by Amelia Grey
Matson had equal disdain for Lord Hargraves, and when she’d danced with him last night, Matson had to grit his teeth. Thankfully they were dancing a fast quadrille and not the more intimate waltz. Sophia had saved the last dance of the evening for him, and it had been a quadrille, too, but he didn’t mind, because he’d loved seeing the smile on her face as they had danced.
Afternoon sunshine grew dim, and dusk lay on the sky, when suddenly Matson stiffened. All of his senses went on alert. He spied the lad wearing the same clothes and same innocent expression on his face. Matson’s diligence had been rewarded; now he had to be careful. He’d be damned if he’d let the little bugger get away a second time.
The lad casually walked around the square, appearing disinterested in all the possible booty before him, but Matson knew better. The boy was studying the people behind all the tables and carts, trying to decide who would be the easiest prey.
Matson took off his hat, gloves, and coat and laid them on one of the steps. If he had to give chase, he didn’t want the extra clothing to hamper him. Now that he had the lad in his sights again, he didn’t intend to let him get away from him. The lovely Miss Hart wanted her mother’s brooch back, and Matson intended to get it for her.
After stopping to pay for a sheet of newsprint, Matson held it up to his face, just below his eyes, and started toward the boy. He moved as fast as he could without causing suspicion. Matson had already discovered the little bugger was fast when he ran. But luck was with Matson when the boy halted before a table spread with sweet cakes, fruit tarts, and sugared biscuits.
As inconspicuously as possible, Matson let the paper drop to a table he passed and then eased up beside the lad and closed his hand around the back of the boy’s neck with a firm hold. The lad froze at first, but slowly he turned his head and looked up at Matson. His dark brown eyes told his story. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten caught.
“What’s your name?”
He blinked slowly again and sniffed before saying, “’Enery.”
“Do you have a last name?”
He shook his head again.
“What’s your papa’s name?”
The lad shrugged.
“Mama?”
He shrugged again.
“It doesn’t look as if you have much to say, Henry, but we’re going to change that. Let’s you and I go have a talk.”
Holding tightly to the boy, Matson ushered him away from the square and back onto the boardwalk. Most gypsies and street thieves would be squirming and fighting to get away. Henry obediently followed him, as if their meeting were friendly. However, Matson had mistaken Henry’s mild manner before, and he wouldn’t make that error twice.
He steered Henry over to the steps where he’d left his hat and coat and sat him down on the bottom step, hemming him in with his body. “I’m not letting you go until I get back what you took from me and the lady.”
Henry raked his forearm across his dirty nose and then spread his dirty hands palms up for Matson to see. “I don’t ’ave anything of yers or anyone else.”
Matson smiled derisively. “Let’s try this again, shall we? Now we can do it the polite way or the difficult way. It makes no difference to me, but I assure you, it will make a difference to you.”
“Whatcha mean, mister?”
The little imp was good, but Matson was not going to be fooled by his innocent face again.
“You know very well what I mean. And take my word for it, you won’t like the hard way. Now, I want the dagger and the purse back. No doubt you’ve already turned them over to your parents, so take me to where they are.”
The boy kept his innocent gaze dead set on Matson’s face and once again shrugged his small, thin shoulders, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “I dunno know what yer talking about.”
“Then you better start praying your memory returns to you quickly, or you’ll be spending the night on the cold floor of a dark dungeon without a bite to fill your empty stomach or any hope of being returned to your parents. But if you return what you stole, I’ll give you a few coins to buy bread and a tart if you like, and you can go about your merry way.”
“I ’ave no help for ye,” he said again, his smudged face remaining passively innocent.
Matson had had enough. He reached down and picked up his hat and popped it on his head. He stuffed his gloves in his coat pocket and threw his coat over his arm.
Scowling his displeasure at the boy’s indifference to the possibility of a harsh punishment, he said, “Very well, let’s go. I’m taking you straight to the constable and telling him to throw you into the deepest dungeon he has and not let you out until you’re ready to talk.”
He took a firm grip on the lad’s upper arm and lifted him off the step and started walking him down the boardwalk.
“Wait, wait,” Henry said, straining and pushing against Matson’s firm hold.
Henry squirmed, kicked, and hit him, but Matson disregarded his ineffective struggles and kept walking. He had to let the rascal know he meant business, or he’d continue to thwart him. “Wait, mister. Wait! Ye can’t throw me in a dungeon.”
“I can, and I will.”
“No, please don’t do that,” he begged, dragging his feet and trying to halt Matson’s long strides.
When Matson heard real fear in the boy’s voice, he stopped and looked down at him. “Do you have something to say to me?” he asked sternly.
A tear rolled out the corner of one of the lad’s eyes and ran down his cheek, cleaning a streak of his smudged skin as it went. Matson’s heart lurched. He didn’t like what he was doing, but what choice did he have? Obviously the urchin had no one else to teach him a lesson. If he didn’t stop stealing now, he would find himself in prison or floating in the Thames.
“I’ve ’eard it said that a gentleman always keeps ’is word once ’e’s spoken. Is that true?”
“It is.”
