by Jaima Fixsen
They exchanged smiles.
“Five minutes,” her father said. “I’ll be waiting outside the door. Coming Jasper?”
Jasper followed without a word.
Alistair crossed over to the sofa. “Come sit by me,” he commanded.
Sophy obeyed, wondering if she would strangle on his beneficence.
“I’ve always thought you an endearing little rogue,” he said, moving closer and trapping her against the arm of the sofa. “It’s all right. I did not act so well either. Better if we had been honest with each other from the first.” He gave her plait a little tug, then brushed it over her shoulder.
“Why do you want to marry me?” Sophy said, too frayed to conceal her distress. A tear slipped out of her eye and ran down her nose. “Is it the money?”
“Partly. But there are other ladies I could choose. Of them all, I like you the best Sophy. A man would have to be a fool to tire of you. I have not been wise, perhaps, but I do not think I am a fool.”
He had chosen her like he might choose a horse or a hat. She sat, unmoving, as he drew out his handkerchief and wiped the tear off the end of her nose. “Of everyone, I believe I mind this fracas least. You had him well and truly fooled, my dear. It was quite entertaining. I think it will be best though, if you don’t entertain me in this way again.”
Sophy swiped her nose with the edge of her shawl, scowling bitterly into her lap. “I am so pleased you find it amusing. That makes my heart’s breaking all worthwhile.”
He raised her chin with his thumb. “Truly Sophy? Is your heart breaking?”
“Can’t you tell?” She let her voice rise, trying to hit him with her words. He did not retaliate. Gently he smoothed her hair, shushing her like a young child. “You’ll find that hearts can break and mend an astonishing number of times, little one. Sometimes even with the same person. If you give me the pieces, I will do what I can to make you whole.
“Tell me the truth, now,” he said. “You never kissed him?”
“I told my father everything. You’re the only one who has done that.”
“And he was not pleased to learn of it,” he chuckled. “I like that color in your cheeks, Sophy. It tempts me to be disagreeable more often.”
“I dare say if we marry, we shall find each other very disagreeable,” Sophy retorted. “It won’t work, Alistair.”
“There’s no reason it should not. You are too young for your affections to be fixed. This infatuation will pass, and indeed, our marriage will probably be better for your experience. First love is like the measles—a hot rash that one is stronger for surviving. You will not find me a bad husband and you will learn to love me well enough.”
“You cannot be certain.”
He gave her a flat look. “Nothing is certain.” He shifted closer. “But I think I have seen somewhat more of the world than you.”
Cornered by the sofa, she could not move away. Alistair set his hand on her cheek, brushing her lower lip with his thumb. She turned her head away, pressing her lips firmly together.
“As you please,” Alistair said, dropping his hand. “It is too late for you to have him. Go to bed then. You will feel better once you have watered your pillow. I will see you in the morning.”
He was all politeness, escorting her out the door. Sophy did not meet her father’s eye and hurried to the stairs. Jasper was nowhere to be seen.
Upstairs, she sat on the edge of her bed, heedless of the cold. She thought and listened, and thought some more. A biddable girl would gratefully accept what Alistair and her family offered, but that wasn’t how she was made. Maybe it was because she’d been born of unlawful passion, but whatever the reason, Sophy knew she could not subdue her unruly heart.
When the house was quiet, she began to dress. It was difficult in the dark. She had no idea what color stockings she wore. Her dress and petticoat, fastening up the back, probably took her a half hour. She donned a spencer, bonnet, gloves and her sturdiest boots. Rolling up a second dress and a change of underclothes—they would be a mass of creases, but that was a small concern—she tucked them in an empty bandbox. Toothbrush, hair ribbons, nightdress: she stuffed them in the box along with any gewgaws she could sell.
She tiptoed through the house, unbolted the front door, and let herself outside. There was a chance, albeit a slim one, that her golden future was yet possible. But even if it was not, she would not marry Alistair. It was time she made a life of her own.
Dawn was not far away. Tired folk shambled along, heading to the day’s labors. She was barely ahead of the baker’s boys and milkmen, busy already with deliveries.
