Courting Miss Vallois

by Gail Whitiker

  Now, with the gift tucked safely in its case, she set out for her next destination—only to be forced into the doorway of a gentlemen’s clothier when the clouds finally burst and the promised rains came pelting down.

  ‘Miss Vallois, what on earth are you doing out in such dreadful weather?’

  Startled, Sophie turned to find herself face to face with Robert Silverton, who was just emerging from within. ‘Shopping, as it happens.’ Goodness, did the man draw on some secret elixir that made him appear more handsome every time she saw him? ‘But I think we will have to cut it short. This rain doesn’t look like it’s going to let up any time soon.’

  ‘Then perhaps I could offer you a ride home?’ He glanced apologetically at her maid. ‘Unfortunately, my carriage only has room for two.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, sir,’ Jeanette said. ‘A bit of rain won’t hurt me. But I’d hate to see Miss Sophie get her fine clothes all spattered with mud. You go on. I’ll make my own way home.’

  ‘Here, take a hackney.’ He pulled out a coin and pressed it into the maid’s palm. ‘My conscience will not allow me to see you walk home through a downpour like this.’

  Jeanette blushed and bobbed a curtsy. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll take those parcels, miss, and put them in your room without her ladyship seeing.’

  ‘Thank you, Jeanette.’ Sophie gratefully handed them over, then dashed into the street and quickly climbed into the waiting carriage. ‘This is very good of you, Mr Silverton,’ she said as they got underway. ‘We should both have been drenched had you not come along.’

  ‘I’m glad to be of assistance.’

  ‘How is Jane this morning?’

  ‘She was in good spirits when I left, though I was concerned about her last night. She is prone to chills, and when I saw how flushed her cheeks had become, I feared she might be coming down with something.’

  Suspecting it had more to do with her reaction to Antoine than it did to an illness, Sophie nevertheless said, ‘I could mention it to Antoine. He is not an apothecary, but perhaps he could suggest a tonic.’

  ‘Thank you, but Jane has no need of a doctor, especially a—’

  He clamped down hard on the words, but not soon enough to prevent Sophie from sliding a startled glance his way. What had he been about to say? That he didn’t want Antoine involved because he was still learning his profession? That he was not experienced enough to treat his sister? ‘If you are concerned about Antoine’s skills, I can assure you—’

  ‘This has nothing to do with ability,’ Robert assured her. ‘I watched your brother in action. I know how talented he is.’

  ‘Then why did you not finish what you were about to say?’

  She waited a long time for his answer. Finally, he said, ‘Because to do so would be to reveal something about my past I have no wish to talk about. Or to explain.’

  He looked at her then, and Sophie caught a glimpse of a shadow that dwelt in his soul. Of an old wound slowly healing. But what had that to do with his reluctance to accept help from Antoine? Her brother was no more a part of Robert’s past than she was. Until a week ago, they’d all been strangers to one another. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that the root of Robert’s animosity lay buried in that past.

  Had it something to do with the fact that Antoine was not well born? Sophie hadn’t meant to divulge that particular piece of information, but she had been so flustered by her sudden awareness of Robert that the words had inadvertently slipped out. And once they had, there was nothing she could do to take them back. But Robert hadn’t learned that truth until last night, and his reluctance to shake Antoine’s hand had been evident from the first, when all he’d known about him was that he was French and that— Sophie blanched. Mère de Dieu, surely that wasn’t the problem? Robert didn’t want Antoine to help his sister…because he was French?

  Non, c’était impossible! The war was over. Napoleon had been banished. There was absolutely no reason for Robert to harbour feelings of resentment simply because he and Antoine had been born on opposites of the Channel!

  And yet, how else did she explain the tension she felt every time the two men were together? A tension that had been there the first time they’d met. She’d never forgotten Robert’s hesitation when it came to shaking Antoine’s hand. And while he might be willing to compliment her brother’s skills when it concerned patching up a gunshot wound, she couldn’t forget that he had been brusque, almost to the point of rudeness, when he’d spoken to Antoine outside Nicholas and Lavinia’s house that morning…

  ‘You’ve gone very quiet, Miss Vallois,’ Robert observed. ‘Have I said something to offend you?’

