# Regency Rebels: Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss / An Improper Aristocrat

Deb Marlowe

Hearts and reputations at stake…Reformed rake Charles Alden, Viscount Dayle, is intent on redeeming his misspent youth. But then he meets Sophie Westby, the last woman who should attract his interest. Yet she comforts his battered spirit and tempts him with her exotic beauty. But can this lord risk another scandal? Can an improper aristocrat become a gentleman?The scandalous Earl of Treyford has no time for the pretty niceties of the ton. He has returned to England to aid an “ageing” spinster facing an undefined danger. But Miss Latimer’s dark and sultry beauty, her fascinating mix of knowledge and innocence, arouse far more than his protective instincts. Two classic and delightful Regency tales!

## About the Author

DEB MARLOWE grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she’s read enough romances to recognise the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party—even though he wore a tuxedo T-shirt instead of breeches and tall boots. They married, settled in North Carolina, and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys.

Though she spends much of her time now with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventure of laundry, dinner and car-pool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She’s working on it. Deb would love to hear from readers! You can contact her at debmarlowe@debmarlowe.com

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REGENCY DEBUTANTES

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Diane Gaston

REGENCY MISTRESSES

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Deb Marlowe

REGENCY SCANDALS

Sophia James

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Regency

Rebels

Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss

An Improper Aristocrat

Deb Marlowe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

## Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss

Deb Marlowe

To my husband—supporter of dreams and builder of sheds extraordinaire

And to Susan—for cracking her whip and wielding her red whip with flair

## Chapter One


Charles Alden, Viscount Dayle, sank into his favourite over-stuffed chair in the morning room at White’s. It was early; the porters had not yet let down the awnings and bright light flooded through the floor-to-ceiling window. At his elbow sat a pot of coffee, a plate of muffins, and a pile of papers. He snapped open The Times, sank his teeth into his first, hot, buttery bite and let out a heartfelt sigh.

He revelled in the peace of the morning all the way through the first paper. Unfortunately, peace was a commodity hard to come by anywhere in England in the spring of 1817, even for a viscount. Charles first noticed something amiss as he set aside The Times and reached for the Edinburgh Review.

A space had cleared all about him. The morning room, usually full of gentlemen either beginning one day or ending another, was empty but for a few souls gathered in whispering knots along the walls. One man caught his gaze, blasted him with a look of utter scorn, and stalked out, calling for his hat. A wrench of foreboding seizing his gut, Charles looked up into the sympathetic eye of one of the porters, come to refresh his coffee.

‘Well, Bartlett,’ he said quietly, ‘I can see you are not half so ignorant as I. Tell me.’

Bartlett cleared his throat. ‘I have taken the liberty of adding a copy of today’s Oracle to the stack of your usual papers, my lord. Perhaps you would care to peruse the editorial section?’

‘The Oracle?’ It was little more than a scandal sheet. ‘Thank you, Bartlett.’

Charles picked up the paper with trepidation and turned a few pages until he found the item he sought, directly under a scathing response to Lord Sidmouth’s call against ‘seditious publications’.

Tory Darling or Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing?

They do say that a Reformed Rake makes the Best Husband—but what kind of Politician does he make?

Just such a man is Lord D—, a Rakehell of the First Order, now converted into a Responsible English Peer. Or is he? Based on certain, recent Rumours, We wonder if he has changed pastures only in search of fresh prey.

Lord D—has been seen often lately with the notorious Lady A—on his arm. Perhaps this is not so surprising when one considers his past taste for women of immodest character and her known taste for the rising young members of her husband’s political party. What is surprising is that a man previously known for living on wit and instinct could have fumbled this situation so badly. No other explanation presents itself for yesterday’s dramatic events, when Lord A—returned home unexpectedly only to find a dark-haired gentleman departing the house by route of Lady A—’s bedchamber window.

The lady has reportedly been duly chastised and banished to the country. But as for the gentleman?

It cannot be denied that Lord D—is a man of many talents. Indeed, it is rumoured he is to be groomed for High Office. We at the Oracle cannot help but wonder if the Tories should reconsider the notion. Surely a candidate exists who can demonstrate a higher standard of character. For if the Tories cannot trust Lord D—with their women, then why should they trust him with the Nation?

For a long minute Charles sat rigid with anger. Bloody, damnable hell. Months of hard work. Weeks of toadying. Countless gruelling hours spent constructing a careful façade. All destroyed in a moment with the vicious swipe of an acid pen.

Normal, everyday sounds drifted in from the adjoining rooms: the rustle of freshly ironed papers, the soft clink of china, the low murmur of men whose lives had not just been turned inside out. Charles sat frozen, trying to wrap his mind about the disaster that had befallen him with the turn of a page.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when grizzled Lord Rackham paused behind his chair and thumped him soundly on the shoulder.

‘Just so, my boy!’ the old relic bellowed. ‘Brazen it out. Don’t let them see you with your head down, that’s the wisest course! Tomorrow some bloke will get caught hammering his rocks in someone else’s quarry and they’ll all be talking about that. It will blow over soon enough.’ After another encouraging cuff he stalked off to rejoin his friends, the whole pack of them muttering darkly as they crossed into the coffee room.

With quiet, deliberate movements Charles finished his coffee. Old Lord Rackham had the right of it; he would not let anyone think he was ashamed. Once he had finished he stood, tucked the copy of the Oracle under his arm, and with a flash of a gold coin in Bartlett’s direction, Charles walked out of White’s.

He stood a moment on St James’s Street, dazzled by the bright sun and annoyed at the bustle of traffic. Then he let loose a great laugh. Who in the world did he think he was—the heroine in a gothic novel? Should lightning crack the sky and mere mortals scurry for cover because Viscount Dayle’s political career lay in ruins?

As if in answer, a brisk breeze riffled his hair, and Charles set off towards Mayfair. Who did he think he was? That was the question of the hour—no, of the entire past year—was it not?

There was only one answer. He was Viscount Dayle, a carefully constructed facsimile of the man who should hold the title. And Viscount Dayle was nothing without his political career.

His mind darted from one scenario to the next as he approached Piccadilly, scrambling to come up with some way to salvage the situation. Lost in his own whirlwind of thoughts, he failed to notice both the rising wind and the increasingly strident sound of his own name. It wasn’t until someone grasped his arm that he came awake to his surroundings.

‘Dayle, did you not hear us calling you, man?’ It was Henley and Matthews, two of the more degenerate hangers-on of his old crowd. They were still in their evening clothes and looking the worse for wear. Charles winced. These two would tear him apart after reading that piece.

‘Sorry, chaps. Lost in the fog of my own thoughts this morning,’ he said, striving for a light-hearted tone.

‘A bit dense in there, eh?’ laughed Matthews. ‘I trust it’s not as thick as the fog at Hyde Park this morning.’ He leaned in and spoke confidingly. ‘Blackmoor met Ventry at dawn. Ventry was shaking so hard his gun went off before he’d got his hand half-raised. Hit the ground not ten feet in front of him, the poor sod.’

Charles felt like shaking himself, in relief. Obviously they didn’t yet know. ‘Blackmoor didn’t kill him, did he?’ he asked with nonchalance.

‘I should say not,’ Henley drawled. ‘Pinked him in the arm, which is far less than the upstart deserved, should you ask me.’ He shot Charles a conspirator’s grin. ‘It’s good to see you, Dayle. It’s been an age since you’ve been out and about with us. Leave the debates to them what can’t get a rise out of St Peter, if you catch my meaning, and come on with us. You’re too young to bury yourself in the House.’

Matthews chimed in. ‘We’re off to breakfast, old man, before heading home,’ he said. ‘Been to the new bawdy house on Bentinck Street? Opens in the morning and lays out a breakfast buffet. Mrs Pritchett guarantees a bellyful and an armful to send you sweetly to your dreams. Care to join us?’

The desire to yield and go along with them was almost visceral. How easy it would be to forget, to lose the pain of the last year and the humiliation of the morning in the burn of good liquor and the hot sweet flesh of a woman. He could just let it all go. End the charade.

He shook his head to rid himself of the notion. No. Charles Alden was dead. Slain by the same wild round that had stolen his brother, buried by the despair that had seduced his father. There was no going back.

He went forward instead, resolutely and one footfall at a time. Good-naturedly refusing the offer, he saw Matthews and Henley into a passing hack before crossing over Piccadilly. By the time he passed Devonshire House and headed into Berkeley Square, temptation had been safely locked away. Viscount Dayle was once again in full possession of all his faculties and putting together a plan of action.

The wind had become quite forceful by the time Charles reached his Bruton Street townhouse, and the sunlight dimmed by fast-moving clouds. Perhaps fate had indeed meant to give him the backdrop for his drama, and had only missed her cue.

‘My lord,’ his butler gasped as the door swung in. ‘Forgive me, we were not expecting you back …’

‘No need for apologies, Fisher.’ Charles headed for the library. ‘But could you please send round a man to fetch my brother? Drag him from his books, if need be, but tell him I need him now. And send some coffee in, too.’

‘Wait, my lord!’ the butler called as Charles stalked away. ‘You have a visitor awaiting you.’

‘At this hour?’

The butler had no chance to reply before the library door slammed open. ‘Dayle!’ The shout rang in the cold marbled entry. ‘This time you will pay for your perfidy. Name your seconds!’

‘Lord Avery, how kind of you to call,’ Charles said, running a hand across his brow. ‘Better make that something stronger, Fisher. Brandy will do. ‘Now, my lord,’ Charles spoke soothingly as he ushered the man back in the room and away from the staring eyes of the servants, ‘we are a bit precipitous with this talk of seconds. But I would be happy to discuss the upcoming Poor Relief Bill, even at this early hour.’

‘There’s no distracting me, you philandering dog! I know what you’ve done with my wife, all of London knows!’ The older man was nearly grey with fatigue and emotion. Charles guided him to a chair. The last thing he needed was for the fool to collapse in his study.

‘You know no such thing. It’s nonsense. I dined at the Clarendon, and stayed there talking most of the night. You will easily find a roomful of gentlemen to corroborate the fact. We can send for one or more of them right now.’

‘I know what I saw, you young rakehell.’

‘I don’t know what you saw, my lord, but I know it was not me.’ Charles’s tone grew more firm.

‘Do you think me a fool? I’ve seen you together with my own eyes! And all of London knows of your rackety ways.’

‘I’ve never had more than a casual public conversation with your wife, sir. I own that she is charming, and exceedingly handsome, but whatever trouble lies between you has nothing to do with me.’

Charles saw the first sign of uncertainty in the man’s face. He felt for him, but he could not let this go any further. He hardened his expression and said with finality, ‘If you choose not to believe me, then I will indeed give thought to finding a second.’

Jack arrived just then, excited and fully ready to defend his brother’s honour, but the fight had gone out of Lord Avery. He hung his head in his hands while Charles greeted his brother and while the brandy was brought in. He accepted a drink, threw it back, and held out his glass for another. Then he stood.

‘I will accept your explanation for now, Dayle, but I shall check out your claim, and if I find it’s a lie, I’ll be back. Why would your name be mixed up in this if you weren’t involved? Makes no sense.’

‘You echo my own thought exactly,’ said Charles.

Lord Avery bristled. ‘This is no laughing matter! My honour, and my wife’s, has been destroyed.’ He looked thoughtfully at Charles. ‘I know that there are those in the Party who believe in your transformation. The rake reformed.’ He snorted. ‘I know your history, and today’s work smacks of it. Blatant. Insulting. Just like your soft-hearted politics. It’s bad enough to side with the unwashed masses against your own kind in the Lords, but this! Unforgivable is what I call it, and so will many a Tory, after I am through with you.’ He marched to the door and paused on the threshold. ‘If your whereabouts last night are uncertain, then tomorrow morning’s will be assured.’

The echo of the slamming door was much quieter on this side. Charles looked away and began to pace, from the sidebar to the crackling fire, then away to the full wall of books. He couldn’t bear to look upon his father’s portrait above the mantel.

‘I’m sorry, Charles.’ Jack’s tone was quiet, careful. ‘God knows I don’t understand it, but I do know how important your political interests have become to you.’

Charles nodded again and drank. He crossed to the window and watched as the rain began to come down in sheets.

‘Throw me a bone, would you? I’m trying to play the supportive brother here.’ Jack rose and came to stand behind him.

‘He’ll check your story and find that it’s true. After that it’s only a piece in a scandal rag. Is it really so bad?’

Charles stared at his brother’s reflection in the window. ‘It’s bad, and it couldn’t have come at a worse time. The Board of Trade is looking for someone to head an investigative committee on distressed farming areas. My name has been mentioned. It could set me on a path to much higher places.’ He scrubbed a hand through his hair. ‘I’ve worked hard, and come so far. Take a good look around, little brother, this country is in an horrendous mess. I have finally got myself into a position where I can do something about it … I could help.’

He slammed his fist into his hand. ‘And now someone wants to use my past against me? No one will consider me seriously. I’ll be just another ton wastrel who cannot keep his bodkin buttoned up. This could ruin me. My political career could be over before it has truly begun.’

‘Would that be such a terrible thing?’ His brother’s hand was suddenly heavy on Charles’s shoulder. ‘Phillip is dead. You are not. Perhaps it is time to let all of this go. You could get back to your own pursuits, spend some time at Fordham with Mother.’

‘No,’ Charles barked. ‘I could not.’ He stared down into his drink, but there were no answers there. And no solace either, as he had good reason to know. How could he explain his desperation to his little brother? There were some things that Jack could never understand. ‘I need this, Jack. I can’t explain it, but I need to do this, and I need you to help me out of this mess.’

There was a moment’s silence, and then Jack took his hand away and went to pour himself a drink. ‘Is the situation salvageable? What do you mean to do?’

‘I suppose I must demonstrate a higher standard of character,’ Charles said with a wry twist of a grin.

‘Higher than what?’ Jack laughed suddenly and the tension in the room became a little more bearable. ‘That wasn’t really you climbing out of the old jade’s window?’

‘Good Lord, no! I’m willing to sacrifice a good deal in the name of politics, but that’s taking the matter too far. In any case, I believe she only flirts with us young bucks to stir her husband up, to get his attention off the quarter of a million military men set adrift with no pensions and back on her. But she’s evidently gone too far this time.’

Charles scrubbed a hand across his brow while he thought. ‘Still, I have to admit this was a master stroke. Whoever is behind this is clever. They’ve negated months of work, and done it by painting me with my own brush. All with no hint of his own identity or agenda.’

‘Someone doesn’t like the influence you’ve begun to gain. How do we track the whoreson down?’

‘First I’m going to find the baseborn idiot who wrote that piece for the Oracle. Whether he wants to or not, he’s going to tell me who his sources are. But it’s not going to be enough to find out which coward is behind this. The damage is done.’ He moved back to the window and gazed out at the gathering intensity of the storm. ‘I’m going to have to give them all something better to talk about.’

Jack nearly choked on his drink. ‘Better than sex and scandal? There isn’t anything the ton loves better.’

‘Oh, yes, there is, little brother.’

‘What?’ Jack demanded as an enormous branch of lightning split the sky.