Henry’s bottom lip trembled, and another tear slid down his cheek. His eyes riveted on Matson, he asked, “And ye’re a gentleman, are ye not?”
“I am.”
“If I give ye back yer knife and yer purse, will ye promise to give me the money ye spoke about?”
“You have my word.”
The boy nodded once and said, “I’ll take ye to where yer things are.”
Matson pulled his handkerchief out of his coat pocket and gave it to the lad. “Clean your face, and we’ll go.”
***
A couple of hours later, Matson found himself sitting in Sir Randolph’s drawing room, waiting to see Sophia. His heart drummed hard and steady in his chest. He couldn’t wait to give her the brooch and end her pain of loss. If the nightmares of seeing her mother’s dress go up in flames had started again when she lost the brooch, then surely they would stop when it was returned.
He took the brooch out of his coat pocket and unfolded the handkerchief it was wrapped in. It was fashioned in the shape of a flower with a gold stem. The five petals of the flower were covered in diamonds. The larger center stone was missing. He wondered if that had been a diamond, or perhaps one of the colored gemstones. Maybe it had been an emerald the same exact color of exotic green of Sophia’s eyes.
If he knew what type of stone had been there, he could have found a jeweler and had it replaced before returning it to her. No, he wouldn’t have. He wanted to get it to her as soon as possible, and deciding on a stone and having it set into the brooch would have taken time Matson didn’t want to waste. It was already early evening. Perhaps he’d suggest to her that she have the jeweler come to her with his tools and replace it right here in the house, so there would be no chance of losing it again.
He wished they could be alone when he gave it to her, but he knew there was no chance Double and Trouble would let her out of their sight. And it wouldn’t be right for him to prolong her agony a
ny longer than necessary by keeping it until he found a time they could be alone.
Matson heard the shuffling of feet and muted voices, so he folded the handkerchief and put it back in his pocket and rose from the settee. The Misses Shevington walked in, with Mae helping June to walk.
He strode toward them and said, “Miss Shevington, may I help?”
“No, no, Mr. Brentwood. My ankle is much better. I am just taking care with it so as not to do more harm.”
“She says she’s better, but I’m not so sure,” Mae said.
“You worry too much, Sister. I’m fine. I just need an extra hand to steady me. Sit down, Mr. Brentwood.”
Matson waited until the ladies were seated on the settee before he took one of the side chairs. “I’m glad to hear you’re better, Miss Shevington.”
“So am I,” June said. “I don’t like being dependent on anyone to help me get around. So tell me, what can we do for you, Mr. Brentwood?”
“I’d like to see Miss Hart.”
“I’m afraid she’s indisposed,” June said, completely uninterested in his request.
Mae smiled at him. “She’s resting before she has to get dressed for the parties this evening. It’s quite taxing on one’s constitution to be out every night and so late.”
“I’m sure it is, but I won’t take too much of her time, if you’ll be so kind as to get her for me.”
“Perhaps you can see her at one of the parties this evening,” June said. “We really can’t disturb her now.”
Matson knew there would be little chance of getting Sophia alone tonight long enough to give her the brooch. And he wasn’t about to give it to her in front of a hundred people.
“You don’t understand. I have something to give to Miss Hart.”
Both their gazes fell to the handkerchief he pulled from his pocket.
“We couldn’t possibly allow you to do that, Mr. Brentwood,” June said, leaning back as if she were afraid he was pulling a mouse out of his pocket.
“Yes,” Mae said, looking down at the folded handkerchief with surprised eyes. “Perhaps if you’d brought flowers or sweets from that nice little shop down the street, we could have allowed you to give it to her, but that…”
Even before he’d heard their words and saw their disdainful expressions at his undignified offering, he knew they were not going to let him see Sophia. They had no idea what was wrapped in his handkerchief, and they had no desire to find out.
He wanted to say good riddance, shove the brooch in their hands, and be done with Sophia, her aunts, and Sir Randolph once and for all, but his fighting spirit was too strong. He wasn’t used to giving up something he wanted so easily, and he didn’t want to tell them it was the brooch.
He had found the brooch, and he would give it to her.
Matson just didn’t know when or how right now. He slipped the brooch back into his pocket and rose. “I understand, ladies. Don’t trouble yourselves to get up. I’ll see myself out.”
“Oh, but we must,” Mae said.
“No, Miss Shevington,” Matson said before June had the opportunity to do much more than part her lips. “I insist you stay here with Miss Shevington.” When Matson made it to the doorway of the drawing room, he turned back and said, “Excuse me, Miss Shevington, but what kind of stone was in the brooch that Sophia had stolen from her?”
“It was a pearl,” Mae and June said at the same time and then looked at each other and smiled.
“Not a very expensive one,” June added, “which was why her father had allowed her to put it on her doll. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering,” he answered with a smile. “Good evening, ladies.”
Matson placed his hat on his head as he stepped outside. He huffed out a short laugh. He had to hand it to those two ladies. When they set their minds to something, they didn’t give an inch.
Much like Sophia.
Now that he thought about it, he was glad they hadn’t let him see Sophia. He’d rather be alone with her when he gave it to her. But getting her alone was the problem. Double and Trouble seldom let her out of their sight.
