Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B)

by Gail Ranstrom

  Whilst it cost her a great deal to make this pronouncement, Sophie was convinced that it was the right and proper thing to do. She already had an inkling that the Viscount had accepted the fact that she was never going to agree to become his mistress, and, that being so, there could be no further need for him to remain in touch with her. She would go her way and he, no doubt, would continue to go his. He would never know the true extent of her feelings for him and she would have to learn to live with the knowledge of what she might have had, had she been a little more courageous or even a little less prideful, perhaps!

  ‘That might prove a little difficult,’ replied Marcus, in response to her ultimatum. ‘I have already accepted an invitation to attend this function that the Crayfords are holding on Tuesday evening. I feel that it would be rather discourteous of me to default at this stage.’ Not that he really gave a tinker’s cuss as to what the Crayfords might think or feel about his failure to attend their pathetic little soiree, but, even though his carefully laid plans had failed to tempt Sophie away from her chosen path of virtue, the Viscount still had every intention of finding some way of persuading her employers to treat their governess with a little more respect than hitherto.

  Unable to think up an adequate reason as to why Helstone should not fulfil his commitment, Sophie remained silent, although her thoughts were chaotic. The Viscount’s having agreed to put in an appearance at the Crayfords’ rout would mean that she too would be obliged to attend the hastily arranged function, occasioning even more time in his company—a situation that she was desperately keen to avoid, well aware that every minute spent in such close proximity with him took her yet another step closer to her eventual undoing.

  As the carriage swung sharply around a bend in the road, she could feel the warmth of Helstone’s disturbingly muscular thigh pressing hard against hers, causing a hot spiral of longing to course throughout her entire body. Desperately trying to edge herself away from his enticing nearness, Sophie racked her brains for some topic of conversation that might help take her mind off the all too alluring images that her thoughts were presently conjuring up.

  ‘You don’t happen to know what your brother did with my bill of sale, I suppose?’ she asked.

  ‘He used it to help him solve some puzzle or other,’ replied Marcus off-handedly, achingly aware of her presence next to him. Sophie’s vain attempts to put more space between them had not passed him by, but had merely served to underline what he could only suppose was her growing antipathy towards him. Despite this rather dispiriting conclusion, however, he still had every intention of carrying out the task he had set himself. By the time he had finished with the Crayfords, he vowed, they would be blessing the day that Sophie had chosen to cross their threshold. With a surfeit of friends and acquaintances who owed him enough favours to serve his purpose, he intended to call in those favours by way of obliging several highborn members of the Ton to show their faces at some of the ghastly-sounding functions that the socially inept Mrs Crayford had spoken of in their earlier conversation. That should ensure that her indomitable governess slept safe in her bed at nights, if nothing else, he thought to himself in satisfaction.

  ‘Puzzle?’ ventured Sophie, breaking into his reverie.

  ‘Apparently, the thing was in code,’ he replied, hastily returning his attention to the subject in hand. ‘Seems there’s some sort of a plot afoot to do away with the Duke of Wellington, and your invoice unravelled the mystery as to the gang’s next meeting place.’

  ‘But that’s appalling!’ she cried, turning towards him, her fists clenched and her clear blue eyes alight with anger. ‘His Grace is a national hero! Why, only a few months ago the crowds were pelting his carriage with flowers as he drove down Pall Mall. My father thought him the greatest general our country has ever known. Why would anyone wish to harm him now, after all he has done?’

  Unwilling to share his brother’s concerns regarding the growing unrest in the country, Marcus thought it best to change the subject.

  ‘Probably just a few crack pots trying to stir up trouble,’ he said, doing his best to adopt his normal blasé manner. ‘I should put it out of my mind, if I were you. I’m sure that my brother has it all in hand, thanks to that invoice of yours.’

  Sophie was silent for a moment or two, apparently digesting this advice, but then, turning to face him once more, she said, ‘But surely your brother cannot suspect that decrepit old bookseller of being involved in such a plot?’

