It occurred to Sophie that she should probably decline. He was clearly a rake. When she took his proffered arm anyway, she knew she should have said no. She could feel the heat of his arm through his coat, it seeped up through her fingers, spread across her chest, and did the strangest thing to her legs—they suddenly felt heavy.
Fortunately, the dance was a country reel; it afforded little chance of conversing and even less for touching. Nonetheless, she was breathless and a little light-headed when he led her off the floor toward the lemonade table, and she knew it wasn’t from physical exertion. She accepted a glass from him gratefully and drank nearly half of it in just a few swallows. Alex took a glass for himself and led her away from the crowd around the table.
“You are a well-traveled woman of the world, Sophie, and unless I’m much mistaken, this is your first London ball.” He waved his glass in a sweeping motion. “What do you make of all this?”
Ever conscious of how sensitive people could be to a guest’s opinion, Sophie instinctively paused before answering. “It’s very different from what I am used to,” she finally replied. “And not quite what I had expected.”
The remark earned a smile from Alex. “That was a decidedly neutral statement.”
“I suppose it was,” she conceded. “It’s too bad women aren’t allowed to be diplomats.”
“It’s a pity women are denied a great many opportunities,” he stated in all honesty. Then, not even remotely in earnest, added, “But you’re right, I think, they would make excellent ambassadors. Most of them are exceedingly crafty by nature, forever arguing, sniping, meaning one thing and saying another, saying one thing and doing another, distracting their enemies with a pretty smile while they slip their dagger in the back.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You have a very low opinion of women, Your Grace.”
“I believed we agreed on ‘Alex,’ and I do hope I haven’t offended you.”
“Well, then your hopes are foolishly misplaced, aren’t they? You just insulted me.”
“I most certainly did not. If you will recall, I said ‘most’ women, not ‘all.’ Naturally, you were not included in my description of feminine artifices.” God, but she was fun to tease.
“Oh…well, I believe I retain the right to be offended on behalf of the women who are not here to defend themselves.”
Alex rocked back on his heels and looked down at her with exaggerated interest. “Let me see if I understand you correctly. Are you proclaiming yourself a representative of females the world over?”
“Don’t be silly. There is too much difference between cultures.” She took a delicate sip from her glass. “Just the British ones.”
“Ah, excellent. You won’t mind shedding some light on a few mysteries surrounding the fairer sex then, will you, Miss Ambassador?”
“I shall endeavor to answer your questions regarding British women, Your Grace,” she said pertly, then, after another sip added, “of a certain age.”
“Alex.”
“Oh, very well, Alex, but only while no one else is listening.”
Alex grinned at her stipulation. “Fair enough. I can scarce believe I have been handed this opportunity. Do you know that there are men who would commit murder to be in my shoes at this moment?”
“Ask your question, if you please,” Sophie replied, rolling her eyes, but smiling nonetheless.
“Very well. My first question is this: What ever do ladies, British ladies, discuss when they retire to the drawing room after dinner?”
Sophie had absolutely no idea. For the life of her, she couldn’t recall ever having taken part in that particular ritual. Representative of British women? What on earth had she been thinking? In the last twelve years, she had known exactly four British women—three officers’ wives and Mrs. Summers. Sophie had to be the least qualified ambassador in…in the history of ambassadors. Not that she was willing to admit to it, of course.
“Oh, well…this and that,” she began, badly. “We talk of the weather…and our families, of course, and er…major events like births, deaths, and weddings.” That sounded mind-numbingly dull. “And politics, naturally, and…literature.” It was the best she could do.
“Ah, I know a great many gentlemen who shall be relieved to hear it. Most are convinced the ladies spend the time verbally dissecting every male at the party.”
As his guess was likely closer to the truth than her own, “Hmm,” was really the most eloquent response she could come up with.
“Next question, do you see that young woman over there in the pink gown?”
Sophie narrowed her eyes in search. “There are a great many pink gowns in this room to night. You’ll need to be more specific.”
“The blonde standing next to the lemonade table with the pearl necklace and—”
“Ah, yes, what of her?”
“She is the younger sister of an old school chum, and I happen to know that she is a girl of uncommon good sense and generally a splendid conversationalist. Yet when I stopped by their town house today, she spent no less than three-quarters of an hour discussing the very gown she is wearing to night. No other topic could interest her but the event at which we are now present. And she is even now making the most syrupy smile I have seen outside of a lunatic asylum. So, my question is this: how is it that an otherwise perfectly sensible young woman can be transformed into a deranged simpleton by the mere mention of a ball?”
Sophie thought about that for a moment. “I think, Your Grace…er, Alex, that you might take the time to look about the room and take note of the cut of the gowns the young women are wearing.”
Alex grinned mischievously at her. “I have been looking, Sophie. I have most definitely been looking.”
“Then you must have noticed that ball gowns are cut considerably lower and slimmer than day gowns. The answer to your question is…inadequate air supply.”
Alex laughed outright. “I believe there is something to that theory, but I’ll admit I only noticed the lower and quite neglected the slimmer.”
“I’m sure you did. Have you any other questions?”
“Just one. Will you attend the opera with me this Saturday?”
