A Loyal Companion

by Barbara Metzger

  Hugh nodded toward his sister. “Right. We loaded the pistols. Have to admit m’hand wasn’t quite steady, all those old fa—fops watching. Then we marked off the paces. The baron and Darius took their places. Berke was all in black, once he buttoned his coat and turned up his collar. Darius stood in his shirt-sleeves. Some old court-card rattled out the call. They paced. They turned. And Darius shot the pistol right out of Berke’s hand before the baron even lowered his weapon to fire it!”

  Sonia clapped, and Her Grace let out her breath.

  “Right. Darius must have been practicing, the way he swiveled on that good leg of his. I’ve never seen the like. And his shot destroyed one of Manton’s prettiest sets. One’s no good for dueling, you know. Have to be a matched pair. Well, Berke started crying foul. No one listened, and they were his crowd, all congratulating the major on a deuced fine shot. So Berke screamed louder that Darius fired early. The old gent who was judge looked down his long nose at Berke and declared it a fair fight. Made the baron look a fool, with his hand getting all swollen and red from powder burn. He drove off in a snit.”

  “And then?”

  “Then cool as you please, the major and Robb whip some jugs out of the carriage and set ’em up for target shooting. Sure enough, the sheriff and the magistrate come not five minutes after Berke left. And what do they see? A bunch of gents taking practice. Nothing havey-cavey about that, though some of the shooters were a bit on the go. I won another bundle from the magistrate, betting on Darius. None of the others would take him on, naturally. Anyway, as soon as he could without giving offense, the major sent ’em all off to the Golden Hare, breakfast on him, while he and Robb drove off. I got to bring the curricle home.”

  “Will the baron be satisfied, do you think?”

  “He’ll never challenge Darius again, that’s for sure. And you can bet none of those other chaps will think to insult the major either, not after the exhibit he put on. My guess is they’ll laugh at Berke if he tries to stir up another mare’s nest.”

  “Honor was satisfied,” the dowager declared. “Berke knows better than to destroy his own credibility.”

  “Thank goodness,” Sonia said, pouring her brother another cup of coffee, then fussing with the sugar tongs. “And did the major, uh, say when he was coming back?”

  “No, but he told me to pass on that he’d call as soon as he returned.” Hugh grinned. “And he did ask for Papa’s direction. Thought he might stop off in Berkshire on the way. Too bad I had to tell him that the governor is halfway to Scotland. My last letter said Father expected to wait nine months for a grandson, and nine months it would be.”

  “That inconsiderate imbecile!” Her Grace’s displeasure rattled the teacups.

  “Darius?”

  “The major?”

  “No, you blitherers, Elvin Randolph! Disporting himself with a young bride when for once in his life he should be at home with his stinking sheep! Here’s a catch for his daughter, and he’ll let it slip through our fingers with his cavorting. Yes, cavorting like a cockerel!”

  Hugh grinned again. “Somehow I don’t think Sunny’s bird is going to fly the coop so fast.”

  “Nothing’s been said,” she protested, to which Lady Atterbury snorted. Sonia could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, but that only matched the glow in her heart. He was going to speak to Papa. Sooner or later. Then she recalled her grandmother’s words. “Does that mean you approve, Your Grace?”

  The dowager raised her lorgnette to her nose and stared at Sonia. “I have always liked the boy,” she lied. “It was his situation I deplored. Now he is on his way to being a respected member of society, a hero, an earl with at least fifty thousand a year. Have your wits gone begging, girl? Of course I approve.”

  *

  That afternoon a bouquet of flowers was delivered for Miss Sonia Randolph, eighteen yellow roses. The enclosed card read Yrs., Warebourne. Not very loverlike, but considering the interested audience of Lady Atterbury and her cronies, Blanche, and Hugh, Sonia silently thanked him for sparing her further blushes. She was especially grateful when they all felt the flowers and the card required some comment.

  “Very proper,” one of the old ladies decreed. Another added: “Just the right touch.”

  Lady Atterbury nodded. “The boy has class. I like that.”

  Blanche just said, “Very nice.” She was patently disappointed the major hadn’t made any protestations of undying love. So was Sonia, but she kept that to herself, along with the relevance of the yellow roses.