I will be like them, she thought. If this doesn’t work, I will be like them and they do not look unhappy. She would have liked to say goodbye to Jasper, and to thank Lady Fairchild, but they would not have understood or allowed her to go.
The sun was up when she reached the building with Tom’s offices. She had needed to ask directions numerous times. Though she had driven through the city, she had never walked it before and was more frightened now than when she had left the house. There were so many people, all with very little. Would they make room for her to join their ranks?
Tom’s offices were as she had imagined, a plain, solid block of a building, bearing the sign ‘Bagshot and Son, Trading’ in yellow letters on black. The door was locked and no lights were on, but when she cupped her eyes and put her face against the window, she could see the reception counter and the high desks for a host of clerks behind it. Heedless of the dusty brick, she settled against the building to wait.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Blue-deviled
How long he walked, he did not know. But when Tom let himself in his front door, his eyes fell on the letter waiting for him in the hall.
He had forgotten it entirely. Without thinking, he tore it open. It was too late to be surprised by her confession; he only felt humiliated, remembering her fiancé-cousin’s leering face. Damn her. He banged his fist into the table, nearly toppling his waiting candle, which was almost burned to the socket. Snatching up the stub, he stormed into the library, lit himself a fire and poured himself a drink. The letter he threw into the fire; himself he threw into a chair, so he could scowl and nurse his brandy.
He would have woken in his chair in front of a dead fire with an empty glass in his slack hand if not for his valet. Because of Martin, he woke in his own bed, in a nightshirt, even. He could not recall how this miracle had come to pass.
Too sullen to feel embarrassed, as he normally would, Tom told himself Martin had probably enjoyed handling him in such a docile state. The real question was if he would ever be able to get himself out of bed. On the whole, he thought it unlikely. He rolled over and pulled a pillow over his ears.
It didn’t prevent him from hearing someone creeping up the stairs, with a tread as heavy as a giant’s. “Go away!” he shouted, wincing as his head rang like a clapped bell. “And for heaven’s sake, be quiet!”
Hitching the bedcovers over his shoulders, he tried to go back to sleep. Not a squeak came from inside. It was the street noise that hammered his head now. Normally he couldn’t sleep without it, but today, each vibration rattled him. Fish sellers, rumbling carriage wheels — damnation! It was impossible for a man to get any peace. His mouth felt like a piece of dusty carpet. Blearily cracking an eye open, he eventually focused on the can of steaming water waiting on his washstand. Muttering that there was no help for it, Tom staggered out of bed.
Pressing a warm cloth on his face helped, as did Martin, materializing wordlessly with a cup of coffee.
“You may as well help me dress,” Tom grumbled. He was expected at his office.
“I’ll have your breakfast sent up first?”
His stomach rebelled, but he ought to eat something, to at least pretend this was an ordinary day. “Just a roll. And more coffee,” he said, setting down the cup and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, catching the ruffled linen cuff of the nightshirt. Martin winc
ed.
“Your pardon, sir, but I would recommend something more substantial. My last employer, Sir Timothy Blanding— well, he used to dip deeply and often. Took some time, but I learned how to get him going the next morning. If I might suggest the same?”
“You are optimistic, Martin,” Tom said. “I’m sure it’s nearly noon. But very well.” By the time his tray arrived, he was starving, and he made decent work of the plate of cold ham. He thumbed through the morning paper, noting on the second page that the Americans had declared war after all.
Skipping over the society announcements a name stopped him like a slap. Shaking out the page, he peered more closely, stunned they had acted so fast.
Lord Fairchild announces the engagement of his ward, Sophia Prescott to Captain Alistair Beaumaris, of the 2nd Life Guards.
He tossed the paper aside, spilling his coffee. “Martin!”
His valet appeared in the doorway like a jack-in-the-box. “Yes, sir?”
“I’ve made a mess. Clear this away, won’t you? I should get on my way.” He wanted to tear the paper to shreds, to knock out Beaumaris’s teeth, to march over to Fairchild house—and what? Heap curses on the Rushfords? Box her ears? Don’t be such a fool, he told himself.
