by Cheryl Bolen
“I would like to think that once this transaction is closed,” he said, “the lady will take her ‘rewards’ and retire from risky propositions.” Then it occurred to him that he did not wish for her to close this transaction. He did not like to think of her doing anything further that might jeopardize that lovely neck of hers.
“Then you and I are in perfect agreement, Mr. Birmingham.”
“If it’s the money, I’m a very wealthy man . . .”
She stiffened. “I won’t accept your money.”
She was entirely too proud. Rather than accept a gift from him, she would risk her life. His hands fisted. “Then I’m not letting you out of my sight until the ‘transaction’ is completed. You’re in grave danger.”
“Just what are you suggesting, sir?”
“You -- and your sister -- will stay at my home until I’m assured that you’re out of danger.”
She shook her head. “I’m . . . an unmarried woman.”
The very suggestion of impropriety stirred his lust for her. She was an unmarried woman, a very beautiful unmarried woman, and he was an unmarried man. He had never been more aware of a woman. A sizzling heat flared between them as he drank in her sensuous loveliness, as his heated gaze poured over her exquisite face, down the creamy flesh of her neck and the tops of her breasts swelling against the blue gown.
Bringing a well borne lady to his house was not a good idea. How would he be able to stay away from her bed?
He drew a deep breath. “I give you my word to behave as a gentleman. And my servants are very discreet. Your reputation will not suffer.”
Her eyes sparkled with mirth. “How can I know you’re a gentleman? I know of no gentlemen whose valets are skilled swordsmen.” Her gaze darted to Thompson, whose face was inscrutable.
William shrugged. “The manner in which I conduct my business and the manner in which I live in polite society are two completely different things.”
“I may regret it, Mr. Birmingham,” she said, “but I’m willing to put myself in your hands. Until this business is completed.”
* * *
“Four of you couldn’t overtake two men?” Lord Finkel thundered.
“Three, counting the coachman,” the blond footman said.
“’Twernt just any two men, either,” his companion said. “These men was exceedingly well armed.”
“And skilled pugilists,” a third servant added.
“And mighty handy with a sword, too,” a fourth servant said.
Lord Finkel’s glare scorched. His bloody wife had gone traipsing off with another man. On his wedding night! How could that be? He had learned that she had met the wealthy bloke at the posting inn at Shelton. Were she running off with another man, would he not have picked her up outside the gates of Upton Manor? “What was the man’s name?”
The three men shrugged. “We don’t know, my lord,” the blonde said.
“But he was very rich,” the other said.
“His carriage was even finer than yer lordship’s.”
Lord Finkel’s bushy brows lowered. “There was a crest?”
His servants shook their heads.
“What did the man look like?” Lord Finkel asked.
“He was a very large man,” the blond said. “I fought ’im with all me strength, but I was no match for ’im. A giant he was.”
The smaller servant nodded. “And his clothes were of very fine quality. Every bit as expensive as yer lordship’s.”
Lord Finkel pounded upon his desk. “You’re to return to Shelton and make inquiries. I need the man’s name. Don’t come back without it.”
“Yes, your lordship.”
* * *
Sophia had thought physical discomfort could get no worse than it had been the night before when she and Dottie had stumbled through a violent rainstorm for six long miles.
She had been wrong.
The seven-hour journey to London in Mr. Birmingham’s now-topless coach was worse — chiefly because the skies had once again erupted, rendering the interior of his carriage as wet as a pond, a freezing pond that no amount of togetherness made tolerable. She longed to wash the mud from her body. She longed for dry clothing and the warmth of a fire. But most of all, she longed to be on solid ground and rid of the horrid motion sickness that threatened with every turn of the wheels to dislodge the churning contents of her stomach.
When she began to recognize familiar streets in London’s West End, an odd sense of comfort stole over her. Comfort mingled with fear. Mr. Birmingham would do his best to disengage her from Dottie in order to demand information that only the mysterious Isadore possessed.
