by Anne Stuart
There was no mistaking Phelan’s reaction, however, and Valerian decided to take pity on her. “If you could procure me some coffee from Dulcie,” he said to Juliette, “then I would be your slave for life. Phelan can help me with my toilette.”
She escaped without a word, and the moment she was gone Phelan advanced on him with a furious expression. “Phelan will help you with your toilette, all right,” he snarled. “Keep your bloody hands off her!”
If his head hadn’t ached so much, Valerian would have found the sight of his usually imperturbable older brother amusing. As it was, he simply shook his head. “Look at me, man! Do you think having someone help me dress as a woman is the road to seduction?”
But Phelan wasn’t being reasonable. “I don’t know what’s going on in your mind. I just don’t want you touching her.”
“I wasn’t touching her, damn it. She was tying my bloody corset. Not the most erotic act in the world, I assure you. If you think it is, I’ll be glad to lend it to you and you can see if Juliette finds it arousing.”
Phelan swung at him. Normally Valerian’s reflexes were fine-tuned enough that he would duck, but the aftereffects of too much wine and not enough sleep slowed him just enough. Phelan’s fist connected with his face, the force throwing them off-balance, and the two of them tumbled over onto the floor.
“Get off me, you horse!” Valerian said furiously, hampered by his hated skirts.
Phelan scrambled to his feet, holding out his hand to help his brother up. Valerian ignored it. “Damn you,” he said. “How the hell am I going to explain this to Sophie?”
“You’ll have a bruise, all right,” Phelan said in a subdued voice. “She’ll just have to think your husband beats you. No doubt you deserve it.”
“That’s all well and good, but I’ve been busy extolling the virtues of married life and the pleasures of a good husband.” He rose, wandered over to the mirror, and surveyed his reflection with a dubious air.
“Have you really? I can’t imagine why. Surely you don’t want to encourage her to marry, since she obviously can’t marry you.”
“Obviously,” Valerian growled. He was going to get a bruise, damn it. “And I’m in no hurry for her to marry. I merely want to ensure that when she does, she doesn’t settle for less than she deserves.”
“Oh, good God, Valerian! What have you been telling her?”
“I’ve been informing her of the wonders of lovemaking. She was absolutely fascinated.”
“I imagine she was. And how very noble of you. It couldn’t have been the most comfortable topic of conversation.”
“Hardly.” And then Valerian laughed at his own inadvertent joke. “If I can’t have her, at least I want her to be happy. With the information I gave her, she’ll never settle for a stuffed popinjay like Captain Melbourne.”
“Who, pray tell, is Captain Melbourne?” Phelan asked, mystified.
“One of her suitors.”
There was a long silence. “I’m sorry, Valerian,” Phelan said in a somber voice.
“The bruise will fade.”
“That’s not what I was talking about.”
“I know.”
Their eyes met for a pregnant moment, and then Valerian shrugged, smiling ruefully. “I’ll take what I can get. Which isn’t much, more’s the pity. We’re spending the day together, and then I’m going to absent myself. You’ll have your wish, Phelan. I’ll run like a whipped cur. I’ll go to France with you.”
There was silence from his older brother, and Valerian, surprised, stared at him. “I thought you’d be jubilant. You’ve been trying to get me on a boat ever since we got here. I told you, I’m willing to run.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve accepted it. Accepted that Sophie isn’t for the likes of me. Accepted that the truth about Lord Harry’s death won’t ever be known. And perhaps that’s just as well.”
“I’m not certain she did it,” Phelan said flatly.
Valerian sat down on the end of the bed and proceeded to don his oversize silk stockings. “It’s only natural that you wouldn’t want to believe it. You wouldn’t want to think your mother murdered your father.”
“My mother is unnatural to begin with,” Phelan said flatly. “I’d believe her capable of anything. But something about this whole affair simply doesn’t feel right. I’ve learned to rely on my instincts, and my instincts are telling me she didn’t do it.”
“Then who did?”