Into the brief moment of calm, Charles spoke. ‘Marriage.’

His brother’s jaw dropped. Thunder broke open in the heavens. The house shuddered.

‘Marriage? To whom?’ Jack managed to ask.

‘To the most priggish lady you can drag up from the muck of the ton, I should imagine.’ Charles shrugged. ‘It seems clear that the only way I will ever live down the excesses of my past is to secure the dullness of my future. I don’t know, draw up a list. Only the primmest and most proper to be considered. I’ll marry the one at the top.’

Thunder throbbed through the house once more. The windows shook in their frames. Behind them their father’s portrait rattled off its moorings, crashed into the mantel, and flipped face down in front of the fire.

## Chapter Two


Her step light, her portfolio swinging and her maid scurrying to keep up, Sophie Westby strode through Cheapside. A gusting wind swept past in brisk imitation of the traffic in the streets, whipping her skirts and challenging the knot holding her bonnet. Sophie raised her chin, breathed deep of the pungent air and grinned in delight. London might be dirty, occasionally rank, and surprisingly lacking in colour, but it was also a huge, bubbling cauldron of life.

After years of quiet country living and near isolation, Sophie’s own life was suddenly beginning to simmer. Furniture design had long been her passion, and in an effort to ease her dearest friend Emily Lowder’s unusually long and difficult confinement, she had indulged them both with an extensive nursery project. It had been a smashing success. They’d had such fun and Emily had been so enchanted with the result, she had quickly swept Sophie up into a redesign of her dark and cluttered drawing rooms. The new suite had been unveiled at little Edward Lowder’s birthday celebration and, to Sophie’s chagrin, the room had nearly eclipsed the cherubic infant.

The grandest lady of the neighborhood, Viscountess Dayle, had been most impressed. Lady Dayle had run an assessing eye over both the new room and its designer, and in a bewilderingly sudden turn of events, she had them all established in town for the Season and for a large, mysterious design project.

Almost before Sophie could catch her breath, she found herself out of Blackford Chase, ensconced in the Lowders’ London home, and finally encouraged to pursue her design work. The result was one ecstatic young lady.

A young lady who perhaps should not have left her coach behind, stuck in the snarl of vehicles blocked by an overturned coal cart. Against her maid’s protests Sophie had climbed down, left instructions with the driver and set off on foot. And she could not bring herself to regret the decision. Walking was so much more intimate. She felt a part of the city rather than a bystander.

‘Paper! The Augur!’ The newsboy hefting his heavy sack of papers looked perhaps ten years old. He had inked-smeared hands, a scrupulously clean face, and eyes that made Sophie’s fingers positively itch for a pencil. An old soul smiled hopefully out of that young face.

‘Paper, miss? Only sixpence and full of society’s latest doin’s.’ He spotted a pair of well-dressed young ladies emerging from a shop across the street and waved his paper high to get their attention. ‘Paper! The Augur! More exciting tales of the Wicked Lord Dayle!’

He could not have used a more enticing lure. Sophie promptly bought a copy, then turned to Nell, the maid assigned to her from the Lowders’ town staff. ‘Will you tuck this away in your bag, Nell, just until we get home?’

The maid looked startled. Sophie smiled at her. ‘I promise to share as soon as I’ve finished.’

Gossip was like gold below stairs, and Sophie knew she had an ally when Nell, her face alight with mischief, took the paper and shoved it under the mending in her bag. The newsboy flashed them both a gap-toothed smile, then a cheeky wink. Nell giggled, but Sophie caught herself unthinkingly reaching for her sketchbook.

No. Not this time. She took a tighter grip on her portfolio and firmly set herself back to the task at hand: reaching the shop of a particularly well-recommended linen draper.

It was a scene that she had replayed with herself countless times in the past week. With so much history, so much energy and so many human dramas unfolding about her, the temptation to put it all down on paper was nearly overwhelming. From the towering glory of the churches, to the saucy curve of the newsboy’s cheek, to the flutter of the fine ladies’ dresses, London was full of sights, textures, and subtle images that she longed to capture in her sketchbook.

But she did not intend to succumb to the temptation. Sketching meant taking a step back, imposing a distance, becoming an observer, and Sophie Westby was done with being an observer.

Fate had finally smiled upon her and she meant to make the most of it. That was one reason why today’s errand was so important. Though she as yet had no idea what project Lady Dayle had in mind, Sophie intended to dazzle her. Themes, colour schemes, and any number of preparatory steps could be readied ahead of time and individualised later. When the time came Sophie would be ready with an array of ideas and choices that would quickly highlight the viscountess’s tastes. And when the project was complete, she vowed, Lady Dayle would have reason to be proud.

Sophie could do no less for the woman who had been so kind and generous. And indeed, Lady Dayle had no true idea just how much her kindness had meant, for she could not know that in the very act of bringing her to London, she had brought Sophie that much closer to two of her most heartfelt desires.

First, of course, were the incredible opportunities that could arise from a London project. She smiled when she remembered thinking that Emily’s drawing room had been such a coup. As wonderful as that had turned out, it was as nothing compared to what exposure to the ton’s finest might do. So much might be accomplished if her designs were well received.

Second, and somehow more importantly, Lady Dayle had placed Sophie squarely in a position where she might see Charles again. Her pulse leaped at the thought.

She wondered what Lady Dayle knew of their relationship—but perhaps relationship was the wrong word. Friendship, then, because he had indeed been her friend. Her friend, her companion, her confidante, the knight of her youth.

Anticipation brought a secret smile to her face when she thought of the paper hidden in Nell’s bag. How she loved to read of his exploits. Through the years she had followed his nefarious career with the same glee that she had felt hearing of his schoolboy stunts. She could scarcely wait to tease every scandalous detail from him. It was her favourite fantasy; the pair of them, reunited, sharing laughter and dreams just as they had used to do.

Sophie had always known that some day they would meet again. But now that the distant promise had become a near certainty, she found that it had gained new significance.

How had he changed? What would he have to say to her? Sophie knew she stood at a crossroads in her life, a rare point filled with promise and possibilities ahead. Yet she also knew that she would not be able to settle to any one of them until she had the answers to those questions.

‘Miss!’ came a gasp from behind her. ‘Is it very much farther, miss?’ Nell sounded breathless. Apparently Sophie’s pace had quickened along with her thoughts.

‘Not much farther, I don’t believe.’

For Nell’s sake she slowed her steps and resolved to keep her mind off of the distant past and the uncertain future, and firmly on the task in the present.

It proved easier than she might have imagined, for Cheapside was a treat for the senses, populated as it was with all manner of shops and craftsmen. Sophie wrinkled her nose at the hot smell at the silversmiths, and again at the raw scent of fresh dye at the cloth weavers. She marvelled at the crowded windows of the engravers, but it wasn’t until she reached the tea merchant’s shop that she came to a delighted stop.

The merchant had at one time been blessed with a bowed shop window, but the area had been converted, or inverted, and now held a charming little protected alcove. Like a miniature Parisian café, it held a small table, meant, she supposed, for customers to sit and experience some exotic new flavour before they parted with their coin. It was the seating, in fact, which had so caught Sophie’s attention.

‘Nell, just look at those chairs. If I’m not mistaken, those are true Restoration pieces, sitting right out in the street! Yes,’ she said, rushing forward to stroke one lovingly. ‘The Portuguese arch. Oh, and look, Nell, you must hold my portfolio while I examine the pé de pincel.’

She could never truly say, afterward, just what went wrong. Perhaps the clasp had already been loose, or perhaps she herself accidentally triggered it. In any case, one second she was absentmindedly passing her portfolio back to Nell, and the next it was dropping wide open. Another gust of wind hit just then and all of her sketches and designs were sent skyward in a veritable cyclone of papers.

For a moment Sophie stood frozen in panic and watched as her life’s work scattered about the busy street. Then she sprang into action. First she sent Nell after those that had skipped back down the way they had just come. Then an enterprising street sweeper approached and offered to help retrieve the papers that had fluttered into the street. Sophie gave him a coin, entreated him not to place himself in any danger and sent him off.

She herself set after the bulk of the lot, which had gone swirling ahead of them. She was not heedless of the sight she must present, chasing, stooping, even jumping up to snatch at one desk design that had impaled itself on the pike of an iron railing, but she was beyond caring. These designs were her hopes for the future; she could no more abandon them than she could go quietly back to Blackford Chase.

At last, after much effort, there was only one paper left in sight. It led her a merry chase as it danced mere inches from her fingertips more than once. But each time she drew near another mischievous breeze would send it bounding ahead. Sophie’s back ached and her gown grew more filthy by the minute, but she refused to give up.

And she finally had a stroke of fortune. Just ahead a gentleman stalked out of a printer’s shop, right into the path of the wicked thing. It fetched up against a pair of well-formed legs, then flattened itself around one shining Hessian.

With a triumphant whoop Sophie swept down and snatched the paper up. Oh my, she thought as she caught sight of her own distorted grin, you truly can see your reflection in a gentleman’s boots.

‘Of course. It only wanted this.’ The voice above her was heavy with sarcasm. ‘I can now officially brand this day one of the worst I have ever endured. Now my valet shall berate me as soundly as the rest of London.’

Sophie fought the urge to grin as she slowly straightened up, her gaze travelling the unusual—and unusually pleasurable—path up the form of a well-formed gentleman. A well-heeled gentleman too, judging by the quality of the small clothes, which were buff, and the morning coat, which was, of course, blue, and the scowling face, which was …

Charles’s.

The shock was so great that her stomach fell all the way to the pavement and the rest of her nearly followed.

He saw the danger and grasped her arm to steady her. She looked again into his face and saw that it was true. His face was not quite the same, the handsome promise of youth having hardened into a more angular and masculine beauty. His eyes were different as well, so cold and hard as he scowled down at her, but it was undeniably, without a doubt, her Charles Alden.

Sophie was so happy to see him, despite the awkwardness of the moment, that she just beamed up at him. All the joyful anticipation she’d felt for this moment simply flooded out of her and she knew that her delight shone all over her face.

It was not a shared emotion. In fact, he dropped her arm as if he’d suddenly found her diseased.

Sophie’s smile only deepened. He didn’t know her! Oh, heavens, she was going to have some fun with him now.

‘I don’t know what you are smiling at. That was the worst example of unfeminine effrontery I have ever witnessed, and in the street, no less.’ He raked the length of her with a hard gaze. ‘You look the part of a lady, but it appears to end there. Where is your escort?’

‘My maid will be along in a minute,’ she replied almost absentmindedly. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. It was no wonder he’d had such a reputation as a rake; he had grown almost sinfully handsome. She would bet that women threw themselves in his path on a regular basis.

‘Please, stop that infernal smiling,’ he ordered. ‘If you need a good reason, impudent miss, just look at my boots!’

She obediently arranged her face into a more sombre mien. ‘Please, do forgive me, sir.’ She smoothed the chalked design that had indeed smudged the high polish off one of his Hessians. ‘Let me assure you that I do not usually behave in so reckless a fashion. But I had to have my papers back, you see.’

‘No, I do not see.’ He stopped suddenly, an arrested look upon his face. He glanced back at the building he had just exited; with a closer look it appeared to be a publisher’s office. ‘Are you a writer, a reporter, by chance?’ he asked.

‘No, sir. I—’ She was not allowed to finish.

‘Damn. I could do with someone from the press in my court.’ With a sudden motion, before she could protest, he had reached out and smoothly snatched the paper from her grasp. ‘But please, enlighten me as to just what is worth making a spectacle of yourself.’

Sophie looked as well and saw that it was a design of a chaise-lounge she had specifically drawn for his mother, complete with a complementary colour palette and notes on specific fabrics and trims.

‘Furniture,’ Charles said with a deprecating snort.

‘Décor,’ she corrected as she just as smoothly retrieved the design and tucked it with her others.

‘Pray, do excuse me,’ he drawled in exaggerated tones. For a moment he reminded her forcefully of his younger self, and her reaction was instantaneous and purely physical. And yet, something distracted her and slowed the melting of her insides. She’d heard that mocking tone before, but never with so hard an edge. He wasn’t taking her seriously, true, but he wasn’t being nice about it either.

She narrowed her eyes. ‘No, I don’t believe I will,’ she replied.

His eyes widened in mock dismay. ‘Was that meant as a mortal blow to my pride? Unforgiven and despondent, the gentleman prostrates himself and begs for mercy. You have read one too many novels, my dear,’ he said.

‘Just look about you,’ he continued with an encompassing wave of his hand. ‘There are a good many things in this world in need of attention, even some worth making oneself a fool over. But let me assure you—’ his voice was getting louder now ‘—that furniture is not one of them.’

Sophie raised her brow in the very arrogant manner that he himself had taught her. ‘Perhaps not to you, sir, but our circumstances are quite different. You haven’t a notion of my concerns. To me, this is very important.’

‘Important, of course,’ he said, the sarcasm growing heavy again. ‘You will forgive me if I don’t raise décor to the same level as perhaps, the plight of the English farmer, or the suspension of Habeas Corpus.’

‘And you will forgive me if I place it a little higher than the shine on your boots.’

Charles stopped in the act of replacing his hat, clearly taken aback. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He jammed the beaver on to his head. ‘I concede you the point.’

Suddenly his shoulders slumped. He tore the hat off again and bowed his head. ‘What on earth am I doing?’ He heaved a sigh and the tense lines of his neck and shoulders relaxed.

When he looked up at Sophie again, it was as if a layer of cold stone had fallen from him. ‘Listen, I do apologise.’ He scrubbed a rough hand through his hair and flashed her a half-grin that was awkward and thoroughly familiar.

‘It’s not my usual habit to go about berating young women in the street, but then nothing has been usual in my life for—well, it feels like for ever. It has been so long since I had a normal conversation,’ he continued, ‘I scarcely recall how to go about it.’

The indefinable pull that emanated from him had doubled in its intensity. Sophie could not make herself respond, could not tear her gaze from his. There they were at last, warm in their regard, Charles’s eyes. Her Charles.

He didn’t seem to notice her lapse. ‘Allow me to help you.’

With brisk efficiency he soon had her designs in order and her portfolio securely fastened. Another awkward silence followed her thanks. Sophie desperately tried to gather her wits. She knew she should either take her leave of him or reveal her identity.

He spoke before she could choose either option. ‘You seem to have a great many ideas. It must be a very large project you have undertaken.’

Sophie flushed. How to answer that without making a fool of herself? She should have told him who she was at the start. ‘Yes, at least I believe so. The truth is, I do not really know yet.’

He shifted and she could almost feel his restlessness, his need to escape. But she was not ready to see him go yet, nor was she quite sure she had forgiven him his harsh manner. She curved her lips into a smile and cocked a brow at him. ‘If not normal, then what sort do you usually have?’

He was puzzled. ‘Pardon?’

‘Conversations. You say you are unused to the normal variety. I am perishing to know what kind of conversations you usually have.’

‘Oh.’ He paused and she thought that he might not answer, that he would put an end to this improper tête à tête and go about his business, but instead he glanced carefully about, then flashed her a wicked smile. ‘Do you wish for the truth or for a properly polite answer?’