She must not allow herself to be alone with him.
As the carriage turned onto Grosvenor Square, Mr. Birmingham announced that they had arrived at his home. An impressive address. Her great aunt, Lady Gresham, lived there at Number 12.
“Perhaps, sir,” Sophia said, “you might wish to enter through the back.”
A devilish smile broke over his face. “A very good suggestion, Miss Door,” he said. “Were my neighbors to see so bedraggled a man from so bedraggled carriage enter my house, they would be certain to send for the Watch. And we couldn’t have that, could we, Miss Door?”
He instructed the coachman to drive to the back.
A moment later they were disembarking from the carriage, kindly Mr. Birmingham offering Sophia a wet hand. As soon as they stepped into the gracious house, he began to bark orders to his servants to put the sisters into the Blue Room and Yellow Room respectively and to hasten with baths for the ladies.
“What about yourself, Mister Birmingham?” the housekeeper asked, her shocked gaze lingering on her employer’s torn, muddy clothes.
“I shall avail myself of one once the ladies are finished.”
As London houses went, especially those on Grosvenor Square, Mr. Birmingham’s was small. As befitted a bachelor. Sophia’s chest tightened. He was a bachelor, was he not? A lump the size of a walnut lodged in her throat as she climbed the stairs behind him. “Is there. . . a Mrs. Birmingham?” she asked. Please say no.
“You will be staying in her room.”
The queasiness returned to Sophia’s stomach.
“My mother visits once or twice a year. My sister used to occasionally stay in the Yellow Room, but she is married now and has her own house in town.”
“Is that the sister you were just visiting in the north?” Sophia asked, her step lightening.
“Yes.” He opened the door to the blue chamber, a high ceilinged room carpeted in pale blue, its walls covered in silk of the same shade. The room bespoke impeccable taste from its high, velvet-draped tester bed to its marble chimney piece that was centered with a gold clock and flanked by turquoise Sevres vases. Whatever illegal activities Mr. Birmingham engaged in certainly paid handsomely.
“Your sister will have the next room,” he said, still standing in the doorway as a pair footman carried the slipper tub into the room and placed it in front of chimney, where a maid was kneeling down to start the fire. “I beg that you ladies join me in the dining room at six,” he added.
That would give them three hours to clean, rest, then dress for dinner. “It will be our pleasure,” Sophia said.
* * *
Before Sophia and Dottie made their way to the dining room, Sophia demanded two things of her maid. “First,” she said to Dottie, who had sneaked to her room to help her dress, “you are NOT to wait upon me.”
“Not even to help with yer ’air?”
“Not even to help with my hair. You’re to pretend to be a gentlewoman yourself.”
Dottie nodded. “A deaf gentlewoman.”
“Not deaf. Mute.”
“I always get them two mixed up.”
All the more reason for Sophia to congratulate herself for demanding that Dottie play the mute. “There is another thing I must ask of you.”
Dottie arched her brows.
“You’re not to allow me to be alone
with Mr. Birmingham.”
“You’re that attracted to him, eh? If ye ask me, it would be a very good plan if ye let ’im ruin ye so ye wouldn’t have to go back to that odious Lord Finkel.”
There was merit in what her maid said. If Sophia had a mind to ruin herself with a man she could not think of a more worthy candidate than the sublime Mr. Birmingham. A pity he was a criminal. “That’s not what I mean! I cannot be alone with Mr. Birmingham because then he will expect me to be Isadore.”
“But he already thinks ye are Isadore!”
“What I mean is that he will endeavor to extract information from me that I cannot possibly produce.”
Dottie rubbed her pointy chin. “I can see where that might pose a problem, but what do you care what Mr. Birmingham thinks? Now that he’s brought us to Lunnon, why don’t ye just return to Lord Devere’s house?”
