by Mary Balogh
Eden groaned. “They are envious of us, Nat,” he said. “With all due respect to Moira and Catherine, they are envious. Hold out against them, my lad.”
But Nathaniel chuckled. ‘You are looking at a confirmed bachelor, my friends,“ he said. ”No leg shackles for me, thank you kindly.“
Eden cheered with a whoop that would have been embarrassing, loud as it was, had the park not been deserted—or almost so. There was a workingman hurrying along a path not far distant, a maidservant, walking a dog almost as large as she, had passed them a minute before, and two females were approaching on foot from a distance, also with a dog.
“But not a celibate bachelor, it is to be hoped,” Eden said. “I have some delights in store for you the like of which you have rarely experienced before, Nat. Rex and Ken are no longer eligible. Just you and I. Starting tonight. Why waste even one more night of your stay in London, after all? You had better take a nap this afternoon, my lad. You are going to need all the energy you can muster.”
“Dear me,” Rex said faintly. “Were we ever this young or this jaded, Ken?”
“I think perhaps we were, Rex,” Kenneth said. “Once long, long ago in the dark ages. I can even remember a time when we would have winced at the thought of respectability. And positively blanched at the very idea of a monogamous relationship.”
Splendid, Nathaniel thought. Tonight. Trust Eden not to waste time. There were all sorts of duties to be performed, of course, even today. This afternoon and during the next few days he would have to pay calls at all the right houses, leaving his card and making his presence known. Tomorrow Margaret and John were expected to arrive in town and there would be all the upheaval of getting Georgina and Lavinia ready to face the whirlwind. He would have to be seen with them. He would have to escort them everywhere. He had no intention of neglecting his responsibilities while he engaged in the sort of excesses and debaucheries that had left him feeling curiously dissatisfied two years before. He was Sir Nathaniel Gascoigne, baronet, now. He was a brother and a cousin first and foremost.
But there would be a few days of relative quiet. He would not, after all, have to accompany the girls to modistes and milliners and shoemakers, and all the rest. He would merely have to pay the bills. He could allow himself some time for personal enjoyment—for rides like this in the park with his friends, for visits to White’s Club and Tattersall’s and the races. For women. His need had been held at bay while he was at Bowood. Now it was not to be denied. In the future, he decided, he must make frequent visits to town. Two years was just too long a time.
But he had been woolgathering. The two females who had been approaching them on foot for some time, their black-and-white collie dashing about exploring while never losing sight of them, had drawn closer and Eden was whistling under his breath.
“A diamond of the first water, would you not agree, Nat?” he said quietly. “Now, if one were in the market for a bride ...”
The younger and taller of the two ladies was indeed both pretty and elegant, and she was finely clad in a high-waisted walking dress of a pale blue color that complemented her very blond hair and fair complexion to perfection. She was also an extremely young lady—probably younger even than Georgina.
“But one is not, Ede,” he said firmly. “And if one were, one could do better than rob cradles.”
Eden chuckled.
But Kenneth was exclaiming loudly enough to be heard by the ladies. “By Jove,” he said heartily, “it is! Just see who it is, fellows.”
The other three looked more closely at the two ladies. The second one, smaller, older, less elegant, less fashionably clad than her companion, had at first appeared almost invisible beside her. But it was on this second lady that their eyes all finally alighted—and they looked at her with equal astonishment and pleasure.
“Sophie!” Rex exclaimed. “By all that is wonderful!”
“Sophie Armitage!” Eden said simultaneously. “Devil take it, but you are a sight for sore eyes.”
Kenneth swept off his beaver hat and smiled dazzlingly. “What a wonderful pleasure this is, Sophie,” he said.
“Sophie, my dear.” Nathaniel leaned down from his horse’s back and stretched out his right hand toward her. “This is a pleasant surprise to greet a fellow on his first morning in London in two years. You are looking well.”