Sophie tossed her head, her chin up. ‘Always the truth, please, sir.’

‘Very well, then. The truth is that for most of my days my conversations tended on the coarse and bawdy side. More like the seasonal bawling of young bucks and the bleating of … available females than true human exchange—’

Sophie interrupted him with a sigh. ‘You did warn me. I am sure I should be slapping your face, or stalking off in high dudgeon. Fortunately I am not so faint-hearted.’ She smiled. ‘Do go on.’

He shrugged. ‘Now I have political conversations. Long, relentless, occasionally monotonous, but in the end productive and worthwhile. Both sorts, I find, have their own drawbacks and pleasures.’

The playful gleam returned to his eye and he leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice. ‘But I will let you in on a little secret. Sometimes, especially when the stakes are high, political debates are remarkably similar to primitive mating rituals. There is a little polite cooing, leading to an extravagant display of superiority, then a mad scramble as everyone pairs off. Occasionally there is a show of temper and brute strength. In the end someone wins, the victor takes the spoils and the next day we all ever so politely begin all over again.’

Sophie laughed. ‘Fascinating. It gives one a whole new perspective on Parliament, does it not?

‘It helps me get through some very long days in the Lords.’

‘It makes me wish I was indeed a reporter. Imagine the story I could write: “Wild Westminster, The Secret Life of Parliament.” Every paper in London would be at my feet. Alas, my talents lie in another direction altogether.’

Charles eyed her portfolio, then slid his gaze down her form. A swift, fierce heat swept through her, following its path. ‘I beg you won’t be insulted if I say that you decorate the city with your mere presence.’

Before she could gather herself enough to respond, his face suddenly contorted into a grimace of dismay that had her following his gaze. An elegant carriage pulled by an exquisite team passed them by. Very obviously staring was a pair of wide-eyed feminine faces. One even craned her neck to look back as the equipage moved on.

‘Oh, hell,’ he breathed before turning back to her. ‘As stimulating as this has been, I cannot afford any more gossip just now. Neither would I wish to harm your reputation with my tarnished presence.’ He sketched her the curtest of bows. ‘I wish you the best of luck with your endeavours.’

She returned with a curtsy just as brief. ‘Indeed, I understand, sir.’ She watched as he turned to go and called after him, ‘Off you go to save the world. I will content myself with dressing it up.’

He tossed a scornful glance over his shoulder at her. ‘Unworthy, my dear, and just when I had begun to judge you a promising opponent.’

Sophie watched, amused, as he stalked away. Let him have the last word for now, she thought. Oh, she was going to enjoy their next meeting even more than this one.

She became aware, suddenly, of a faint panting just behind her. She turned and found Nell, who handed over a sheaf of papers and wiped her brow. ‘Who was the gentleman you was talking with, miss? He looked a mite put out.’

‘That, dear Nell, was none other than the Wicked Lord Dayle.’

‘No!’ The maid’s gasp was more titillation than shock.

‘Indeed, although I recall him more fondly as my very own knight in shining armour.’

Nell had been pushed too far this morning to be discreet. ‘Happen that armour’s tarnished some.’

‘It does appear so,’ Sophie mused. ‘Though the polishing of it could be quite a bit of fun, indeed.’

Nell only shook her head. ‘If you say so, miss.’

## Chapter Three

Miss Corinne Ashford’s hand was limp and cool as Charles bent over it. As was the expression on her face while he took his leave of her. Even so, Charles’s step was light when he stepped into Portman Street and set out for home.

He felt as if he could breathe again, as he hadn’t been free to since that cursed piece in the Oracle. He had been exonerated, of course, once it had leaked out that the dark-haired man sneaking out of Lady Avery’s window had been none other than Lord Avery’s valet. And society had quickly sunk their teeth into new and even more delicious gossip when the old girl had run off with the young fellow, the petty cash, and the family jewels.

Yet the damage had been done. The thinly veiled references were in every scandal sheet. Suddenly his old peccadilloes were fodder for gossip again.

Wild, reckless, restless—these were the epithets he had become accustomed to in his seven and twenty years, the labels a scandalised society had readily laid at his door. They were well and truly earned, too. He had misspent his youth in a frenzy of hard living, soft women, and outrageous pranks. He had, in short, enjoyed the hell out of himself.

But such carelessness belonged to another lifetime. Charles Alden might have spent his time in carefree pursuit of pleasure, but Viscount Dayle was not so lighthearted. Two years ago his brother had died, his father had shortly followed, and Charles’s life had been transformed.

It had begun as a penance he had embraced in a fury of remorse and determination, and, though it was true that grief and guilt still lay heavy on his shoulders, Charles could not deny that it was the work that had saved his sanity.

With fierce devotion he had immersed himself in the estates, the accounts and the politics. Somehow he had survived, had even reached a point where he could draw breath, enjoy the success he had wrought and begin to envision a future.

Until that ridiculous article. Now his name had once again been associated with scandal and vice, and his reception had significantly cooled, both in the corridors of Westminster and the parlors of Mayfair. He found the setback infuriating, and despite his best efforts, he still hadn’t a clue as to who was behind it.

So, he had temporarily abandoned his search for the villain, dragged out his original plan, and after careful deliberation decided that Miss Ashford might be just the thing to cure his ailing reputation. She was the daughter of a baron and a member of a notoriously staunch conservative family. Elegant and tall and proud to a fault, she wore respectability like an enveloping mantel. Charles just hoped that it was large enough to cover his own sins.

In truth, he had half-expected to be left standing in the street when he began to pay his addresses to the lady, but the past year’s good works—or his title and fortune—had proved credit enough to get him in the door. Whether he progressed any further remained to be seen.

He crossed his own portal now, satisfied for the moment, and more in charity with the world than he’d felt in weeks. He found his mother descending the stairs, straightening her gloves. ‘Going out, Mother?’ he asked.

‘Indeed, as are you. Please have the carriage sent around, dear. We won’t wish to be late.’

Charles nodded to a footman to deliver the message. ‘Late for what?’

Only a mother could fit so much meaning into a sigh of exasperation. ‘I knew you would forget. We are promised to call at Mrs Lowder’s, both of us. And do not even think of trying to wiggle out of it. You know that Edward Lowder is influential in some very important political circles. And in any case, Emily Lowder has something in particular at her house that I wish to show you.’

She had reached the bottom of the stairs. Charles smiled and offered her his arm. ‘Wiggle out? I wouldn’t dare. Not since the Aunt Eugenie incident.’

She laughed. ‘I would never have banished you to your room if I thought Phillip would do such a thing. I thought we were going to have to break the door down. Do you know, to this day we have never found that key?’

He couldn’t hide the twinge he felt at Phillip’s name. She saw and stopped to put her hand on his cheek. ‘They were good times, Charles. It is fine to remember them.’ She smiled and straightened his cravat. ‘And we will have good times again, I feel it.’

Charles could almost believe her. His mother was smiling again. She had come up from Fordham Park with a spring in her step, a list of some kind in hand, and he had barely seen her in the weeks since. He had warned her of the Avery scandal, but she had only laughed and dared anyone in society to vilify her son to her face.

‘How went the hunt?’ she asked now. ‘You have certainly given the rumour mill enough grist. Word is out that the Wicked Lord Dayle is looking for a wife to tame his ways. Surely the worst must indeed be past if such a high stickler as Lavinia Ashford gave you entrance to her drawing room.’

The arrival of the carriage saved him from a response, but his mother would not let the subject drop. She teased a list of names from him and then cheerfully dissected each one, as callous in her regard for the young ladies as if they were no more than choice offerings at the butcher’s stall. ‘If what you truly wish is to wed a pattern card of propriety, Charles, then there are in truth only three or four girls who will do. Nearly everyone of consequence is in town now. There should be plenty of time for you to meet them all and select the best.’

Charles suffered a little qualm hearing his mother discuss his marriage in such cold-blooded terms. He suffered a bigger qualm picturing the many long years ahead leg-shackled to a cold-blooded shrew. Then, like a sudden summer breeze, the image arose in his mind—dark, windswept tresses, laughing eyes, a radiant smile. The chit from Cheapside.

The exotic little beauty had invaded his thoughts more than once since their encounter. That smile—it kept coming to mind. Perhaps she reminded him of someone? And perhaps it was only a knee-jerk reaction to the course he had chosen. Intelligent and witty as well as pretty, she would be a far more pleasing prospect to face every morning over breakfast.

Except that such a prospect did not exist. Nor should it. He could not forget the near panic he’d felt during the lowest moments of the last weeks. The thought of failure was insupportable. He had hit upon the best path out of this mess and he was going to follow it right into a cold and sterile marriage.

He gave a cynical shrug; it would be a fair trade, surely. A cold marriage bed for a lifetime of credibility. And he should be down on his knees thanking the powers that be for even such dim prospects, for he was lucky to have a future at all.

These reflections left him in a mood of grim determination. He would prevail, would sacrifice anything to ensure his success. His resolution lasted across Mayfair, through all of his mother’s chatter, and right up until he entered the Lowders’ family drawing room. It might have lasted through the entire Season and seen him through the tedious weeks ahead, had it not encountered the pair of ankles.

A very fetching pair of ankles, framed by a scalloped flounce and situated right at eye level. Grim determination stood not a chance; it melted under a combined onslaught of shock and pure male appreciation.

‘Have the guests arrived, Thomas?’ asked a voice situated somewhat above the ankles and the stepladder they were perched upon. Charles couldn’t see how far above because his gaze remained locked where it did not belong. ‘Hold a moment and let me hand down my things. I wouldn’t wish to be caught at work.’

‘Too late, my dear,’ his mother chirped. ‘Come down, please, you frighten me out of my wits on that thing.’

But the unexpected reply had disturbed the girl’s balance, both mental and physical. A surprised ‘Oh!’ came from above and then the ankles and the stepladder began to sway.

The footman who had admitted them—the recalcitrant Thomas, no doubt—lunged for the ladder, but it was Charles who, without conscious thought, reached out and plucked the girl from the air.

‘Charles, dear, I did particularly wish for you to meet Miss Westby today,’ his mother said, her voice wry.

But Charles was staring at the woman he held in his arms. She was a beauty indeed, and she’d had quite a fright. Large dark eyes stared apprehensively into his, her arms were locked tight about his neck and her soft, full bosom was pressed quite delightfully into his chest. But pleasure faded as realisation dawned, and then it turned to growing outrage. ‘You!’ he gasped.

Sophie’s heart was beating so fast—partly from fear, partly from exasperation at the absurdity of the situation, and partly from sheer feminine appreciation—that she was sure Charles could feel it. To view Charles from a few feet’s perspective was a delight; the prospect from a few inches was awe-inspiring.

It was as if he had been designed to be pleasing to every eye. His hair was the colour of chestnuts, thick and luxuriant, his eyes a deep brown that clearly signalled his shock—and his interest. Strong cheekbones, stubborn chin, every inch of him solid, authoritative, and somehow English. It was enough to tempt one to sing in praise of a nation that could produce such a specimen.

She’d forgotten that smug English superiority. Ever so slowly the astonishment faded from his face, only to be replaced once more by haughty disdain. What was it? she wondered. What had happened in the intervening years to turn her laughing boy into this proud, imposing man?

This proud man who still held her tight in the incongruous safety of his arms. Sophie took encouragement where she could find it, and forged ahead.

‘Well, my lord, you have caught me—literally—at a disadvantage once again.’ She peeked over his shoulder, ‘Really, Thomas, it was too bad of you to neglect to warn me. I’m sure we have embarrassed Lord Dayle past all bearing.’ She handed the footman her wet paintbrush and cut off his apologies. ‘No, it’s fine, really, just remove my equipment, please, and we shall muddle through, shan’t we, my lord?’

Charles did not reply, although the stark lines of his face tightened, and so did his grip.

‘Do put her down, Charles, for heaven’s sake,’ Lady Dayle commanded.

He flushed and immediately set her down, with a bit more force than was necessary, Sophie thought. She flashed him an unrepentant smile, and wiped her paint-stained fingers. She would break through his stone-sober demeanour, she thought, if she had to take up a chisel and hammer to do it.

‘I’m fine, truly,’ she said as Lady Dayle fussed over her. ‘I should have known not to ask Thomas to warn me, he’s started up a flirtation with the parlor maid and was bound to forget.’

‘Mother,’ Charles said tightly, ‘you seem to have some idea just what the dev—deuce is going on here. Perhaps you will enlighten me?’

‘It is what I have been trying to do, my dear, indeed, it is why you were invited today.’ Beaming, she took Sophie’s hand. ‘Allow me to reacquaint the two of you. I do not say introduce, for, if I recall, the two of you did bump into each other in Dorsetshire in years past.’

‘We have indeed bumped into one another,’ Charles began in an acid tone, ‘and only too recently—’ He stopped. ‘In Dorsetshire?’

‘Yes, dear. May I present Miss Westby? Sophie, surely you remember my son?’

Sophie could only nod. Her heart was, unexpectedly, in her throat and she could not tear her eyes from him as she waited for the truth to strike. She could almost see his mind spinning behind the dark and masculine beauty of his eyes. ‘Westby,’ he repeated. And there it was, at last, shining in his gaze, knowledge, and a flash of pure, unfettered joy. ‘Sophie?’

A weight of uncertainty dropped from Sophie’s soul. He knew her. He was glad. She felt as if she could have floated off with the slightest breeze.

He stepped forward and took her hands. His grip was warm and calloused, and so longed for, it almost felt familiar. ‘Sophie! I can scarce believe it! It’s been so long.’

‘Indeed.’ She smiled. ‘So long that you did not know me—twice over! If I weren’t so pleased to see you again, I should feel slighted.’

‘It was you in the street that day, and you did not reveal yourself—minx. I do not know how I failed to realise. I should have known that only you would back-talk me so outrageously!’

‘Back-talk? I only gave back what you deserved. You were so high in the instep I barely knew it was you at all.’

The door swung open and in swept Emily. ‘Oh, do forgive me,’ she said, her voice shaky. ‘I should have been home an age ago, but you’ll never believe it.’

‘Emily, are you well?’ Sophie turned as Charles dropped her hands. ‘What is it?’

‘We have been caught up in a riot!’ Her hand shook a little as she returned Sophie’s embrace.

‘A riot?’ gasped Lady Dayle. ‘My goodness, are you unharmed?’

‘Perfectly well, do not fear.’ Emily removed her bonnet and moved to a chair. ‘Perhaps riot is too strong a word, though it was unsettling!’ She tried to rally a reassuring smile. ‘It was only a group of mourners who had come from that poor Mr Cashman’s funeral. They were quite well behaved, but there were ever so many of them! It was a little frightening to find ourselves in their midst.’

‘No weapons, no looting?’ asked Charles. His voice had gone cold and harsh, so different from just a moment ago that Sophie could scarcely credit it. His smile was gone. All traces of warmth had vanished and he stood, shoulders squared, solid and unmoving. Sophie instinctively took a step towards him. He looked as if the weight of the world had descended upon him.

‘No, thank the heavens.’ Emily sighed. ‘I own that the man was used rather badly, but I have no wish to be drawn into the situation.’

