by Cheryl Bolen
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 the 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 was as pleasurable as 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.
For what seemed like the hundredth time, 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?
“Your accommodations are satisfactory?” he asked. Not an especially clever opening, but at least it was better than resorting to the wretched weather.
Those luxurious lashes of hers lifted, and she bestowed upon him a brilliant smile. “Yes, very. The person you employed to decorate the room has taste identical to my own.”
“Actually I designed it.”
She gave him an incredulous look.
“I travel a good deal—”
“Because of your facility with languages?”
“Yes. That is most helpful in my business dealings.”
“And when you travel, you purchase paintings, porcelains, and fine silks for your home?”
He nodded. “In fact, I have an entire warehouse filled with Grecian and Roman statuary for a country house should I ever settle down long enough to build one.”
Her gaze returned to the pasteboards. Was she afraid he would ask questions about her, questions she did not wish to answer?
They played in silence for a few moments before she turned to her sister. “Are you cold, dearest? If you are, we could ask Thompson to bring your shawl.”
The much-older sister had to be cold, he thought. No meat at all on those bones of hers.
Miss Dorothea Door’s face brightened and she nodded.
He rang for a servant, and when a footman appeared, he requested that Thompson procure the lady’s shawl. William’s gaze skimmed to Isadore. “What colour is your sister’s shawl?”
“Black.”
Though Miss Dorothea Door was considerably older than her sibling, it was the younger sister who took the role of a protective older sister, which William found admirable. Her concern for her afflicted must explain her reluctance to leave her sister behind even when Isadore participated in illegal activities.
Thompson soon entered the room and came to present the elder Miss Door her shawl. The sharp features of her face softened when she looked up at his man. It was the most animated he had ever seen the poor creature.
“Allow me to assist you, miss,” Thompson said to the plain thing.
Her lashes fluttered as she sat up straighter while Thompson draped the shawl over her bony shoulders.
The unfortunate sister, if William was not mistaken, was thrilled to be the recipient of attentions from Thompson. A pity nothing could come of it. Thompson would never cross that line between upstairs and downstairs. He was far too cognizant of his station.
William barely managed to win the hand, but his satisfaction was short lived. Isadore tossed aside her cards and sank her head into her hands. He leaped to his feet, moving to her. “What’s wrong?” He gripped two smooth shoulders and drew in the rose scent of her.
“I don’t know what’s come over me,” she said in a suddenly thin voice. “I’m dreadfully dizzy, and I’ve a beast of a headache.”
“I’ll send for a physician.”
She shook her head. “I daresay it’s nothing more than exhaustion from the tedious journey.”
“I pray you haven’t taken a chill from the nasty weather.”
“I am decidedly susceptible to chills,” she said in a hoarse whisper, shooting a glance at her sister, whose nod confirmed.
He should not have insisted they come to London today in the near-freezing chill in wet clothing. It would serve him right if she took her death of cold. Anyone could see how delicate she was. He bent to put an arm around her. “Allow me to help you to your chamber.”
When they reached the center hall, he instructed the footman to have warm milk sent up to Miss Door’s room. “My mother swears that warm milk wards off the worst chills,” he told Isadore.
A wan smile on her lips, she went limp against him, her head pillowing on his shoulder. As his arm came around her, he realized how truly small she was. By the constant comparison to her skinny sister, he had thought Isadore voluptuous — perhaps because of her nicely rounded breasts. But now he realized she was every bit as thin as her sister. Only with curves in the appropriate places — places he would not allow himself to contemplate. Not while the poor woman was so sick.
Miss Dorothea Door ran ahead to light a candle and throw back the covers of her sister’s bed while William assisted Isadore. Fearing she was too weak to climb upon the bed, William lifted her in his arms then set her down on the smooth white linen. His brows lowered with concern. “I’d feel much more at ease if you would allow me to summon a physician.”
She settled a graceful hand on his. “You’re very kind, but I daresay a good night’s sleep will do me wonders.” She turned to her sister. “Will it not, Dorothea?”
The mute nodded.
“Give me your word you will send for me if your condition worsens during the night,” he said.
She fell back into the pillows and nodded. “If the need should arise, I’ll send my sister to pound upon your door.”
“My chambers are directly across the corridor from you.”
He fought the urge to bend down and kiss her brow as his mother had done to him when he was sick as a youngster.
Across the corridor in his bedchamber, he settled at his desk to pen those letters left unfinished that afternoon. The room seemed permeated with the scent of roses. Isadore’s scent.