She shook his hand, her handshake as firm as a man‘s, as it always had been, Nathaniel remembered, and smiled at each of them in turn with genuine warmth. “The Four Horsemen,” she said. “And all in company together, looking as handsome and as dashing as ever, just as if three years had not passed. But it is early morning and perhaps I am dreaming.” She was laughing. “Do you see four gentlemen on horseback here, Sarah? Four of the handsomest rogues in England? Or am I imagining them?” But even as she spoke she was busily shaking hands with the other three.
Dear Sophie. She had been in the Peninsula with them. Her husband had been another comrade of theirs, and she had traveled everywhere with him, tougher, more resilient than most of the men. She had quietly looked after her husband’s needs and had taken all his fellow officers under her wing too, tending wounds, mending tears in uniforms, brushing out stains, sewing buttons back on even though there had been valets and batmen enough to perform the tasks for them. Her hands might as well be busy while she listened to their nonsense and their idle chatter, she had always said when they had thought to protest. She had cooked for them sometimes too, though none of the other officers’ wives would have so demeaned themselves. They had wangled many an invitation to sit at Walter Armitage’s table.
Strangely, Nathaniel thought now as he smiled down at her, genuinely glad to see her again, as they all were, they had never really thought of Sophie as they had thought of other women in her position. They had not thought of her as frail and in need of their chivalrous gallantry. Yet she must have been very young indeed when she went to the Peninsula with Armitage and she was small enough to arouse the male protective instinct. But she had always seemed more like a comrade than a mere woman, someone with whom they had all been thoroughly comfortable. Even Armitage had seemed to treat her more as a friend than as a wife. Though there was no knowing, of course, what sort of a relationship they had had within the privacy of their own billets.
Poor Sophie had listened to many a story that would have caused other ladies to swoon quite away—and told in the sort of coarse language that would have caused additional fits of the vapors. She had never flinched and had never reproached them—neither had her husband. It had never occurred to them to modify either their language or their topics of conversation around her. Not that they had not respected her, but—well, they had respected her as an equal.
Everyone had liked Sophie. Perhaps because Sophie had always appeared to like everyone. It would have been hard to find a more cheerful soul. And she was beaming up at them now with all the old good humor, all the old air of camaraderie, even though she had been a widow for almost three years. And the old slight shabbiness of clothing. And the old untidy wisps of curly brown hair escaping the brim of her bonnet. Damn but it was good to see her again.
“We are real enough to bellow ouch if you pinched us, Sophie,” Nathaniel said, “as are you, by Jove. Are you still basking in the glory of Walter’s fame?” Perhaps, he thought too late, the words had been too carelessly spoken. Perhaps she grieved too deeply to do any basking. But one could not somehow imagine Sophie distraught with grief—certainly not after three years.
“Oh, yes indeed,” she said, smiling. “I thought people would forget within a fortnight. But it has been almost two years now since my day at Carlton House and still people remember what a great hero he was. Doors are still wide open to me despite my extreme lack of presence. And now Sarah and Lewis are here for the Season with their mama and papa and they are being received with deference because they are Walter’s niece and nephew. It is most gratifying. Walter would be thrilled—and amused, I daresay.” Her eyes twinkled with
merriment.
“Everyone loves a hero—and a heroine, Sophie,” Nathaniel said.
“Walter would be genuinely pleased for you, Sophie,” Kenneth said. “And what is this about your lack of presence ? You are as conceited as you ever were, I see.”
Sophie laughed and then sobered. “Oh, pardon me,” she said, turning to the young lady half hidden behind her. “May I have the honor of presenting my niece? Walter’s niece, that is. Sarah Armitage, daughter of Viscount Houghton, here for the Season with her parents and her brother. Four of your uncle Walter’s dear friends, Sarah.” She presented each of them in turn while her young niece—she could not be a day over eighteen, Nathaniel decided—blushed and curtsied and peered shyly up at them.
