Lady Whistledown Strikes Back

by Julia Quinn

  Sophia stepped out of her carriage into a brisk wind that stirred her skirts. The sunlight was just beginning to peek between the clouds, a fortunate happenstance that lifted Sophia’s spirits immensely.

  She discovered that both Lord and Lady Rowe were at home, though the house was in horrible disarray. They were in the process of ordering about several stalwart footmen in an effort to arrange a place for a new pianoforte. As Lord Rowe wished a place by the window and Lady Rowe favored a place near her harp, away from the burning afternoon light, the poor footmen were torn between a spate of conflicting orders.

  These all came to a halt when the pianoforte itself arrived not ten minutes later. The instrument was a piece of exquisite artistry that effectively answered Sophia’s question—the Rowes were indeed on an upward swell, and, judging by the new rugs and other freshly acquired furniture, they had been experiencing good fortune for some time now. Certainly more than a single bracelet could afford.

  Sophia made her farewells and went off to locate the next person on her list—Mrs. Warehorse, a widow who stretched her thin income by exchanging dinner invitations for sycophantic utterances. The elderly widow lived with a talkative, distant cousin in a set of lodgings that could only be described as sparse. Sophia tried to make it plain that she was in a hurry, but Mrs. Warehorse’s cousin was determined to hold her prisoner, at least through one cup of tepid tea. After much hinting, the cousin finally revealed that Mrs. Warehorse had gone in search of some ribbon to remake a hat.

  Sophia ordered her carriage to Bond Street, and she soon spied her quarry coming out of a shop, meager purchases clutched in one hand. Mrs. Warehorse brightened when Sophia hailed her, and the widow agreed with alacrity to walk a way down the street and then enjoy the comfort of Sophia’s carriage for the ride home. It was an invitation Sophia would immediately regret, as the older woman could not speak without uttering a flurry of simpering compliments intermingled with deep sighs about her own plight, done in an obvious (and irritating) effort to elicit sympathy and garner favor at one and the same time.

  Gritting her teeth at such obvious flummery, Sophia interrupted with a deftly worded question about the night of the fated dinner. The widow immediately poured forth her remembrances. Unfortunately, most of her memories had to do with how lovely Mrs. Warehorse had thought Sophia’s gown. Sophia clamped her lips against such asinine utterances, determined to let the information flow unchecked in case something of importance happened to tumble out. Nothing did.

  Finally, the endless chatter was more than Sophia could stand. She cut the widow short and suggested they walk back to the carriage as the wind was picking up. The discourse had proven one thing: Mrs. Warehorse was an unlikely suspect. The woman had neither the gall nor the brains for such an endeavor as a bold theft.

  Sophia led her companion back down Bond Street, a warming wind ruffling their skirts and tossing the feather on Mrs. Warehorse’s bonnet. They had just gotten within sight of the carriage when, out of the corner of her eye, Sophia caught sight of a spanking new curricle led by an amazingly perfect set of bays. She had to admire the rig, and she did. At least, she did until she saw who was handling the reins—Max, attired in a new multicaped greatcoat with brass buttons, an elegant hat resting on the seat beside him. The wind ruffled his dark hair as his gaze met hers, a hint of arrogant surety lurking in his silver eyes.

  For one brief, unguarded instant, happiness bubbled through her, lighting her from head to foot with the quickness of a strike of lightning. A wide, welcoming smile almost slipped out. Fortunately, Mrs. Warehorse chose that minute to exclaim, “My dear Lady Easterly! Is that your husband? Oh! Wait. I don’t suppose you’d call him a ‘husband,’ not after he left you all alone all those years. And good thing, too, considering he’s nothing more than a thief.”

  Sophia stiffened, coming to such a sudden halt that the man walking behind her almost ran into her back. She ignored the man’s protestations and said to her companion in a frosty voice, “Are you accusing Lord Easterly of theft?”

  The widow’s smile faded before such an icy wind. “I—I—Everyone knows—”

  “All that anyone knows is that Lady Neeley’s bracelet is missing and there is no evidence of who took it. None at all.”

