by Claudia Dain
He was shown directly into the white salon, where the blanc de Chine cup that was the reason for the salon was missing. In its place was a celadon vase of quite exquisite design. Edenham knew the origin of the blanc de Chine cup; he did not know the origin of the celadon porcelain. He was not a man who endured being kept in the dark about important changes such as these, with a woman such as Sophia Dalby.
“You’re early, darling,” Sophia said as he took a seat opposite her on one of the matching sofas in the room. “There is nothing more charming than a man who so promptly pays off his wagers.”
“In ready money, too,” he said, handing her a small bundle of gold coins. “Count it, if you wish.”
“Oh, I shall,” she said with a twinkle in her dark eyes. “There is nothing quite so delicious as the feel of gold between my fingers.”
They sat opposite each other. The celadon vase gleamed on a low table between them, a spark of color in a room nearly glowing white.
“I see you have a new bit of porcelain, Lady Dalby,” he said. “Another payment for another wager?”
“Not at all,” she said, putting the bundle down next to the vase, her bodice dipping slightly as she leaned forward. Edenham appreciated the effort, and indeed, enjoyed the view. “It was a gift.”
“For services rendered?”
“Edenham, you are too coarse by half. Why, I do wonder where you get such ideas.”
“Do you?”
Sophia smiled and leaned back against the cushions. “Darling Edenham, if you want to know something, why not simply ask? I have very few secrets.”
“But the ones you do have are so very intriguing,” he said, studying her face.
He’d known Sophia for years. They were close in age, though not at all close in experience, either shared or otherwise. He had never known the sweetness of lying betwixt her legs; indeed, he had no wish to. He was, perhaps, one of the few men who could say that, not that he would ever admit so publicly. No, he was not such a fool, for a fool is what would be thought of any man not eager to bed Sophia Dalby.
It was not that he did not find her beautiful, for she was and he was not blind to beauty in any form. It was that he had so very few friends and he counted Sophia as one of them, though he could not think why. They shared no intimacies of any sort. He did not know her secrets, nor did she know his. It was, perhaps, that she did not hold him in either awe or fear, and that was worth more to him than he would have thought possible ten years past.
Perhaps, studying her now, her expression curious, clearly waiting for him to entertain her and even delight her, if he could manage it, she valued the same things in him. He respected her, who she was and what she had accomplished, but he did not fear her. Very many people did. And they were right to do so.
“There is very little point to having a dull secret, Edenham. It defeats the point entirely,” she said with a smile. “Shall I guess it?”
Edenham left off his musings and chuckled, enjoying his exchanges with Sophia as he did with few others. “Guess? I’ve all but told you. The blanc de Chine cup is missing. Another priceless porcelain from China in its place. Did Westlin give you this one, too?”
Sophia grinned and said, “Darling, why should Lord Westlin give me anything more? He has given me his son, by way of my daughter. That is more than enough to satisfy me.”
“You returned the porcelain to him then? It was worth a small fortune. I had no idea you were so generous. Certainly there isn’t a single rumor to that effect.”
“It was worth a very large fortune, darling,” she said, taking a sip of her tea. “Let’s be honest about it. It was quite generous of me to return it, true, but then, the need for it had disappeared entirely. Caroline is to be the next Countess of Westlin, once dreary Lord Westlin dies. What need have I for a small cup? He was more than welcome to it, though I must confess he did seem surprised that I returned it to him. Perhaps he is the one who started the rumor that I am not generous? I certainly think it sounds like something he would do.”
“You could have kept it. I’m quite surprised you didn’t,” he said, taking a swallow of tea, studying her across the rim of his cup.
“Everything has its uses, darling, and when its use is fulfilled,” she said softly, gazing serenely into his eyes, “why not be rid of it? I do enjoy a simple solution, don’t you?”
Edenham smiled mildly and shook his head at her. “There is nothing simple about you, Sophia, and it is far too late to pretend so now. Are you going to tell me about this celadon vase or shall I be forced to place a wager on White’s book as to its origin?”