‘Used indeed!’ said Sophie, still eyeing Charles uneasily. ‘And then cheated, robbed, and made a terrible example of by the very government he risked his life to protect.’ She allowed Lady Dayle to pull her to a chair. ‘I wish I might have paid my respects.’

The man’s story was tragic, and all too common. A navy man, the ‘gallant tar’ had faithfully served his country for years. The war at last over, he’d been discharged, but unable to collect his arrears in pay and prize money. He’d pursued his claim, but had been insulted and ignored. The same day as his last curt dismissal by the Admiralty Board, spurred by drink and anger, he’d become caught up in an angry crowd bent on riot, and he’d been caught and arrested for stealing arms from a gunsmith’s shop. Tried, convicted, and publicly hanged, he’d become a symbol for thousands of the discontented across the nation.

‘In any case, it is too upsetting to contemplate,’ shuddered Emily. ‘Let us order tea and talk of pleasanter things.’ She rang for a servant, and then settled on the sofa next to Lady Dayle. ‘Well, Lord Dayle, tell us how you are getting on after that absurd Avery situation.’

Charles paled even further and shot a wary glance in Sophie’s direction. Clearly he did not account this a more pleasant subject.

‘I am faring little better,’ Charles responded, ‘though the truth is out.’ He spoke tightly, his face a mask of control. ‘I prefer not to discuss the subject, ma’am.’

‘I don’t know who could have believed such nonsense in any case,’ the viscountess complained. ‘As if you would have been interested in such a nasty old piece of baggage.’

‘Mother,’ chided Charles.

‘I’m sorry, my dear, but it is the truth. Lord Avery and his wife have antagonised each other for years, each trying to outdo the other in their outrageous bids for attention. I wish they would finally admit their feelings for each other and leave the rest of us out of it.’

‘Charles is not the first young Tory she has used to stir her husband’s jealousy,’ Emily agreed.

‘Nor am I the first whose career has been jeopardised,’ he added, ‘but I am the first to be so publicly reviled for it.’

‘It is your past exploits that make you so irresistible to the papers, my lord,’ Sophie teased, hoping to restore his good humor. ‘They think to line their pockets with so long a list.’

‘I would that that were the only motivation behind this constant attention. But someone seems determined to unearth every scrape I’ve landed in since I was breeched.’

Sophie deflated a little with this answer. It would appear that Charles could not be coaxed back to his good humour. If anything, he looked more morose as the tea things were brought in and he took a seat. Emily poured, and, after she had offered around the biscuits, she exchanged a pointed look with Lady Dayle.

‘I know it has been an age since you were last in this room, Charles,’ his mother said, setting her tea down, ‘but have you noticed the changes that have been wrought?’

The question appeared to startle him. As it would any man, Sophie supposed. Yet she could not suppress the nervous chill she felt when she recalled his scorn at their last meeting.

He glanced about, and Sophie followed suit. She could not help but be well pleased with what she saw. Emily had held a definite vision for this room, and between them they had created something special. Much of the woodwork had been painted a dark green, softer shades of the same hue graced the walls and were incorporated into the upholstery and curtains. Rich cherry furniture, including a stately grandfather clock, contrasted nicely. It looked well, and, most importantly, it satisfied a secret longing in her friend’s soul.

‘It is very peaceful,’ Charles replied, sounding surprised.

‘Exactly how I hoped it would feel,’ Emily agreed. ‘I wanted to step in here and feel as if I were hidden away in a forest glen. It is only just finished, and I could not be happier with the effect. I am extremely pleased with the artist who helped me with the design. In fact, although it is supposed to be a secret, I believe I will share one aspect that was done just for me. You will not spread the tale, and I am convinced no one else would have done the thing so well.’

Sophie held her breath. The viscountess looked intrigued. Charles appeared to be looking for a back way out. But Emily was not to be deterred.

‘When I was a girl,’ she began in a dreamy voice, ‘I was fascinated with fairy rings. I searched our home woods diligently, and when I found one I would spend days there, making wishes and dreaming dreams of the fairy realm.’

‘Your mother and I did the very same thing, dear, when we were young.’ Lady Dayle’s voice was gentle.

‘I know,’ Emily said fondly. ‘She discovered me one day. She joined me, plopped herself right down amongst the toadstools in her best day dress. We spent many a happy day so occupied.’ She sat quietly a moment and Sophie’s heart ached for her friend.

‘So when we began this room,’ Emily continued, ‘I tried to convince … ah … my designer, to use a fairy wallpaper pattern I had seen in a design guide. It really was quite loud and colourful, though, and not nearly so tasteful as what we have here now. It was my designer who convinced me and still found a way to incorporate the youthful fantasies of a silly, nostalgic woman.’

‘Don’t keep us in suspense, dear,’ said Lady Dayle. ‘Where is it?’

‘All around us,’ said Emily, ‘and neither of you had any idea! But if you look closely, you’ll see a pixie here and there peeking out at us.’

The viscountess immediately rose and began to search, but Charles looked straight at Sophie’s green-stained fingers then right at the high spot where she had been when he entered the room. And there she was, a tiny green and gold-haired sprite, peering at them from the top of the curio cabinet.

He looked back at her and Sophie smiled and gave a little shrug.

‘Well, Charles,’ his mother said with a touch of sarcasm as she returned to her seat, ‘that’s a sour look you are wearing. Have you too much lemon in your tea, or are you in some kind of pain?’

‘No, no.’ He let loose a little bark of laughter. ‘No more than any other gentleman forced to listen to a pack of ladies fussing over décor. ‘

It was Sophie who was in pain. He was being deliberately cruel. But why?

‘Well, pull yourself together, dear,’ his mother was saying, ‘for you are in for more than a little fussing.’

‘Yes, for we have saved the best surprises for last,’ Emily said.

‘I think he has already discerned one of them,’ said the viscountess shrewdly. ‘And you are correct, my son, it was indeed Sophie who envisioned the design of this room. She has done a magnificent job, both here and at Mrs Lowder’s home in Dorsetshire.’

‘I congratulate you on your fine work, Miss Westby,’ he said, his voice coldly formal. ‘I wish you equal success in your début.’

Sophie was growing tired of Charles’s swaying moods. What on earth was wrong with the man? None of this was going as she had planned. ‘I am a designer, my lord, not a débutante,’ she said firmly.

He cocked his head as if he had heard her incorrectly. ‘Nonsense. You are an earl’s niece. You are of good birth and good connections.’ He nodded at the others in the room. ‘Why else come to London at the start of the Season?’

‘She has come at my invitation, Charles,’ his mother intervened. ‘Both to be introduced to society and to aid me with your birthday present.’

His look was so frigid that Sophie wouldn’t have been surprised if the viscountess had sprouted icicles. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Lady Dayle was a warm-hearted and giving woman. She was also still Charles’s mother. ‘Do not practise your high-handed ways with me, sir.’ She softened her voice a bit and continued. ‘The Sevenoaks house, dear. A politician needs a place to get away, to invite his cronies and plan strategies, to entertain. The place is run-down and shabby. For your birthday, I would like to ask Miss Westby to help me with the redecorating of it.’

Sophie could have cheerfully kissed Lady Dayle’s hem. A house. A nobleman’s house. It was exactly what she hoped for.

‘I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Mother, but such a large undertaking is unnecessary. I would not wish you to tax yourself. Nor would I wish to be responsible for taking so much of Miss Westby’s time away from her first Season.’

Sophie could have cheerfully punched Lord Dayle’s nose. Was he insane or merely trying to make her so? Who was he? Haughty aristocrat or charming gentleman? She was beginning not to care.

‘Nonsense,’ returned his mother. ‘I shall see to it that we both divide our time favourably. And with Emily’s help as well, we shall have a grand time with it all. You will,’ she added her pièce de résistance, ‘be in no way discommoded.’

‘But, Mother,’ he returned gently, ‘perhaps this sort of project should be undertaken by my bride?’

‘I should place a great deal more weight with that argument if such a person existed.’ The viscountess sniffed. ‘You haven’t won the hand of a dyed-in-the-wool puritan yet, my boy.’

Emily spoke up. ‘I dare say that your mama should derive more enjoyment from such a project, in any case, my lord,’ she said with a significant look.

This argument did indeed appear to sway him. ‘Oh, very well,’ he capitulated with bad grace. He turned, his eyes narrowed, to Sophie, ‘But I beg you both, here and now, to leave me out of it. It is entirely in your hands. I do not wish to be conferred with, consulted with, or called on. In fact, I would be mightily pleased if I hear not another word on the matter until it is finished.’

Even before he had finished his sentence Sophie was swallowing her disappointment, pushing away a deep sense of betrayal. She had been so humiliatingly wrong. The Charles Alden she had longed for was nothing more than a foolish girl’s fantasy. A ghost of a man who might have grown from a good-hearted boy.

The real Charles Alden, she was forced to conclude, was this hard-eyed monument, more marble than flesh. He had no inclination to renew their friendship, and she—well, she was long past the time she should be indulging in daydreams.

She met his stony gaze and nodded her agreement as Lady Dayle and Emily chattered, full of excitement and plans. Sophie would easily—gladly—meet his terms. She would do her very best for the viscountess and she would make the viscount’s home a place of beauty and harmony. But another ten years would be too soon for her to ever see Lord Dayle again.

He stood. ‘I shall leave you ladies to your fairies, furniture, and furbelows.’ He bowed and took his leave, never quite looking Sophie’s way. She watched him go, felt her dreams dragging out behind him, and took some small satisfaction in the cheerful green handprint showing clearly on his left shoulder.

Charles clutched his hat with shaking fingers as the door closed firmly behind him. For several long moments he stood, shoulders hunched to ward off the pain. Sophie.

When he had first realised who she was—for the briefest moment—he had forgotten. Elation and an odd possessiveness had surged through his veins. At last fate had smiled upon him and sent the one person who in some elemental, deeply satisfying way, understood him completely.

The flash of joy and relief had been overwhelming. His ally, his friend, his very own Sophie.

Then Mrs Lowder had come in talking of riots, and he had remembered. Realised. She didn’t know, could never understand. They couldn’t ever go back. The thought hurt on a nearly physical level.

She had grown up, his childhood friend. She was all vibrant energy and exotic beauty, as passionate and unconventional as ever. Still, he had longed for her company. He wanted to tell her everything and hear everything she had done over the years.

He could not. Judging from their two unconventional encounters, she had not changed. She was impetuous, opinionated, and always in trouble. A friendship with her would be dangerous. Poison to Viscount Dayle, the only part of him still living. He had realised it at once; he could not have her. Ever.

So he had acted like the juvenile she had known and he had flailed at her in anger. Now she would despise him, and it was better that way. Easier.

Charles straightened and dragged himself off. He would go home and examine this situation in the way that it deserved—through the bottom of a bottle of blue ruin. Then he would live the rest of his life the way he deserved. Alone.

## Chapter Four


‘Sophie, you are not attending me.’ Lady Dayle’s words barely penetrated the mist in Sophie’s head.

‘What?’ She blinked her eyes and focused on the jumble of fabric swatches and wallpaper patterns spread before her. ‘Oh, yes, that combination is lovely, but I don’t know how much more we can accomplish until I have seen the house.’

It was a true statement, but what she left unsaid was that though this was the chance of a lifetime, she could scarcely concentrate on plans for the house without succumbing to a barrage of conflicting thoughts about its owner. One minute she was wishing him to perdition where she would never have to lay eyes on him again. The next she wanted to knock him to the floor, sit on him, and flick his ear until he confessed just what it was that forced him to act like an ass, just as she had done when she was twelve and he had hidden her favourite box of coloured chalks.

‘I know, dear, but it will not be long before we see it. I’ve already sent word to the staff to remove all the covers and shine the place up, so you’ll see exactly what you have to work with. In a day or two we can visit and—Oh, I’ve had the most fabulous idea! Let us make a party of it!’

‘Party? But we will have much work to be done if we are to be there for only a day.’

‘True, but we can at least make a picnic of it. Emily, and her dear little one, will enjoy it. Jack can come, he needs to get away from his books occasionally. And Charles can escort us. How refreshing it will be to get away together!’

A little frisson of panic travelled up Sophie’s spine at the mention of his name. ‘I do not think we should bother Lord Dayle. I promised he should not be troubled by this project, if you will remember.’

‘Don’t be such a widget! We are his family. It is his house, for heaven’s sake. In any case, we’ll invite that dreadfully prosy Miss Ashford along and he can feel as if he is putting his time to good use.’

A different kind of twinge struck Sophie. ‘Miss Ashford?’

‘The leading candidate for dullest débutante in London, and therefore the main focus of Charles’s attention. He has a notion that marriage to a strait-laced girl of impeccable family and no two thoughts to rub together will settle all his troubles in one fell swoop.’ Lady Dayle paused. ‘Although he could not have picked a more unlikely miracle worker, should you ask me.’

‘Miracle worker?’

‘Indeed. An alliance with such as her, he expects, will reassure the party, restore his standing in the ton, and stop the papers’ infernal fascination with his old exploits.’

Surely it was a sudden onset of the putrid fever that had Sophie’s throat closing and her eyes watering, not the tight fist of jealousy or the realisation that if that was the sort of girl Charles was looking for, it was no wonder he wanted nothing to do with her.

‘In any case, we’ll ask him tonight at Lady Edgeware’s ball,’ continued the viscountess, unaware of her protégée’s distress.

‘I know you went to a deal of trouble to have me invited, my lady, but I am of a mind to stay quietly at home tonight. You know that going about in society is not my true reason for being here, and, indeed, I am not feeling all that well.’

‘Nonsense. All work and no play, and all those other adages, my dear. In any case, I think we are avoiding the real issue.’ She stroked the back of Sophie’s hand. ‘You must face him some time, you know. Emily and I will be with you, there will be nothing to fear.’

Indignant, Sophie sat up straighter. ‘I am not afraid of Lord Dayle.’ She might not have the pedigree or propriety of a Miss Ashford, but she was no coward.

‘Good Lord, why should you be? I was not speaking of my addlepated son. I meant Lord Cranbourne, your uncle.’

Her uncle. A man for whom she had given up all feeling, confused or otherwise. Would that she could do the same for Lord Dayle. ‘I’m not afraid of him, either, but neither do I wish to rush a confrontation.’

‘There will be no confrontation, of that I can assure you. Just a polite, long-overdue meeting.’ Dismissing the subject, she forged ahead. ‘We’ve been so busy lately with plans for the house that we have quite neglected our social obligations, and this will be just the thing to liven you up a bit. And in any case you must come tonight and see Lady E’s Egyptian room. It is quite famous, and you will not want to miss it.’

‘Oh, very well …’ Sophie paused. ‘Did you wish me to bring my notebook? Are you thinking of something similar for the Sevenoaks house?’

‘Heavens, no! She has taken Mr Hope’s ideas and run wild. It is a dreadfully vulgar display.’

Sophie thought longingly of her own bed and her previous plans for the night: a quiet meal in her room, a nice long soak, the pages of portraits she would like to draw of Lord Dayle before she shredded each one and consigned it to the fire. Then she thought of him dancing with the faultlessly lineaged Miss Ashford, or perhaps taking her for a stroll in the garden, where he would kiss her eminently respectable lips.