  Only Hugh voiced his discontent. “He signed it Warebourne. Sounds like he’s selling out.”

  “What did you think, you clunch?” Lady Atterbury asked. “He was going to fetch the children so he could take them with him to a war? Or did you suppose he was going to call on your father to buy some hounds so the officers could have a hunt in Portugal? No Harkness granddaughter is going to go following the drum, not while I live and breathe. You really are woolly-headed, Hugh Randolph. Your father should be proud.”

  “I wouldn’t mind traveling with the army, Grandmama,” Sonia said, thinking of Blanche and Hugh, and also that she didn’t want Darius to give up his career for her.

  “No one’s asked you, missy.”

  As a matter of fact, the thought occurred to Sonia—and to everyone else—that no one had asked her anything.

  *

  Human beings think too much.

  Chapter Twenty

  Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am. Of course you are! What did you suppose, you were the worst nightmare of a herd of beef cattle? Or did you rationalize that since a rock cannot think, a rock does not exist? Descartes should have stuck to mathematics!

  Sometimes men are all thought and no action. They dillydally when they should just do it! Now Darius found another impediment not to get on with what Tippy calls “a marriage of true minds.’’ He cannot find Miss Sonia’s father! That’s true mouse droppings! He thinks, therefore I am at a loss.

  What if the first bud of infatuation fades? What if it never blossoms, but withers on the vine? That happens. There has been no offer; there is no ring. Nothing to make crying off a major social disaster. For barking out loud, there is nothing to cry off from, except some sighs and longing looks. The pigeons who hang around Almack’s for the stale refreshments no one eats say there’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip. In Berkshire we say, don’t count your chickens until they hatch. What if all this comes to is an omelette? Those pigeons, the fattest I’ve ever seen, are full of stories of fickle females and rakish gentlemen who seem to fix their interest, then move on.

  And there is adultery, the ultimate in fickleness. Miss Sonia was raised better, but what of the major? I understand that couples often spend this infinity of indecision, then the year’s betrothal, go through with saying their vows before man, God, and the licensing bureaus—and break those same sacred vows as easily as eggs for breakfast. If Darius Conover thinks to throw Miss Sonia over, or be unfaithful to her later, better Berke had shot him, by Pluto!

  I can’t think. I’m too busy worrying.

  *

  A single yellow rose was delivered to Atterbury House at three in the afternoon for the next ten days. Sonia kept the roses in a vase beside her bed, then pressed them in her Bible. She kept the notes, which all read Yrs., Warebourne, in a drawer with her gloves and handkerchiefs. On the eleventh day, the rose was delivered late, not until dinner, and in a small gold filigree holder with a brooch back. All the previous flowers had been wrapped in tissue with a ribbon, all of which reposed in yet another drawer. The eleventh rose had no note, but was obviously to be worn, and tonight was Wednesday. Everyone knew what that meant.

  Sonia spent the next hour selecting a gown to wear to Almack’s. She finally settled on an ivory satin that had gold lace trimming at the hem and around the neckline. Sonia had never worn the gown, considering the décolletage too immodest for her taste. Madame Celeste had insisted the dress was much less risqu�
� than that worn by most debutantes, and that Mademoiselle had the figure for it. Bigelow agreed with Sonia that the deep vee was suggestive—“Muslin company”—and suggested Miss Randolph tuck a lace fichu into the neckline: “Some lights are better hidden under a bushel.” Sonia thought the filmy lace took away from the gown’s classic lines, so she never wore Celeste’s creation. Tonight the ivory satin was perfect, with the yellow rose nestled between her breasts. There was no lace fichu.

  Lady Atterbury bestirred herself to attend the Marriage Mart that evening, wearing her favorite purple taffeta, with diamonds on her chest and an egg-sized ruby in her turban. Hugh was commandeered as escort.

  “What, for stale bread and lemonade? Or the chicken stakes in the card room?”

  “Neither. You come to lend your sister countenance.”

  Hugh grinned. “She’d do better if you lent her a shawl.” He tempered his teasing with an affectionate hug, telling Sonia she was in prime twig.

