by Jo Beverley
Sophie flounced to the door. “I know well what you’re doing, brother mine. Attack is the best form of defense, but one day you’ll realize I was right.”
Lord Wraybourne was left to shake his head at the slammed door. It would be restful when Sophie moved into the house of their cousin Maria, Lady Harroving, who was bringing her out. But he wondered whether she had not become a little too lively in her manners in recent years. She had lived in Bath with his mother, who had removed there on the death of the ninth earl two years ago. But his mother, in her grief, had become a recluse. He feared she had not watched over her daughter as well as she might.
He compared Sophie with Jane Sandiford to the latter’s advantage. Jane was the most composed young woman he had ever met. She was never impetuous, her voice was always well-modulated, and her words considered. She exhibited no extreme emotions. She would be a restful and congenial companion.
He smiled slightly as he thought that Miss Sandiford might prove to be more. There were dozens of well-bred eligibles around but none had intrigued him like Jane, with her lush figure beneath schoolgirl gowns and the quickly veiled flashes of humor and passion which would light her serious eyes.
He put these tantalizing thoughts away and returned to the problem of his sister. Heaven help the man who married Sophie. But he did know that man would be socially acceptable, at least. Sophie had high standards. He had hopes his friend Lord Trenholme would come up to scratch and be accepted, for he would be able to control her and he was a kind, intelligent man. But there was nothing to be done until the Season started.
Thankful for tranquillity, Lord Wraybourne settled back to his newssheet. But he had merely glanced at the editorial when his peace was invaded again, this time by his uncle Henry. Mr. Moulton-Scrope was a dignified man with a tidy estate in Berkshire and a position in the Home Office. He also had his own fine home in London but no one would have suspected it from the way he commanded the butler, Harper, to bring him some ale and beef.
“Excuse me calling so informally, David. I need to speak to you and I’m tied up all day. Thought I’d breakfast here.” Mr. Moulton-Scrope flipped up the tails of his coat and settled his ample form into a chair as the butler laid a place.
“Should eat a good old-fashioned breakfast, David,” he announced, and launched into his favorite subject: how the ridiculous eating habits of the younger generation were going to ruin the country.
“How can we raise a nation of fighting men on little morsels of fancied-up food?” he demanded, cutting into the excellent rare beef which Harper had brought up from the kitchen especially, his lordship having no taste for it at breakfast. “Look at you. A strip of wind!”
Even as he spoke, Mr. Moulton-Scrope knew his description was unfair. It was true Lord Wraybourne was not of a large build but his was the slenderness and grace of muscles, not frailty. Mr. Moulton-Scrope had seen him fence, his favorite sport, and knew him to be a formidable opponent.
Lord Wraybourne was too wise to be drawn into an old debate. “What can I do for you, Uncle? I have my secretary and my estate manager from Stenby waiting.”
“I need your help with a little problem, David.”
Lord Wraybourne was surprised. In the tight circle of Society he and his uncle encountered one another frequently but they could not be called close. Mr. Moulton-Scrope was deeply involved with the political machinations of the day and took his post at the Home Office with great seriousness. Neither David’s duties as a landowner nor his social life meshed with his uncle’s tastes at all.
“If I can help you, Uncle, I am yours to command.”
“Excellent,” replied the older man with disquieting satisfaction. Lord Wraybourne wondered if he would have been wiser to have been noncommittal.
But Mr. Moulton-Scrope pressed on. “There’s someone loose on the town attacking young women. Young ladies I should say, I suppose. Overwhelms ’em, takes ’em somewhere, has his way, and dumps ’em. Nasty business.”
“Very! How is it I have heard nothing of it?”
“Well, it isn’t a matter the families would want in the broadsheets. In fact, I suspect there may be more victims than the three we know of. It’s only because of contacts with the families and rumors that those are known. And all in confidence.”
“Are you saying these are women of our class?” Lord Wraybourne was astonished.