“Why, it’s Chinese, Edenham, as you can plainly see,” Sophia teased. “As to who gave it to me, I don’t think I shall tell you. Keeping this a mystery to you is far more entertaining than telling you could possibly be. See what happens when you push too hard? All is denied you.”
“Dear Sophia,” Edenham said, grinning like a boy, he was certain, “I can assure you that never in my life have I pushed too hard and been denied. Quite the contrary.”
And it was on that rather ribald note that Sophia’s butler, Fredericks, entered the room and informed Sophia that she had a caller.
Mr. George and Miss Penelope Prestwick were admitted nearly immediately. By the startled look on Fredericks’s face, they stood upon his very heels.
“Miss Prestwick,” Sophia said serenely, “what a surprise to see you again so soon, but how lovely of you to have brought your darling brother along. Mr. Prestwick, you are looking marvelous. Quite recovered from the ball you hosted, obviously.”
“I find myself hardly taxed at all, Lady Dalby,” Mr. Prestwick said cordially. “But then, I do think it is a woman’s domain to be overtaxed by social tides and streams, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I most certainly would not,” Miss Prestwick said, flashing a dark look at her brother as she sat upon an elegantly proportioned chair. Mr. Prestwick smiled cordially and sat in a matching chair next to her. “I can’t think how you came to such a conclusion, George, as I am not so fragile as that a ball would overwhelm me. Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Dalby?”
Sophia smiled as she poured out two more cups of tea and passed them gracefully to Mr. George and Miss Penelope Prestwick. “Miss Prestwick, I can’t think how anyone would ever conclude that you are the least bit fragile. Brothers, excluded, naturally. It is very nearly common knowledge that brothers are very nearly imbeciles when it comes to understanding their sisters, even if they understand all other women very well indeed. You have a sister, do you not, your grace?”
“As it happens, I do,” Edenham answered pleasantly. Miss Prestwick did not look at all pleased by his admission, which was quite amusing.
“And do you find her fragile?”
“Not in the slightest,” Edenham said, taking a slow swallow of his tea to seal the statement.
“Not highly emotional, perhaps a bit irrational?” Sophia continued.
“Well,” Edenham hedged, shifting his weight upon the sofa, “perhaps occasionally, but certainly not as a matter of habit.”
“And there you are,” Sophia said, looking pointedly at Miss Prestwick, who was a quite attractive girl. “As I am cordially acquainted with Lady Richard, Edenham’s sister, I can assure you that she is not irrational in the least particular. You, darling Edenham, are just the slightest bit deluded about your darling sister, which is perfectly normal. Don’t bother about it in the least. You are quite astute in all other matters, I’m quite certain. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Prestwick?”
A most odd turn to the conversation, to be sure, but Edenham, quite relaxed, sat back against the cushions and waited to see what would happen next. It would have quite a bit to do with Miss Prestwick, of that he was certain. Sophia seemed to attract these young things like bees to honey.
Miss Prestwick, to her immense credit, did not blush, though perhaps her generally dark coloring was more to be credited than her composure. Her skin was quite a lovely shade of dark crea
m, from her throat to her forehead, with just a suggestion of rose pink in her cheeks. Quite a lovely looking girl, now that he took his time about studying her.
“I am sorry to admit that I don’t know his grace well enough to have formed an opinion,” Miss Prestwick said serenely. “I am more than happy to take your estimation of his general character as genuine and without fault, Lady Dalby. I hope that does not distress you, your grace?” she said, turning her gaze fully to his.
“As it has been decided that brothers are imbeciles where their sisters are concerned,” Edenham said, “it does not. In fact, I think it highly logical and very nearly a compliment for a man to see his sister in an entirely different light than he sees all other women. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Prestwick?”
George Prestwick, very nearly a mirror image of his sister with his dark hair and eyes and general arrangement of features, smiled and answered, “As this exercise in logic has resulted in a compliment to me, then I most heartily agree, your grace. Thank you, Lady Dalby. I had heard that you were most charming and now I can see why. I have never been called an imbecile with quite so much grace in my entire life. I can go quite contentedly on now, a happy imbecile, which is quite the way it should be, shouldn’t it?”