“I…that’s a personal question.”
“So it is,” Alex remarked, “but it stands.”
She floundered for a moment, looking about the room as if help might be on the way. “Well, I…well, I suppose I might be agreeable, if…if you’ll answer a question for me.”
“Ask away,” he invited, intrigued.
She cleared her throat nervously. “The thing is…well earlier, you said I…” She cleared her throat again. “Before, when we were…you mentioned…”
“Out with it.”
“Was I really in your lap?”
Alex was still laughing when he collected his coat to leave. He was to meet Whit at White’s in a half hour. All things considered, it was turning out to be a much more enjoyable evening than he had anticipated.
“Rockeforte!”
Alex felt his muscles tense unpleasantly at the sound of Loudor’s voice, but he hid his displeasure with a nod. “Loudor.”
“Didn’t expect to see you here. I wasn’t aware you were friends with the viscount.”
Alex began putting his arms through his coat. “I am not, but I’ve been hearing intriguing things about the man recently. I thought perhaps an association might be overdue.”
“Indeed! And what is your opinion now that you’ve had a chance to better your acquaintance?”
Alex would have bet that the viscount had broken all Ten Commandments at least once, and probably indulged in the seven deadly sins on a regular basis.
“I can understand why you count him as your friend.”
“Excellent, excellent,” Loudor declared, as if bestowing congratulations. “And you’re quite right, of course. He is a man of rare abilities.”
“Hmm,” was the best Alex could offer.
“Speaking of rarities, what do you make of my fa
ir cousin?”
Alex followed Loudor’s gaze to rest on Sophie, standing at the far end of the room, and once more laughing with Mirabelle.
“She is a charming girl.” That, at least, was not a lie.
“She is, and not at all unpleasant to look at. Shame we’re so closely related, she’s the most refreshing views on marriage.”
“Is that so?” Alex heard the edge to his voice, but apparently Loudor did not because the man was still babbling like an idiot.
“Quite refreshing. Suppose it’s an effect of all those years in exotic countries, but she’s quite managed to escape becoming a prim and proper British miss. None of this silly marriage business for her, you know. Told me so herself. She wants only to enjoy herself while in London.”
Good Lord, the man was encouraging him to have a dalliance with his cousin. Alex wasn’t deluded enough to deny he’d like nothing better, but anyone could see Sophie Everton was an innocent. Certainly, she was considerably more plainspoken than most gently bred women of his acquaintance and perhaps a little more liberal in her politics, but clearly she wasn’t in the habit of “enjoying herself.” Any reasonably intelligent man who spent more than a few minutes in her company would know she was untouched, and Alex made a point to never dally with virgins. There were rules about that sort of thing.
Was Loudor going about telling every male in the room that Sophie was interested in a liaison? Alex felt an uncomfortable combination of jealousy, anger, and revulsion. There was nothing he would have liked better, in that moment, than to drag Loudor to an empty room and pummel him until he spilled the name of every rake, bounder, and libertine he had spoken with. Then pummel him again just on principle. Sadly, there were rules about that sort of thing too.
Alex took a moment to leash his anger before turning his best rakish grin on Loudor. “Freshness is all well and good, but what I require in a woman is fidelity. I don’t share.”
“Ah, I am in full agreement. Believe we understand each other, Rockeforte.”
Alex pictured his hands around Loudor’s neck. He smiled at the image, and nodded.
Loudor finished off his drink and looked back at Sophie. “I’m having a little dinner party tomorrow night. Sophie has a bizarre notion that her companion should dine with the family. Need another man to even out the numbers.” Without taking his eyes from Sophie, Loudor produced the most sickening smirk Alex was sure he had ever seen. “Up to the task?”
Another throttling. Another smile. “I look forward to it.”
The second-to-last dance was a waltz. Fortunately, Sophie had yet to receive permission to waltz from the matrons of Almacks and was thus afforded the perfect excuse to decline the young gentlemen vying for her regard.
There seemed to be a great many of them, she realized with a mixture of pride and unease. They had appeared almost the moment Alex left her side. Apparently, the Duke of Rockeforte’s attention had immediately marked her as a person of consequence.
It had all been very exciting, of course, but it was time to get to work. She had the space of two dances to get into and out of Lord Calmaton’s study.
Sophie excused herself to visit the ladies’ retiring room. She’d gone twice earlier in the evening, peeking into rooms and poking behind paintings in the hope she might find a hidden safe, and cautiously testing the doors along the hallway. The fourth room on the right had been locked, and Sophie hoped that meant she’d found the study.
Pausing in a darkened recess, she pulled up her skirts and retrieved a long pick from the strap around her ankle. She would have to be quick. The room was located far enough down the hall for there to be little traffic, but she had no intention of drawing attention to herself by loitering.
It took her nearly a minute to open the door. She was usually much faster, but her hands were shaking badly, and the blood pounding in her ears made it difficult to hear the clicks and taps of the inner workings of the lock.
Finally she succeeded and was thrilled to find that she had chosen the correct room. Her eyes scanned the interior. It was too dark. She crossed over to the windows and pulled back the drapes, relieved to find the moon shining brightly on her face. She quickly opened the curtains on the remaining windows. It was still too dark for her taste, but there was enough light to keep her fear in check and for her to see what she was about.