Matson stepped off the stoop and headed down the walkway. He had to think of a way to get Sophia alone. In the meantime, he’d take the brooch to a jeweler and have the pearl replaced.
Eighteen
Lord! I wonder what fool it was that first invented kissing.
—Jonathan Swift
Sophia had hardly been able to sleep at all, and she’d been filled with expectancy since she rose and dressed for the day. Though she’d tried to tamp it down, she couldn’t dispel the feeling of excitement that filled her. Matson wanted to see her again, and that elated her. She should instead be thinking about the differences between Lord Hargraves and Lord Snellingly, and there were plenty.
Lord Hargraves was younger and more appealing to her senses. He never mentioned poetry, but she worried that he might not give her the freedom she wanted to continue her involvement in her father’s company. The Season would be over soon. She knew Sir Randolph would be asking her to make a decision, but all she could do was think about Matson. He was the only man who set her heart to racing every time she thought about him. He was the only man she wanted to touch her in such an intimate way as he had on the boat.
When he’d seen her at the party last night, he’d asked her if Sir Randolph and her aunts were early risers. He’d smiled when she told him no, and that they seldom came downstairs before noon. He then asked her to meet him in the narrow passageway beside her house at nine o’clock. Sophia had said yes without hesitating.
She went about her usual morning routine without raising any suspicions with the servants, telling her maid that the morning was so lovely she wanted to sit in the garden undisturbed, have her tea, and work on poetry. She dressed in a simple morning dress of robin’s egg blue, with sheer, long sleeves and a scooped neckline. As was her custom for morning, she pulled the sides of her hair up and away from her face and secured it with a hand-painted comb, leaving the rest to drape down her back.
When she’d finished dressing, it was still half an hour before Matson’s appointed time, but Sophia couldn’t wait any longer to get outside. There was something about meeting him in secret that made her feel a little bit wicked.
She took one final look at herself, picked up her pencil and foolscap, and headed down the stairs. Mrs. Anderson insisted on helping her get settled in the garden with her tea, the morning newsprint, and her paper and pencil. As soon as the door closed behind the housekeeper, a pebble hit on the stone patio near Sophia’s feet. She looked up at the hedge and saw the leaves rustling.
Her heart raced. She rose and walked over to the hedge and pretended interest in looking at the shrub.
“You’re late,” he said.
Sophia couldn’t see Matson through the thick wall of leaves, but said, “I am not, and you know it. I am early, and so are you.”
“Does that mean you were eager to see me?”
“Only if it means your haste in getting here was that you were impatient to see me.”
“I admit I couldn’t wait. I’ve been here an hour already. Is it clear for you to come outside the gate?”
An hour!
Sophia inhaled deeply. “As clear as it will ever be. I’ll be right out.”
The gate squeaked when Sophia opened it, but she quickly shut it behind her and walked the few feet down to the pathway between Sir Randolph’s hedge and his neighbors’, and entered it. She had walked about one-fourth of the way down when Matson stepped out in front of her.
Sophia’s heart tumbled at the sight of him. Her stomach quivered deliciously, and teasing warmth tingled across her breasts. Matson was divinely handsome in buff-colored riding breeches, golden-brown waistcoat, and black coat. The shiny knee boots he wore added to his tall, rakish good looks. All she could think was
that she hoped he had wanted to meet her so he could wrap her in his strong arms once again and kiss her.
His eyes seemed to devour her for a moment before he said, “Turn around. I’ve never seen your hair down, and I want to.”
Sophia turned her back to him. She felt his open palm start at the top of her head and slowly run down the length of her hair. He lifted its long weight in his hands, and she felt him gently crush it in his fists as his fingers caressed it. Sophia had never had anyone touch her hair with such reverence. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he buried his face in a handful of her hair and inhaled deeply. It pleased her that such a simple thing gave him such pleasure.
“Your hair is as gorgeous as rays from the sun, and smells like rainwater.”
Sophia laughed. “Rainwater has no smell.”
“Oh, but it does,” he said. “I knew your hair would be soft and warm in my hands.”
“That is because there is so much of it.” She faced him, feeling the strands of her hair glide through his fingers as she turned. “I’ve always wished I had hair as black and shiny as a raven’s feathers.”
A touch of devilment twinkled in his eyes. “Hair that color wouldn’t look good with your freckles.”
She smiled. “Well, since I’m wishing, I’ll go ahead and wish I didn’t have the freckles.”
He skimmed a finger across her nose and underneath her eye. “I’m glad you do. I like them. I like kissing them.”
His words made her heart soar. “Do you really?”
He nodded.
They were quiet for a moment. Sophia heard a morning dove cooing and the sounds in the distance of carriage wheels rolling over hard-packed ground. Still, all she could think was that if he didn’t kiss her soon, she’d have to kiss him.
“Did you want to come see me so we could talk about the May Day Fair Day on Saturday?”
“No. I have something for you, and I didn’t want anyone else to be present when I gave it to you.”
Sophia couldn’t imagine what he had for her, but she was certain that if her aunt June found out about it, she’d force her to return it. She watched him reach into his coat pocket and pull out a handkerchief. He picked up her hand.