Mr. Moulton-Scrope shook his head. “No, no. Our young gels don’t go about unescorted. No, these are more of the middling class. They do an occasional errand alone. In fact, one victim is a music teacher and goes about her appointments every day. But still ladies. They do not deserve to be so attacked.”
“I doubt any woman does, not even those who offer themselves for money. But forgive me, Uncle. I do not see how this can affect me.”
Mr. Moulton-Scrope watched his nephew withdraw himself while remaining quite pleasant on the surface. It was a nasty habit. It must be the way his lids shielded those deceptively lazy eyes. It was because he knew Lord Wraybourne was never lazy and had a powerful and perceptive brain that he was seeking his aid.
“You did say you would help,” he reminded.
His nephew sighed. “I knew I would regret that.”
“The two previous victims of which we have knowledge were attacked before Christmas. We thought we’d seen the last of it but now there’s another. And the devil of it is, the latest victim is the daughter of one of Prinny’s favorite musicians. Believe me, royalty do not like to think of violent assault in any way connected to them. Orders have come down that the miscreant must be found.”
“What of Fielding’s Runners? Is this not their kind of work?”
“Hah. They are thief catchers! This is too delicate a business. For the sake of the young ladies there must be no talk.”
“Then what will be done if the man is caught? A trial will reveal all.”
A disconcerting hardness was seen in the older man’s eyes. “The letter of the law is not always the way to spell justice.”
“You alarm me, Uncle.”
“Nothing ever alarms you. You’re a damned cool fish, David, but you’re one of the cleverest men I know. You also like to mix with the artist set. Your mother is always complaining you’d rather spend time with a bunch of philosophers than searching for a bride.”
“Quite true.”
Mr. Moulton-Scrope was distracted for a moment. “Should apply yourself, my boy. Past thirty. Need to set up your nursery. Besides, it might get Selina from drooping around Bath mourning your father. It’s been two years.”
Lord Wraybourne took up Sophie’s paper and pointed to the social notices with one long, perfectly manicured finger.
His uncle choked. “The Sandiford heiress. Well done, my boy. Well done indeed! I didn’t know she was on the Town.”
“She’s not. I met her in Gloucestershire.”
“Do the Sandifords entertain then? I thought it was against their principles or something. I met them once at a devilish dull do. Something to do with succoring ex-slaves. Couldn’t help feeling that if I was a blackie I’d think twice before accepting succor from such as they.”
“Lady Sandiford has a stern view of life,” agreed Lord Wraybourne with a slight smile.
“What about the daughter? You know what they say about daughters ending up like their mothers.”
“Are you trying to make me cry off?” Lord Wraybourne asked in mock fright. “And abandon all that money?”
“Ha! Laugh if you like, my boy. Sermons are damned uncomfortable bedfellows even if they’re printed with gold leaf.”
Lord Wraybourne’s lids drooped even lower, as if to hide amusement. “How very poetic, Uncle,” he murmured. But he was seeing large dark eyes set in creamy skin and a mass of rich ebony hair hanging in a simple braid down to his betrothed’s waist. That hair already disturbed his sleep.
“But enough of your business,” declared Mr. Moulton-Scope, ending any hope Lord Wraybourne had of deflecting him. “You
’re old enough to make your bed and make the best of it. I want you to go about your artist and donnish friends and see what you can find. Other victims, rumors, other gentlemen who move in those circles.”
“You suspect a gentleman?”
His uncle nodded. “The victims can tell us very little. When they recover consciousness they are in the dark. But they all agree that their attacker was clean. Now you know how uncommon that is outside of the upper class, despite the influence of Brummell. Sometimes think he should be honored for that, a title maybe.”
“I’m afraid the Marquis of Bath is already spoken for. Lord Wash, perhaps?”
Mr. Moulton-Scrope chuckled. “Aye, that’s a good one. No chance, of course, now he’s fallen out with the Regent. Man’s a fool. Forgot. He’s a friend of yours.”
Lord Wraybourne did not seem concerned. “I do not insist that all my friends be considered totally admirable.”
“Just as well when Ashby’s one of them. Boy’s a reprobate!”