She started with the desk. The top was littered with papers; she couldn’t possibly read them all. She fumbled through the stacks, hoping something would catch her eye. She had an absurd vision of finding some triple-sealed envelope with the word SECRET written across the front, possibly in blood.
When her search turned up nothing more nefarious than a delivery notice for some expensive jewelry to a woman who was not the viscountess, Sophie moved behind the desk and began opening the drawers. The first three held supplies, a ledger, and more paperwork detailing the running of the estate. The fourth was locked. Swearing under her breath, Sophie pulled her pick back out and went to work. This was taking too much time. The waltz was already finished and the last song well under way.
With a whispered plea to her Maker she pried the drawer open and almost groaned at the sight of more letters, but caught herself before the sound reached her throat. The letters were in French, every last one of them. She rifled through the pile anxiously. They could be anything! For the first time, Sophie was sorry she had chosen to learn Mandarin and Hindi over the much more popular French. She grabbed one of the letters and looked over the meaningless words. What if they were from a relative, or a lover? Her eyes reached the bottom of the page and she blinked in surprise. It wasn’t signed. She looked back at the others still in the drawer. None of them were signed. Surely a loved one would sign the letters.
She pocketed the paper and then, digging through the remainder, found an envelope and took that too. She hoped they were worth something. At any rate, the music was winding down and in a few minutes people would begin streaming out of the ballroom. She was out of time.
She relocked the drawer and pulled the drapes shut once again, then paused at the door to listen for footsteps in the hall. Finding everything silent, she crept out of the study, locked the door behind her, and headed straight for the ladies’ retiring room.
Six
The next day promised, if nothing else, to be an exceedingly busy time for Sophie. She rose early out of habit, doing her best to ignore the fact that she had gone to bed a mere four hours earlier. She washed and dressed quickly and had just enough time for breakfast before a fabricated sightseeing trip to drop off the papers she had stolen from the viscount’s study. Then on to a final fitting with the modiste, tea with Mirabelle Browning and her friend Lady Kate Cole, and then home to prepare for Loudor’s dinner party.
Her business with the solicitor was more quickly accomplished than Sophie had anticipated. She had rather expected to be interrogated for any additional information, or perhaps given some insight as to the content of the letter she delivered. But the solicitor, a stocky middle-aged man with a large, round nose, had simply taken the plain brown parcel in which she had wrapped her stolen goods, and made some comment on the inadvisability of a young gentlewoman visiting business offices without a proper escort.
Sophie was hard-pressed not to laugh outright at that absurdity. She was being paid to spy, steal, and commit any number of behaviors that were inadvisable for a person of any gender or social standing. She opened her mouth to relate this, then thought better of it. His expression was one of earnest concern. Apparently, he had no idea who she was, what she was doing, or what was in the parcel. She offered him a sweet smile and the assurance that she would take all necessary precautions on her way home.
The solicitor remained standing until Sophie left. Then with a chuckle, he resumed both his seat and the glass of brandy he had stashed in his bottom desk drawer upon her arrival.
He wiped the sides of the glass and licked his fingers with a little smack. Ahhh. Thank God for honest free traders, the ones wh
o didn’t try their hands at weapons smuggling. Setting the glass aside, he picked up the brown parcel Sophie had left and eyed it with something akin to surprised suspicion.
“Well, well, well, Calmaton. Just what have we been up to?”
He read her note first, which made him smile. Then he took a close look at the contents, and laughed like a madman.
Sophie felt uncomfortable for all of five minutes. That was, give or take thirty seconds, all the time it took for Lady Kate and Mirabelle Browning to sit her down and ply her with copious amounts of tea, biscuits, and questions about her travels.
“Did Whit and Alex really rescue you on your first day in London?” Kate asked eagerly, leaning forward in her chair.
“They certainly were of assistance,” Sophie replied.
Kate was an exceptionally beautiful girl with pale blonde hair, light blue eyes, alabaster skin, and perfect, absolutely perfect, facial features. Truly, Sophie didn’t think she had ever met someone whose face and form so well matched the current standard of beauty. It would be unnerving if the girl were not so genuinely pleasant.
Kate sighed wistfully and her face took on a dreamy expression. “That’s so romantic.” Then she frowned. “Or it would be, if it weren’t Whit and Alex. Do you have any brothers, Sophie?”
“No, I’m afraid I’ve never had that pleasure,” she replied.
“The pleasure of it is debatable. They’re unbearably meddlesome creatures, but in this case, at least, their intervention was fortunate.”
“How odd, though,” Mirabelle commented, “that your driver chose such an unusual route, and then disappeared.”
At first glance Mirabelle was a mousy little thing, lacking the shining beauty of her friend. Her brown hair was pulled back tightly and secured in an unflattering knot at the back of her head. Her dress, made of a rather shabby gray material, did little for her complexion or figure. Her features were pleasant, adequate, and in all other ways unexceptional. Until she smiled. Mirabelle’s smile reached all the way up to light her chocolate eyes, which suddenly seemed quite large and brilliant.
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