Flying out the door, his head pounding like a drum, Tom grimaced against the glare and pulled down the brim of his hat. Not a hackney, he decided. It would do him good to walk, even if it did take an age. There was solace in action. He did not want to examine what lay underneath his seething fury.
It took him a good hour, but Tom arrived at his offices at last, walking through the rows of clerks without a sideways glance. “Mr. Bagshot—” began his secretary, but he kept walking, removing his hat, stripping off his left glove.
“In a moment, Smith. Give me a moment.”
Smith dropped his gaze to the sheaf of papers clutched in his hands and backed away. Tom gave a self-disgusted huff. He wasn’t fit to speak to others, even after an hour of charging through crowds. Smith didn’t deserve his temper.
Letting himself into his private office, he winced and raised a hand to his eyes. Someone had opened the blinds, letting the summer sun pour through the windows. Sharp words gathered in his mouth; already it was warm in the room. By evening the heat would be intolerable. Besides, the light made his head want to split open. He blinked, still shielding his eyes, and realized he was not alone. A woman was sitting in the chair by the window.
It was Sophy.
She was dressed oddly, in a plain brown walking dress, nothing like the fragile confections she wore walking to the library or the dashing habits she wore riding in the park. Her bonnet rested in her lap, made of plain straw, with ribbon to match the dress. It didn’t matter that she was dressed like a farmer’s daughter; her hair was like fire in the sunlight.
His feet stopped working. Acting on reflex, he grabbed the door frame before his momentum caused him to stumble. “What are you doing here?”
She flinched under his verbal attack but squared her shoulders with her next breath. Tempted to turn on his heel and slam the door, Tom reminded himself that this was his office, his building, his turf. He let the door swing closed, stepping into the room and folding his arms, repeating his question by raising his brows.
“Did you never get my letter?” she asked.
He let out an angry snort. “I did. But not until after I had the pleasure of dining with your brother and learning the truth from him. Your fiancé was also present. Surely they told you?” He watched her turn crimson, glad to see her ashamed.
“Alistair is not my fiancé,” she said.
“That’s not what I read in the morning paper.” What was printed there was practically carved in stone. Freeing himself from her stare, he stalked to his chair and sat down at the desk, letting his hands busy themselves with the papers lying on the blotter. “Was there anything else?”
“I’d almost given you up,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for hours, before your secretary came even.”
“Smith did not offer you any refreshment?” His words were polite, but his expression unconcerned as he pretended to read a letter. His eyes darted across the page without seeing the words.
“I was not hungry,” she said, becoming angry. “I came to apologize. Which is what I’m trying to do. I wanted to tell you, often. But I never could. I liked you too much and couldn’t bear for you to hate me.”
He ignored the trembling in her voice and picked up a knife to sharpen his pen. “Lies make me angry. But it is a relief, knowing the girl I loved was mere fiction. With you it always was madness. Happily, truth has cured my infatuation.”
He said nothing more, sensing but not seeing her deflate. She waited. He set down the knife, swept aside the shavings and drew out a fresh sheet of paper. At last she rose, tying on her bonnet and saying with awful politeness, “I see it’s no use. Please convey my apologies to your mother. Good-bye, Mr. Bagshot.”
“Good-bye, Miss—” he stopped, realizing he couldn’t remember her real name.
“Prescott,” she filled in, pausing at the door. She had a bandbox in her hand that he hadn’t noticed before. “I am Miss Prescott. Please, tell me why you despise me. Is it because I am a liar, or because I am a bastard?”
Tom looked up and set down his pen. She was still beautiful, straight and strong as Diana, outlined against the dark wood of his door. He hated her for being beautiful, for making it almost impossible to keep his hands steady and his voice cool. “Both, I imagine,” he said, seized with the desire to wound her. “I’m afraid I’ve never succeeded in divorcing myself from the bourgeois morals of my birth. Good-day.”