  “Oh! Well, y-yes. Of course. I…I was just repeating what Lady Neeley—that is, I’m certain I did not mean to imply that—” Mrs. Warehorse’s desperate gaze flew over Sophia’s shoulder. “Oh dear! There is Lord Easterly now.”

  Sophia whirled around to see Max attempting to maneuver the curricle through the crowded street toward the curb. The one, brief flare of happiness she’d felt on seeing Max returned in full force, and she clenched her teeth against it. She had no desire to see her recalcitrant husband, not now. Not until she had some evidence that would show Lady Neeley’s accusations against Max for what they were.

  Sophia didn’t know why it was important that she prove herself; perhaps it was just an attempt to pay a long due debt. Yes, that was what it was—an attempt to repay Max for her irresolution all those years ago. And she was determined to be successful.

  “My dear Lady Easterly,” Mrs. Warehorse said with a vacuous smile, “it looks as if Lord Easterly has found a break in the traffic. Do you think he will come here—”

  Sophia grabbed Mrs. Warehorse’s arm and stepped up her pace, practically dragging the poor woman down the street. “It cannot be Lord Easterly. It must be someone else.”

  “It certainly looked like him,” Mrs. Warehorse said, struggling to keep up, her package dangling from one hand. She allowed Sophia to drag her along, glancing back over her shoulder, her watery blue eyes sharp with curiosity. “Whoever he is, he looks quite put out that we’re rushing in the opposite direction.”

  Sophia increased her pace even when Mrs. Warehorse puffed an exclamation of distress at being dragged down the busy walkway. Sophia gave a sigh of relief when they finally reached the carriage.

  “Where to, my lady?” the footman asked, assisting Mrs. Warehorse into her seat.

  “Anywhere but here!” Sophia climbed in without allowing the footman time to reach for her, then she lifted the step back into the carriage and slammed the door. “Let us go!”

  The snap of her voice jolted the footman into action. “Yes, my lady!” He ran to the front of the carriage, repeated Sophia’s instruction to the coachman and with a crack of the whip, they rumbled into the crowded lane of carriages and carts, leaving Max far behind.

  After seeing Mrs. Warehorse home, Sophia attempted to interview Lord Alberton. Since he was a sportsman and it was a particularly fine day, he proved a greater challenge to locate than either Lord Rowe or Mrs. Warehorse. Sophia ended up traveling from one location to another, only to find that she was a good ten to twenty minutes behind Alberton everywhere she went. By late afternoon, tired and hungry, Sophia gave up the chase and repaired for home.

  She was upstairs in the sitting room, reading through her list and enjoying the reviving properties of tea and cakes, when Jacobs came to the door.

  “My lady, Lord Easterly has come to call.”

  Sophia set her cup down on the plate with a snap. “Pray inform him that I am not at home.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Jacobs bowed and went back downstairs.

  There. That is that. She lifted the teacup to her lips, pausing at the sound of the front door opening and then closing as Max left the house, aware that her hand was trembling. A faint sense of relief, tainted by a bitter dash of disappointment, made her set her teacup back on the table beside the much-creased list of suspects.

  She hadn’t expected Max to take such a rebuff so tamely. At one time he would have risen to the challenge and thrown one of his own. At one time…she paused. At one time he had loved her. Or so he’d said.

  She sighed, suddenly restless, her gaze landing on the list where it sat beside her cup. Perhaps she should ask John for his help in locating Lord Alberton. If anyone knew where a man addicted to sporting activities may g
o, it would be John. Sophia stood and turned to the door, then gasped. “Max!”

  Dark and dangerous, he leaned against the doorframe, his hands deep in his pockets. He quirked a brow. “You look surprised.”

  “Me? Oh! No! I mean, I didn’t know you were there, but I had thought that—” She stammered to a halt. “I suppose I am surprised.”

  “You shouldn’t be.” His gaze dropped over her, lingering here and there. “How are you today? Tired from your mad dash down Bond Street?”

