by Jo Beverley
“I will ask Lord Wraybourne,” said Beth. She had to admit to feeling uneasy about the woman having a gun, and yet it was foolishness to think of such a frail lady running amok with a pistol. Even if she did so, she would have only one shot and was doubtless untrained in the art. The gun would have belonged to some male relative and could hold fond memories. It might well help.
Beth would put the matter to Lord Wraybourne and let him decide. She assured herself that the invalid lacked for nothing and took her leave.
She relayed the request for the return of the pistol to Lord Wraybourne.
He took the heavy, old pistol out of a drawer. “I don’t suppose she’s going to try to wipe us out with this,” he said drily. “I certainly wouldn’t care to try to hit the side of a barn with it. Perhaps if you were to take away the powder flask, that would be wise.”
Beth took the heavy firearm and detoured to the library to pick up some recent magazines and a newspaper. She added a small selection of books and made her way back to the invalid’s room.
The woman was warmly grateful for all Beth brought, but Beth noted her hand lingered lovingly on the pistol.
“Does it stir any memories?” she asked curiously.
“Little flickers,” said the woman, frowning. “It is like trying to remember a dream. Always just beyond grasp.” She opened the case and placed the gun carefully into its place.
Feeling just a little awkward, Beth reached forward and took the powder flask. “The earl thought it best if this was removed,” she said.
The woman seemed merely amused. “Does he really think I’m going to stalk the corridors looking for someone to shoot? I can hardly leave my bed and I’m not even sure I know how to handle this thing.”
“Then you will be safer without the explosive,” Beth said firmly. “I understand firearms can be extremely dangerous if mishandled.”
“I’m sure you are right,” said the woman. She thanked Beth again for her kindness and settled to read the Morning Post of a few days past.
Beth left, feeling strangely as if she had escaped. If Sophie was reluctant to visit the lady, Beth had some sympathy with her even though the woman seemed harmless and unfortunate.
Randal sat by the window in his dressing room and pulled out the sheet of paper. It had come in the post bag and one glance had shown him it was another of those damned letters. He’d made sure Chelmly and Ver hadn’t noticed it.
“Make your peace with God. A pistol ball is all you deserve and then poor Sophie will be safe forever.”
He was not a coward but this faceless, irrational hatred would shake anyone. It was easy enough, after all, to kill, especially with a gun. A steady hand and a still target were all that was needed.
And what of Sophie? Should he perhaps take her away into hiding until the wedding? As soon as the thought coalesced he dismissed it. She had been distressed by this maniac but not threatened. It seemed likely the culprit was a disappointed suitor and so she should not be in danger of injury. Now that David was intercepting her correspondence she should be left in peace.
Randal stood abruptly and crushed the paper in his fist. He’d be damned if he’d be driven to panic by this drivel. That was doubtless the intent and the perpetrator would be waiting gleefully for just such a reaction.
With steady hands, Randal took out his tinderbox and lit a candle. He burned the note to blackened ash and dusted off his fingers. Then he dressed for the trip to the Wem fair.
The trip to Wem was made in three open carriages and so caused Beth no embarrassment.
Moreover, with Lord Wraybourne and Sir Marius along, Beth felt relieved of responsibility for the younger members, for which she was profoundly grateful when Sophie and her brother Frederick began to kick up their heels. The two youngest people shied for coconuts and rode the swing boats, insisted on looking at the freak show and playing penny toss for hideous pottery ornaments.
Matters were not improved by the outfit Sophie had chosen to wear. It was a cheerful gown of green and blue with a bodice a la soubrette laced up the front. Very rustic but somehow suggestive. Fortunately a cambric chemisette made the very low neckline decent, but in true country style the skirt was a good two inches shorter than usual and showed her ankles. She had tied her flat leghorn bonnet jauntily to one side.
Beth considered her own simple, demure blue muslin, delicate white shawl, and straw bonnet ornamented by only a bunch of silk flowers. She was surprised by a spurt of dissatisfaction that was definitely related to Sir Marius Fletcher. She simply mustn’t allow herself to lose her head over the man. However, when he took her arm as if it were inevitable, Beth found herself going with him to tour the fair.
