain about. Best reason to keep the thing about, I thought, what with Julia always either too hot, or too cold, or just finding fault with the whole world. But Sophie loved the monkey, you see, and I loved little Sophie. So it all worked out.”
Lord Upchurch shrugged his sawdust-stuffed shoulders, which probably matched his sawdust-stuffed hose, for his lordship was a tall, too-thin man with illusions of putting himself forth as a well-put-together Corinthian. “What was a man to do? But no matter. I soon found reason enough to return to the dressing room. I’m a bad man.
I am, you know, and happy enough for it, much as I love my Julia, especially now that she’s through that bad patch. No chance of more kiddies, either, which suits the pair of us just fine,” he ended with a nudge and a wink, so that Bramwell smiled politely, wishing the man would simply shut up.
“Stubble it, Dickie,” Lord Buxley broke in, pushing his rather paunchy body forward in between his companions, leading with his belly where another man would lead with his chin. A rather coarse man, and an avid hunter, His Lordship would never see another ride across a fallow field if it weren’t for the winch that hoisted him onto his horse for the hunt. “Selbourne here don’t give a tinker’s dam about your talk of measles and women’s vapors and the like. Now look here, Selbourne, we’ve got us a problem here, although Dickie, half-wit that he is, don’t see it that way. Sees it all as a lark, the fool. We need to talk, the three of us.” He looked hopefully about the room, as if seeking out a hidey-hole now that the trio had made themselves the center of all attention by confronting the duke publicly. “Alone.”
“Is that so, Your Lordship?” Bramwell asked, for once not going out of his way to be proper, to be polite. And why should he? After all, he wasn’t having a particularly jolly day. “You had little enough to say to me three years ago, when I came to your estate to gather up a few of my father’s possessions that had been left behind in the rush to get the man buried and forgotten. And even less to say to me since, now that I think on it. No, Your Lordship. Either you and these two bookends of yours join my friends and me,” he ended, pointing to Lord Upchurch and the curiously silent Sir Tyler, “or you can all be on your way.” He then wrinkled up his nose, rather the way Sophie did, he realized, then added, “You know.”
Lord Buxley began to bluster, his jowls quivering as he built up a full measure of outrage. “Now see here, Selbourne—”
“Did Sophie call you Uncle Billy?” Bramwell asked, cutting him off even as he pulled out a chair and motioned for the man to seat himself before he fell down. “Or, perhaps, Uncle Willy? Oh, and I imagine you’re the one who taught her to shoot?”
Lord Buxley subsided into the chair, pulling out a large, none-too-white handkerchief and mopping at his moist brow. “Uncle Willy,” he admitted, then glared at Sir Tyler. “Oh, for God’s sake, man, sit down. He knows, he knows. I told you he wouldn’t believe we were just trying to be nice.”
And Bramwell did know. Baron Lorimar knew. Only Sir Wallace, who was wearing a most confused expression, did not know. Constance Winstead had been mistress to Lord Upchurch, as the man had already admitted. But she had also been mistress to Sir Tyler. And to Lord Buxley—which was rather interesting, seeing as how she had come to her lurid, unexpected end while in the midst of an assignation at His Lordship’s estate, but not with His Lordship. Cheeky woman, Constance Winstead. Bramwell was beginning to admire the lady, for her dash, her flair, her obvious love of whimsy and the ridiculous.
While the baron, who had moved his chair closer to Sir Wallace, whispered into that man’s ear, and while Sir Wallace’s eyes slowly grew round and large as chestnuts, Sir Tyler laid his elbows, and his cards, on the table.
“Here’s how we see it, Selbourne,” Sir Tyler said, looking much the most handsome of the three, and twice as bright into the bargain. He was older than Bramwell by more than twenty years, but he had aged well. He didn’t have to be as sharp as a tack to be in His Majesty’s government—brilliance in that quarter was almost always a handicap if one had little patience with incompetence—but he was not a stupid man. “We can’t have Connie’s daughter traipsing all over London, you can see that, can’t you? I almost had an apoplexy when my wife came home early from Almack’s the other night, wailing and swooning. And that’s without knowing that Connie and I once had, well, had an arrangement.”
Lord Buxley soundly clapped Sir Tyler on the back, laughing. “And without knowing that you were probably in her very own bed as she was racing up the stairs to collapse in her chamber, and in the midst of tipping over her very own lady’s maid, I’ll wager. You always was the randy one, Tye. Connie told me why she tossed you over. Chasing after that Frenchie maid she had, weren’t you, hoping for a tumble? Nearly broke Connie’s tender heart, you did. Not that I wasn’t grateful to be there to mend it again after Dickie here stomped on it in his turn, throwing her over for his own wife, which is just about the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. And not that I lasted above a year m’self, not once Cecil showed up to spoil m’fun. Now there was a love match!”
Bramwell couldn’t help himself, although he knew he’d probably also hate himself once he’d had time to refine, to reflect. He leaned forward, pointing from one to the other of Constance Winstead’s lovers. “Let’s see if I have the order correct, all right, gentlemen? Sir Tyler, you were first, I suppose. Then Lord Upchurch, then Buxley here, then my father. Do I have the right of it?”