  How did she answer that? If what she suspected was true, he most definitely had offended her. But if she was mistaken…

  ‘Do you like my brother, Mr Silverton?’ she said, knowing the question had to be asked.

  She watched his expression change, saw the shutter come down. ‘I really don’t know him.’

  ‘But you went to his aid the night a man was shot. And you have been in his company on at least two other occasions. Surely that is time enough to know whether you like a man or not.’

  ‘On the contrary, it is barely enough time to form even a fleeting impression.’

  Sophie quickly turned away, struggling for the right words; not sure what the right words were any more. ‘That day you came to take me driving…when you spoke to Antoine. He offered Jane a compliment and you all but demanded that he speak English to her.’

  ‘Of course, because we are in England,’ Robert said quietly. ‘If we were in France, I would have expected him to speak French, as I would myself.’

  To anyone else it might have seemed like a reasonable excuse, but Sophie wasn’t fooled. Robert had refused Antoine’s help because he was French.

  How did she respond to something like that? What was she supposed to say? To find out that a man, of whom she’d thought so highly, should be prejudiced in such a way came as a huge disappointment. While she could understand one man hating another given sufficient cause, to despise an entire nationality over a matter that was clearly restricted to him alone, demonstrated a narrowness of mind of which she could not approve.

  ‘I am surprised at your willingness to be seen with me,’ she said quietly, ‘given that your dislike of the French is so all encompassing.’

  He shot her a dark look. ‘I said nothing about disliking the French.’

  ‘You didn’t have to. It is the only reason you could have for saying what you did.’ She turned to face him. ‘Why else would you not allow Antoine to offer even the slightest assistance to your sister, even after admitting that he is very good at what he does?’

  Robert’s jaw tensed, but he returned his attention to the road. ‘I would prefer we speak no more about this.’

  ‘But I must speak of it! You resent my brother because he is French, yet you are unwilling to tell me why.’

  ‘And you seem unwilling to accept that certain matters are private and not open to discussion with those not personally involved.’

  ‘Not personally involved? You are speaking of my brother, Mr Silverton! That makes it personal!’

  Sophie hadn’t realised they were home until Robert drew the carriage to a halt in front of Eaton Place. But she refused to wait for him to help her alight. She pushed open the door and started to get out.

  ‘Miss Vallois, let me—’

  ‘I will accept nothing from you, sir!’ Sophie said as she climbed down. ‘I would not wish to give offence by forcing you to take the hand of a Frenchwoman!’

  Even through the rain, she saw him flush. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘I am not the one being ridiculous!’ Sophie said, fully aware that she was. For the first time in years, her temper was getting the better of her—and the stupid reasons why made her even more angry. ‘I am not the one who has condemned an entire nation for reasons of which you will not speak.’

  ‘I told you. The matter is
personal and extremely painful.’

  ‘Very well. Then let our acquaintance be at an end so you will not be forced to think of it every time you look at me! Good day, Mr Silverton.’

  She was halfway to the front door when his words stopped her in her tracks. ‘My brother was murdered. By a Frenchman. They found him in a deserted barn, ten miles outside Paris.’

  The words, torn from his throat, caused Sophie to turn around, the sudden pounding of her heart deafening in her ears. ‘How do you know…he was murdered?’

  ‘He’d been bound hand and foot. Someone had put a sack over his head, and his hands were bloodied, as though he’d been fighting. He’d been shot once, in the back of the head. At close range. I don’t think I need tell you the kind of damage a bullet fired that close to a person’s body can do.’

  Sophie pressed her hands to her mouth, trying to shut out the horrific images. ‘Mère de Dieu!’

  ‘He went to France to fight for England, Miss Vallois. If necessary, to die a soldier’s death. Not to be butchered by a man who hadn’t the courage to face him. Only a coward shoots his enemy in the back,’ Robert said bitterly.

  From somewhere deep within, she found the courage to whisper, ‘How do you know…it was a Frenchman?’