  Darius was already in the King Street assembly rooms. He was at Sonia’s side before she greeted the hostesses, cutting through the horde of admirers clamoring around her. He signed her card for the opening cotillion and one other set, late in the evening. There was no chance to speak, with Monty Pimford reciting his latest masterpiece and Wolversham requesting a dance so he could explain Coke’s newest theory. Darius most likely could not have spoken anyway. He knew how impolite it was not to look a person in the face when addressing him, or her, but he couldn’t lift his eyes from Sonia’s soft, lush, velvety—rose, he told himself. Look at the rose. No, look at her eyes. He gave up and moved away before embarrassing himself completely.

  Sonia followed him with her gaze, as did many another female, both young and old. Darius had chosen to make his first invited entry into the bastion of the haut monde also his first appearance as the Earl of Warebourne. He wore the satin knee smalls that were de rigueur, and the black satin evening coat established as the mode for gentlemen. His waistcoat was white marcella with subtle gold thread embroidery, and his neckcloth was conservative, except for the yellow topaz and diamond stickpin. All in all, he was clothed befitting an earl, and his clothes fitted to perfection. His soldier’s build, all hard muscle and broad shoulder, was almost as noticeable in Weston’s handiwork as in one of Lord Elgin’s Grecian warrior-athletes. Sonia’s eyes hardly left him as she absentmindedly conversed with her other acquaintances.

  When the music finally started, Sally Jersey was reluctant to part with the most elegant, virile man at Almack’s that night. She had no choice. Before she could lay a dainty hand on his sleeve to restrain him, Lord Warebourne was gone.

  He bowed to Lady Atterbury, then held his hand out to Sonia, not trusting that his voice wouldn’t crack like a boy’s. Sonia was nearly as tongue-tied at his magnificence, wondering if such a handsome, sophisticated nobleman could possibly be interested in plain Miss Randolph, now that he had the world and its daughters to choose from. She was too practiced in the social graces, however, to stand mumchance fretting. She knew a lady was supposed to initiate conversation when silence threatened, so she thanked him for all the lovely roses.

  Darius swallowed. “I, ah, see you are wearing my token.” See? He could hardly look elsewhere or remember whether he was doing the Roger de Cleavage or the bosomlanger. Luckily the dance was a cotillion, so he did not have to change partners.

  Sonia smiled. “Of course I am wearing it. You sent it. But tell me, my lord, why eighteen that first day?”

  Now he looked directly into her bluebell eyes, which were at about the level of his chin. Just right. “You are eight and ten years old, your brother said. A rose for each precious year.”

  “I should have known you’d be even more smooth tongued as an earl, my lord,” Sonia replied with a dimpled grin, pleased beyond measure at his words.

  “What, are you about to start ‘my-lording’ me like everyone else? I won’t have it.”

  “Still giving orders?” she teased. “You shall have to decide which it’s to be, my lord earl or major, sir.”

  “Darius.”

  “Darius,” Sonia repeated, winning a warm smile. “Then I do not have to be stuffy Miss Randolph?”

  “I have never met anyone less stuffy. And I think you have been Sunny to me since I heard your brother say it. Even before, but I didn’t know the word. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not, silly.”

  “Of course not, Darius,” he corrected, just so he could see her dimples flash again. “But that’s only in private, you realize. For now.” At her raised eyebrows, he went on: “You do know I have tried to contact your father? I have sent letters to every inn your brother George mentioned, and half the great houses of Scotland. It appears your esteemed parent wishes to remain undisturbed on his wedding trip. Blast him!”

  Sonia giggled, delighted at his evident frustration.

  “Minx. Until I have word from your father, I intend to see that not one hint of impropriety touches your name. None of the old tabbies will utter the slightest meow of disapproval.”

  “But I do not care what they say. I’ve never been a prunes-and-prisms miss, you know.”

  “I know it well, and am thankful you’re not a pattern card of decorum, else you’d never have given me the time of day. And I never cared what they said about me either. Nevertheless, I find that now I care very much that no blame attaches itself to you from my attentions.”

  “What, not even one step over the line?” She looked down at the rose at her breast. His eyes followed, as she knew they would.