‘In that case, how can I resist?’

Miss Ashford, Charles thought as he led the lady out for their set, was everything he was looking for in a bride. She did everything proper and said everything prudent. She even danced in an upright manner, perfectly erect and composed, with no expression, of enjoyment or otherwise, on her face.

Why, then, was he trying so hard to discover some chink in her flawless façade? He had spent the evening trying to uncover something—addiction to fashion, a sweet tooth, a secret obsession for nude statuary, anything.

He had failed. The lady seemed to be everything reputable and nothing else. No flaw, no interests or passions or pursuits. And no warmth for him, either. She accepted his attentions with calm dignity and with no sign of reciprocal regard or even disfavour. He felt as if he was courting a pillar. Lord, it was a depressing thought.

Their set finished, he led her back across the ballroom, exchanged all the correct pleasantries with her equally bland mama, and took his leave, trying not to yawn.

A slap on the back from his brother brought him awake.

‘Evening, Charles,’ Jack said, ‘you look like a man who could do with a drink.’ He signalled the footman and when they both had a glass of champagne, said, ‘Just thought you might want to celebrate a bit—your name hasn’t been in the papers for a week, but it has shown up in the betting book at White’s.’ He swept his glass across, indicating the crowded ballroom. ‘They’re betting which of these dull-as-ditchwater debs will have the chance to tame you.’ He drank deep again.

Charles grinned, feeling more than a little satisfaction. Things were finally progressing according to his own plans. He still had much political ground to make up, and, ridiculous though it might be, his social success would help him cover it quickly.

‘I am happy to report that Miss Ashford is the filly out in front,’ said Jack. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if your attention to her tonight makes it into the respectable social columns tomorrow.’

Charles’s good humor deflated a little. He glanced over at Miss Ashford, who stood in unsmiling, serious conversation with some matron or other. This marriage-of-convenience business was a bitter brew to swallow. But swallow it he would, and be thankful for it, he thought. The bitterness he undoubtedly deserved, and some stubborn, wilful part of him welcomed the challenge.

‘Good.’ That same stubborn part of him yearned to find the person responsible for stirring up this hornet’s nest of scandal broth. ‘Unfortunately I haven’t had the same luck finding the editor of the Augur.’

‘Someone’s tipped him off,’ said Jack.

‘It is a convenient time for the man to have developed a far-flung sick relative. I doubt I’ll get anywhere with him if he’s anything like the one at the Oracle. He makes Lord Avery’s talk of a peasant revolution look quite sane. Hates the nobility, took a satanic glee in rubbing my nose in my own misdeeds.’

‘He certainly did his research.’ Jack grinned. ‘Honestly, Charles, even I did not know that you were the one who painted old King Alfred’s statue such a heavenly shade of blue. There’s a certain justice in it that you must pass the old boy every day on the way in to the Lords.’

Charles firmly suppressed his answering smile. ‘Somebody’s feeding them information, and being bloody clever about it. My man hasn’t found a scrap of a clue.’

‘So what shall we do now?’

‘I meant to ask you to take over the search for the missing editor.’ He clapped his brother on the shoulder. ‘Sorry, old man, I know it means time away from your research.’

‘It’s no matter, I find I quite enjoy this sleuthing. It’s not so different from scholarly research, except for the venue. And I never had to buy so many rounds in the university library.’

‘I appreciate it, Jack. In the meantime I have taken a lesson from this tricky cove and decided to fight him with his own weapons.’

‘Do tell!’

‘One of my footmen has been “bribed” by the press.’

Jack laughed. ‘Damn me if you aren’t brighter than you look, big brother. Brilliant idea. Now you can leak the information you wish to hit the streets.’

Charles smiled. ‘Before long there will be an entirely different view of the “Wicked Lord Dayle” circulating.’

‘I’d drink to it, but my glass is empty. Ah, well. Perhaps I will dance, since I am all rigged out and actually made it to one of these intellect-forsaken functions.’ He surveyed the room, then nodded his head and raised a brow. ‘And there is just the creature to make me willing to dredge up the memories of those nightmarish dancing lessons—Mother’s protégée. Take a look, Charles, she cleans up excellently well.’

Charles did not turn. He had spent the evening purposefully trying not to notice Sophie. And yet he knew how incredible she looked in her exquisitely embroidered ivory gown. He knew how the scarlet of her overdress contrasted so richly and set off the lustrous sheen of her ebony tresses, and he could probably calculate to the smallest measurement just how much of her smoothly glowing skin was displayed.

He did not look, for every time he did he found himself mocked by his own thoughts. He would prevail, would sacrifice anything to ensure his success.

He’d had no idea just how much he would be asked to sacrifice.

Jack was leaning in closer. ‘Tell me, what do you think of that whole situation? There’s been a bit of gossip there as well. None of it malicious, so far, just curious, what with the estranged uncle and the unflagging interest in design.’ He nodded again towards the corner where their mother stood with Sophie and a group of friends. ‘Although I did hear a few catty whispers from the younger set, something about the girl having trouble with society at home.’

Charles unclenched his teeth. ‘I think that her presence makes Mother happy, and for that we owe her much.’

‘Without a doubt. I haven’t seen Mother so animated since … well, in a long time. But I confess, at first I thought that Mother was matchmaking.’

This time Charles could not stop the grin that came at his brother’s words. ‘It occurred to me as well. In fact, I scrubbed up the courage to confront her, thinking to forestall any hopes in that direction, only to be unequivocally warned off.’

‘I was read the same lecture.’ Jack rolled his eyes and imitated his mother’s stern tone. ‘“The dear girl has suffered enough at society’s hands. I mean to ease her way, not subject her to the wayward attentions of a man too busy with his nose in a book to treat her properly.”’

Charles laughed. ‘It was my boorish moods and general crankiness.’

‘Well, she’s right, old boy. You are a cranky boor and I am in no way ready to acquire a leg shackle, but that doesn’t mean I can’t dance with the little beauty.’

Charles watched him go. Watched him receive a smile from Sophie and a warning look from their mother. Watched the other men watching her as she gracefully took the dance floor, smiling her evident enjoyment. Then he turned, heading for the card room, where one of the members of the Board of Trade was reportedly diminishing his own cash flow.

Sophie watched him leave the ballroom as the dance began. She had been surreptitiously watching him all evening, all the while painfully aware that he was nearly the only person present not watching her.

The beau monde did not know what to make of her. Her birth was good, her fortune respectable, though it had a slightly mercantile taint. But she was undeniably not one of them. At three and twenty she was a bit long in the tooth to be entering society. Worse, her manner was too direct, her looks too exotic, her passions too strongly expressed. She was too much of everything, she felt, for them to be comfortable with her.

They studied her like a rare insect, some with fascination, some with revulsion, and Sophie wouldn’t have cared a whit, yet she knew Lady Dayle would be distressed should she be found wanting.

Not to mention that she was absolutely determined, even more so as she pretended to ignore Charles ignoring her, that he would not find her alone and friendless today as he had so many years ago. Especially not when his own social standing appeared to be so fully restored. The ‘Wicked Lord Dayle’ might not play well in Whitehall, but since the rumours began of his search for a viscountess, he was a hit in Mayfair.

So she had smiled. She had sparkled. She had danced and talked with a great many boring gentlemen, and she had secretly studied Charles the way the rest of the room studied her, trying to fathom his mysteries.

He was incredibly handsome tonight, in deep blue and creamy white. Someone had tamed his wayward hair; like him, it was shining and gorgeous and contained.

When, she wondered, had he donned this mask of control? She knew he must be relieved at his restoration, but there was no sign of it. No sign of any emotion, except for a few moments of obvious camaraderie with his brother. He remained calm and cool, receiving attention from every woman in the room as if it were his due. He spent a good deal of time in corners with other gentlemen of a political bent, danced only a few dances, and twice only with Miss Ashford.

She could not like the man he had become. But though she wavered between hurt and disdain, she had to admit also her fascination. How and when had he changed so completely? She was not ready to give up on her questions, to give up on him.

Let him bask in the admiration of the silly women of this world. Sophie knew her man, and with the old Charles a little disdain went a long way. Perhaps, with this stranger, it would as well.

So she thanked his brother prettily for the dance and bided her time. When she grew tired of feeling like a new species of insect at a naturalists’ gathering, she retreated to the ladies’ retiring room. She dawdled for a bit in front of the mirror, gathering her determination. She was no stranger to disapproval. At the tender age of seven she had been orphaned, uprooted from her home in Philadelphia, and unceremoniously shipped to England. She’d dreamed of a warm welcome and a loving uncle. Instead she’d been shuffled off to a lesser estate, hidden away along with her eccentric aunt, who sometimes thought that she was seven years old as well.

The people of Blackford Chase had taken their cue from the earl and done their best to forget her existence. She’d been so lonely until she found Charles, and again after he left. Still, she had managed well enough for herself and eventually found a way to be useful. She could do the same here. And here she still had a chance at unravelling the mystery that was Charles Alden.

Still lost in thought, she headed back, but was surprised when she heard a step close behind her and felt a hand on her shoulder.

‘Good evening,’ a strangely familiar voice greeted her.

Sophie froze. It wasn’t her chance. It was her uncle.

She forced herself to breathe deeply and turned. She’d known she must face him some time, but still she found herself unprepared for the pain. ‘Hello, Uncle.’

He had grown older. The broad shoulders she remembered were a little stooped, the dark hair shot with grey.

‘It has been a long time,’ he said.

She inclined her head. There was no polite reply to that.

‘You are doing well for yourself. You’ve shown initiative getting yourself to London.’ He smiled for the first time and looked her over like a horse at Tattersalls. The smile did not reach his eyes; they glittered, reminding her of a hungry spider. ‘Quite a change from the snivelling chit that landed on my doorstep.’

He would find her no easy prey. ‘Indeed,’ she politely agreed. ‘Many changes take place over the course of so many years. The most important one is that I no longer need, or desire, your approval.’

Her rudeness didn’t faze him. ‘You’ve got your mother’s spirit as well as her looks.’

‘Enough of it to tell you that you may go to the devil, which is exactly what she said to you, is it not?’

‘Clever, too. Young lady, you have far more potential than I have given you credit for.’

‘Lord Cranbourne,’ a clear voice rang out, and Lady Dayle materialised behind Sophie. ‘We so hoped to see you tonight. How nice to see that Sophie has at last tracked you down.’

‘She has indeed, and I see how wrong I have been not to search her out sooner. But I shall make amends and call on you soon, my dear.’ He made his bow and departed.

Lady Dayle turned and stroked Sophie’s face, her own dark with concern. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘I am sorry I was not here sooner.’

‘Do not worry.’ Sophie made herself smile for her friend. ‘The worst is over. It will only get easier from here.’

‘I hope you are right.’ She sighed. ‘But he did not seem upset in the least, did he? I had worried that he would resent my interference. Well! Everyone is still at supper. If you have finished, then perhaps we should take a look at the Egyptian Room?’

‘Lead on, my lady.’ But Sophie drew her shawl closer to her for warmth, and tried to ignore the fact that her hands were shaking.

She forgot her discomfort once they entered the Egyptian Room. Sophie’s shawl fell along with her jaw as the door closed quietly behind them. It was unlike anything she had ever seen. She had expected something cold and sterile. Instead her senses were under attack. The vibrant warmth of the vivid blues and oranges contrasted strongly with the antique red and black. It was astonishingly busy, yet the lines were straight and clean. It was alien, spectacular, and oddly compelling.

‘Dreadful, isn’t it?’ asked Lady Dayle. ‘I don’t think this was what Mr Hope meant at all.’

‘In fact, I believe this is quite close to the spirit of some his work,’ came a voice from deep within a lionskin chair. ‘Except for all the odd animal parts. I believe that little touch is all Lady Edgeware’s.’

Charles stood and Sophie’s heart dropped. She was shaken still, and edgy from her encounter with her uncle. Not at all up to dealing with him, or the way he made her feel.

‘Charles! What are you doing in here?’ Lady Dayle’s tone was sharp.

‘I’ve come to see Lady E.’s latest acquisition.’ He gestured and Sophie swept around a sofa with legs fashioned after an elephant’s.

‘Oh!’ she gasped. It was a monstrosity of a stuffed crocodile, frozen for ever in a snarling pose of attack.

‘Good heavens,’ complained Lady Dayle, ‘the woman has gone too far. Charles, you shouldn’t be hiding away in here. Some baron from the north has stolen a march on you and taken Miss Ashford in to supper.’

‘I make it a point to come in here every year. It helps to distract myself from my own folly when I contemplate someone else’s.’

‘Yes, well, perhaps you should not encourage Lady Edgeware. I don’t find this place at all comfortable, but there is an appealing piece here and there. This, for instance,’ and she swept toward the heavily adorned marble mantel.

‘Hold, Mother,’ Charles warned, but it was too late. The short, pearl-encrusted train of her gown had caught in the jaws of the stuffed crocodile. The tear of fabric sounded loud in the room, along with the pinging dance of scattered pearls.

‘Oh, the horrid thing,’ huffed the viscountess. ‘Do untangle me, Sophie, and tell me how bad it is.’

Sophie knelt to examine the hem. ‘I’m afraid it is quite a long tear, my lady. Let me help you to the retiring room and we’ll find a maid to stitch you back up.’

‘No, no, dear. You stay and finish your look around. If you find any of my seed pearls, do be so good as to tuck them into your reticule. No, Charles, you go on to the dining room. I shall be back in a trice to fetch Sophie.’

She was gone from the room before either of them could protest. Neither of the pair left behind would have been comfortable had they seen the crafty smile she wore as she went.

Sophie, who felt that her current mood could rival any of Charles’s most cranky moments, bent again and began to gather the pearls. ‘You should go, my lord. I doubt Miss Ashford would be happy to know you were alone in here with another woman.’

He stood, silent and cold, for a moment. ‘Perhaps you are right.’ He turned to go.

Perverse disappointment bit into Sophie. ‘Incomprehensible.’ She said it just loud enough for him to hear.

‘I beg your pardon?’

Defiant, Sophie lifted her chin. ‘I was remarking to myself that I find you incomprehensible.’ She pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘But upon reflection I find that I don’t even want to try to understand it.’

‘Understand what?’ he demanded.

‘How the boy who faced down Otto, the village bully twice his size, the same boy who climbed the maypole just to win a bet, the man who swam naked in the Serpentine with two of the city’s most famous high flyers—how that person somehow metamorphosed into the pluck-less specimen before me.’

Charles just blinked for several seconds. ‘Did you say pluck-less?’

‘Yes, but I could have substituted faint-hearted, mean-spirited, dandified, or, let us not forget, hen-pecked.’

For a moment he looked as if he might explode. Then he laughed. And laughed. Then he sat down in the lion chair and laughed some more.

‘Damn you, Sophie,’ he said when he had recovered, ‘you always did bully me out of a bad mood. I should have remembered.’