Sophia had to admit that Dottie was possessed of a great deal of common sense. “I had originally planned to return to my brother’s, but now that I know Finkie will do the most vile things in order to keep me shackled to him, I cannot go back to Devere’s. Lord Finkel will expect me to go there, and I’m almost certain he will demand that I return to Upton Manor with him.” Her shoulders sagged. “And the pity of it is that the law is on his side.”
“I fear yer right, my lady.”
“Another very good reason for you to be mute. You’d be certain to slip and call me my lady.”
“What if that ’andsome Mr. Birmingham comes to yer chamber when yer sleeping?”
The idea of any of her seven and forty previous suitors coming to her bedchamber would have been repugnant, but strangely, the idea of His Sublimeness coming to her bedchamber sent searing quivers over her body. It was difficult for her to even remember the topic Dottie had initiated when thoughts of Mr. Birmingham awakening her with sultry kisses competed. She had to catch her breath before she could answer. “I shall be sick. I will take to my bed with a feigned fever immediately after dinner, and you must pretend to nurse me through the night.” Once more Sophia would experience the oddity of sleeping with her servant.
“How I wish I could be taking dinner with the upper servants,” Dottie lamented as they moved toward the door. “Yer Mr. Birmingham is sure to find me out when he sees me table manners. I ’aven’t the foggiest which forks to use when.”
“Oh, my dearest Dottie,” Sophia said with true remorse, “forgive me for all I’ve put you through. You’ve managed very well, and I’m excessively proud of you. Don’t worry at the table. Just watch me and do as I do.”
She started for the door, then stopped and turned back to address her maid, her eyes flashing with mischief. “Could there be another reason you wish to eat with the upper servants? Could you be smitten with Mr. Birmingham’s valet?”
“Mr. Thompson can leave his shoes under my bed any night.”
Sophia giggled, then her heart began to flutter at the notion of Mr. Thompson’s employer leaving his shoes beneath her bed.
“Oh, me lady! The back of yer ’air do look like a rat’s nest. Are ye sure ye don’t want to sit down at the dressing table and let me arrange it for ye?”
Oh course she wanted to, especially to render herself more attractive to her dazzling host, but she could not chance one of his servants wandering into the chamber and discovering Dottie’s true identity. “Though my hair may not be up to your exacting standards, I seriously doubt it resembles a rodent’s nest. You, my dearest Dottie, are possessed of a propensity to exaggerate.”
But as Sophia reached the bottom of the stairs and caught a sideways glimpse of her hair in the gilded Adam mirror, she realized with horror that Dottie had not exaggerated.
1Chapter 4
Sophia actually availed herself of two feasts that night at dinner. Since she had not eaten since the morning’s toast, the food was most welcome. But even more welcome was the vision of Mr. Birmingham seated at the head of the table impeccably dressed in black with crisp white shirt and cravat. Though his manner was courteous, there was a seriousness about him that had not been in his demeanor earlier. And that seriousness was directed at her. Every time she looked up, he was staring at her. As she sipped her soup, she felt his eyes upon her.
Later, she caught herself watching him bring the wine glass to his lips and wondering what it would be like to feel those lips upon hers. Nothing like Finkie and his kippers, she was certain.
This Supreme Creature had the most maddening effect upon her. Usually a lively conversationalist, she could do nothing but answer his queries in monosyllables. He was sure to think her an idiot.
As the footmen removed the cloth and brought out the sweetmeats, she decided she really must convince him that she was not going to turn mute like her sister. Unsteady hands folded in her lap, she turned to him and bestowed one of her alluring (so she had often been told) smiles upon him.
The green in his eyes sparkled like shimmering seas.
Then she completely embarrassed herself over the stupidity of her question. “Tell me, Mr. Birmingham, is your father a wealthy man, or did he earn his money?”
“Both, actually. He was born quite poor but was clever about earning money. He is dead.”
“Was he a . . . gentleman?”
His expression went cold. “No, he was not. It was his fondest wish that his children be groomed to take places in society that were denied him.”