“If I had the faintest suspicion, I’d be doing something about it, wouldn’t I? I don’t know where to start.”
“Phelan,” Val began, “are you certain we can trust Hannigan? And don’t look at me like that! One black eye is enough for a day.”
“I’ve known Hannigan all my life. He’s devoted to the family.”
“I know he is. I just wondered whether his devotion included an allegiance to the truth. I get the sense he might know more than he’s telling us.”
“You might have a point,” Phelan said slowly. “He’s devoted to us, but he also might be a bit too protective.” He strode over to the window, looking out at the sea. “Three more days,” he said. “They won’t make much of a difference. If we can’t come up with a single possible suspect by then, we’ll decamp for foreign lands and live a life of wondrous adventure.”
“I’m not certain I’m all that suited for adventure. I suspect I’m a farmer at heart, just like my mother.”
“You would have been good for Romney Hall,” Phelan said.
Valerian shrugged. “It’s out of our hands. You don’t want it and I can’t have it.”
“I’ll tell you what. If we have to become émigrés, we’ll kidnap Miss de Quincey and carry her off with us. She strikes me as a romantic young creature—she’ll probably love the adventure. You can be married over the anvil once we reach France.”
“I doubt it. She might love adventure, but she hates falsehood of any kind,” Val said glumly.
“Oh.” There wasn’t much more Phelan could say.
“Of course, you could always share Juliette with me.” Valerian held up his hands in laughing protest. “Don’t hit me again, Phelan. I’m only teasing you.”
“I don’t find it amusing.”
“So I noticed. It’s the first time you’ve ever taken a woman seriously. If you have.”
“Have what?”
“Taken her.”
“I don’t intend to.”
“Are you mad? We both don’t have to be lovesick and miserable,” Valerian protested.
“Love has nothing to do with it. I’m not going to take her into my bed, or to the Continent. I won’t deny I find her appealing …”
“Just as well, because I wouldn’t believe you …”
Phelan glared him into an unrepentant silence. “But I don’t need the added complication of bedding a woman who has almost as many troubles as we have.”
“What has Hannigan found out about her? Does he know where the diamonds come from? What her name is?”
“He does,” Phelan said. “And I’ll be more than happy to share that information with you if you decide to be sensible for once and stay home today.”
“Being sensible was never my strong point,” Valerian said cheerfully. “Tomorrow I’ll be as solemn and responsible as anyone can wish. For today, I intend to enjoy my last few hours with Sophie de Quincey to the fullest.”
Phelan shook his head in mock disgust. “Then you’ll have to leave it to me to decide what’s best for Juliette. And what’s best for us as well, which doesn’t happen to include taking her to the Continent with us. We’ll give her shelter here while we remain, and once we leave we’ll make certain she’s safe. That’s the best we can do for her.”
“You don’t want her, and I can’t have her. It doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want her. I said I wasn’t going to take her. And if I catch her alone in your bedroom with you half dressed again, I’ll give yo
u more than a black eye.”
Valerian whisked a hare’s foot full of powder across his face. The bruise was already ripening, and by the end of the day it would doubtless be quite impressive. “You never were obtuse before, Phelan,” he said thoughtfully.
“What do you mean?”
“Anyone with eyes in his head can see that she’s obsessed with you. She thinks of me as an older brother. Or older sister,” he added wryly. “I’m sexless as far as she’s concerned. You’re a far different matter. When you’re around she can’t keep her eyes off you. She’s almost as smitten with you as you are with her.”
“I’m not smitten.”
“You’re hopeless,” Val said. “And so damned jealous you can’t see what’s in front of your face.”
He could see Phelan control his anger with an effort. “It scarcely matters. Now is not the time to complicate matters by … by being foolish.”
“By falling in love. Use the word, Phelan. It won’t burn your tongue off,” Valerian said cheerfully.
“I don’t believe in it, brat. And if I did, I’d hardly confide in a scapegrace like you. Concentrate on your own amours, and leave me in peace.”
