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

by Gail Ranstrom

  She stared up and down the street, hoping for some inspiration to strike her, but the only movement she could perceive was that of the lamp-lighter, who was making his laborious way up the street extinguishing all the lamps.

  A sudden tug on her skirt-hem caused her a moment or two’s anxiety until, peering down through the basement railings below her, she found herself looking into the begrimed and anxious face of Monks, the boot boy.

  ‘What are you—?’ she began, but stopped the moment she saw him press his fingers against his lips, in an effort to get her to still her tongue.

  ‘Mr ‘awkins sent me to get you an ‘ack, miss,’ the boy whispered hoarsely, while climbing up the steps and out into the street. ‘There’s usually a few of ‘em in the rank on the corner of Sloane Street—shan’t be a tick.’

  ‘But I can’t afford a cab,’ she cried softly, reaching out her hand to grab the boy before he took off. ‘I have barely enough money for my coach fare to Dulwich.’

  ‘Not to worry, miss,’ replied Monks with a wide grin, as he delved into one of his pockets and produced a shilling piece. ‘Mr ‘awkins thought o’ that, too. This’ll get you as far as the Piccadilly stage, ‘e said.’

  Hot tears flooded Sophie’s eyes as she watched the boot boy’s skinny figure tearing down the pavement towards Pont Street. In her role as a governess she had been neither fish nor fowl, insofar as her position in the hierarchy of the household had been concerned, and although she had always treated her fellow employees with the utmost respect, she had continued to feel something of an interloper whenever she had had cause to venture into the servants’ hall, as a consequence of which, she had elected to take her meals in the nursery wing, along with her two young pupils. So to discover that the butler had held her in such esteem that he was willing to go to these lengths on her behalf was almost unbelievable, and quite the most uplifting thing that had happened to her for some little while.

  Within minutes a hackney carriage rounded the corner of Lennox Gardens and, with the boot boy’s assistance, Sophie had little difficulty in stowing her belongings into the cab’s luggage basket. When the time came for her to take her seat, however, her heart was so full that it was as much as she could do to stop herself from flinging her arms around the beaming youngster and kissing his grimy cheek.

  ‘Oh, ‘ang on a minute!’ said the boy, grasping hold of the handle and pulling open the door again. ‘Nearly forgot—Cook sent you this.’ And, thrusting his hand into another of his pockets, he withdrew a neatly wrapped package. ‘Thought you might get peckish on the journey,’ he added. ‘Seein’ as ‘ow you ain’t ‘ad any breakfast.’ And then, after bestowing another of his cheery grins on her, he turned tail and scampered back down the basement steps, soon to disappear from her sight.

  Brushing away her tears, Sophie leaned back against the squabs and closed her eyes, thinking how very sad it was to have learned of the kind-heartedness of her fellow employees at this late stage of their association. She prayed that their actions would remain undiscovered, for she was left with no illusions as to the way in which the vindictive Mrs Crayford’s mind worked.

  The fare, on her arrival at the Piccadilly coaching station, was exactly one shilling, just as the butler had predicted, and having found himself strangely moved to witness his passenger’s distress on departing from her abode, the elderly jarvey even hauled himself down from his box and helped Sophie carry her baggage into the station’s left luggage department, accepting her grateful thanks but brushing away her offer of the single groat that she had found in her pocket.

  ‘You keep it, miss,’ he said gruffly. ‘Buy yourself a nice ‘ot drink to steady them nerves.’

  After thanking the driver once again, Sophie turned her attention towards the booking office. Having tied her four half-crowns carefully into a handkerchief, for she had no intention of being deprived of her wealth on this occasion, she had kept the handkerchief tucked safely inside her glove. The six mile journey from the staging post in Dulwich had cost three shillings when she had set out to take up her employment at the Crayfords’ some months earlier, and she could only pray that the fares had not increased in that time. The baggage clerk had already informed her, on handing her a ticket, that it would cost her sixpence to retrieve her possessions, and she did so want to be able to hand over to her mother as much of what was left of her sadly depleted store as she possibly could.