  ‘Because they found a note stuffed in Michael’s pocket. A note, covered in his blood, and hailing Napoleon Bonaparte as the future Emperor of England. No Englishman would write something like that, or shoot a compatriot in the back. I cannot forgive that of your countrymen. God knows I’ve tried. I’m sorry if that offends you, but you asked for the truth.’

  Yes, she had. And as she stood looking back at him, mindless of the rain, Sophie was totally at a loss to find the words that would make sense of such a tragedy. What did you say to a man from whom so much had been taken, and in such a brutal fashion? What could she say that would exonerate her countryman? And why had she not been able to accept that, whatever Robert’s reasons for despising the French, they were deeply personal and not meant to be shared?

  Drawing his own conclusion from her silence, Robert flicked the whip and the horses set off, the carriage disappearing into the dull, grey morning.

  Sophie didn’t move. She stood where he’d left her, rain streaming down her face, the wind tugging at her cloak. She should have let him keep his secrets. She had no right to demand answers to questions that were none of her business. And she had been wrong to lash out at him simply because he refused to satisfy her curiosity. He was right. She had intruded where she didn’t belong. And only time would tell if he would ever forgive her for that.

  It came as no surprise that Robert made no attempt to contact her over the next few days. Why would he, given the nature of what had passed between them? Bitter words, spoken in anger, were never easily forgotten, and the petty accusations she had flung at him now seemed exactly that.

  How ironic that both of them should have been so ill served by her countrymen. Robert’s brother had been brutally murdered by a Frenchman, and she was staying at the house of a man who had likewise been shot and left for dead by one. Perhaps the French as a whole were a hot-blooded mob who preferred to make peace with swords and gunfire than with cool heads and clear thinking. Only look at the bloodiness of the Revolution. How many innocent people had been put to death during that dreadful time?

  Even she and Antoine had not escaped their ire. They had been forced to leave their home when the sentiments of their neighbours had turned against them. When the man she was to have married had betrayed her.

  It still hurt to think about that painful time. In her youthful naïveté, Sophie had believed herself in love with Gismond D’Orione. Their parents had agreed that when the time came, they would be married, and there had never been anyone else in her life but Gismond. She had grown up with him. Gone for walks with him. Experienced her first kiss with him. And because she’d loved him, she hadn’t thought twice about telling him about Nicholas.

  But Gismond had been afraid. He’d told his father about Sophie finding a wounded Englishman in the road, and about Antoine saving his life, and then his father had told others until eventually, the entire village knew. And when their father had found out, she and Antoine had had no choice but to leave. And so they had, stealing away in the middle of the night without telling anyone of their plans. Antoine had said it was better that way. Safer. They had packed a few clothes, taken some bread and cheese and disappeared into the darkness.

  Sophie had never heard from Gismond D’Orione or her father again.

  It did not make for pleasant memories and when the butler appeared to say that Mr Oberon had called, she was almost glad of the diversion. Even Lavinia seemed more kindly disposed towards him than usual. ‘Mr Oberon, how nice of you to call,’ she said, putting aside her magazine.

  Mr Oberon strolled in, dashing as ever in gleaming Hessians, skin-tight breeches of fawn-coloured doe-skin, and a cutaway coat of dark blue superfine. But his waistcoat was unusually subdued and his neckcloth was tied in a simple but elegant knot. ‘Good afternoon, Lady Longworth, Miss Vallois. I came in hopes of taking you both out for a drive. The weather has turned fine and I thought it might be pleasant to take a turn about the Park.’

  ‘You are very kind to ask, Mr Oberon,’ Lavinia said. ‘But I have Mr Harris coming to see me about new curtains. Sophie may go, if she wishes.’

  Had it been a few days earlier, Sophie would have declined, having no wish to offer any kind of encouragement to Mr Oberon. But at the moment, she didn’t want to be alone. After what had happened, she felt a desperate need to get out into the sunshine, to dispel the darkness of her thoughts by talking to someone who would naturally try to flatter her and make her laugh. If such was a flagrant abuse of his time, she would do her best to suffer the guilt.