He met her gaze as he smiled in remembrance and Sophie’s breath caught. Here it was, the look, the feeling of friendship and something indefinable, but more. This was what she had been looking for when she found him again. It was sweet to discover it at last, but also painful, because she knew it was fleeting.

‘I? Bully?’ she asked. ‘You are the one who has yelled at, insulted, and ignored me. A little name calling is the least you deserve.’

He grinned. ‘How did you hear about the Serpentine?’

‘The same way the rest of England did—in the papers. I dare say I’ve heard of every scrape you’ve been in since you were fifteen.’

‘Good Lord, I hope not. Some of them were never meant for ladies’ ears.’

‘No one has ever had cause to call me faint-hearted,’ she said with pride. ‘You know I’ve never cared for what people say of me. You never did either.’

The challenge hung in the air between them, and Sophie held her breath. For a moment she thought she had done it, that he would tell her what haunted him, but then he grimaced and the light in his eyes died. The mask was back.

‘Now I do,’ he said, his voice harsh, ‘and it is past time you did too.’

‘I never thought to see the day I could say this with honesty. I don’t like you, Charles. I can’t abide the person you have become. You are closed, cold, and cruel.’

‘Good. It’s better that way.’ His voice was as remote as his expression.

‘Why are you trying to drive me away?’ she whispered.

His eyes closed. He was fighting some inner battle while she waited alone. He knelt and took her hands. His were warm. He smelled of masculine things, smoke and expensive cologne and raw male sensuality. ‘Things have changed,’ he said gently. ‘You are right, I’ve changed. We cannot be to each other what we once were.’

‘Why not?’ She had to fight to keep the anguish from her voice.

‘Don’t, Sophie,’ he said, dropping her hands and rising. ‘If you only knew how hard it has been.’ He was pacing now and she was shaking. ‘And you come along and make it so much more difficult.’ He turned to her. ‘You’re not … I cannot …’ It was panic in his voice and on his face. Something out of proportion for the situation as she knew it. He began to pace again.

He stopped. ‘Listen, Sophie, let’s agree to be friends, then. I cannot offer any more. Please.’

He was hurting and, in some way she didn’t understand, it was her fault. She wanted to ease his pain, wanted to know what it was that frightened him. ‘We have always been friends, Charles. We always will be.’

‘Thank you.’ His relief was palpable.

Confused, she bent back to her forgotten task. The tiny pearls blurred as she fought the tears that threatened.

‘Here, let me help you, then I shall escort you to Mother.’

She blinked furiously. He didn’t truly wish for her friendship either, he just wanted to be rid of her.

They worked quietly for a moment before he said, ‘I believe there are some still trapped in the creature’s jaws.’

Sophie struggled to regain some semblance of herself. Never would she allow him to see the depth of her humiliation. She summoned a smile from some buried vein of strength she didn’t know she possessed. ‘Shall I leave them to you, then?’

He made a face and knelt down, picking a jewel from the crocodile’s teeth. ‘You always did leave the nasty work to me.’

‘How can you say so?’ she protested, leaning back on her heels. ‘I believe it was I who pulled the leeches off you when you would go into the South Bog after those berries.’

‘Very true,’ he returned, ‘but who had to muck out the gardener’s shed when you decided to raise a goat in there?’

Her smile was a true one this time. At least they had not lost this, the ease they felt together. It had been present since their first meeting and was the part of their relationship that she would have mourned most. Perhaps she could be content with this. ‘Poor William,’ she sighed. ‘He’s still a terror, you know.’

He made a strange, strangled noise. ‘William!’ He began to chuckle. ‘I’d forgotten the goat’s name.’ He began to laugh in earnest again. ‘Because Billy was undignified!’ he whooped, and set himself off again into gales of laughter.

This time she joined in, because it was easier to laugh than to cry.

‘Ah, Sophie,’ he said a minute later as he wiped his eye, ‘we always laughed, didn’t we?’ He leaned in close to pass her his handful of pearls, his gaze suddenly serious and locked with hers. ‘I’d forgotten how much I missed it.’

Now it was her turn to experience a twinge of panic. He was close, so close. He looked relaxed, almost happy now that he had settled her firmly in a distant sphere.

Biting her lip, she asked herself just what it was she wanted. She scarcely knew. She’d come to London telling herself she only wanted to renew their friendship. Now he offered just that and she felt—what? Disappointment. Dissatisfaction. She yearned for that connection that lit her insides, ignited her passion, made her feel whole.

Very well, she breathed deep. She would take what was offered. For now.

She schooled her expression and lifted her gaze to meet his.

But didn’t.

Because his was locked on her mouth, and the atmosphere had suddenly, subtly changed. She could almost feel the hot touch of his gaze as it travelled down the column of her neck and across the expanse of her shoulder. The air between them danced with the hard beat of her pulse.

Slowly, his hand rose. Sophie’s eyes closed as, whisper-soft, his fingers brushed along her collarbone. Her head tilted as he caressed the one heavy lock that lay against her nape.

It was the tinkling of the scattering seed pearls slipping through her fingers that allowed sanity to intrude. Just in time, too, for once she was released from the sensual spell of Charles’s touch, her brain began to process what her ears had been trying to relay.

‘I’m sure he must be in here, dear, I left him here gathering up the jewels from my dress.’

Lady Dayle. Right outside the door. Sophie only hoped it was the proximity of the viscountess that caused the horrified expression on her son’s face as they both clambered to their feet.

‘There you are, my darlings.’ Lady Dayle had a distinctly sour-looking Miss Ashford in tow. ‘Haven’t you found all those pearls yet? I was just telling Miss Ashford about our plans for a picnic, Charles, and felt sure you wouldn’t mind if I invited her along.’

‘What plans are those, Mother?’

Charles walked away without a second glance, and Sophie had the distinct impression that that look of horror would have been there even had his mother not appeared.

## Chapter Five


Perfect morning light, a soft haze of chalk dust, the quiet scratch of a pen—it was a recipe for contentment. Alone in her room, enveloped in her beloved things, Sophie should have been content. Ecstatic, even.

She wasn’t, because the air also hung with the heady fragrance of lilacs. He had remembered her favourite flower. A glorious full vase of lilacs rested on her dressing table, their scent teasing her, their beauty distracting her, the card that had accompanied them tempting her to read it just one more time.

Friends, then.

That was all it said, all he offered.

Sophie flung down her pen and gave up her work as a lost cause. It was time she was honest with herself, she thought as she began to pace the room. Her real problem, the true source of her agitation, was the certain realisation that what he offered was not enough.

She wanted the old Charles back, him and their rich, easy friendship. She wanted the laughing, carefree Charles, the one who, when left alone with a pretty girl, would have gone far beyond one burning caress.

She pressed one hand to the spot he had touched and dug her other palm into her brow. She was mourning the passing of a rake! She must be the only person in all England who wasn’t completely enamoured of the new Lord Dayle. It was the new Charles they admired, the one who was productive, and prudent, and moody, and so incredibly handsome.

The horrid truth was that she wanted that Charles too.

She groaned and started to pace again. She was as inconsistent as he! He who asked for friendship with words and pen, and something else entirely with stormy eyes and fervent touch.

Sophie sighed and came to a stop. There was only one thing she could be certain of: her need for some answers. She had to know where that mask had come from, what had caused that haunted look in his eyes, where the old Charles had gone. Perhaps a better understanding of Charles’s feelings would clarify her own.

Very well, they would be friends. She would chip away at the stone, remove what obstacles she could from between them, and then? Then she would see what happened next.

She dipped her nose in the bouquet one last time, then turned and rang for Nell. If she was going to begin to look for answers, there was no time like the present.

‘Nell,’ she began when the maid appeared, ‘will you let me know right away when Emily returns from the park with the baby?’

‘Yes, miss.’ Nell stopped and looked surprised at the stacks of papers and designs covering the bed, the table, and nearly every flat surface in the room. ‘Lordy, miss, I hope you don’t mind my saying it, but you have been busy. I thought you’d done all you could until you saw the big house?’

‘I have. All this—’ she gestured ‘—is for another project. Something very special indeed.’ In fact, this work represented a dream very close to Sophie’s heart. It was nearly complete, but she was not quite ready to confide in anyone just yet.

‘Mrs Lowder did send word that you should be ready for callers this afternoon. Shall I just run a brush through your hair?’

Sophie laughed. ‘Nell, you are wonderfully circumspect. Yes, thank you, I always do muss it dreadfully when I am working.’

She sat quietly while Nell plucked the pins from her hair. Once the maid had begun brushing with long, rhythmic strokes, she asked, ‘How long have you been with the Lowders, Nell?’

‘Oh, going on seven years now, miss. Usually I’m just the upstairs maid, so I was ever so glad when you came.’ For the first time Nell sounded shy. Sophie guessed she was not used to talking of herself.

‘You’ve done a wonderful job,’ Sophie said warmly, ‘and I shall be sure to tell Mrs Lowder so.’

‘Oh, thank you, miss. I did get to help with Mr Lowder’s sister when she made her come out, and I watched her dresser do her hair ever so many a time, so I had an idea what was needed.’

‘Seven years. And you’ve been in the London house all this time?’

‘Yes, miss.’ The maid sounded a little wistful. ‘Though I’ve thought a time or two that I might like the country.’

Sophie chuckled. ‘I always felt the same about the city. I suppose it’s natural to wonder about what you’ve never really experienced.’ She was quiet a moment and then she cast a glance at Nell in the mirror. ‘I suppose you’ve heard a good deal about Lord Dayle’s adventures, then? He did keep the London papers busy for a good number of years, did he not?’

Nell ducked her head and kept her brush busy. ‘They say he’s reformed now, Miss. Though I admit I was surprised when such a good girl as you are had an acquaintance with him.’

‘Oh, yes …’ Sophie did her best to sound nonchalant ‘.I’ve known Lord Dayle since we were both practically in leading strings.’ She cocked her head. ‘I never truly knew his older brother, though. But you would have been working here when the previous Lord Dayle died?’

‘Oh, yes. Such a shame. I even saw him a time or two, he was as wrapped up in politics as Mr Lowder is. That sorry I felt for his poor mother. Bad enough the son, but then her husband gone so soon after.’ Nell shivered as she twisted Sophie’s hair up and reached for the pins.

‘Phillip died at Waterloo, but I was home in Dorset when Lord Dayle took sick. We all thought it just a minor illness. No one expected he would die as well.’

Nell pursed her lips and concentrated intently on her work.

Sophie watched her in the mirror. ‘There were vague rumours of trouble in the family at home. Did they reach town?’

‘Almost done, now. Such hair you have, miss! You must remember to wear your new bonnet for the picnic tomorrow, it brings out the light in your hair so well.’

‘Nell?’

The girl sighed. ‘It’s just servants’ gossip, miss.’

Sophie sat silent, questioning.

‘They whispered below stairs that Lord Dayle died because he wanted to.’

Shocked, Sophie said, ‘Surely no one believes …?’

Nell shook her head. ‘No, they just said he gave up. Got ill and didn’t fight it, then he just slipped away.’

Sophie turned around in her chair and gave Nell a measuring look. ‘The next time we are at Lady Dayle’s house, do you think you could …?’

Nell’s bright eyes shone. ‘Ask some questions?’

‘Discreetly.’ Sophie paused. ‘You’ve already shown yourself to be loyal and trustworthy, Nell. I know I can depend upon you in this matter.’

The maid straightened, her face proud. ‘Of course, miss.’

A knock at the door startled them both. Sophie called entrance, and a footman opened the door deferentially to announce a visitor waiting below.

With a flustered glance towards the lilacs, Sophie rose. Was it Charles? She gathered her shawl and steadied herself. Good, she could begin finding some answers straight away.

She entered the drawing room a moment later at a sedate pace, chin up, only to draw up short.

‘Lord Cranbourne, miss,’ the butler intoned.

Once again she found her uncle where she had been expecting someone else entirely.

‘Uncle,’ she said in the frostiest tone she could summon.

‘Niece.’ He was equally formal as they seated themselves and the butler offered to go for the tea. He watched her the entire time, his gaze sharply calculating.

As the servant’s footsteps faded in the marbled hall, her uncle spoke. ‘I was annoyed when I first heard you had come to town, I admit.’

‘I am amazed you thought to care one way or another.’

He crossed his legs negligently. ‘It doesn’t look well, you coming here without my sponsorship, but, after meeting you, I’m willing to overlook the matter.’

Sophie inclined her head regally. ‘That does seem to be what you do best.’

He leaned forward, suddenly intent. ‘Look here, niece. We can sit here all afternoon while you flail me with the sharp edge of your tongue, or we can get straight to the point. Which would you prefer?’

‘Whichever gets us finished quickest.’

He chuckled. ‘I’m impressed, my dear, and that is not something I say with any frequency.’ He shook his head. ‘I just never guessed you had any fire in you.’

The tight control she held on her rage snapped. ‘It is impossible that you would know anything about my character!’ She struggled to regain herself as the servants returned with tea.

Heavy silence hung in the room as she poured for them both and wished mightily for Emily’s return.

Her uncle was still entirely at ease. ‘I know more about you than you would think, young miss, never doubt it. I know you resent me, but what’s done is done. We find ourselves now in a situation where we can help each other.’

Determined not to let him see her out of countenance again, Sophie sipped her tea. ‘Your offer comes fifteen years too late, sir. I’m not interested.’

‘Don’t go missish on me now, girl. It took brains and courage to get here without my help. Now I can make sure you go much, much further.’ He leaned back. ‘I have connections. What is it that you want? To be a leading lady of the ton? A political hostess holding her own salons?’ He gestured to her colour-stained fingers. ‘A patroness of the arts?’

She merely shook her head in reply.

‘There is power to be had behind the scenes. True power. Empires are won and lost by chance meetings at a ball, by a loose word let slip over drinks. You could be a great help to me, and I can make sure you meet all the right people.’

Sophie closed her eyes in pain. She’d spent too much of her life hoping for some kind of attention from her uncle. Now here he sat and she only felt ill. He wasn’t interested in her, only in what she could do for him. Perhaps, she thought for the first time, she had been better off without his attention.

‘You are more like your mother than I thought possible,’ her uncle continued. ‘She had beauty and intelligence and spirit as well. But she chose poorly, and look what it got her. A few years of love in a colonial backwater and a watery grave.’ He sat straighter and stared intently at Sophie. ‘Don’t repeat her mistakes.’

‘I thank you for the confidence you have finally shown in me, sir, but I am not feeling at all well just now.’ She could stay no longer. What he did not know was that Sophie had her mother’s temper as well, rarely raised, but devastating in scale. One minute more of this and she would be throwing his offer, along with her cup of tea, in his face. Only the thought of Lady Dayle’s and Emily’s disappointment stayed her hand. She took comfort instead in imagining his reaction when all of her plans were revealed. ‘Pray, do excuse me.’

He rose and gave a short bow before declaring in a hard voice, ‘I’ll give you some time to consider. Don’t dawdle, Sophie. Together we can accomplish much.’

Shaking, Sophie rose. It was the first time he had ever called her by her name. Her anger fled, leaving her aching and empty inside. With a barely audible farewell she hurried out and up the stairs. The lilacs mocked her as she entered her room and flung herself upon the bed. First Charles and now her uncle—who would ever have guessed that getting all the things she thought she wanted would be so horribly disappointing?