  ‘Probably not,’ conceded the Viscount, who was now devoting the majority of his attention to negotiating the sharp turn out of Sloane Street into Lennox Gardens. Having brought his carriage neatly to a halt outside the Crayford residence, he then looked across at her to add, somewhat mischievously, ‘But I’m bound to say that clerk of his looked decidedly shifty when I went into the back office to have your atlas wrapped.’

  ‘Your atlas, you mean!’ she retaliated at once, just as he had known that she would. ‘My atlas is still in the shop!’

  ‘As you please,’ he replied, giving her another of his lop-sided grins, before leaping down from his seat and skirting around the vehicle in order to be ready to offer her his assistance.

  But instead of holding out his hand, as she had expected, the Viscount reached forward and, placing both hands firmly at her waist, swung her out of her seat to deposit her neatly on to the pavement.

  Thoroughly taken aback by his unanticipated manoeuvre, Sophie stood in breathless bewilderment as she waited for Helstone to release his hold on her. When he did not immediately do so, however, her eyes flew up to his face, questioningly.

  Helstone’s expression, she discovered, was quite incomprehensible; his eyes, as they looked searchingly into hers, seemed to bore deep down into her very soul, setting up such a violent trembling within her that, had his hands not still been at her waist, she would have sworn that her knees were ready to give way beneath her. Her mind in complete disarray, she had almost convinced herself that the Viscount was about to kiss her…out here in the street…in full view of anyone who might be watching…when, with a sudden start, he blinked and, hurriedly releasing his hold, stepped away from her, a perplexed frown on his forehead.

  Then, just as if the incident had never taken place, he drew in a deep breath, offered the thoroughly shaken Sophie his arm and escorted her up the short flight of steps that led to the Crayfords’ front door.

  Any thoughts that she might have had regarding his strange behaviour were wiped completely from her mind by the fact that, even before the Viscount had reached out his hand to raise the knocker, the front door was opened by none other than Mrs Crayford herself, albeit that the highly indignant features of Hawkins the butler could be seen at his mistress’s elbow.

  ‘Ah, there you are, your lordship,’ gushed Mrs Crayford, as she hurriedly reversed to allow the pair to enter the hallway. ‘We were beginning to fear that you had met with some dreadful accident. How very naughty of Miss Flint to have kept you out for so long—you must be quite exhausted. You will come in and take a little refreshment, I trust?’

  ‘It is exceedingly kind of you to offer,’ returned Marcus, affecting an extravagant bow in order to hide his expression of utter disgust. ‘However, Miss Flint and I have already dined and, as to our being late, I was unaware that any particular time of arrival had been specified. I was under the impression that my cousin’s Sunday afternoons were hers to do with as she pleases.’

  ‘Why, yes, of course,’ replied the now highly flustered matron, braving the steely glint in the Viscount’s eye to add, with a slight hint of defiance, ‘After the children have attended the morning church service, Miss Flint’s time is her own.’

  ‘As I surmised,’ observed the Viscount smoothly. ‘My sister, the Duchess of Marchmont, practises a very similar arrangement with her children’s governess.’

  Marcus’s casual reference to one of Society’s most admired hostesses at once claimed Mrs Crayford’s entire attention, as had been h
is intention. That he had then gone on to liken her domestic arrangements to those of the illustrious Duchess was almost enough to deprive the coarse vulgarian of her power of speech.

  ‘One tries to be fair,’ she eventually managed, vigorously fanning her reddening cheeks with her handkerchief, while Sophie did her best to control the expression of sheer disbelief that threatened.

  In point of fact, not a single Sunday afternoon had passed since Sophie’s arrival without Mrs Crayford having plied her with some secretarial chore or other. At the very start of her employment Sophie had been far too grateful to have been accepted for the position to even consider putting up any sort of resistance to this continual encroachment into what was meant to be her free time, as a result of which her employer now seemed to take it for granted that her children’s governess would be prepared to make herself available to her as and whenever her services were called upon. Especially since Sophie’s non-complaining lack of resistance obviated the need for Mrs Crayford to employ a secretary, thereby allowing her employer to put the generous quarterage that she received from her husband to cover the household expenses to what she considered far better use—namely, her own self-adornment.