“Not nice to keep score,” Sir Wallace broke in weakly, looking to Baron Lorimar. “Is it?”
Bramwell raised his hands, warning Sir Wallace to be quiet. “No, no. This is interesting. Sir Tyler, followed by a viscount, then an earl, then a duke. My God, the mind begins to boggle. Had she lived, one of the royal dukes might have been next, then the King himself.” He sat back in his chair and laughed until tears ran down his cheeks.
“I had thought you more mature, more sober, Your Grace,” Sir Tyler said coldly. “But, laugh as you might, we three see Miss Winstead’s appearance in Society considerably less than amusing. Almack’s was a disaster that cannot be repeated. Young Sophie was old enough to remember us, remember us all, though I’m sure there were a half dozen before us, when she was still in leading strings. She cannot be allowed to run amuck in Society, even you must see that now. If she is to remain in London, discretion must rule—and, yes, for our sake as much as hers. Now, as we’re already fairly sure we cannot buy her off, or make her believe she must leave London before she is completely and publicly disgraced, and as you obviously refuse to do anything even vaguely helpful—I hadn’t noticed before how very much you resemble your father in manner, Selbourne—we’ve decided that we must step into the breach, as it were, and take care of young Sophie.”
Bramwell was suddenly all attention, even as a part of him found it difficult to believe just how much he was enjoying himself. Even the reference to resembling his father, not just physically, but in his manner, brought him a bit of joy, rather than his usual disdain. “Take care of her?” he repeated in some real confusion, tipping his chair forward once more. “How? I don’t think I can allow you to tie a large stone to her ankles and toss her into the Thames, gentlemen.”
“No, no. Nothing like that! We mean to find her a husband, of course,” Lord Buxley said, wiping at his cheeks, at the beads of perspiration that had collected just above his upper lip. “And not the way you’ve been going about it, boy. Dragging her scent in front of a pack of hounds, then setting them loose. That works well enough for the Quorn, but not in Mayfair, as anyone can tell you. Match her up, get her bracketed, get her gone—out of sight, out of mind. One, two, three.”
“Any Americans in port?” Lord Upchurch asked, looking hopeful. “The war’s over forever now, you know, so there could be one or two of the fellows about. Can’t have her marrying into Society, you know. Have to get her gone.” He shivered beneath his padded shoulders. “Calls me Uncle Dickie just the once and I’m as good as a dead man, you know. Julia will murder me.”
“We need to meet with her,” Sir Tyler slid in as Lord Buxley began pounding on Lord Upchurch’s back this time, telling him to buck up, to be a man. “Sit down with her, talk to her, explain our problem to her. She’s a good little thing; biddable, like the mother. She’ll understand. And in return, we’ll—the three of us—do our utmost to see her happily wed. And gone,” he reiterated, looking to his two companions. “Definitely gone.”
“That’s right. Good enough sort, Sophie, as I remember, but there’s never been the woman yet who could keep her mouth s
hut for long,” Lord Buxley pointed out. “Witness the way m’wife had it all over England in a trice, about your father and Connie, I mean. Bodies had barely hit the flagstones before she was off, scribbling notes to all corners of the kingdom.”
Bramwell looked to Baron Lorimar, who had his brow furrowed in thought. He knew what his friend was thinking. Tonight Sophie had to be told the truth about her mother’s death. That news would all but crush her. But if he could leaven the sad news with the information that three of her dear “uncles” wanted to visit with her? Well, that might help soften the blow. “Tomorrow afternoon at two in Portland Square, gentlemen,” he said, watching as the Baron nodded his agreement.
“And your aunt?” Lord Upchurch inquired, pulling a face. “Woman, you know. Talk, talk, talk.”
“I’ll send her off shopping with my fiancée,” Bramwell said, agreeing with his lordship. “You can rest assured, gentlemen, that your meeting with Miss Winstead will be entirely confidential. I’m equally sure Miss Winstead will be overjoyed to see her uncles again.”
“Mayhap I’ll bring her a doll,” Lord Upchurch said, thinking out loud. “Sophie liked dolls well enough, you know, as I remember.”
Baron Lorimar leaned forward, smiling. “A doll, Your Lordship? Then you haven’t seen Miss Winstead since she came to London?” He looked from one man to the next, then the next, and repeated his question. “Lord Buxley? Sir Tyler? Have either of you seen Miss Winstead since she was a child?”
Lord Upchurch shook his head. “Of course, Lorimar. You’re right. We remember her as a child, you know. My goodness, it’s been at least eight or nine years since I saw her last, hasn’t it? A doll is ridiculous, you know, if the child is now old enough for Almack’s. Should have thought of that. How does she look? I remember her as rather short, you know. And rather plump, too, now that I think on it. Buxley, you were after me. How did she look to you?”
The Straight-Laced Duke Selbourne Page 13