  ‘I would like that, Mr Oberon,’ she said. ‘If you will wait but a moment, I shall get ready.’

  Fifteen minutes later, she allowed Mr Oberon to help her up into his dashing, high-perch phaeton.

  ‘I vow I am carrying a ray of sunshine in my carriage,’ he said as he climbed into the seat beside her. ‘And never did one look lovelier.’

  Sophie smiled as she opened her parasol. The carriage gown of buttery yellow muslin had seemed perfect for the occasion, but she had not worn it with a view towards inviting compliments. Mr Oberon needed no encouragement for that. But as if sensing she was not herself, he set out to be more charming than usual. He kept the carriage to a sedate pace and assumed the role of guide, pointing out houses of interest along the way and regaling her with amusing stories as they clipped along. But when after five minutes had passed and the only sound was the steady thud of the horses’ hooves, he turned to her and said, ‘You are noticeably quiet this afternoon, Miss Vallois. Dare I ask what is troubling you?’

  Sophie sighed, aware that despite her best efforts, she had been a less than obliging guest. ‘Forgive me, Mr Oberon, I admit my thoughts have been somewhat distracted.’

  ‘I hope with nothing of a serious nature.’

  ‘Serious enough.’

  ‘Does this concern our mutual friend, Mr Silverton?’

  Sophie was too unhappy to hide her surprise. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘A lucky guess. You seem to enjoy the gentleman’s company and given that you were in such good spirits when we parted the other night, I wondered if it might have something to do with him.’ He flicked a perceptive glance in her direction. ‘Am I close?’

  It was hard to know how much to reveal. Was the murder of Robert’s brother something one discussed with a man who was little more than a stranger?

  It was, if she had any hopes of understanding Robert better.

  ‘Are you familiar with the nature of the tragedy concerning Mr Silverton’s brother?’ she asked.

  ‘With Michael? Oh, yes, I know all about that. It was a terrible thing,’ Mr Oberon said. ‘I’ve always wondered how Robert and Jane got through it.’

  Sophie blinked. Compassion? From Mr Oberon?
‘I suppose it was because they had each other.’

  ‘I dare say that’s true.’ Oberon looked at her again. ‘I am surprised he told you.’

  ‘He did not wish to.’ Sophie averted her gaze. ‘I goaded him into it.’

  ‘You goaded Silver? I doubt that very much, Miss Vallois. You are anything but pushy.’

  ‘I was the other morning,’ she said miserably. And in as few words as possible, she told him of her conversation with Robert and of its distressing outcome.

  ‘Ah, I see why you are downcast. You wish to have Robert’s good opinion and fear now you may have lost it.’

  ‘I am not as concerned with what he thinks of me, Mr Oberon, as I am with knowing how clumsily I brought back the memory of something he obviously wishes to forget.’

  ‘But if we are speaking honestly, just being around you is likely to do that. Your delightful accent, slight as it is, betrays your origins and will always come between you.’

  The words cut like a knife, partly because Sophie knew them to be true and partly because they had been uttered by someone who knew Robert much better than she did. ‘You do not think he would ever be able to see beyond it?’

  ‘I think it unlikely,’ Oberon said. ‘Robert has very strong opinions about the French. I’m telling you this because he and I have been good friends for years. We were even closer before his brother was killed. But all that changed after Michael’s death. And it didn’t help that his father committed suicide not long after.’

  Sophie gasped. ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Not many people were willing to come right out and say that, of course, but I believe Sir William took his own life,’ Oberon said. ‘He was never the same after word came back from France that Michael had been killed. He’d been so proud of his eldest son. Michael was a captain and his father thought him the best of all men. He loved Robert, but Michael was the apple of his eye, and he took his death very hard. He shut himself away for weeks on end, refusing to see anyone. The gambling started shortly thereafter. Robert tried to stop him, but his father would have none of it. It was an addiction, you see, and Sir William could no more stop himself from gambling than he could bring his eldest son back from the grave. The family carried on as best they could, but it was impossible to ignore the fact that he was getting worse, as was their financial situation.