Even though it was not yet nine o’clock, William knew he would not see Diane later that night.
Isadore might need him.
* * *
She listened as his footsteps
disappeared into his bedchamber. Then she undressed and, with assistance from Dottie, put on her night shift. She stood before the fire, hugging her bare arms and thinking about William Birmingham. Soon, a tear meandered along her cheek.
Dottie rushed to her. “Oh, milady! Whatever is wrong? You truly are sick!”
“I’m cursed, Dottie. Completely cursed. Why could I not have met the Paragon before I made the disastrous decision to wed Lord Finkel?”
“I don’t know what a paragon is, milady, but I perceive yer speaking of Mr. Birmingham.”
Sophia sniffed. “Indeed I am. He’s everything I looked for in the seven and forty men I rejected. He’s so. . . magnificent.”
Dottie put hands to hips. “Ye said yerself he could be a highwayman.”
Sophia glared at her. “And you countered by saying you were convinced he was a gentleman. A very wealthy, fine gentleman. And, you must own, you’re always right about people.”
Though reason told her Mr. Birmingham made vast amounts of money on the wrong side of the law, her heart told her he was a good man. A gentleman. She collapsed onto her bed, initiating a fresh torrent of tears. “Why did I not listen to you when you warned me about Finkie?”
A knock sounded at the door, and Dottie opened it to take the warm milk. “I’m sure Mr. Birmingham’s right about warm milk,” Dottie said as she brought the glass to her mistress. “Drink it up, milady, and ye will feel better.”
“But I’m not taking a chill.”
“It’ll still make ye feel better.”
“Nothing will ever make me feel better. Lord Finkel will never let me go. I feel it in my bones. And I most decidedly do not like the man. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life as Lady Finkel.”
That, of course, was exactly as Lady Wapping had once felt. But after the evil Lord Wapping took her hefty dowry and subjected the lovely creature to what were said to be unspeakable acts, not even her father or the courts of England could extricate her from the miserable marriage. Under English law, a woman was the property of her husband no matter how vile that husband was.
Dottie, dear soul, refrained from saying `I told you so.’ A few minutes later, after she herself had dressed for bed, the maid announced she had a plan to rid her mistress of the unwanted husband.
Sophia swung around to face the maid, her dark eyes glittering.
“Ye must allow Mr. Birmingham to ruin ye. Surely then Lord Finkel wouldn’t want ye back.”
“That is the most devilish scheme I’ve ever heard of!” Even if it was terribly alluring. “I doubt Mr. Birmingham would be remotely interested in seducing Isadore. I don’t know what he wants from the odious woman, but it certainly isn’t . . . that bedchamber business. You heard him vow to be a gentleman, and I know he’s a noble man incapable of breaking a vow.”
“I’ve seen the way he looks at ye.”
Sophia bolted up. “What way?”
“With desire. Sexual desire.”
She dared not ask how Dottie knew about things like sexual desire. A tingling infused her body as she contemplated what her maid had just told her. “While I’ll admit you’re always right about men, this once you must be mistaken.”
Dottie shook her head. “I know what I see.”
“You’re a pea goose. Blow out the candle and come to bed.”
As Sophia lay in the darkness, soft rain falling on the casements, she wondered what it would be like to lie with Mr. Birmingham. The very notion did strange things to her body.
And robbed her of sleep.
* * *
The following morning Mr. Birmingham delivered her breakfast tray himself. Freshly shaven and cheerful, he at least must have had a good night’s sleep. Unlike her.
“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked.
“Better, but my head feels as if a regiment of grenadiers danced upon it throughout the night.”
His gaze raked over her, sifting down to the white lace robe she had just donned. “I’ve brought something to help with that. Thompson has a wonderful concoction that works wonders for a bad head.”
She had to remember to speak as if it were a great effort. “Then I pray that it helps,” she said in a barely audible whisper.
He situated the tray to span her lap, then stood back and directed his comments to Dottie. “I’ll stay with your sister for a spell if you have other matters to see to. You cannot have rested well last night.”
Sophia could not be left alone with him. He would be sure to ask “Isadore” something that Sophia could not possibly answer. She stiffened. “No!”
A quizzing look on his face, he spun around to face Sophia.
She lowered her voice. “It’s just that my sister worries excessively whenever I am ill. She positively won’t let me out of her sight.” She lowered her voice even more. “Residual effects from Dorcus’s tragic death, no doubt.”
He shot Dottie a kindly glance.
“Besides,” Sophia added, “as a maiden, I cannot possibly entertain you in my bedchamber.”