“Lord Randal is nearly thirty, Uncle. He was only a few years behind me at Eton.”
“Then he’s old enough to know better. Too much time on his hands. He’s the sort who’d be well off at the war. I was surprised to see him escorting Sophie as I arrived. You need to watch him.”
“Randal?” Lord Wraybourne was astonished. “He’s like a brother. The Kyles and Ashbys have run together for generations. I grant he’s not husband material but he would never let any harm come to Sophie. I trust him implicitly.” There was a firmness in his tone that was a warning. Mr. Moulton-Scrope heeded it and returned to his business.
“Well. What were we saying? Brummell, Bath, ah yes. Our man is clean. He also reeks of lavender water and has soft hands. Likely a gentleman.”
“A clerk? A music master?” prompted Lord Wraybourne.
His uncle shook his head. “There’s something else. He called each woman by name. He whispered so they couldn’t recognize his voice but he knew them. Was nasty in what he said too, though none of them can think of any man with cause to hate her. The point is that they were chosen victims but trapped in an opportune moment—when they took a shortcut by a secluded path or when caught in a sudden fog.”
“Watched, you mean,” said Lord Wraybourne thoughtfully. “So an employed person is not possible. They have too little free time. An unemployed?”
“Uses a carriage, my boy. A clean one too. Look at the timing as well. Up for the Little Season playing his nasty games. Home for Christmas. Back again now ready for the Spring Season. It’s a gentleman and we want him.”
Lord Wraybourne played idly with the Kyle ring, his crest cut into a cabochon ruby. “I do not relish the role of spy. I cannot see why you have come to me for this.”
“We suspect there may have been more attacks, hushed up to protect the gels’ reputations. You already have the entrée to that group and you have a way with you that gets people to trust you. If, as we suspect, the villain is a gentleman who mixes with these people, who better than you to sniff him out? You have a mind like a mantrap.”
“Mixing your hunting metaphors, Uncle. I was anticipating being rather busy in the next few weeks. Sophie’s making her debut this Season.”
“Does that mean Selina’s coming to town? Do her good.”
“No, my mother won’t come. As you say, she is still mourning my father. Maria is to do the honors.”
Mr. Moulton-Scrope choked on a piece of bread. “My Maria?” he exclaimed, amazed at the thought of his daughter in this role. “Good God, she needs a bear-leader herself! Ten years married and four in the nursery, she should have some decorum but she barely keeps on the right side of scandal.”
“Sophie can look out for herself,” said Lord Wraybourne unconcernedly. “She’s been unofficially out for years. But I was expecting to be busy keeping an eye on her, receiving a multitude of offers for her hand as well as preparing for my marriage. It is fixed for June.”
Mr. Moulton-Scrope set himself out to persuade. “I’m not asking a lot, David. You like to go to readings and soirées and such. Just keep your ears open. Take Sophie. It would do her good.”
Lord Wraybourne laughed. “She would likely run away from home first.”
Mr. Moulton-Scrope shook his head. “She needs a tight rein, David. Selina has neglected her the last little while. I’ve heard of her on the town in Bath while still a schoolgirl. Don’t you start indulging her. Find her a strong older man for a husband. One who’ll keep her in hand or she’ll bring disgrace on us all.”
Lord Wraybourne’s face had set in hard lines. “Sophie will never disgrace her name.”
Mr. Moulton-Scrope met hard blue eyes and was surprised to find himself blustering. “Well, I didn’t mean . . . Lovely girl . . . I only mean . . . Damn you, David, stop doing that. You look just like your father and he always scared me to death!”
Lord Wraybourne relaxed and laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m just feeling the weight of sudden responsibilities. I don’t need your problems too. You really have nothing to go on, you know.”
“Of course, I know! It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. I’m just thrashing around in the hope of finding something, anything to go on. If you keep your eyes and ears open you may hit on something . . .”
“. . . or end up with a needle in the rear,” interrupted Lord Wraybourne dryly.