Sophie watched Beth, so quiet and proper, and knew she probably should try to behave like that herself but the raucous atmosphere of the fair was like heady wine, and there was Freddy to encourage her. She kept an eye on Randal all the time, hoping he would do something—either try to restrain her or join in.
Hay bales had been stacked to provide stepped seating for the greasy-pig contest, and she and Freddy climbed to the very top to watch. They laughed uproariously at the sight of contestants trying to hold onto the slippery animal. Sophie began to feel a little sorry for the frantic beast, however, especially when its fate was doubtless to be slaughtered and salted by the winner.
She turned away and realized Randal and her brother were standing beneath her perch, unaware of her presence.
“Where’s Sophie?” David asked.
“Up to mischief somewhere,” said Randal carelessly. “Freddy’s with her.”
“I did have hopes you could keep that hellion in order.”
“She’s not my responsibility yet, David. You go rein her in.”
“At times like this I’d like to lock her up for a week.”
“Could make life somewhat simpler,” drawled Randal, “but I don’t doubt I’d feel obliged to rescue her.”
It would almost make being locked up worth it, Sophie thought wistfully. She wriggled over to sit on the edge of the bales over an eight-foot drop. “Randal!” she called. “Catch me.”
He looked up sharply and started to speak but she gave him no chance and dropped. He staggered slightly as she fell against him, grasping her strongly to make sure she did not fall. Sophie closed her arms tightly around him and looked up.
She knew her eyes pleaded and saw him catch his breath. His eyes went strangely dark as he murmured something too soft to hear. Then his hand came up to cradle her head and he set his lips to hers hungrily. Her fingers splayed across his back and she felt his tongue deliciously tease her lips.
Someone whistled.
Laughter burst from the crowd.
With a curse, he wrenched back from her, his fine skin flushed. With embarrassment? Or need?
“This is hardly the place ...” he said, pulling her away.
Beth, feeling her role as chaperone, moved forward to help smooth over the awkward moment. She heard Sophie say, “Name your time and place, Randal,” and shook her head. “Sophie ...” she began to expostulate, but neither Randal nor Sophie heard.
“God help us all, Sophie,” he said with a laugh. “Do you want seconds too?” His hand reached out to her, but before Beth was forced to intercept further mayhem, the movement deflected and Randal brushed a curl back from the girl’s flushed cheek.
“August the twenty-eighth,” he said softly. “Fairmeadows. The large front bedroom which looks out over the rose garden ... Are you prepared to meet me there, little flame? Alone?”
Feeling as if she had intruded upon a very intimate moment, Beth stepped back and came up against a large, hard body. She turned, knowing herself to be flushed, to look up at Sir Marius. “Don’t take your duties too seriously, Mrs. Hawley,” he said in a deep rumble of a voice which seemed to vibrate through her. “Nothing too terrible is going to happen here. Come and give me your opinion on the horseflesh.”
“I know nothing about horses,” Beth proteste
d.
“Does that matter?” he asked, and Beth knew that moment between Sophie and Randal had spilled over to them. Nothing sane and normal mattered anymore. She placed her hand on his arm and went with him.
Sophie looked up at Randal. Prepared? A wave of hot desire burned through her at his words. “If I get any more prepared than this, my lord,” she said, “it will be positively indecent.”
He laughed even as he turned her and gave her a push. She landed in Piers Verderan’s arms.
“Ver,” said Randal. “You look after her. You may be the only one up to the task.” He quickly moved away to speak to Lord Stanforth.
Sophie looked after him in astonishment. He’d pushed her into Piers Verderan’s arms?
Sophie stood for a few seconds like a statue. Randal had abandoned her to the tender mercies of one of the most notorious womanizers in England.
“Well, Verderan,” she asked tartly. “Are you up to handling me?”
“With one hand behind my back on a bad day, Lady Sophie,” he assured her with dry amusement. “You wouldn’t like it, either.”
