The Scoundrel Takes a Bride

by Stefanie Sloane

  Sophia closed the door behind her and stood still, staring at her mother, unease making her pulse quicken.

  “Whatever is the matter?” her mother asked, uncrossing her ankles and moving forward to the edge of the chair cushion.

  Sophia did not want to answer. Would remaining silent be rude? Or did she believe that perhaps, this time, her mother would stay—if only Sophia could keep the truth from her?

  “You can tell me, Sophia,” Lady Afton urged, warm concern filling her lovely voice. “Do not be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid, Mama,” Sophia assured her, taking a step closer.

  Her mother folded her hands in her lap and smiled sweetly. “Are you fearful because I am alive?”

  “Mama,” Sophia urged quietly, taking another step and then another. “Please, do not ask.”

  “It is all right, my darling. You’ll not change the course of my life, nor yours, by being truthful,” her mother answered, beckoning her nearer. “But I do have something to tell you, and we’ve not much time.”

  Sophia took a hesitant, final step that brought her within reach of her mother. She slowly extended her arm and felt her mother’s cool, soft fingers interlace with her own. “I can feel you, Mama,” she murmured in amazed delight, pulling until their interlocked hands pressed against her forehead.

  “I need you to pay attention, Sophia.”

  Sophia knelt on the carpet and rested her head on Lady Afton’s lap. “Please, Mama. I only want to be with you. Do not ask anything of me.”

  “I know, my dear, sweet girl,” her mother crooned, running her fingers through Sophia’s tangled brown curls.

  Sophia closed her eyes and reveled in the soothing sensation. “Mama, you’ve never spoken to me in my dreams before. Why are you doing so now?”

  “You were not ready to hear me.”

  “That’s not true. I’ve wanted nothing more than to speak with you,” Sophia protested.

  Lady Afton lifted her fingers from the crown of Sophia’s head to cradle her chin and gaze into her eyes. “You were not prepared. And now you are,” she said simply.

  Sophia sat back on her heels. “Because of Nicholas?”

  “In part, yes,” her mother replied, folding her hands in her lap. “But it is far more complicated than that. And now I may tell you what is required of you.”

  Sophia felt an odd sense of injustice. “Required of me? Ma—”

  “I know how you’ve sacrificed, my Sophia,” Lady Afton delicately interrupted. “And you are so close to reaching your goal. But it cannot be done without you returning to Petworth Manor.”

  The name of her family’s summer home made Sophia’s heart skip a beat; the rhythm when it resumed, shaky and unpredictable. “There must be another way, Mama.”

  Her mother slid from the chair to join her on the carpet. “I wish there were, Sophia. But there are memories there that require retrieval.”

  “I remember everything of that day, Mama—more than I care to, if you must know,” Sophia answered, staring at the rose-patterned rug. “I haven’t returned to the house since you died. And I don’t want to—ever.”

  Lady Afton wrapped her arms about Sophia and pulled her into a loving embrace. “That’s just it, my darling. There are things you do not remember—details you’ve pushed so far from your mind that they are nearly impossible to find. But they’re there. Returning to Petworth Manor will help to unearth them.”

  Sophia buried her head against her mother’s shoulder and began to cry. “I cannot, Mama. You must understand. It is impossible. Please don’t make me go there.”

  “I do understand, Sophia,” Lady Afton whispered into her ear. “Better than anyone else. Be brave, my dear, sweet girl. Be brave.”

  Sophia wrapped her arms tightly about her mother’s waist and let the tears wash away her fear until all she was able to feel was acceptance. Bitter, but necessary acceptance.

  Suddenly someone was pulling her away from her mother. Sophia fought to escape the person’s grip, begging Lady Afton to hold on to her.

  “Lady Sophia!” a voice cried out.

  Sophia opened her eyes, expecting to find she’d been dragged across the nursery and away from her mother. Instead, her companion’s worried face met her gaze.

  “Lettie?” she asked.

  Her trusted companion released Sophia’s wrist and looked down at her. “I heard you moaning and came to see what was wrong. I believe you’ve had a nightmare.”