It was at that rather oddly pleasant remark that Fredericks entered the white salon with slightly more force than was expected of a butler and informed Lady Dalby in the most amused fashion imaginable that she had two more callers and was she in?
She was most assuredly in.
Whereupon Fredericks allowed the Marquis of Iveston and the Earl of Cranleigh into the white salon. Miss Prestwick looked quite nearly shocked.
How perfectly amusing. Edenham hadn’t been so entertained in a six month. He couldn’t think why he’d been hiding away at Sutton Hall, his primary estate, when there was so much amusement to be had in Town. From the look which Sophia cast in his direction, it was more than obvious that she was of the same thought in the same instant. And was not above taking great pleasure in displaying that his seclusion, and his reasons for it, had been completely absurd.
And he was not above finding amusement in being very nearly publicly chided for what, in some circles, might be called morbid mourning. In point of fact, he had overheard his pastry chef say exactly that to his housekeeper. He had left for Town that very week.
“What a lovely surprise,” Sophia said as they all stood to greet each other.
The men bowed.
The women curtseyed.
They sank back into their seats, Cranleigh and Iveston sitting side by side upon a settee done up in white velvet with pale blue braided trim. They looked uncomfortable, particularly as Cranleigh had an awkwardly shaped parcel that he was trying to hold as unobtrusively as possible. It was hardly possible.
“I had not thought to find you still in Town, Lord Cranleigh. No wedding trip? I shan’t believe it. And Lord Iveston,” Sophia continued, without waiting for Cranleigh to answer, which clearly annoyed him, which was dreadfully amusing, was it not? “I do believe that this is the first time you have ever visited Dalby House. I am most, most delighted that you have done so, though I cannot think what has spurred you to action now … although, do confess,” Sophia said, smiling broadly, her dark eyes glittering, “can it be the lovely Miss Prestwick who has lured you out and about and into my salon? Can it be that she has done what no other woman has done before her? Are you smitten, Lord Iveston? Is it love?”
Well. What to say to that?
Iveston, clearly, did not know what to say. He looked, to be blunt, quite as chilly as November rain. Cranleigh looked hot to bursting, but he also said nothing.
Miss Prestwick was not so hampered.
“I do think, Lady Dalby,” she said stiffly, “that as it is his first visit to you, you should not make Lord Iveston the butt of what is an obviously ill-conceived jest.”
“Then,” Sophia said innocently, a bit of acting far beyond her reach, “you did not come over from Hyde House together?”
Edenham snapped his gaze back to Miss Prestwick, as well as to Iveston. All at Hyde House? They did have a rather guilty look, now that the question had been put to them.
“Absolutely not,” Iveston said, shifting his long legs, and then shifting them again. He could not seem to find a comfortable position, likely because Cranleigh was equally tall and the settee was not overly large.
“But why didn’t you come together? How perfectly ridiculous,” Sophia said crisply. “You were all at Hyde House not a half hour ago, were you not?”
She did not wait for a reply. It was clear that none was needed.
“And now you are here,” Sophia said, driving home the point, which was perfectly unnecessary. But what had they all been doing there and what now were they all doing here? It was a question he should not mind an answer to. The fact that Sophia had known of Miss Prestwick’s appointment at Hyde House … well, that did put a very particular spin on things, didn’t it?
“I was merely returning—” Miss Prestwick began, then caught herself at Sophia’s raised brows. “An item of no particular interest to anyone here, to Lady Amelia.”
“And did you?” Sophia prompted.
Miss Prestwick looked most uneager to answer. Cranleigh, Prestwick, and Iveston were all staring at her in a nearly accusatory fashion.
“I believe it was given to the butler. I am confident he will make certain she gets it,” Miss Prestwick said primly.
“As to getting things,” Cranleigh said, interjecting himself into the stilted and mysterious battle between Sophia and Penelope Prestwick, “I came for a similar reason, Lady Dalby, though I suppose I could have left this with your butler.”