Sophie stared at him. If she wasn’t totally devoted to Randal, she thought, she could be very interested in Verderan. He was such a challenge. “Are you sure of that?” she asked with a sideways look.
He met it with sardonic humor. “I’d make sure you didn’t like it, young lady.”
Sophie gasped but then gave up bandying words. It had occurred to her that Randal deserved a little jealousy for his cavalier treatment. What she needed was to be off with Verderan, out of Randal’s sight. “Then come and put your stone-throwing practice to use and win me a fairing,” she said with her most appealing smile and pulled him along. “I positively lust after one of those yellow china cats.”
He won one for her easily.
“Now some of those coltsfoot drops,” she demanded.
He put the cat into her hands. “I’ll win them if you promise to eat them,” he remarked. She looked up at him, surprised by a tremor of nervousness. Despite his pleasant demeanor, she wouldn’t put it past him to force-feed the dratted things to her.
“Perhaps you should fight the local bruiser,” she said, pointing to the huge man who was taking all comers for a purse of five guineas. She’d rather like to see Verderan with a bloody nose.
“Hardly sporting,” he responded. “I spar with Jackson.”
Sophie reminded herself of her main purpose in life and glanced back at Randal, who appeared to be completely enthralled by a sweetmeats stall. Wasn’t he the tiniest bit jealous? If he was wandering around with the female equivalent of Verderan, she’d turn green.
Sophie took off her flat-brimmed bonnet and fanned herself. “It’s so hot. I think I’ll stand in the shade of that tree.” She knew Verderan would have to escort her. For all the fun of the occasion it would be unpardonable to leave a lady unattended among all these yokels, many of them already the worse for ale. Once under the chestnut tree they would be out of Randal’s sight. What would he do about that?
Verderan obliged without cavil, and when they were in the shade he took her hat and plied it for her.
“Thank you,” she said. In an impulse of sheer naughtiness she leaned back against the rough bark to make the most of the daring bodice of her gown, watching Verderan from beneath her lashes.
A light flashed in those deep blue eyes and Sophie wasn’t sure if it was lust or something more unpleasant. It gave her a tremor of uneasiness. “I am willing enough to play the gentleman,” he drawled, “if it is at no cost to my comfort.”
Sophie opened her eyes wide. “Is that perhaps a warning?”
“If you care to take it as such,” he said. He lowered his eyes and deliberately and insolently let them stroke the upper curves of her breasts, only veiled by the gauzy chemisette. “I’ve no objection to being used to shake Randal out of his ill-suited reformist stage, Lady Sophie, but I won’t hazard his friendship.”
Sophie straightened hurriedly and rather wished she had a substantial shawl to drag around herself. “You’ve revealed a little too much, sir,” she said tartly. “Friendship is not a matter of comfort.”
“Perhaps you’ve never been without friends, Lady Sophie.”
It caught her attention. Was it possible that the Dark Angel was sometimes lonely? “For heaven’s sake call me Sophie,” she said, in an impulsive but genuine offer of friendship. She laid her hand on his arm. “I’m soon to marry Randal. That should mean something. Perhaps we will be friends-in-law.”
He smiled but she couldn’t feel it was friendly. “Perhaps we will.” A slight turn of his wrist and her hand was sloughed off, rejected. “Do you think we have tested Randal’s forbearance enough?” he asked coolly. “Since I am his friend he might well feel you are safe with me, you know.”
He put her bonnet in her hands and stepped back, as if he wished to avoid contamination. So much for kindness, thought Sophie. No wonder the man had few friends. “And am I safe?” she asked crossly as she retied the ribbons beneath her chin, wondering if they were crooked. With any other man she would have unself-consciously asked assistance.
Before he could answer, they were startled by a series of loud bangs and an outcry from the center of the fairground. Forgetting minor matters, Sophie looked to Verderan. “What was that?”
“Sounded like a pistol,” he said and they both moved off toward the commotion. Everyone else seemed to have the same idea, however, and soon Verderan had to hold Sophie close to protect her. She felt no embarrassment. She was plagued instead by a totally irrational fear for Randal.