  Having done his best to raise Sophie’s stock a little higher, Marcus made ready to leave. Executing another elegant bow in Mrs Crayford’s direction, he turned to bid farewell to Sophie, but just as he did so his eyes chanced to fall on the footman who was waiting to open the door. Recognising him at once as the fellow who had delivered Sophie’s message to him the previous evening, the Viscount was again beset by the feeling that he had come across the man before, in some other capacity.

  ‘What’s that chap’s name?’ he murmured under his breath, as he lifted Sophie’s hand to brush his lips across the tips of her fingers. ‘I keep getting the feeling that I know him from somewhere.’

  Although she was quite startled at being questioned in such a covert manner, Sophie strove to maintain an impassive mien. Dipping his lordship a quick curtsey, she mouthed the word ‘Fisher’ at him, before straightening up and offering him her grateful thanks for ‘a most delightful afternoon’.

  ‘My pleasure entirely, dear coz,’ he said, as he stepped away from her. ‘We must endeavour to repeat the experience in the very near future.’

  Ignoring her reproachful frown, he tossed another brief nod at her employer before turning smartly on his heel and striding towards the front door, still racking his brains as to why the footman’s features should seem so familiar to him.

  Before he was halfway out of the door, however, Mrs Crayford, suddenly galvanised into action, dashed across the hallway and grasped at his arm.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten our little soiree on Tuesday evening, have you, my lord?’ she gasped anxiously.

  Steeling himself not to rip her clutching fingers from his coat-sleeve, the Viscount forced a smile to his lips, saying, ‘I shall be here, ma’am—you have my word.’

  Then, without further ado, he ran lightly down the steps, hoisted himself up into his driving seat and, after signalling Kimble to let go the horses’ heads, flicked the reins and headed towards his Grosvenor Square establishment.

  Having come to the conclusion that there was little point in bemoaning the afternoon’s lack of success in the seduction stakes, he set his mind to concentrating on the recurring puzzle that the footman’s appearance had set him.

  A pasty-looking, sharp-featured individual…eyes set too close together…distinctively pointed nose.

  His unanticipated jerk of the reins had Kimble almost out of his seat as the two grey thoroughbreds skidded to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Have a heart, guv!’ protested the tiger, ruefully massaging his bruised knee. ‘Nearly had me under that there coal wagon.’

  ‘Teach you not to fall asleep on the job,’ retorted Marcus. ‘Hop down and help me head ‘em back up towards Bond Street.’

  ‘Thought we was going home,’ muttered the aggrieved Kimble, reluctantly doing as he had been bidden. ‘Took me eyes off the road for the barest mo, only to find meself hanging on to me perch for dear life—a bit of notice wouldn’t have gone amiss!’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ returned the Viscount, shooting his groom an unrepentant grin as the man wheeled the greys around until the entire equipage faced in the opposite direction. ‘I give you leave to drown your sorrows in the King’s Arms—I find I need to have an urgent word with the Major.’

  Having been unable to fathom Helstone’s untoward interest in the Crayfords’ footman, Sophie found herself casting the manservant a surreptitious glance—only to find Fisher regarding her in an equally disquieting manner. Hurriedly dropping her eyes, she made for the stairs, but was immediately forestalled by Mrs Crayford’s sharp insistence that she should join the family in the drawing room.

  ‘For I’m sure we are all agog to hear how the pair of you spent your afternoon. And fancy his lordship choosing to take you out to dine—you simply must come along and tell us all about it.’

  Groaning inwardly, since she was not at all disposed to sharing a single minute of her enchanting afternoon with her invidiously prying employer, Sophie made up her mind to ignore the implicit command.

  ‘Thank you, but since I still have tomorrow’s lessons to prepare I really ought to get on,’ she said, lifting her foot in readiness to mount the stairs.