  She had just booked her seat on the midday coach—at an increased cost of three shillings and ninepence, to her dismay—when she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder and, swinging round, found herself staring up into the apologetic face of the hackney driver.

  ‘Nearly left one of your parcels behind, miss,’ he said ruefully. ‘Found it right at the bottom of the basket when I was about to load up another fare. I oughter’ve checked more careful, like. Very sorry, miss.’

  Eying the package as he passed it over to her, Sophie felt her heart give a little jerk, for it was none other than the atlas that Helstone had procured on her behalf and which she had rewrapped with the intention of returning it to him.

  ‘No harm done,’ she assured the jarvey, and thanked him again for his diligence, conscious that many another driver would simply have kept the package and sold its contents for personal gain. ‘It was very good of you to go to the trouble of returning it.’

  ‘No trouble, miss—I hadn’t left the yard.’

  And, tipping his hat at her, he backed away and disappeared into the thronging mêlée.

  Sophie stared down at the parcel in dismay. Short of paying for another left luggage ticket, which she could ill afford, she was going to have to carry the hefty package around with her until the midday coach departed—some six hours hence! She had originally intended to while away the intervening hours by walking in Green Park, and possibly visiting one or other of Piccadilly’s circulating libraries, where it was possible to sit and read newspapers and periodicals without fear of interruption. But having to carry so large a parcel about with her was going to hamper her freedom quite considerably. She frowned. The dratted book had caused her nothing but problems from the outset! She had a good mind to—

  She clapped her fingers against her lips, her eyes lighting up with excitement. But of course! The answer was staring her in the face. She would take the atlas back to Broomfield’s shop and persuade the bookseller to buy it back from her! Helstone had admitted paying ten shillings for it, so Broomfield would surely be prepared to part with seven or eight! The walk to Maddox Alley would help to kill time, and she could eat the breakfast that Cook had so kindly prepared for her in Berkeley Square gardens. The sun had come up, heralding what looked set to turn into a fine warm day. With a determined smile, she straightened her shoulders and, tucking the parcel firmly under her arm, set out in the direction of Broomfield’s store.

  ‘I’d soon be out of business if I was to buy back every book I sold, young lady,’ argued the bookseller, as he thrust the atlas back at her.

  ‘But I’m not asking you to pay back the full amount,’ protested Sophie, in desperation. ‘Even half would do, and you would still make a handsome profit when you next sell it.’

  ‘The way things are going, I could be out of business in a week,’ returned the man morosely. ‘What with constables trashing their way though all my goods yesterday, and then marching young Fisher off in irons, leaving me with a great pile of unfinished invoices to sort out, I doubt I’ll ever find the time to sell another book.’

  ‘Your clerk has been arrested?’ cried Sophie, clutching wildly at a possible solution to her problems. ‘I can see that that must make things very difficult for you. You are clearly in need of some help.’

  ‘Not easy to get hold of anyone suitable round here,’ sighed Broomfield, seeming almost glad to have found someone to whom he could express his grievances. ‘Only took the lad on on account of being acquainted with his widowed mother, and now I’m told that both he and his brother have been mixed up in some plot to d
o away with some high-flown peer of the realm—wouldn’t tell me which one, of course, and what it’s all got to do with my bookshop, I can’t begin to imagine.’

  ‘I can see that it must be very difficult for you,’ said Sophie, giving him a sympathetic nod. ‘As it happens,’ she then added, being careful to exhibit just the right amount of diffidence, ‘I am well versed in the intricacies of double-entry book-keeping—as a qualified schoolmistress …’ Crossing her fingers behind her back, she drew in a deep breath and went on, ‘I dare say I could probably stay and help you out for an hour or two, if that would be of any use to you?’

  ‘You mean that you would be willing to sort out those bills for me?’ asked Broomfield in amazement, jerking his head towards the huge pile of paperwork that could be seen on the desk in the rear office. ‘I’ve been at it myself half the night, but my eyesight’s not what it used to be, and what with customers interrupting—’ He stopped, somewhat embarrassed, then endeavoured to hide his confusion by pulling off his spectacles and rubbing them briskly with the hem of his none too clean apron.