Her flinch was slight, but unmistakeable. White her face went, leached of all color. She looked sick, her expression stabbing Tom in the gut. She drew a quick breath. “I thought my birth wouldn’t matter to you. That to you, I was myself and nothing more. I see now it will never happen. Thank you for reminding me. I will not need to pretend anymore.”
She stopped on the threshold and Tom saw that the door had fallen partly open. A crowd of clerks blocked her path, witnesses to this last, dreadful exchange. He could not move, watching helplessly as her simple skirts swayed above her retreating boot heels. At once his employees resumed speaking, their words burying the sound of her footsteps. Still, he felt each one reverberate through him until she must have passed into the street.
Only then did he jump to his feet, rushing outside, dodging through the crowd, straining for a glimpse of her. Twice he thought he sighted her, but was deceived by a similar looking bonnet. She must have started running once she left the building. She was gone.
Drumming an angry rhythm against his right thigh with a closed fist, he returned inside. Smith was saying something, apologizing for not telling him that the lady—the woman—was waiting. Shutting his ears, Tom waved his words aside, dropping bonelessly into his chair, staring like a lost man out the window, aware of each painful breath, each eye rasping blink.
He set his head in his hands, scrubbing his fingers through his hair, as if it could rub away the taint of his words and the thing he had done. He had wanted to hurt her. Well, he certainly had.
Smith’s rising voice penetrated his thoughts at last. He looked up to see him bursting through the door, breathless and red-faced, with Jasper Rushford at his heels.
“I told him you were busy, Mr. Bagshot! He would not wait! He shoved past me and—”
Jasper scowled. “This fool would not let me by. Nearly lost my hat trying to go round him. Whether you want to or not, I’ll see you, Bagshot. Been looking for you all day. They’ve turned me away from your house. Twice!”
“What do you want?” Tom groaned. “You can go, Smith.” Smith didn’t hesitate, vanishing through the door like a wisp.
“I’m looking for Sophy, dammit!” Jasper said, slamming his fist onto the desk. “Where is she?”
“She left. I tried to follow her, but I lost her in the street.”
“You dog! You
lured her here after all! If you weren’t such a commoner I’d call you out! I’ll have to beat you purple instead!” Throwing down his cane, Jasper yanked at his gloves.
Tom scowled. “I didn’t know she was here! I got here not half an hour ago! She was waiting here alone all day. Ask Smith, if you don’t believe me.”
“A likely story! Why weren’t you here? How would she even know this place?”
“Take a damper,” Tom snapped. “Or I’ll put your lights out. I wasn’t here because I was in bed, dead drunk. And I have no notion how she found this building. I never told her of it!”
Jasper stopped, pinching his lips together. His eyes darted left, right, then back to Tom. “My apologies. I believe it may have been I. Who told her, I mean. Dammit, why didn’t you keep her here? Now how am I going to find her?”
“Go home, I expect.”
“Confound it!” Jasper crashed both fists onto the desk, knocking over the inkstand. “She’s not going back there. That’s the problem. First time I came round your house was to ask you to keep mum. Second time my father sent me to find her. She’s run away! We thought for certain she was running away with you!”
Was that why she had come? Remembering the bandbox in her hand, he passed a clammy hand over his forehead. “She had a box with her.”
“Yes, I know,” Jasper said. “And you didn’t ask her to elope with you?’
“Of course not!” Tom snapped.
Jasper’s face turned a violent purple. “Well, why the hell not? She’s bloody in love with you!”
“Hah! She lied to me! Spun me a banbury tale— ”
“Flummery,” Jasper snorted. “Lord, you’re tight-laced for a cit. Who do you think you are? A patroness of Almack’s? It was a stupid prank, nothing more! She’s just a scrap of a girl. How was she to see her way out? Here she is, not even eighteen, running away from her family and a good marriage to make her own way in the world and you don’t even propose to her? You’re telling me you’ve been exchanging letters with her, meeting her at masquerade balls, everything too smoky by half, and you don’t even love her? At least if you’d offered her a carte blanche I could kill you! And it’d save me from having to hunt through every quarter of London. Dashed if I know where to find her.