  Sophia scooted upright and pulled her hair back, her fingers damp from the tiny beads of perspiration at her temples.

  “Was it the same dream, my lady? Was it about your mother?”

  Sophia squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember every last second she’d spent in her mother’s presence. “Yes, Lettie, my mother was there, but this one was different. She spoke to me of Nicholas, and of what I must do,” Sophia replied, the linen sheets bunching in her fists. “I must return to Petworth Manor at once.”

  “I’ll have a message sent to Mr. Bourne and ask that he come straightaway,” Lettie answered, concern coloring her voice.

  Sophia opened her eyes and grabbed for Lettie’s hand. “No! Do not send for Nicholas. Just you and I will go.”

  “Do you think that is wise, my lady?” her companion asked.

  “Trust me, Lettie. It is better that we go alone.”

  14

  June 2

  THE ALBANY

  “I do not believe it.” Nicholas stared at the brief note, unable to accept the contents.

  His words elicited a deep sigh from the maid. “Well, I don’t either, sir. Without a proper footman to answer the door, deliver posts, and other such duties, they all fall to me—apparently.”

  Distracted, Nicholas looked up from the missive and shook his head in confusion. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “You need a footman, sir,” the maid replied matter-of-factly.

  Nicholas could not see the connection between the maid and the necessity of a footman at the moment, but needed the woman gone. “Speak to Singh. Tell him I gave my permission.”

  The maid curtsied, beaming with delight. “I’ll go find him now—that is if there’s nothing else you require?”

  He shooed her away with a wave of the letter and walked to the windows at the back of the apartment. Staring out at a small garden situated between the Albany and the neighboring building, Nicholas realized that he’d never bothered to look out this particular set of windows. He hadn’t even known of the garden’s existence.

  He tapped the note against his palm, unsure of what he should do. For reasons Nicholas was not privy to, Sophia was clearly set on traveling to Petworth Manor. Alone.

  Barely realizing he did so, Nicholas began to count a tidy row of tulips near the middle of the display below. He did not want to go to Petworth Manor. As far as he knew, not one of the four friends, including Sophia, had ever set foot in the summer home after Lady Afton’s death.

  “Why on earth would we?” he muttered aloud, aware of a growing unease that tightened his nerves and settled heavily between his shoulder blades.

  There was nothing left for them on the sprawling estate—nothing that they needed, anyway.

  He pulled an engraved silver pocket watch from his vest—arguably the only thoughtful gift his father had ever given him—and checked the time.

  Sophia would have departed for Sussex by now.

  Nicholas slipped the watch back into his pocket and gazed out the window again, absentmindedly taking up where he’d left off with counting the row of tulips.

  What if Sophia was right about returning to Petworth Manor? Was there something, or someone, within the house or about the grounds that had crucial information the Young Corinthians had missed? Lord Carmichael had overseen the investigation himself. Nicholas knew the man well enough to trust he’d made damn sure it was carried out exactly to his specifications.

  Nicholas lost his place in the row of colorful blooms and moved his att
ention to the next one, his irritation piqued.

  Then what of Smeade? The Corinthians had not discovered his connection to Lady Afton’s death. It was Carrington who’d unearthed the man’s part in the scheme.

  It would be the right thing to follow Sophia, even if she did not want him there. And after yesterday’s runin with his brother, Nicholas could do with a dose of karma.

  “Sahib, Molly has informed me of your wish to employ a footman,” Singh’s voice interrupted his musings.

  “Really, Singh, and just as I was nearly finished counting the flowers,” Nicholas answered, suddenly resolute as to his next move.

  “You see, sahib, already the changes I have made to your home are beginning to help,” Singh replied, joining Nicholas at the window. “Ah, yes. A world of beauty in one single flower.”

  “You said something about a footman?” Nicholas asked.

  Singh continued to gaze out the window, enraptured by what Nicholas could only assume was an overwhelming amount of happiness. “Yes, sahib. The footman. I will arrange for several candidates to be sent over right away so that you might choose.”

  “I’m afraid that will not be possible, Singh.”