  ‘I can stay until half-past eleven,’ stated Sophie firmly, as she started to remove her pelisse. ‘I must be at the coaching station by twelve, in order to catch the stage, and—’ Pausing, she drew in a deep breath. ‘You must pay me for my time, of course—I shall require ten shillings.’

  ‘Ten shillings?’ returned the bookseller at once. ‘That’s a great deal of money just to write out a few paltry invoices.’

  Sophie raised an eyebrow. ‘You would prefer to attend to them yourself?’ she enquired sweetly. ‘And by my estimation there are close in the region of fifty or sixty—scarcely a few.’ Reaching out a hand for her discarded pelisse, she eyed him sternly. ‘Ten shillings, Mr Broomfield, and in addition you may keep the atlas. Otherwise …’

  ‘All the invoices?’ he asked, his bleared eyes darting back to the pile. ‘Every single one.’

  ‘Every one—providing that I can make a start on them right away.’

  ‘Ten shillings it is, then,’ he said, backing out of the room. ‘I’ll leave you to get on with it, shall I?’

  ‘Let me know when it’s half-past eleven,’ she called out to him, as he quietly closed the door.

  Sixty-three invoices later, Sophie at last laid down her pen and, climbing down from the high stool on which she had been perched for the past four hours, pressed her hands into the small of her back to relieve the dull ache and stretched her shoulders. It had been touch and go, for there had been a good many inconsistencies in Mr Broomfield’s figures and she had actually run out of ink at one point, necessitating a hurried call to the bookseller to replenish her pot. Since he had been serving a customer at the time, she had been obliged to waste several precious minutes until he could attend to her request. Now the job was done, however, and she was ten shillings to the good, making all her scrupulously checked figuring well worth her while.

  ‘It’s just on a quarter past the hour,’ Broomfield pointed out, when she re-entered the shop. ‘You’ll find your ten shillings next to the cash box.’ He eyed her enquiringly. ‘You wouldn’t care to take on the position full-time, I suppose?’

  Sophie stared at him, considering. Might his offer be more preferable to going back home to be a burden on her mother’s slim resources? she wondered. But then, realising that to accept the position would mean having to take lodgings somewhere in the nearby vicinity, she gave a reluctant shake of her head. The chances of running into Helstone in this area were far too great and a prospect to be avoided at all costs.

  The previous evening’s ugly confrontation, coupled with its disastrous consequences, had taught Sophie a valuable, if heartrendingly painful lesson, making it vital that she put as much distance as was possible between herself and the Viscount. She could hardly help but be aware of the fact that it was due entirely to his continual interference in her life that the whole compass of her existence had turned completely upside down. Having dissembled his way into the Crayfords’ favour, with his disarming self-assurance and thoroughly irresistible smile, Helstone had then carelessly, but quite determinedly, set out to seduce her—very nearly achieving his aim with that unforgettable kiss; a kiss that had unlocked a wild and passionate facet to her nature, the like of which she had not realised lurked deep within her being. Her shock and dismay at being confronted with her own apparent inability to resist the Viscount’s highly intoxicating charms had been the real reason for her sudden rage, followed by a primeval urge to unleash her fury on the root cause of her distress.

  But then, as she bade the disappointed bookseller farewell and set out for her journey back to the Piccadilly change to board the stage to Dulwich, it was with doleful realisation that it came to her that, despite everything that had happened, that same unanswerable question still continued to niggle at her thoughts. What might have been the outcome had she agreed to Helstone’s proposition?

  Mentally admonishing herself for her wayward thoughts, she did her best to dismiss the Viscount from her mind altogether and endeavoured to concentrate her efforts on trying to conjure up some sort of acceptable explanation for her mother, since the whole unvarnished truth behind her sudden dismissal from the Crayfords was not a matter that Sophie was keen to share with her estimable parent.