  Darius painfully dragged his gaze to her soft, smiling lips and even teeth, her little pink tongue. “Unprincipled baggage! Not even a smidgen of gossip, so don’t tempt me. By Jupiter, if I wasn’t determined to do this up proper, do you think I’d be satisfied with two miserly dances? Especially when I know every ramshackle rake in the place will be looking where he’s got no business. Let me warn you, my girl, I do not intend to be any complacent…”

  “Complacent what, my lord?”

  “Darius.” He bit his tongue. For once in his life he was going to do everything by the book, even if it killed him. If ever he needed to throw something… “Just understand that I would ask for every dance, if I could.”

  “And I would answer yes,” Sonia told him, without subterfuge or coy flirtatiousness. Which caused Darius to forget all of his resolutions and raise her hand to his lips, which caused them to miss a step, which caused the couple behind to bump into them, which— So much for resolutions.

  Everyone at Almack’s that night knew it was a match, even without Lady Atterbury’s not so carefully veiled remarks about Elvin Randolph’s unfortunate absence. By tacit consent, no one mentioned the old scandal, especially after Blanche let slip a clue or two about Hermione Berke and Preston Conare. Having heard Hugh’s suspicions, Blanche decided this was the best plot she’d come upon, surely too delicious not to share, particularly if it could smooth her friend’s path. Blanche took extra pleasure in mentioning to that haughty Lady Rosellen that no one held Darius Conover to blame. Rosellen ignored Blanche, but then she always did.

  Rosellen was too busy to listen to platter-faced chits and their empty prattle. Like many another lady there, she was trying to attract the man of the hour. Rosellen unobtrusively pulled at the already plunging neckline of her favorite red satin before moving to stand by Lady Atterbury’s chair when Darius brought the troublesome Miss Randolph back. The chit was supposed to be Ansel’s meal ticket. The dangerous new earl was supposed to be fair game to an enterprising female.

  “Ah, the prodigal son is returned,” Rosellen quipped when Warebourne bowed in her direction after Sonia tripped off with some green boy. “And they are serving up the fatted calf,” she suggested evilly.

  Darius merely raised his eyebrows.

  “Of course, some men don’t like sweet new wine with their meals,” Rosellen went on. “They prefer a riper vintage, tart and spicy.”

  “Some older wines tu
rn vinegary,” Darius commented.

  Watching from her place in the set, Sonia was making note to inform Lord Warebourne that she, Sonia Randolph, did not intend to be any complacent whatever either! Then she saw Rosellen scowl and stomp off. Darius winked at Sonia as if he felt her pique from across the room and was telling her there was no need for concern. She would have felt better if she’d heard what sent Rosellen off in an angry swirl of draperies: “And some men don’t care for mutton dressed as lamb.”

  Whoever at Almack’s did not know of the unofficial engagement was quickly apprised when Darius claimed Sonia’s hand for the first waltz. All of his nobler aims flew by the board when Sonia simply walked into his arms and said, “I’ve been waiting forever for this.” Darius recalled, a bit too late for his expressed objectives, that Miss Randolph did usually get her way.

  * * *

  There were other opportunities to dance in the next days, although never enough. They held hands in the shadows at the opera, stayed touching a moment more than necessary when Darius helped Sonia on with her cloak, or up to his curricle for a ride in the park. Where his instincts may have overridden his better intentions, Lady Atterbury’s resolve held firm.

  “One premature infant in the family is enough,” she commanded, rapping his fingers with her lorgnette after they’d lingered overlong on Sonia’s waist. Sonia laughed to see the stalwart hero reduced to blushing schoolboy, but she, too, started wishing that her father might grow a little homesick for his lands and dogs, if not his children and new grandson.

  The dowager was so intent on keeping decorum—and a good twelve inches—between Sonia and the earl that she exerted herself to attend many evening functions she’d previously considered too fatiguing. How tiring could it be to boast of her granddaughters, one already a marchioness, and finally breeding, the other soon to be a countess? Even rackety Hugh seemed to be headed in the right direction, which was wherever Lady Blanche and her title and acreage led him. Unfortunately the featherheaded chit was fixed on following the drum; Lady Almeria thanked her lucky stars she did not have the keeping of that hen-wit.