“I think we should get out of this mob,” he said, and pulled her to the side.
“No,” she protested. “I have to see what’s going on!”
“Don’t be a spoiled brat,” he snapped and virtually carried her out of the crowd to a peaceful spot.
Sophie struggled madly and even managed to scratch the side of his face. Her struggles stopped, however, when she heard cries and screams coming their way. She turned to see the crowd of which they had recently been a part reverse its flow, panic-stricken. A child rambled beneath rushing feet and Sophie moved from his relaxed grip to run forward. Verderan held her back ruthlessly.
“We have to do something!” she cried, trying to prize his arms from around her.
“Not yet,” he said tersely.
The cause of the panic was soon apparent as three horned cows rushed wild-eyed along the path, trampling anything in their way. They passed within feet of Verderan and Sophie, then broke free of people. In a moment, the mood of the crowd altered again. The uninjured called a halloo and set off in pursuit. Quite a number of people, however, were left on the ground.
Verderan and Sophie made their way cautiously forward to help but found there were plenty of hands for the job and, fortunately, no serious injuries. The child Sophie had seen fall had scraped his leg and was looking sorrowful. She gave him a ha’penny to buy a sucket.
Then she looked at Verderan and found him dabbing at his scratched cheek with his handkerchief. The look he gave her was not friendly.
“Well,” she said, smothering guilt, “you shouldn’t have bullied me like that.” Before he could reply she turned to the child’s mother. “What caused the commotion in the first place?” she asked.
“Someone fired some shots off near the cattle stalls,” the woman said angrily. “That’s what. Heard tell someone got hurt. I dunno what the world’s coming to. Wouldn’t be surprised if it’s French spies!”
Shots? All Sophie’s unease returned. She knew it made no sense, but she would not know a moment’s peace until she saw Randal hale and hearty. Ignoring an angry exclamation from Verderan, she turned and ran toward the stalls, searching the crowd. She couldn’t see Randal anywhere.
Verderan grabbed at her arm, catching only the short sleeve. “Sophie, for God’s sake!”
Randal. Randal was the injured one. She broke free, ignoring the sharp rip, and ran frantically through the crowd,
calling his name. She was buffeted by fat paunches and bony elbows, assailed by smells of sweat and ale and spicy meat. Everyone seemed to be shouting or laughing. How could anyone laugh?
She saw her brother and screamed his name. He turned, searching for her and she pushed forward. A sudden movement of the crowd showed her David standing over a body and Jane kneeling there in the dust ministering to somebody. Beth and Sir Marius stood nearby also looking down with concern. Then the crowd shut again in front of her.
Terror made Sophie careless of everything. She fought her way by people, pushing and kicking, screaming, “Let me by! Let me by!” She lost her bonnet and felt her chemisette half dragged from her shoulder.
She landed breathless against David.
“Sophie, what on earth’s the matter?”
She looked down. The body at his feet was that of an older man, conscious but looking sorry for himself. How could she ever have thought it was Randal?
Her heart was pounding, she felt sick and dizzy and clutched his supporting arm even as Beth Hawley came over, full of concern. What an utter fool she had made of herself. As Beth took her in her arms, Sophie looked at David to explain and found he was looking death at Piers Verderan. Verderan had stopped long enough to retrieve her bonnet and was knocking the dirt off it, seemingly unaware of his danger. The bloody scratch was clearly visible on his cheek.
Sophie hastily dragooned her wits into order and grabbed her brother’s sleeve to snare his attention. “I wasn’t running from him,” she said. “I heard someone was injured. I thought it was Randal. I don’t know why.”
David relaxed slightly and looked at her. “Randal?” he said. “He’s nimble enough to avoid a cow. He’s off looking for you. Here he is.”
Sophie turned quickly. Even with David’s words her fear had lingered until now, until she saw Randal safe. As he took her hands she sensed Randal had felt the same dread. His startled glance made her aware that her bodice was hanging loose at one shoulder and her chemisette was disordered. She was perilously close to revealing all. She was immensely grateful when Beth Hawley draped her light shawl over her shoulders.