  In the event, Mrs Pendleton-Flint was so dismayed at learning of Sophie’s constant battle to keep the son of the house at bay during her short tenure with the Crayfords that she could only express her gladness that her daughter had managed to escape the residence with her virtue still intact. Sophie, however, was honest enough to admit to herself that it was not the oleaginous Arthur Crayford who had posed the greatest threat in that particular regard, but the rakish Marcus Wolfe, with his teasing smile and that breathtakingly challenging glint in his eye, the poignant memory of which was to prove the cause of many a damp pillowcase during the long and sleepless nights that followed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The reins hanging limply in his hands, Marcus peered abstractedly into the cloudy night-time gloom that surrounded the carriage. From the distressed sound of his horses’ breathing, it would seem that he had run the poor beasts into the ground—an action for which he felt bitterly ashamed—in addition to which, he had not the faintest idea of where he had finally pitched up.

  Having set off out of Lennox Gardens with no clear idea of where he was heading, the red mist of anger that filled his head had obscured everything but the need to remove himself from the hurtful echo of Sophie’s bitter accusations. The toll-gates at Hyde Park corner and Kensington Gore figured vaguely in his memory, as did passing the gates of Chiswick House, but beyond these easily recognisable landmarks his mind was a total blank. That he had travelled some goodly distance at speed was only too apparent from the foam-flecked hides of the two wheelers who were now pawing at the ground in restive agitation.

  Cursing himself for an insensitive fool, Marcus grabbed the handful of cloths that Hobbes kept tucked behind the driver’s seat and, lowering himself carefully down from his perch, inched his way through the gloom to examine the leaders. Murmuring soothing words of comfort as he worked, he wiped away the excess of sweat from the animals’ drenched coats, covering their shuddering backs as best he could with an assortment of rugs and other articles that he found in the box.

  Raking his fingers through his hair, he peered around him. From the narrowness of the lane that they were on it was clear that he must have turned off the turnpike at some point, but where, and—more to the point, perhaps—why?

  Casting his mind back, he did have an indistinct recollection of slackening the reins and letting the leaders have their heads, but where in God’s name had the beasts taken him? With only the dim and gradually diminishing light thrown out by the carriage’s twin oil lamps to light his path, Marcus inched his way slowly up the lane in the hopes of coming across a gate or other such feature of the landscape that might point him in the direction of a dwelling-place of some description.


  Just at that moment the scudding clouds chasing across the night sky parted momentarily, to allow the full moon to shine down on the scene in all her glory, causing Marcus to blink several times before he could believe the evidence of his eyes. But, even as he threw back his head to let out a whoop of sheer disbelief the moon disappeared to obscure his view once more. Not that the Viscount needed any such light to guide him through the gates of Bradfield, which, as had been clearly revealed in that single instance, lay scarcely twenty yards distant from the very spot on which he was now standing! The clever beasts had brought him back to his ancestral home!

  Shaking his head in wonder at the extraordinary ingenuity of these four-legged marvels, he took hold of the leader’s harness and set out to guide the exhausted animals up the lane towards the wrought iron gates that opened on to the Bradfield estate. A single pull of the bell brought the elderly lodge keeper, his nightshirt flapping beneath a hastily donned drab woollen overcoat, tottering out of the front door of the lodge.

  ‘Very sorry, your lordship,’ gasped the man, as he drew back the bolts and began to pull open the gates. ‘Wasn’t warned to expect you.’

  ‘Sorry to get you up, Cutler,’ returned Marcus, adding his weight to the older man’s efforts. ‘Didn’t know I’d be here myself until a short while ago.’ And that’s something of an understatement, if ever there was one, he thought to himself, with an inward grimace. ‘You get yourself back to your bed—I can shoot the bolts myself as soon as I’ve got the carriage through.’

  ‘If you’re sure, sir?’

  At the Viscount’s insistent nod, the lodge keeper, clutching his coat about his bony frame, hobbled back to his door, where he stood for some moments watching in total confusion as the heir to the earldom led in the clearly shattered four-horse team along with their carriage but minus both driver and groom.