Until this moment she had never seen a more confident man than Mr. Birmingham. Her memory flashed back to that morning’s dangerous confrontation, to the way Mr. Birmingham had easily bested the armed man who had several advantages over him, not the least of which was his loaded weapon. With deep admiration, she remembered the cocky way Mr. Birmingham had refused her assistance. Even his home bespoke a man of easy elegance and fine breeding. Yet she had discovered the one area where he lacked confidence. Handsome, wealthy, gentlemanly Mr. Birmingham was embarrassed over his origins.
In all aspects save one — his mysterious illegal activities — Mr. Birmingham had certainly fulfilled his father’s hopes.
As she had done at every dinner since she’d left the school room, Sophia unconsciously slipped into French. “Were your father alive, I believe he would be proud of the man you’ve become.”
Mr. Birmingham laughed. “And I believe you confuse gratitude with admiration.”
“I cannot deny that I’m profoundly grateful that you risked your life to save mine this morning, but I assure you my admiration is based on a solid foundation of noble — and gentlemanly — actions on your part.”
It only then occurred to her that her host had spoken to her in flawless French. He had most definitely been brought up as a gentleman. “Tell me, Mr. Birmingham, did your father speak French?”
He went serious again. “He spoke nothing except English. And not the king’s English.”
“And you, Mr. Birmingham? What other languages do you speak?”
“German. Italian. Greek. Spanish.”
Six languages, counting the English and French he spoke so very well. A most educated man. “And I would guess that you also read and write Latin.”
“I had no choice. I began studying with the best tutors my father could buy when I was but four years of age. I was the baby of the family, and by the time I arrived, my father was a very wealthy man.”
Desserts finished, he stood. “Will you ladies join me in the drawing room? Perhaps we could play loo.”
Which was the only game Sophia could think of that three could play. “My sister would prefer to embroider, but I would be most happy to engage in a game of whist with you.”
Just one game, then she must become sick. Though she had planned to begin feigning illness at the dining table, she was not yet ready to absent herself from Mr. Birmingham’s charming presence.
* * *
He had not intended to spend the night at home. Diane expected him at the theatre after her performance. He always came to her when he returned to London. To her and th
e exceedingly expensive house he’d set her up in on Park Lane. But Diane was not the woman he wanted to spend this evening with.
Only the ravishing Isadore claimed his attention. His earlier efforts to pen some letters had been fruitless. He could do nothing but think about Isadore. It was not just her formidable beauty that captured his interest — though gazing at her ranked right up on there on the pleasure scale with breaking the bank at faro. He could think of only one activity that could give more pleasure. And he had given her his word he would not do that.
William wondered why a woman of such exceptional breeding would be associating herself with smugglers. For he had no doubts this woman was born to the Quality. She spoke court French. She wore expensive clothing of the latest fashion. And — judging from the disarray of her hair — she obviously was used to having her own maid. What could have compelled her to leave her privileged home and court such danger? Money, certainly. But a woman as lovely as Isadore could no doubt snare a royal duke and never have to worry about debts again.
He wished like the devil that sister of hers was not sitting three feet away, an embroidery hoop in her lap. Made it deuced difficult to bring up the topic of gold bullion.
Directly across the game table from him, Isadore was even more beautiful than she’d been at dinner. From the front, her lustrous dark hair swept elegantly from her alabaster face, hiding the unmanageable clumps in the back. She wore a stunning scarlet gown which draped off her bare, white shoulders and barely covered her delectable breasts. A square-cut ruby centered a double strand of pearls clasped at her graceful neck, a neck that begged to be kissed.
He cursed himself for offering that blasted promise.
Since he felt certain he could beat her at whist blindfolded, he quickly arranged the pasteboards in his hands, then lazily perused her. Her slender fingers arranged the cards. Her long, dark lashes lowered. Her snowy white teeth nibbled at her luscious lips. Did the woman have any idea how seductive was her every move?