She cried then, hard, racking sobs for the little girl who had only wanted someone to love her, and for the grown woman still searching.

Lord Cranbourne watched her leave. He turned and stalked out to his waiting carriage, fiercely ignoring the pain once again radiating down his left arm.

The chit was going to be a problem. He had enough trouble this spring chasing after a political appointment that should have come easily, and, far more worrying, dealing with his own body’s betrayal. Throw a headstrong brat into the brew and he might not be able to vouch for the outcome.

Inconstancy. Unpredictability. He was unused to such, yet they seemed suddenly pervasive, hanging thick in the air, obscuring his vision, fouling his plans. He was a man used to being in a position of strength, of knowing all the variables in myriad situations and understanding ahead of time where the players were connected and how the final act would play out.

In a world where knowledge was power, he was a very powerful man indeed, albeit, as he had hinted to his niece, behind the scenes. For most of his life it had been enough, but lately, when faced with these reminders of his mortality, he found he wanted more. He wanted just a bit of the glory and recognition due him, and he wanted it with a fierceness that surprised even himself.

Now he stood on the verge of gaining his objective and his carefully laid plans were fragmenting. He clenched his fist to his chest against another pain and cursed out loud. He was not going to go down without a fight.

When the carriage rocked to a stop, Cranbourne stepped down on to Green Street and walked gingerly up the stairs. He’d feel better after a good stiff drink. He left his coat with a footman, and calling for his secretary, headed for his study.

‘You’re sure that message went off to Philadelphia as planned?’ he asked the compact, extremely efficient man.

‘Indeed, yes, sir.’

‘And we can expect a reply, when?’

‘Two weeks … maybe three at this time of year.’

Cranbourne grunted. Three weeks. He was glad he’d had the foresight to send his inquiries earlier. Judging by the obstinate look on his niece’s face, he might need some help from that direction.

‘If I may, sir? You have a visitor in your study.’

‘Wren, is it?

‘No, sir. It is Mr Huxley.’

‘What? Old Huxley, here?’ he paused outside the study door.

‘No, sir, the young gentleman with the maps, if you will remember?’

Cranbourne wrinkled his brow and longed for that drink and a few minutes of peace. Serious matters were afoot. He needed to think. ‘Maps? Oh, yes.’ He sighed. He’d done a favour for a very useful friend, and hired one of his sons to do some detailed survey work. Heaving a sigh, he went in.

‘Lord Cranbourne, sir.’ The young man rose, blinking like an owl from behind a thick set of spectacles. ‘I have good news. The project is completed.’

But inspiration had hit Lord Cranbourne just as the mid-afternoon sun glinted off Mr Huxley’s dishevelled blond hair. The boy was the right age, tall, shaped well, and easy enough to look at if he would lose the barnacles. ‘Good, good,’ the old man said as he took the papers the puppy handed him. He barely glanced at them. ‘Yes, you’ll do. Sit down, my boy.’ Cranbourne sank gratefully into his own chair.

‘You will find the map completely updated, sir. I walked practically every inch of Lancashire myself. Every lane, farmer’s track and footpath is noted.’ He handed over another folder. ‘The only thing missing, I dare say—’ he smiled ‘—is who is on the roads at present.’

‘Yes, very thorough,’ agreed Cranbourne, but his mind was racing. Perfect. At the least, young Huxley would serve as a very creditable distraction, but if matters came to a head between his niece and himself, then the man might be more useful yet.

‘Here’s the additional information you requested as well: innkeepers and way-station holders in the district, and what I could find on meeting places, debating societies and reformist connections.’

‘Excellent. Tell me, do you go out into society much, Mr Huxley?’

The boy blinked again, startled. ‘No, sir.’

‘It’s time you started, then. How many years have you, three score?’

‘Just eight and twenty, sir, but I fail to see how this relates to the project you hired me for.’

‘I’ve got a new project in mind. Got a niece coming out this Season. I could use a good man like you to squire her about a bit, ask her to dance, take her for a drive now and then.’

‘I hadn’t really thought to …’

‘Nonsense. The girl’s a beauty, educated; she’s just new to town and doesn’t know many people in society. You can’t stay a bachelor for ever, sir. I thought to give you first crack at her.’

‘You do me an honour, sir, but I have given no thought to taking a wife at present.’

‘Oh, well.’ Cranbourne shrugged. ‘The chit’s got no money, unfortunately, but I’d be disposed to look kindly upon her husband. To be his patron, perhaps.’ He gazed shrewdly at the young man. ‘I belong to a committee of importance or two, you see, and I had thought to propose a few more mapping expeditions. Who knows what might come of it? A project encompassing the entire island, perhaps.’

Mr Huxley blinked once more. ‘Perhaps if I just met her, sir.’

## Chapter Six


The day of the proposed expedition to Sevenoaks dawned bright, with a slight crispness in the air that boded well for comfortable temperatures later. The company gathered early in Bruton Street and quickly separated into travelling groups. Lady Dayle elected to ride with Emily, her husband and their little boy in the closed carriage. Jack enticed Sophie into his showy cabriolet. Two more carriages, carrying servants, the baby’s nurse, and the picnic, stood waiting. And Charles? He stood on the steps, suppressing a sigh as his own smart curricle rounded the corner, heading back to the mews.

‘I don’t mean to be a bother, Lord Dayle,’ Miss Ashford assured him again, ‘but a journey of several hours in that contraption? And all the way back, too? I’m not sure Mama would approve.’ She gave him an arch look. Charles had the impression that it was meant to be flirtatious.

Charles smiled at her. ‘I would gladly give up the chance to drive my bays in exchange for the pleasure of your company, Miss Ashford. We are very glad you could join us today.’

She thanked him with pretty words, but her eyes did not meet his. In fact, Miss Ashford was directing a look of displeasure somewhere else entirely.

It was a man who drew her attention, a battered-looking man in a ragged regimental coat. He walked slowly towards the group, until he was a few feet from Jack’s rig. There he stopped, snatched his hat from his head and spoke in urgent tones too low for Charles to hear.

‘I’m sure I feel all the pity that is due someone like that, and the compassion for which my own gender is known,’ Miss Ashford said in an equally low voice, ‘but I cannot think Mayfair a suitable place for him to wander. Should you do something, my lord?’

‘I am confident that Jack will handle the matter appropriately,’ Charles answered. And, indeed, he saw his brother reach for his purse. He was stalled by Sophie, who leaned down to speak with the grizzled veteran. Clearly startled to be so addressed, the soldier answered her. Sophie continued to speak—indeed, it looked as if she were questioning the man closely. Soon she reached into her reticule, pulled out a scrap of paper and scribbled something on it.

The open barouche arrived just then, and Charles, busy handing Miss Ashford in, missed the end of the strange encounter. He gave the order for the party to set off, and noticed as they drove past the unfortunate man that he clutched the paper tight in his hand and stared after the departing Sophie with a look of dazed surprise.

Charles could not know what she had said to the man, but he recognised that vacant look. It was an expression commonly seen in Sophie’s vicinity. He’d worn it himself more times than he could count.

She was a force of nature, his Sophie, and he suspected that her power, like her beauty, had only grown with her. Just look what had happened at Lady Edgeware’s ball. A few minutes alone with her and he had forgotten his role. Forgotten his debt. Let down his guard and laughed like he hadn’t since Phillip had died.

She fascinated him, yet he was terrified of her. She knew him too well. So easily she had discovered the chinks in his armour. He could never let her look inside. She might discover that there was nothing left underneath.

They would be friends, he had told her, though they both felt that spark, that potential for more. It was that instantaneous jolt he felt in her presence, perhaps, that sizzling reminder that a man did indeed exist under the viscount’s shell, that frightened him most of all.

Because she was still Sophie. Still outrageous, outspoken and slightly out of step with the rest of the world. They were qualities he had always enjoyed in her—now they were the very reason he must avoid her.

He had already lived life his own way, for his own pleasure, ignoring the strictures of society, and what had it got him? Only a hellish reputation at first, but too quickly followed by a dead brother, a dead father, a lifetime of remorse and a title that he hadn’t ever wanted.

He’d never coveted the viscountcy, but he was saddled with it now, and it came with an enormous debt to repay. It was clear that, if he ever meant to pay that debt, sacrifices were required, the first and greatest of which was his freedom.

He knew now that his theory was sound. Society was quick to judge, but easier to manipulate. They had fussed and worried over his past like a dog with a bone, but all he had needed to distract them was a bigger prize: his bachelorhood.

A few dances with the right debs, a compliment here, a witty rejoinder there; all he’d had to do was show a proper interest in making one of their darlings his viscountess, and suddenly his wickedness became youthful high spirits, his transgressions were forgiven, and invitations began piling up again.

His political prospects had improved as well. He’d been approached at Lady Edgeware’s ball by Sir Harold Luskison, an influential member of the Board of Trade. The gentleman had stuck to polite conversation at first, but eventually he had given Charles a friendly slap on the back and approved his attention to Miss Ashford.

‘I know you’ve been down a rough road recently,’ Sir Harold had said. ‘Avery’s nonsense is easy to ignore, but together with the character assassination in the papers? It becomes more difficult.’

Charles had started to speak, but the man had stopped him. ‘I know I’m not the only one who has noticed that all of those published escapades are shades of a murky past.’ He had flashed Charles a conspiratorial grin, ‘Do you know I myself was caught up in one of your pranks, once?’

Charles groaned, but Sir Harold appeared lost in fond remembrance. ‘It was that contretemps you got up to at the Lady’s Slipper. Do you recall it?’

Recall it? How could he forget? The tavern in the Strand was the scene of the most notorious brawl he and his cronies had ever got mixed up in. The owner had been in a fury and had had Charles and his friends thrown into the street. He’d even threatened to send the bill for repairs to Charles’s father.

Sir Harold was still grinning. ‘You make a fine rum punch, lad. Not too proud to say I sampled a cup myself.’

Charles rubbed his brow and hid his eyes. The very next night, he had set up camp outside the pub, with a small cauldron fitted out like a woman’s shoe, in the likeness of the tavern’s famous sign. He had mixed up his best rum punch and ladled it out for free to every comer, ruining the pub’s business and infuriating the owner all the more. The man had called the watch and Charles had been lucky to escape.

‘It took me all day to put together that cursed shoe.’ He dropped his hand and returned Sir Harold’s smile. ‘Do you know I still have it?

The man laughed. ‘I dare say there’s not one among us who couldn’t rake up a hairy tale or two from our youth. I just wanted you to know you have your defenders. The energy and dedication you’ve shown since you inherited has done you good.’

Sir Harold had gestured toward the dance floor then. ‘Good gracious, not since that dreadful Fitzherbert woman has anyone’s courtship been so closely examined. But you are doing well. A steady girl of good family and reputation will prove your sound judgment and lay your past to rest.’

Charles had been thrilled at the reassurance. His instincts had been correct, his gambit had worked. He had, in fact, felt completely vindicated in his course of action.

Until he had almost kissed Sophie.

‘What do you think, my lord?’

Even her interruptions were timed perfectly, Charles thought, mentally noting the addition of another ‘Reason to Marry Miss Ashford’. More than happy to be distracted, he fixed his attention on the young lady. ‘I beg your pardon, my attention was drawn elsewhere for a moment.’

‘I asked,’ she said again, allowing the smallest hint of exasperation to colour her question, ‘how you think I might best approach Miss Westby. You seem to know her well, so I thought you could advise me.’

‘Approach Miss Westby?’

‘I think she might benefit from my influence. I shall take her under my wing, as they say. With my help I dare say she shall go on very well here in town.’

Charles shrugged. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I think she’s doing well enough on her own. I can see no need for you to so trouble yourself.’

Miss Ashford threw Charles a significant glance and favoured him with a very small, tight smile. ‘Naturally a busy gentleman such as yourself would not encounter the same sort of small talk that a lady would. Normally I would not deign to pass on such, well—let us call it what it is—petty gossip. But a few things have been brought to my attention, since I am known to also be an acquaintance of your family’s.’ She paused and this time her speaking look was even more pointed. Charles would have been amused if he hadn’t had a sudden chilling vision of the thousands of such arch glances the lady’s husband would be subjected to, day in and day out. Chalk one up for the ‘Reasons to Consider Someone Else’.

‘Fortunately there is nothing that cannot be overcome with my help. The incidents are mostly small and insignificant, in the manner of what we saw this morning, when Miss Westby engaged that beggar man in conversation.’

Charles knew, without a doubt, that he should be grateful to Miss Ashford. She only sought to please him. She only echoed his own doubts about Sophie’s behaviour. She only offered to help Sophie in exactly the manner that he wished for himself, if on a larger scale. There was no earthly reason for him to feel such indignation on Sophie’s behalf. Yet feel it he did. Indignation and irritation flashed through him at the thought of Miss Ashford’s forcing Sophie into a mould fashioned after herself.

‘That military man, and all his like, deserves our condescension and compassion, Miss Ashford. God knows they have obtained precious little from the government they risked all to defend.’

‘I agree. Yet for a lady to be seen in conversation with them in the street is not at all the thing. If Miss Westby has a charitable bent, I have a far better notion of how she may proceed.’

Charles’s interest was piqued. Perhaps Miss Ashford had more bottom than he had suspected. He hadn’t had an inkling that she participated in charity work. He couldn’t help but approve. ‘How so?’ he asked.

‘I, and a few of my peers, have organised our own charitable society. I mean to ask Miss Westby if she would like to join us.’

‘I dare say she would,’ Charles said warmly. ‘I’m very interested myself. Tell me about your works, perhaps I could help in some way.’

‘Oh, it is nothing you would be interested in. We are a small group, and new.’

‘Nonsense. I would be glad to help in any way I can. What have you accomplished so far? Have you a board? A charter? Perhaps I could serve as financial advisor and take that burden from you?’

Miss Ashford was looking more and more discomfited. ‘I am afraid you have surpassed me already, my lord. As I said, it is a group of ladies. We meet every week or so over tea to discuss society’s ills. We have not progressed so far as you imagine.’

Charles did his best to hide his disappointment. For a moment he had thought … but no, it was clear that Miss Ashford’s society would never progress as far as he imagined. Oh, she might throw a charity ball, but she would never truly interest herself in the plight of the less fortunate. The ‘Not Miss Ashford’ column was coming on rather stronger than he was comfortable with.

‘I fear I must warn you,’ he said, ‘Miss Westby was never a fan of discussion. If she sees a wrong being committed, she is far more likely to intervene herself than to sit and talk about it.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Miss Ashford, ‘and that is precisely the character flaw I hope to eradicate. Do you know what she said to the Duchess of Charmouth?’

Charles did not know, but he could well imagine. ‘No, but I would wager that she criticised that cold and draughty ballroom that her Grace is for ever entertaining in.’ The ton had suffered, silently shivering, through year after year of the popular event. He almost laughed at the picture of Sophie haranguing the old termagant.