“Agreed,” Val said. “Just don’t black my eye again when you’re suffering a fit of jealousy over someone you don’t love.”
Phelan just looked at him. “I hope your little bluestocking makes your life a living hell today,” he said calmly.
“Don’t worry, brother mine,” Valerian replied bitterly. “She already has.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sophie de Quincey surveyed her reflection in the mirror anxiously, which in itself was an odd occurrence, one she couldn’t help but be aware of. She wasn’t the sort to primp and posture in front of a looking glass. She knew she was well favored, and her parents were generous enough to see that she was dressed in the latest mode. She wasn’t possessed of any particular vanity; she simply accepted what she looked like.
But this morning she was anxious, checking and rechecking her reflection, determined to look her absolute prettiest, and all for the simple pleasure of a day spent with the dashing Mrs. Ramsey.
It puzzled her, and since she had a lively, intelligent mind, Sophie didn’t tend to leave puzzles alone. There was something about Valerie Ramsey that touched her deep inside, that drew her to the tall, unconventional woman in ways that were as mysterious as they were intense. Next to her new friend, the appeal of handsome men such as Captain Melbourne, or the attentions of any of the numerous young sprigs who were courting her, paled in comparison. As long as she had the choice, she would always prefer Mrs. Ramsey’s company.
She was still unsettled after yesterday’s astonishingly frank conversation. She’d done her best to appear to have no more than an intellectual curiosity about the process of mating, when in reality her fascination went much, much deeper. When her mother had instructed her in the technicalities, it had sounded as uninteresting and unpleasant as the phenomenon of her monthly flow.
When Val described it, it had sounded like heaven.
Disturbingly so. She couldn’t imagine Captain Melbourne evoking those kinds of feelings within her, and she wasn’t sure she wanted him to. To feel so strongly would be to lose a part of oneself. She was already uncomfortably attached to Val. She didn’t have much more of herself to spare.
“I might accompany you,” her mother announced when Sophie sailed into the front withdrawing room to await her companion.
Sophie did her absolute best to keep the crestfallen expression from her face. If her mother knew how much she cherished the time alone with Mrs. Ramsey, she’d be certain to come along, keeping the conversation on such decorous topics as the rights of women and the deplorable condition of slavery in the Americas. And while Sophie agreed with her mother on both those issues, at the moment she was far more interested in hearing more about sex.
“That would be delightful,” she lied, hoping she was convincing.
She wasn’t a practiced liar, but Mrs. de Quincey wasn’t adept at seeing through her daughter’s unexpected perfidy, so she simply shook her head. “However, I suppose I shall be too busy. I have complete faith in Mrs. Ramsey. She may be a bit dashing, but I cannot find fault with her. She has a lively, almost masculine mind, and a manner that is open and pleasing. I shouldn’t want you to emulate her in everything, but she does have a certain style that wouldn’t come amiss in a girl like you.”
Sophie cast a worried glance down at her pale rose sarcenet dress, one that she’d always considered her most becoming. “I lack style?”
“Oh, heavens, you have style enough for a young girl in your situation. One would not expect town bronze on a miss just out of the schoolroom. Time enough to acquire polish when you marry Captain Melbourne,” her mother said with rare indulgence.
Sophie heard the words with a sinking heart. “He’s offered, then?”
“Not in so many words. But I’ve not hesitated to let him know we would look upon his suit with favor. You could go a lot farther and do a great deal worse, my dear. With Captain Melbourne you would always maintain control of your life. Why, think if you were married to someone like Mr. Ramsey. Dragged all over the globe, never a home to call your own.”
“If one’s companion was cherished, I imagine it would be acceptable,” Sophie said hesitantly.
“It would be most unpleasant,” her mother said firmly. “With Captain Melbourne you would have estates worthy of your consequence. You would never have to lift a finger except in the ordering of your servants.”
“Wouldn’t you consider that a wasteful life?”