“But as it is a gift,” Iveston said smoothly, “he was not at all disposed to do so.”
Iveston looked askance at Penelope, his visage stony. Penelope looked stonily, and a bit dismissively, back at Iveston.
What on earth had happened at Hyde House in the past half hour? It looked not unlike some romantic entanglement was afoot between Lord Iveston and Miss Prestwick, which did make such sense as both were unmarried and at that point in life where marriage was a near certainty. On the other hand, it did not seem at all logical that three sons of the same father should find themselves married within the same Season. The odds were flagrantly against it.
Where odds were concerned, Edenham was well aware that Sophia Dalby was not to be discounted. Indeed, the odds, no matter how rigorously stacked against logic, invariably fell her way. Toppled, one might even say. Edenham crossed his legs and watched the entertainment currently under way in the white salon of Dalby House, wondering if there were a bet on White’s book and what the odds were on an Iveston-Prestwick pairing.
By the frozen looks of complete indifference they were hurling at each other at the moment, he’d put them at eight to one.
“A gift?” Sophia exclaimed in obvious delight. “But I can’t think why you should offer me a gift, Lord Cranleigh. I shouldn’t have thought we were as intimate as all that.”
Cranleigh, who did have the reputation for having the grimmest temperament, and who should have been expected to respond with some dismal and dismissive comment, chuckled. It was quite stunning. Marriage to Lady Amelia clearly agreed with him completely.
“It is,” Cranleigh said, unwrapping the parcel with great care, “something of a family tradition, or shall be, I fear.” Which made not a bit of sense to Edenham, nor to Mr. and Miss Prestwick to judge by their expressions, but which caused Sophia to grin fully and most, most delightedly. “I hope it pleases you, Lady Dalby. I trust you understand the reason behind the gift.”
And upon those words, Cranleigh revealed the most exquisite Chinese vase in the most extraordinarily vivid shade of blue.
“Cranleigh, it is a most generous gift,” Sophia said brightly, “and I would tell you that I am hardly worthy of it, but it is so lovely that I must and I will toss all civility onto the street. It is marvelous, darling. I don’t feel I
deserve it, but I will cherish it all my life. Thank you, Lord Cranleigh,” she finished, her voice gone soft and, startlingly, quite sincere.
“It is quite beautiful, isn’t it?” Lord Iveston said, his expression very nearly wistful. “That blue, it’s very nearly the exact shade of Lady Amelia’s eyes, is it not?”
“It is not,” Cranleigh said stiffly as Sophia took the vase from his hands and admired it. “Amelia’s eyes are the precise shade of the China Sea on a sun-drenched day. How peculiar that you didn’t notice that, Iveston.”
“As I have not seen the China Sea,” Iveston remarked mildly, “I should perhaps be allowed some latitude.”
“The color of the China Sea?” Miss Prestwick said slowly and not at all happily, perhaps because her own eyes were the precise shading of a lump of coal? Not unattractive, but still, not the China Sea either. “I had no idea you were so well traveled, Lord Cranleigh. Have you been to China often?”
“Only once, I’m afraid. I had thought to return, but—”
“He got himself married instead,” Iveston interrupted cordially, ignoring the Prestwicks completely. It was most entertaining. “Have you traveled widely, your grace?” Miss Prestwick asked him.
Before he could answer, Sophia said, still studying her rectangular-shaped vase, “How could he have done, Miss Prestwick, when he is forever getting married again and again?”
“And again,” Edenham added with a smirk. “Thrice. I do think accuracy must be maintained, Lady Dalby. Have you traveled, Miss Prestwick?” he asked. What was Sophia about, to manhandle the girl so? It wasn’t at all like her. Sophia was, as everyone knew, far more subtle.
“I’m afraid not, your grace, though I should think I would enjoy it,” Miss Prestwick said, looking as eager and compliant as all proper girls should look. It did become somewhat tiresome as a steady diet.
“Perhaps on your wedding trip, Penelope,” George Prestwick said brightly.
“Oh, are you planning your wedding trip already?” Sophia said. “Have the groom in mind, do you? Do I know him?”