  Though she wore a very proper gown, fashion still permitted some skin to show—her neckline was scooped, her arms practically bare except for light gauzy puffs of sleeves. Under Max’s deliberate gaze, every inch of exposed skin tingled and heated, as if he’d dared to touch her. Sophia smoothed her gown nervously. “Bond Street? Whatever do you mean?”

  Amusement glinted in his silver eyes. “You know what I mean. I saw you, dragging some poor mousy woman the entire length of the street.”

  Sophia lifted her chin. “I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about. Not that it signifies. Why are you here, anyway?”

  He tilted his head to one side, his lashes dropping to shade his eyes from silver to stormy gray. “I’m not sure. I’ll tell you when I reason it out.”

  Jacobs appeared behind Max, pure shock on his thin face. “My lord! Where did you come from? How did you get inside?”

  “Simple,” Max said, imperturbable as ever. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a large brass key. It swung gently on his finger, the sunlight sparkling on the filigree.

  “The key?” Jacobs looked at Sophia, obviously shocked.

  “Where did you get that?” Sophia demanded.

  Max smiled, his teeth white against his tanned face. “It was with the papers I signed on purchasing the house.”

  It must have been a spare key. “You should have returned it.”

  “I returned the one I had for the house we owned when I left.” His gaze narrowed. “A house that was not good enough for you.”

  Her cheeks heated. “It was good enough for me! I simply could not bear the memories. So I wrote and asked your permission to sell it, and you agreed.”

  “Yes, I did.” He looked around with an appraising eye. “I must give you credit, my dear. This house is much brighter than our last one. Larger, too.”

  Sophia tried not to look too longingly at the key he held. It was a wretched idea for Max to have access to her house day and night. Especially night.

  Max tucked the key back into his pocket. “So here I am, with a key.”

  Jacobs stepped forward, outrage in every line of his thin body. “My lady, shall I call the footmen and remove Lord Easterly?”

  That was a tempting thought. Sophia caught Max’s eye. He grinned, an easy shrug moving his wide shoulders. “They could try,” he said softly.

  He was right, the footmen could try, and they might even succeed. But only for the moment. Max would just come back once the way was clear again. That was Max’s way—if he decided on a course of action, he followed it, regardless of the consequences. She sighed and gestured to the chair opposite hers, saying crossly, “Oh very well. You might as well stay.”

  “Thank you,” Max said, a faint smile on his lips.

  Jacobs frowned, but he could not disagree with his mistress. He bowed stiffly. “Very well, my lady.” Head held high, he sent Max a quelling look, then turned on his heel and left.

  It was exactly what Max wanted. Ever since the grand ball, he’d been yearning for another taste of Sophia. A long, lingering taste this time. Once he’d re-memorized the taste of her kiss, he then wanted to see if his other memories were just as true to the mark. The feel of her skin beneath his fingers, the curve of her hips, the warmth of her leg thrown over his while she slept. All things he remembered in painful detail, now within reach. It was agonizing.

  He walked forward, noting how she nervously wet her lips. The afternoon sun caught the moisture and glistened appealingly. Good God, what had he been thinking, to leave a woman like this? But then, it hadn’t been that simple. With Sophia, it never was.

  “Pray have a seat,” she said.

  Max sat, his long legs brushing against her knees. She jerked as if the faint touch had burned.

  “What do you want?” she asked bluntly.

  “I came to see what schemes you were hatching.”

  A delicate flush touched her cheeks and made him yearn to follow it with his lips. “What makes you think I am scheming?”

  “You cannot help it; it’s in your blood. Like using my uncle’s diary against me.”

  Her cheeks bloomed with more color. “I may have been willing to use that diary to get you to return for the annulment, but for no other reason.”

  It was difficult to believe it had been twelve long years since he’d allowed himself the pleasure of seeing her. Funny, it didn’t seem so long now that she was sitting before him, her skin flushed a becoming pink, her blue eyes sparkling with suspicion, her golden hair pinned onto her head in a profusion of temptingly soft ringlets. Blast it, but she was beautiful. Beautiful and intelligent and something more…something that had held him enthralled since the first day they’d met. What was it? he wondered. What made every woman he met fade to insignificance beside Sophia? He saw her gaze drop to the pocket that held the key. “I will not use it without permission.”