“Or that. At least I can trust you. You could never be responsible for these kinds of acts and you’d never use perfume, thank God.” He suddenly looked very tired. “David, I don’t know what to do or what to look for but I need you to help me do it.”
Lord Wraybourne’s fine features lit with genuine amusement. “How can I resist such an appeal? I’ll be your eyes and ears, Uncle. And if I see anything that could be a needle I’ll report back to you.”
“Needle, pin, bodkin—anything with a point to it, boy . . . anything with a point.”
Mr. Moulton-Scrope hummed a light tune as he strolled on his way to his office. He hadn’t been at all sure he could get his nephew to assist him. He always felt a little ill at ease with him, never knew what to make of him. Some people made the mistake of thinking Lord Wraybourne idle because he made life appear effortless. As if anyone could manage such vast estates profitably in idleness, even with the best of staff.
A few had even made the error of thinking him an easy mark when he had been a young man. There had been two duels that he knew about. Both swords, of course. They had ended with a neat, healable pinking and another man taught new respect for Lord Wraybourne.
Trust David to snap up the richest heiress in the country. Mr. Moulton-Scrope would give a deal to know how he’d managed it. It might be amusing to see what the little bride would make of the enigma that would be her husband. Unless she was a total fool she would have a pleasant, ever-courteous partner in life, but there was another man behind the surface. It would be a shame if she was never to discover him, a shame for her and for David both.
It was all his father’s doing. The old Lord Wraybourne had been something of a grand seigneur, a favorite of the king and great on dignity and duty. He had left his four other children to his wife to rear and concentrated on his heir. Couldn’t say he’d done a bad job. David was popular, pleasant, and an excellent landholder, but there was something . . . It was exactly like him to pick a bride by the book.
It was as well it wasn’t a love match, however. He had no wish for David to be distracted in the next few weeks. Perhaps he’d have a word with Maria too, for all the good it would do. If she could keep Sophie in line, then maybe Lord Wraybourne would apply his mind to the problem. Overall, Mr. Moulton-Scrope was in an optimistic frame of mind as he entered the lofty halls of the Home Office that day.
2
IT WAS A day later that the crucial issue of the Post arrived in Gloucestershire and Jane Sandiford read the announcement of her betrothal.
As she was preparing to change for dinner, an early meal, of course, for they kept country hour
s, she was summoned to her mother’s boudoir. Jane was past childhood and her height and shapely figure made her look very much a woman but visits to her mother’s room were still associated with punishment and she had to suppress her nervousness as she approached the heavy paneled door. Lady Sandiford was in a rare state of geniality, however, and her thin lips even curled in a smile as she proffered the paper to her daughter.
“You will wish to see this, Jane. It contains your announcement.”
Jane took it but realized after a moment that she was supposed to read it then and there. Suddenly daring, she asked, “May I keep this, Mama—as a memento?”
Lady Sandiford rarely expressed her feelings in movement. Perhaps she felt it might jeopardize the precision of her posture and demeanor, but this request caused an eyebrow to twitch infinitesimally.
“You have been most carefully reared, Jane. Where did you acquire so trite a notion? I am forced to wonder whether Mrs. Hawley has followed my directions for your upbringing as I would wish.”
Her mother’s slightest displeasure still had the ability to throw Jane into a panic, for it had so often meant the removal of a treasured object or occupation. Soon she would have to lose her companion and friend but not yet, she hoped. Carefully, she formed phrases which would be acceptable and yet still achieve her end.
“I am sure Mrs. Hawley has always done exactly as she ought, Mama, and I am grateful to you for your care of me. Surely a little sentiment is permissible at such a time as this. I would wish to treasure this sign of my future dignity.”
It seemed her expressions were acceptable for once. Apart from saying acidly, “The sign of your future dignity is the ring you wear, Jane,” her mother raised no further cavil and Jane was free to escape with her prize.
In truth it was the paper itself, and not the betrothal announcement, which was the prize. The newssheets were not allowed in the schoolroom. The idea of having one in her possession—to read every article without censor—was both novel and exciting; but first there was her announcement.