“Your horses are eager to be moving,” Sophie said with great practicality after they had all made their bows to the girl and gazed at her appreciatively, “and I daresay you all are too. And my dog is eager to find new trees to sniff. It has been a great pleasure to meet you again. I do hope you enjoy your stay in town. Good morning to you.”
“But we must see you again,” Rex said, laying one arm across the neck of his horse and leaning forward. “We cannot simply lose you again after finding you, Sophie. My wife and I are entertaining some friends at Rawleigh House the evening after tomorrow. I believe you qualify. Will you come? I will have my wife call upon you with a formal invitation if you wish.”
“Oh, you are married, of course,” she said, smiling warmly at Rex. “I had heard that. I would not have set wagers on your being the first, Rex, I must say, but you were, were you not? Well, Lady Rawleigh is a fortunate woman to have such a handsome, charming husband, though one can only hope that she is of suitably strong character—she also has a rogue for a husband. I have not forgotten you.” Her eyes were twinkling again. She was wagging one finger at him.
“Now, Sophie,” he said, sounding aggrieved, “I shall rescind my invitation if you intend regaling Catherine’s ears with tales from my past.”
“Me?” she said, laughing. “My lips are firmly buttoned, I promise you. You need not send Lady Rawleigh on a formal visit, though. I daresay she has enough to do without calling upon me. I would be delighted to attend your gathering of friends.”
“Do you keep a carriage, Sophie?” Eden asked. “If not, I would be pleased to take you up in mine and escort you to Rawleigh House.”
“Now, a carriage,” she said, lifting the forefinger she had just been wagging, and laughing at the same time, “is one thing the government did not think of granting me. Perhaps if Walter had saved the life of the Prince of Wales ... But poor Walter, he is not here to enjoy the joke and he really would have enjoyed it. Thank you, Eden, that would be remarkably civil of you.”
“And I shall escort you home again at the end of the evening,” Nathaniel said. “It would be my pleasure, my dear.”
She beamed at each of them in turn before firmly taking her leave. She had not changed. She had never pressed her company on anyone. It was always they who had pressed theirs on her. It had never occurred to any of them to wonder if sometimes Sophie would not have preferred more privacy or more time alone with Walter.
“I feel ashamed of myself,” Rex said as they rode onward. “I remember reading all the reports of the honors paid poor Armitage—half with amusement, I must confess. One would have sworn that every other British soldier on the battlefield was lounging at his ease, twiddling his thumbs, and that only Armitage, like an avenging angel with glittering sword and flashing eyes and ginger mus taches—though those last were not mentioned in any of the reports—was saving them from the froggish brutes led onto the slaughtering fields by the Corsican monster. Those reports, as I distinctly remember, did overflow with all those clichés as well as every other known to man. But then I believe Sophie is amused by it all too—she always had the best sense of humor of almost any woman I have known—or any man, for that matter. Anyway, I remember reading about the London town house. Yet it has never occurred to me to call upon her when I have been in town.”
“Or to me either, Rex,” Eden said, “though I have spent a great deal more time in London than any of you during the past two years. And I have never run into her until today. Good old Sophie. She was one of the best comrades a man ever had. I am glad you invited her to Rawleigh House.”
“I want Catherine to meet her,” Rex said. “They will like each other, I believe. And Moira too, Ken.”
They were all smiling cheerfully, Nathaniel noticed. As who would not on a lovely morning in lovely surroundings and in company with close friends? But Sophie had always had that affect on the men with whom she had been surrounded. She had always made a day seem just a little brighter—though perhaps they had been unconscious of exactly who or what it was that had made them more cheerful. It would be good to meet her at greater leisure at Rex’s and to have a chat with her. It would be good to reminisce.
He had written to her on the occasion of Walter’s posthumous decoration and had had a very civil reply. He had not written after that. He was a single man and it had suddenly occurred to him that she was now a single lady and it was not proper for them to exchange letters. But he had not forgotten her in the intervening years, as the others appeared to have done—it was so easy to forget people who had been really quite close friends during the war. He had fully intended calling upon her, taking Georgina and Lavinia with him. Though he had not been certain that she would be in town or at the same house. He was glad to discover that he had not lost touch with her and would see her again.