  Her lashes lifted, and she regarded him with suspicion. “Oh?”

  “If I really wished to enter this house, I wouldn’t need a key. I could break in, or trick the servants into thinking I’m a coal scuttler or some such thing.”

  “No one would think you were a coal scuttler,” she scoffed.

  “No, just a thief.”

  Her lush lips turned down at the corners. Max found that he could not look away from her face, from the transparent emotions that flickered through her eyes.

  She grasped her hands in her lap. “Max, I am sorry—”

  “Don’t. I do not want you to be sorry.” He wasn’t sure what he wanted, but it wasn’t her pity or concern. “It’s over and done with and I don’t wish to speak of it again. Like Lady Neeley’s accusations, it is stupid talk from stupid people, best left unnoticed and unanswered.”

  That lit her fires. “As if such a thing could go unnoticed and unanswered!” she returned hotly, her eyes flashing daggers. “Everyone is discussing it and condemning you, all without a single scrap of evidence. It is more than I can bear!”

  That was it, Max suddenly realized, a sense of wonder filling him. That was what had attracted him to Sophia from their very first meeting—her passion. And not just for him, but for everything she considered right, for everything she valued. There was color to her soul, color and a richness of texture that made his heart sing in response. The ultimate irony was that what had attracted him to Sophia, what had captivated him so completely, had eventually led to the end of their union. Her passionate loyalty had led her to champion her brother Richard at the expense of her own husband. “Ah, Sophia, we are foolish, both of us.”

  “Balderdash. Speaking of which, we never did resolve the issue of the key. Please return it at once.”

  He lifted a brow. “The key was delivered to me and I shall keep it.”

  “Why on earth would you want it?”

  “Ah,” Max said tightly. “Why do I want a key to the house where you live? Could it be because I am your husband? Isn’t that reason enough?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned forward until their noses almost touched, her chin jutted to a pugnacious angle. “We are married in name only, and you are not allowed the full privileges of a husband. Return that blasted key!”

  Moving with deliberate slowness, he pulled the key from his pocket and placed it on the table.

  “Thank you.” She reached for it, but just as her fingers grazed it, Max placed his large hand over hers and held her there. Sophia could only stare down at her hand, engulfed in his. She noted absently that he had a
paint smear along the edge of his thumb. It reminded her of when they’d first been married and she’d had to inspect his hands and shoes for paint splatters before they went anywhere. It had always amused her that Max, usually so neat in person, could be so careless when he painted.

  But that was long ago. Heart aching, she tugged on her hand, but he wouldn’t allow it, holding her fingers tight. “Stop it,” she hissed.

  He smiled then, a slow, wide, teasing smile that reminded her of other smiles, other times, dark and whispered moments between the sheets, of thudding hearts and entwined legs. She shook off the memories and gasped out, “Stop that!”

  He lifted his brow. “Stop what?”

  “Stop all this…taunting. I will not take it.”

  “Very well. Perhaps we can trade. The key for—”

  “The diary.”

  “No. For a kiss.”

  “A kiss?” She was aghast. “You must be teasing.”

  “I am not. One kiss and the key is yours.”

  She bit her lip. It was tempting, really it was. But before she could speak, Jacobs knocked on the door and entered. “The Earl of Standwick.”

  “Max, let me go,” Sophia muttered under her breath, all too aware of the butler’s sharp gaze. Max’s large, warm hand was still pressed over hers, and she could not move an inch.

  “My lady, is everything well?” Jacobs said, faltering a little.

  “It’s nothing,” Sophia said. “Please see Standwick in.” As soon as the door closed, she turned to Max. “You must let me go.”

  “No.”

  “But John will see and—” The door opened and John entered, the door closing behind him.

  “There you are, Sophie! I just—” John blinked. “I say, don’t you two need to oh, you know, get up or take a walk or something?”

  “No!” they answered as one.

  John laughed. “You should see yourselves, holding hands and yet glaring at one another like mortal enemies.”

  Sophia tossed her head. “John, he has the key to this house.”

  John looked at Max. “Do you?”