  Unfortunately, Mrs Crayford refused to be denied.

  ‘Oh, but that can wait a few more minutes, I am sure,’ she said, waving a dismissive hand. ‘Mr Crayford and myself are really most eager to hear about your trip.’

  Very much doubting that Mrs Crayford’s elderly, timorous spouse was in the least bit interested in the comings and goings of his children’s governess, Sophie curbed the facetious retort that hovered on the tip of her tongue and then, conscious that her employer had left her with very little option but to comply with her demands, felt obliged to concede.

  ‘As you wish,’ she replied dispiritedly. ‘But, I daresay you will excuse me for a moment or two while I take my things to my room and tidy my hair.’

  ‘Well, if you really must,’ pouted Mrs Crayford, eying with disfavour the prim grey gown Sophie had insisted upon wearing, despite her mistress’s very clear objections to the contrary. ‘And, while you’re at it, you might care to change into one of those very pretty gowns that Lydia was so kind as to pass on to you—I really cannot understand why you felt it necessary to accompany his lordship in your workaday clothes when you have so many other lovely dresses to choose from!’

  Her lips clamped firmly together, in order to prevent the inadvertent emission of some choice but highly unladylike profanity regarding the loveliness or otherwise of the aforementioned offerings, Sophie sensibly demurred from making any reply and, her whole body seething with tightly suppressed fury, proceeded to climb the three flights of stairs that led up to her attic bedroom. On reaching the second floor, however, she was startled to find herself waylaid by none other than the footman, Fisher, who emerged from the entrance to the servants’ stairway just as she was about to pass.

  ‘A word, Miss Flint, if you please,’ he hissed, his sharp eyes darting anxiously hither and thither in order to satisfy himself that his clandestine apprehension of the governess had remained unobserved.

  Unfortunately, Sophie’s recent unsatisfactory encounter with Mrs Crayford had left her in no mood to deal with what she considered to be an overly theatrical performance on the part of the footman. ‘I’m sorry, Fisher,’ she said, as she skirted past him and continued on her way. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have time to stop and chat with you just at the moment. The Crayfords are waiting for me.’

  ‘But I have something …’ he began, digging his hand into his pocket and withdrawing a tightly folded piece of paper. ‘There was a mistake in the direction …’

  Suddenly alert, Sophie came to a halt and, spinning on her heel, she stared down at the servant in wide-eyed incredulity.

  ‘You have my invoice?’ she cried, sta
rting back down the stairs and holding out her hand.

  But instead of handing her the missive, as she had expected, Fisher thrust his hand behind him. ‘You’ll get it back as soon as you return the one that was intended for me,’ he grunted.

  ‘But I don’t—’ began Sophie, but then, having suddenly realised that the orchestrator of all the ills that had befallen her over the past two days was standing here in front of her, did a swift rethink and went on, considering her words with a good deal more care. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t have it on me at the moment—I will bring it down to the servants’ hall later. Now, I really must get on before I incur Mrs Crayford’s wrath.’

  With that, she turned on her heel once more and ran up the remaining stairs to the upper floor, reasonably confident that, since both the purse-snatching and the ransacking of her room could now clearly be laid at Fisher’s door, the manservant might well think twice before attempting to follow her up onto the attic floor.

  Not so. He stared up at her for only the briefest moment, before an uncouth grin spread slowly across his face and he started to climb the stairs after her—only to be suddenly halted in his tracks as the sound of a nearby door opening echoed down the passageway.

  ‘Ah, Fisher—just the man.’

  Never in her whole life could Sophie have imagined that she would actually be glad to see the loathsome son of the house hove into view. Fisher, muttering a crude imprecation, hastily regained his former position on the landing and quickly bent down, in order to give the approaching Crayford junior the impression that he had merely paused to tie up his bootlace.

  ‘‘Fraid I’ve just kicked over my chamber pot—made a bit of a mess—get someone to see to it, there’s a good chap,’ called Crayford over his shoulder, as he unconcernedly continued on his way along the corridor and down the stairs.