But that was two nights hence. In the meantime there were tonight and tomorrow night—and he intended to savor to the full all they had to offer. He supposed he would allow Eden to choose the exact place and mode of entertainment. It was, after all, almost two years since he had been in town himself. He guessed that all the old brothels still flourished and perhaps even some of the same girls. But Eden could be relied upon to have more up-to-date information. And Eden could be trusted to choose the best.
There was enormous pleasure in anticipating the night ahead. And he positively refused, Nathaniel thought, to react to his own anticipation as the staid country gentleman he had become. He refused to think about the dubious morality of employing a whore for the night. He was going to enjoy himself.
Deuce take it, but it had been a long time. Too long. Far too long.
“Breakfast at White’s?” Eden suggested. “And a morning of looking at the papers and perhaps wandering over to Jackson’s boxing saloon? This feels quite like old times.”
“Not quite, Eden,” Kenneth said. “Moira would have my head if I absented myself for the whole morning. Besides which, it would give me no great pleasure to absent myself. We are going to bring Jamie for a romp in the park before it gets too busy this afternoon.”
“We dull married fellows, Eden,” Rex said, laughing. “You will have to join our ranks one of these days and find out what all the attraction is.”
Eden shuddered theatrically. “Many thanks for the thought, old boy,” he said, “but no thanks. And do you have to return to the twenty sisters too, Nat?”
“Not even to the one sister and one cousin,” Nathaniel said. “They both expressed their intention of sleeping until noon after the tedium of the journey. Lead the way to White’s.”
What an exhilarating morning it was turning out to be, he thought. He did not doubt that he would be happy enough to return to Bowood for the summer—alone, he hoped—but while he was here he was going to enjoy everything that town and society—and the demimonde—had to offer.
THREE
SOPHIA ARRIVED HOME feeling utterly depressed and really rather shaken. But she could not immediately close the door on the world. There was her manservant to be smiled upon and to be listened to. Her servants had a habit of sharing all their household and personal woes with her, though they always handled any problem with perfect competence. It was as if they needed the reassurance of her approval. This morning there had been
some problem with the coalman, who had tried to deliver enough coal for a winter month when it was already April. The manservant had put him firmly in his place, Mrs. Armitage would be pleased to know.
“You did the right thing, Samuel,” Sophia assured him. “Next month he will be sure to be more careful.”
“Yes, ma‘am,” he said, making her a deferential bow. “Shall I have tea sent up to your sitting room?”
“That would be lovely, thank you,” she said with a smile. “And you might as well have Lass’s dish sent up too, as she thinks she is genteel people and hates eating in the kitchen.”
“Yes, ma‘am.” Samuel allowed himself an almost conspiratorial smirk.
And so even after Sophia had arrived in her sitting room after taking her outdoor garments to her dressing room and patting her hair into something resembling order, she had to hold herself together until Pamela had arrived with the tray and had explained that the cup Mrs. Armitage usually used in the mornings had unfortunately slipped to the kitchen floor from Pamela’s own hands and been smashed into a thousand pieces.
“For which Cook says as how you may dock my wages, ma‘am,” Pamela, the maid-of-all-work, said, sounding both aggrieved and anxious. “Though it were not my fault. If Samuel had not yelled out ’Oi!‘ quite so loud when the coalman come and tried to pull one over on him, ma’am, I would not have dropped the cup. I am very sorry, ma‘am.”
“We will blame the coalman,” Sophia said cheerfully. “I am sure he has broad enough shoulders, Pamela. Though I do not suppose we can dock his wages, can we? This is a pretty enough cup. Prettier than the broken one, in fact.”
“Yes, ma‘am.” Pamela curtsied. “But I am right sorry about the other one.”