  Nicholas’s response pulled the man from his happy contemplation of the bucolic scene outside the window. “And why is that, sahib?”

  “Because I will be leaving very shortly for the countryside, Singh,” Nicholas answered, only just realizing that he still held Sophia’s letter in his hand.

  The Star Pub

  PETWORTH

  SUSSEX

  Nicholas stood outside the Star pub in Petworth, the bands of reds, golds, and orange in the dazzling sunset a charming backdrop to the whitewashed building and the surrounding village.

  Unfortunately, the scene was one he couldn’t appreciate at the moment. He’d ridden hard from London, wanting to arrive at the manor before Sophia and Mrs. Kirk. Stopping only for food and to rest Guinevere, he was now filthy, exhausted, and barely able to stand upright without his legs bowing out in the shape of his horse’s mid-section.

  All his complaints could have easily been borne, however, if his destination was not Petworth. Even with the blazing sunset and gloriously fresh air, Nicholas had already begun to count the hours until he could leave.

  His reluctance to remain in Sussex could be managed, of course. He simply needed to stay on task and not allow himself to be distracted by memories—fond or otherwise.

  Difficult to do when the very sight of the pub catapulted him backward in time to his childhood, when Langdon, Dash, and he would creep from the manor house and run for their very lives across the shadowed grounds to the pub. They could not go in, being so young. Still, they did steal longing looks through the leaded windows, desperate for their chance to join the laughing patrons inside.

  Two men, looking fresh from the fields, dusty and thirsty, walked around Nicholas and into the pub, the bells on the front door ringing merrily as they pushed it open. He caught a bit of raucous conversation and a burst of the tantalizing aroma of simmering beef and potatoes before the door thudded closed behind the two.

  He looked in the direction of the manor house but it wasn’t visible from where he stood. The sprawling grounds that surrounded it kept the estate separated from the town and its inhabitants. He could feel its presence, though. The almost overwhelming awareness threatened to send him riding back to London.

  Nicholas felt like a coward. And a fool. If Sophia’s assumptions were incorrect, they’d have both made the trip to Petworth for no gain and a very high emotional cost.

  A couple emerged from the door of the Star, both smiling kindly at Nicholas as they turned and strolled arm in arm up the high street.

  He was even more of a fool for standing in the middle of the street, Nicholas realized, swearing under his breath.

  He raked his fingers through his windblown hair and strode quickly to the pub’s door. Turning the brass knob, he stepped inside. The mouthwatering smell of hearty food once again teased his nostrils as he entered, and he looked about for an available table. Finding none, Nicholas continued on to the bar at the back of the low-ceilinged room and settled in next to an elderly man. The man’s dog, a handsome black and white border collie, lay dozing at his feet, his paws muddy from what had probably been a good, long walk.

  “What’ll you have, sir?” the barkeep asked as he refilled the farmer’s tankard. The thick, foamy ale poured into the glass and nearly spilled over the rim.

  “I’ll have what he’s having and a plate of whatever your cook has prepared,” Nicholas replied.

  The barkeep nodded and reached for a tankard, filling it to the brim and setting it down on the polished bar in front of Nicholas. “I’ll be right back with your stew.”

  He disappeared through a door, presumably where the kitchen and fragrant stew were kept.

  “The best stew you’ll have in all of Sussex,” the man beside him offered in a gravelly voice, turning stiffly to face Nicholas. He winced and rubbed at his right shoulder, letting out a soft grunt of pain.

  The dog sat up and nosed his master with concern. “Ah, it’s all right now, Pilot. Only my achy bones.”

  “Pilot, is it?” Nicholas asked, holding out his hand for the dog to sniff. “He’s a handsome one, your Pilot.”

  The dog sniffed warily at Nicholas’s hand, then licked his palm, tail wagging.

  “Sweet talk always works with good ol’ Pilot,” the man remarked, smiling widely and revealing a mouthful of chipped and worn teeth.

  Nicholas returned the smile, glad to be distracted. “I’m Nicholas. Nicholas Bourne.” He held out his hand and waited.