“In anyone other than my daughter, I would. However, I know you would spend your time improving your mind, reading tracts of scientific and philosophical interest. You have intelligence, my child. You just need a bit more discipline and a bit fewer romantical notions.”
Sophie thought longingly of the jams and jellies she yearned to make, the stacks of linens to mend and count. All given to a servant who wouldn’t even enjoy the labor. “You’re right, Mother,” she said dutifully, thinking about limbs. And dampness. And the little death that Val had described, which was instead the epitome of life.
“There you are, Mrs. Ramsey.” Her mother was suddenly all graciousness as their guest was ushered into the room. “My daughter and I have just been having a little talk about the future. I know I can count on you to give her sage advice.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Ramsey replied promptly in that deep, drawling voice Sophie admired so much. “Come along, child. If we don’t have your future well in hand by the time we return, then I would be much surprised.”
Mrs. de Quincey beamed at the two of them. “I knew I could rely on you. You’ve seen enough of this world to be practical.”
Sophie controlled her embarrassment with an effort, daring to steal a glance at her tall, stately friend. There was a wry expression in those wonderful gray eyes of hers, so like those of her husband’s, an expression of shared amusement, and Sophie felt that treacherous, tingling warmth fill her.
“I’m a great believer in practicality,” her friend murmured.
“You’re driving all the way to Kenley? Then we shan’t expect you home until late.” Mrs. de Quincey cast a fond glance at her daughter. “Don’t let her prattle bore you, dear Mrs. Ramsey. Despite my best efforts, she’s still a very romantical young girl.”
“I find your daughter’s conversation to be eminently intelligent.”
Mrs. de Quincey preened as Sophie squirmed. “I fancy I may congratulate myself for that. I have ever aimed to improve her childish mind.”
Sophie kept her expression purposefully blank. Childish mind, indeed! she fumed inwardly. Her mother would accompany them out to the carriage, peering into the bright blue sky with a dubious expression on her face. “I don’t trust this weather,” she said darkly.
“Mother.” Sophie finally let her exasperation break through. “It’s a glorious day!”
“Exactly. Things are
always brightest before disaster.”
“I thought the saying was, ‘Things are always darkest before the dawn,’” Mrs. Ramsey said, and Sophie could hear the undercurrent of amusement in that deep voice.
“I never was an optimist, my dear Mrs. Ramsey.” Mrs. de Quincey folded her daughter in her embrace, then held her at arm’s length, eyeing her critically. “You’re too warm, my dear, and your color is pale. I’m uncertain whether I should allow you to go.”
It took all of Sophie’s self-control not to wrench herself from her mother’s sturdy grip. “The fresh air will do wonders for me, Mother,” she said with some firmness. “You can trust Mrs. Ramsey to see to me.”
“I do, my dear,” her mother said. “I do.”
Sophie climbed into the light curricle and sat next to Mrs. Ramsey, who took the reins in strong, large hands that weren’t quite disguised by the thin leather gloves. Mrs. Ramsey’s size and strength were the most impressive things about her, Sophie thought. That and her laughing eyes.
They drove in silence for a few moments, Mrs. Ramsey concentrating on the distractions of town traffic and Sophie concentrating on the embarrassment of a condescending, oversolicitous mother. It wasn’t until they were on the road to Kenley that her companion finally spoke.
“She’s a formidable woman, your mother,” Mrs. Ramsey observed dryly.
“She is, indeed. She thinks I’m an idiot.”
“I wouldn’t say that, child. I expect she’s quite proud of you. It’s just that no one can measure up to her own exalted intellect.”
Sophie managed to smile. “I have something quite wicked to confess,” she said.
“Good,” her friend said promptly. “I love wickedness.”
“I sometimes wonder if my mother is not quite as brilliant as she imagines herself to be.”
Mrs. Ramsey’s burst of laughter was low-pitched and warming. “I suspect you may be right. She spends so much time convincing herself and everyone else of her intellectual superiority that I doubt she ever gets to exercise her mind at all.”