His eyes went hard. “Then you don’t trust me?”
She shrugged. “Actually, I do. I believe you are a gentleman.”
“Then since your sister is unable to read to you, allow me. It will help pass the time, take your mind off your discomfort.”
How flattered she was that he would devote himself to her when so many other matters must have a claim upon him after his absence from the city. And how incapable she was of allowing him to walk away when she wanted nothing but to spend every minute with him. “Poetry answers very well for my blue devils.”
He offered her a lazy smile. “Have you a request?”
“Cowper or Blake. I like them both very much.”
He raised his brow. “What, no deathbed stanzas? I thought all ladies were enamored of poems that can only be read with handkerchief in hand.”
She shot him an amused gaze. “Oh, I adore that kind of poem,” she lied, “but I assumed a gentleman like yourself would not have such in his library.”
“I don’t.” He excused himself to go to his library.
* * *
He was more convinced than ever that Isadore was a well-born lady. Instead of the insipid, flowery love poems of third-rate poets embraced by women of society’s lower rungs, Miss Isadore Door had superb taste in poetry, as in everything else. Save her penchant for embroiling herself in danger.
It occurred to him while he was perusing the volumes of Blake and Cowper and Pope that he and Isadore had a great deal in common. If she had added Pope’s name to her list of favored poets, it would surely have been a sign from the Almighty that this woman was his fate. Even if she was a shady lady.
The moment he reentered her bedchamber and beheld her considerable beauty, he grew angry that she was endangering that lovely, lovely neck of hers. By God, he would not have it! He would make her turn straight, even if he had to give her, gulp, eighty thousands pounds from his own pocket.
“I brought Cowper,” he informed her.
Her only response was a flutter of her lashes and a faint smile.
He brought a chair to her bedside. “Do you have a favorite?” he asked, opening the book.
“You select.”
He began to read from The Winter Evening. She smiled at his selection, and though it was a long poem, she mouthed along with him several lines.
And when he finished, she said, “This Sylvan Maid thanks you deeply.”
Good lord! Sylvan Maid was from an obscure line in Pope’s Windsor Forest.
She must be The One.
Even if she was a shady lady.
Chapter 5
As thoroughly as she had enjoyed sharing her morning with Mr. Birmingham, whom she kept thinking of as Mr. Perfect (except for the problem with him likely being a criminal), she'd been impatient for him to leave. She simply had to speak to her brother about the difficulty with Finkie.
Devere would know if she had any hope of dissolving the disastrous marriage. They must
try to find a way to see that her . . . ahem, husband did not get his hands on her dowry.
Though if he would relinquish all claims of being her husband, she would gladly allow him to keep the money. Of course, Devere might have something to say about that.
Her chest tightened when she considered that she would have to tell her brother the manner in which Finkie had compelled her to marry him. That would mean disclosing their sister’s dark secret. She had thought never to tell another, but Devere was now head of their family. He needed to know. If only she had told him earlier. Before she united herself to Finkie. Before she knew Finkie was not the affable man she had thought him.
As surely as she knew Finkie had sent his servants to the inn at Shelton both the night of her flight and on the next morning, she knew that men in the employ of Lord Finkel would be watching her brother’s house. She could not go there.
She would have to send Dottie. Would they also recognize the maid as they had recognized her hooded mistress the previous morning?
Perhaps if she could persuade Mr. Birmingham’s valet to escort Dottie there, it would look as if they were a couple calling upon Lord Devere. The valet had always seemed so solicitous of Dottie. The man must be possessed of a tender heart, especially toward a frail female with so limiting an affliction.
She first sketched out her plan to Dottie. “You must bring my brother to me. He’s not to come in his crested coach, and no one is to know he's my brother. You’re to make certain no one follows you here. Then once Devere’s here, you’re to watch out for Mr. Birmingham's return. I can’t allow him to see Devere.” It was entirely possible that her brother might be known to Mr. Birmingham, and she couldn't allow Mr. Birmingham to learn she was not Isadore.
Dottie’s eyes brightened. “Thompson’s to escort me?”
“Yes, I wish for you and the valet to contrive to appear as a well-born couple.”
“Yer brother’s apt to give me away in front of Mr. Thompson.”
“We can’t have that. I’ll scribble a note to him, telling him not to acknowledge a previous acquaintance with you. And I’ll explain that it’s important you play the role of a mute. A high-born mute.” Sophia drew a deep breath. “I’ll also tell him I’m in danger.”