  The man stopped rubbing his shoulder and gripped Nicholas’s hand with surprising strength in his gnarled, calloused hand. “Joseph Wends. And ’tis a pleasure to meet you.”

  The barkeep returned with a steaming bowl of stew and a plate holding a crusty round of fresh brown bread.

  “Join me, Joseph,” Nicholas suggested.

  The man waved his hand dismissively. “I better not. Pilot would have nothing to do with me if I ate stew and he didn’t.”

  “Barkeep,” Nicholas said to the young man just as he started to turn away. “Bring us two more bowls of stew, won’t you? One for my friend Joseph, and one for Pilot.”

  “Perfectly good stew for a dog?” the barkeep protested. “Well, it’s your money, I suppose.” He shrugged his shoulders as if to suggest Nicholas was mad, and then returned to the kitchen.

  Joseph clapped Nicholas on the back. “Aye, you’ll have a friend for life now—and not just the dog.”

  Nicholas laughed and saluted the old man with his tankard. “I should hope so.”

  The barkeep returned with the bowls of stew and plates of bread, setting them in front of Joseph. “I’ll not be serving your dog, Joseph Wends. And that’s that.”

  Nicholas chuckled, joined this time by Joseph.

  “I suppose he wouldn’t like it if I gave Pilot a stool to sit on and let him eat at the bar, then?” Joseph asked, grinning.

  The nagging unease that had plagued Nicholas since he left London calmed with the easy banter and he took a pull of ale. “No, I suppose not.” He reached for the third steaming bowl and bent down, setting the stew in front of Pilot.

  “Here’s to ye,” Joseph said, picking up his tankard and raising it in salute.

  Nicholas joined him and the two tossed down a healthy amount of ale, wiping the foam from their upper lips with the back of their hands before moving on to their stew.

  “Now, seeing as you’ve done me the kindness of buying me a meal, I feel it’s only proper that you tell me about yourself, Mr. Bourne.”

  The unease returned as Nicholas scrambled to compose a suitable story. “I’m afraid there’s little to tell, really. I’m just up from London and passing through Petworth on my way to visit a great-aunt in Fernhurst.”

  “So you’ve never visited our fine part of the country, then?” Joseph asked as he forked a
chunk of beef covered with gravy into his mouth.

  “Never,” Nicholas confirmed effortlessly, glancing down at Pilot.

  “Well, you must stay a few days before traveling on,” Joseph said, taking a quick swig of ale. “If only to see the manor house.”

  Nicholas nearly choked on a bite of carrot and coughed, swallowing hard. “Is that right?”

  “Oh yes. It’s a grand house, it is. And the estate has the biggest herd of red deer in all of England,” Joseph explained, poking about the stew with his fork. “I worked at the manor house from the time I was a boy until ten years ago when I retired. Still live on the property. Well, the edge of the property, anyway.”

  Nicholas did not have to do the calculations to know that Joseph would have been employed by the Aftons at the time of her ladyship’s death. “Surely the family would rather be left alone than have a bachelor poking about their home.”

  Joseph set down his fork and reached for a piece of bread, his infectious smile replaced by a somber frown. “Oh, Mr. Bourne, the family hasn’t been in residence for more years than I can count. A tragedy, there was, at the manor. The lady of the house was murdered—right under her own roof, if you can believe it. After that, well,” he paused, slathering creamy butter on a thick slice of bread, “I suppose her husband and the girl couldn’t bear to stay there.”

  “That is a tragedy,” Nicholas replied truthfully. “And the murderer?”

  “Never caught,” Joseph said with finality, then ripped the bread in half and threw a chunk to Pilot. “And now some say the lady of the house haunts Petworth Manor, on account of never being avenged. I’ve not seen her myself, but if it were me, I’d be raising a ruckus. She was a fair and decent woman, her ladyship—more than I can say for some of the people who visited the manor. She always treated the help with kindness; made us feel appreciated, you see.”

  Nicholas watched Pilot devour the bread in one bite then wait expectantly for his master to throw more. “I do, Joseph. That I do.”