‘Worse,’ Miss Ashford declared, ‘she pointed out everything architecturally wrong with the room, then she came right out and told her Grace that she knew of a builder who could repair it.’ and she lowered her voice to a dreadful whisper ‘at a good price!’

Unexpected laughter burst out at the mental image, but Charles tried hard to contain himself when he noticed Miss Ashford’s shocked countenance.

‘It is no laughing matter, my lord. Such pretension on Miss Westby’s part must not be encouraged.’

‘And was the duchess insulted?’ he asked.

‘No, she was not.’ Clearly Miss Ashford was puzzled by this. ‘But she very easily could have been.’

‘What, exactly, was her reply to Miss Westby’s advice?’

‘She said she was glad indeed to meet someone who would talk sense to her despite her title, and would be gladder still to hear of a man who would not cheat her because of it.’

Charles chuckled, but he could see Miss Ashford’s point. Yet even though his head conjured images of Sophie suffering a scathing set-down and social disgrace, urging him again to distance himself from the girl, he knew in his gut that he would not.

She very likely would get herself in some sort of trouble this Season. With Sophie, it just seemed inevitable. But she was the closest friend of his childhood. He would stand by her, come what may.

It is a shameful thing, some deeply buried part of himself whispered, that you won’t trust her enough to allow her to return the favour.

The party made good time on the roads and arrived in Sevenoaks just past mid-morning. Everyone welcomed a stop in the village centre to stretch weary limbs and to admire the stand of trees that bestowed on the little town its name.

After a brief respite they climbed back aboard and travelled the short distance to Lord Dayle’s dilapidated house. For a few moments chaos reigned as the house servants came out to greet them, the stable hands swarmed to take charge of horses and vehicles, and those servants who had accompanied them from town set about unloading and locating the best spot to set up the picnic.

For Sophie, their arrival came not a moment too soon. She had fidgeted her way through the entire journey, apologising to Mr Alden and explaining it away as anxiousness to begin her project. What she could not admit to him was how unnerving she found the sight of Charles and Miss Ashford together.

The ride had been bad—the thought of watching them strolling together in the gardens, rowing on the lake, or doing any of a thousand things that courting couples do, was insupportable. She made haste to befriend the housekeeper, therefore, and swept away with her and Lady Dayle, happy to bury her anxiety in her work.

Confused feelings were easy to ignore when one had an entire house to bury them under. Sophie had poured over plans of the estate; she had imagined the rooms as she concocted colour schemes and design themes, but nothing compared to this: walking into the house and knowing that the transformation of it belonged to her. Touching the walls, studying the light, draping fabrics across furniture, and mentally turning a musty, neglected old house into a place of warmth and life.

Sophie had measured, climbed, scraped, pulled, and scribbled page after page of notes and sketches for several blissful, uninterrupted hours. This, this was heaven, and she resisted when Lady Dayle and Emily finally came to insist that she come join the party and eat.

‘Do come now, dear,’ wheedled Lady Dayle, who had kept up with her for most of the morning. ‘You must feed your body as well as your soul. And as much as I enjoy seeing you so happily engaged, it’s past time we go and save Charles from Miss Ashford.’

‘Save him?’ Sophie asked. ‘I rather thought he was happy for the chance to continue his courtship.’

‘Yes, well, a few hours of the lady’s unrelenting company should have cured him of that notion,’ Lady Dayle answered with a wry twist of a grin. ‘Let’s go down.’

The viscountess marched out. Sophie shot a questioning glance at Emily, who only shrugged. Feeling intrigued and more than a little hopeful, Sophie took her friend’s arm and followed.

She was quickly happy that she had given in. Charles, she found, had directed the picnic to be spread out in a sun-dappled grove overlooking the lake. The air was soft and full of birdsong, the company was in high good humour and a bountiful feast of cold meats, cheeses and fruit lay spread before them.

‘Which is the tree in which you hid Cabot’s teeth, Charles?’ Jack Alden called.

Charles’s only response was to roll his eyes at his brother.

‘We had a litter of new puppies in the stables,’ Jack confided to the company. ‘The butler refused to allow them in the house. Charles had to exact his revenge somehow.’

‘It isn’t nice to tell tales on your brother, Mr Alden,’ Emily said with a meaningful glance in Miss Ashford’s direction.

Jack only laughed and they all went forth to the feast. True to her word, Lady Dayle enticed Miss Ashford into conversation and into a seat next to her. Sophie noted that Charles did look grateful as he took his plate and joined his brother. She carried her own and settled beside Emily and her family.

Emily was slicing fruit for her young son. ‘You must see my little Edward, Sophie,’ her friend said joyfully. ‘He’s walking so well!’

‘The springy turf and even ground have inspired him,’ chimed in Mr Lowder. ‘He’ll be running soon, though I think now he likes the falling down as much as the walking.’

‘Sophie, there is dust on your skirt, a cobweb in your hair, and a smudge on your cheek,’ Lady Dayle spoke up. ‘All sure signs that you are enjoying yourself rather well.’

‘I am enjoying myself immensely,’ Sophie said complacently. ‘Later today the builder arrives, and I predict that my appearance will suffer further, but my enjoyment will increase in proportion.’

‘Speaking of which, Lord Dayle,’ Sophie called. ‘Forgive me for interrupting, but I must ask if you’ve any objection to my tearing down the wall between the two parlours at the back of the first floor?’

She hesitated to ask, after his harshly declared intention to have nothing to do with the project, but did not feel comfortable undertaking such a large change without his approval. Fortunately he appeared amused instead of annoyed. ‘I give you full carte blanche, Miss Westby. The house is entirely in your hands.’ He looked directly at her, and she caught her breath. Breathtaking was how he looked, sitting relaxed, with the wind ruffling his hair and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘I only ask that you don’t attempt to bring the wall down yourself.’

Sophie gathered her composure and wrinkled her nose at him. ‘I appreciate your confidence, and promise to leave the demolition to the men.’

She smiled as little Edward, appetite assuaged, toddled over to her and patted her face with sticky hands. ‘I don’t know why you berate me for my untidiness, Lady Dayle. Just look at this little gentleman—covered in peaches and grass stains! You’ll never win the ladies’ hearts that way, my boy,’ she admonished him.

The boy laughed and plopped himself into her lap. ‘Well, perhaps you shall,’ Sophie said, gathering him close for a squeeze.

Emily smiled at her son’s antics. ‘Better grass stains than bruises, Sophie.’ She raised her face to the sun filtering through the new leaves and leaned back against her husband. ‘Oh, this was a marvellous idea.’

‘Yes, a lovely day,’ Miss Ashford agreed. ‘It is a shame that you may not relax and appreciate it as the rest of us have, Miss Westby.’

Sophie did not wish to think about how Miss Ashford had been spending her day. ‘I thank you, but beg you not to worry for me. I am more than content.’

‘It seems an odd sort of thing to gain such pleasure from,’ Miss Ashford remarked.

‘It is unusual, but there can be no doubt of your talent,’ Mr Alden intervened. ‘I wandered in earlier and caught a glimpse of some of your colour and fabric combinations. Won’t you please tell us how this project came about?’

Lady Dayle answered him. ‘Sophie is too modest to tell the story correctly, so we shall have to enlighten you. It started with the baby,’ she said, gesturing to the boy growing heavy-eyed in Sophie’s arms. ‘Tell them, Emily, dear.’

Emily rose to fetch her son. ‘It did indeed start with Edward,’ she said as she settled back with him. ‘Shortly before his arrival came the arrival of a very large packing crate at our home. I couldn’t imagine what was in it.’ She paused to adjust the baby’s weight in her arms.

‘Shall we guess, Mrs Lowder, or will you tell us?’ Mr Alden laughed.

‘I shall tell you, Mr Alden, if you will be patient.’ She smiled over at him. ‘It was a cradle. A marvellous cradle, with a mighty castle, and knights and horses, and even a princess in her tower carved right into the wood, like they had grown there. I confess, it took my breath away.’

‘Beautiful piece,’ Mr Lowder agreed. ‘Never seen anything like it.’

‘It was from Sophie, of course, and we asked her right away where she had found such a treasure, for we hoped to get some matching pieces.’

‘Was it Spanish?’ asked Miss Ashford. ‘I’ve seen some lovely pieces from Spain and they are a fanciful people.’

‘No indeed,’ replied Emily. ‘Sophie had designed it herself, and had a gifted friend of hers do the woodwork. We were amazed, of course.’

Everyone proclaimed their admiration. Sophie, blushing, tore her eyes from Charles, who had appeared very far away while Emily talked.

‘Due to some previous difficulties, the doctors had insisted I stay off of my feet,’ she continued. ‘I thought I would go out of my mind! So I struck upon the idea of redoing the entire nursery, to keep my thoughts occupied.’

‘She was the brains of the project,’ Sophie laughed. ‘I was only the hands and feet.’

‘That is not at all the truth,’ Emily protested. ‘But it turned out so well and we had such fun that, after little Edward was born, I decided to ask Sophie’s help in redoing some other rooms.’ She turned to Miss Ashford. ‘I assure you, they turned out beautifully. You’ve never seen anything so comfortable and elegant at the same time.’

‘How nice,’ murmured Miss Ashford.

‘And upon seeing their handiwork, I decided that a big redecorating project would be just the thing for me as well,’ interjected Lady Dayle. ‘I came up with the idea of doing this house for Charles’s birthday and enjoying the Season at the same time. And here we all are.’

‘Yes, here we are all, and here I am going to stay, at least for a bit,’ said Sophie, more than ready to change the focus of the conversation. She looked to Charles. ‘Your mother and I have packed a few things. We mean to stay for a day or two, to get the work started off in good fashion.’

‘Won’t you be missed in town, Mother?’ he asked.

‘No. We intend to stay only tonight and tomorrow night. We shall be back in time for Almack’s on Wednesday.’

‘Good. I would hate for Miss Westby to miss any of the excitement of her first Season.’

Irritation straightened Sophie’s spine. ‘I do not know why you must insist on thinking of me as an empty-headed débutante, intent on flirting my way through the Season and into some peer’s pocket.’

Charles cast a lazy eye over her. ‘That was not my meaning, but since you brought it up, I shall remind you that decorating as a hobby might make you an eccentric, but as a career it will place you out of consideration for nearly any gentleman of birth.’

‘That is just as well, then,’ she returned. ‘I have as much talent, vision, and will as any man, not to mention enough money of my own to gain me something that few other women possess: choice, free will, and independence.’ She raised her chin, more than ready to continue, but was forestalled by Miss Ashford.

‘I’m sorry to hear that you will not be returning with us, Miss Westby,’ the lady said smoothly. ‘I am hosting a gathering of young ladies tomorrow to discuss some charitable works, and I had intended you to join us.’

Sophie blinked. The woman sounded as if she fully expected a reversal of their plans. ‘I am most obliged, Miss Ashford, but I must stay. The plasterer cannot come until tomorrow. I must be sure everyone comprehends what I have in mind. The first stages of a project such as this are critical.’

‘Of course, I understand.’ Her tone said otherwise. She accepted a glass of lemonade from a servant and turned back to Sophie. ‘What I would like to hear is how you developed such a passionate interest in design, Miss Westby. It is a most unusual accomplishment for a young lady.’

Sophie fought back a grin. Clearly in Miss Ashford’s eyes, unusual was not a compliment. ‘Oh, it was born of necessity, I’m sure. My singing voice is not fit for public hearing, my needlework skills are mostly of the practical variety, and my musical ability, though competent, is nothing special.’

‘Her artistic talents, however, are unsurpassed,’ Charles broke in unexpectedly. ‘I don’t believe I have a single memory of Miss Westby without a sketchbook close at hand.’ He smiled at the company in general. ‘Unless, of course, I had squirrelled it away and hidden it. It was the greatest torture I could devise.’

Despite the tension that still crackled between them, Sophie was warmed by Charles’s defence of her. And by the brightness of that smile. It sparked a longing to see it more often.

She forced herself to laugh and keep her tone light. ‘I, on the other hand, devised any number of ways to torture you.’

‘Yes, and I still bear the scars of a few of them,’ he said with mock-severity.

‘I know Miss Ashford would love a hint on how to beat Charles into submission, Sophie dear …’ Lady Dayle spoke with the indulgence of a fond mother hen with a brood of wayward chicks ‘.but it will have to wait for later, for isn’t that the builder’s cart travelling up the drive?’

‘Oh, it must be,’ Sophie said, rising to her feet. ‘He is due to arrive some time this afternoon.’ Pausing, she flashed Charles her biggest smile, then stopped and bent down to Miss Ashford. Still holding Charles’s gaze, she said in a deliberately loud stage whisper, ‘Ear flicking, he hates that’, before striding off to the house.

## Chapter Seven


The afternoon sun was still high when Charles entered the house in search of Sophie. Though there was plenty of daylight left, most of the party wished to return to London before dark. He’d avoided the bedlam of repacking, calling to his mother that he would find Miss Westby so that she might bid everyone farewell. Now he wandered the empty rooms of a house that had never been meant for him, searching for a woman who was undoubtedly wrong for him.

There were signs of her everywhere. Long shrouded furniture lay newly uncovered, the discarded linen lying in heaps in the corners. Sunlight and fresh breezes poured through the place, as every window had been thrown open to let the day in. Splashes of colour, in swatches and sketches, sat prominently in each room.

She was up a ladder again when he found her, measuring a window for curtain lengths, he surmised. He stood, unnoticed in the doorway, watching the graceful bend of her body, the sunlight fighting against the glorious night of her hair, the gentle sway of her dress in the breeze.

He was a fool for being here. He was playing with fire and likely to get burned. But there was a part of him that could not resist her call, the young man in him who missed her chaotic friendship, and perhaps also the dark part of him that had always relished such danger.

‘Don’t fall,’ he said softly, remembering the last time he’d discovered her on a ladder.

She turned her head and gifted him again with that dazzling smile—all white teeth against soft, exotically toned skin. ‘Don’t worry, Charles, I’m not going to fall.’

Her mocking tone made him wonder if she referred to something other than the ladder.

‘The rest of the party is preparing to leave, I thought you might wish to come and see them off.’

‘Yes, of course, just let me finish these measurements.’ She bent again to her task. It grew quiet, with only bird sound from the open window to break the silence. Charles leaned on the doorframe and stayed where he was. He almost started when she spoke.

‘Tell me, Charles, do you see much of Lord Avery lately?’

She surprised him with the question. ‘Only in Westminster.’

‘How does he go on?’

‘I have not the faintest idea, except for the fact that he does go on about my reformist leanings every time we meet. He and his cronies keep up a continuous dark mutter when I am present.’ He shivered. ‘It is deuced unsettling. Why do you ask?’

‘An odd notion. I know you feel you were sorely abused in that whole strange situation, but I can’t help feeling sorry for him and his wife, as well. It seems to me that they were quite as ill used as you.’

‘I agree, in large part, but I assure you my sympathy is the last thing Avery wishes. He persists in blaming me, at least in part, for the whole débâcle.’

‘I suppose there is no one else for him to concentrate on, is there? It’s human nature to look to others instead of yourself when something goes wrong. But I still feel for him. Has he heard from his wife?’

‘After she ran off with the valet? I’ve no clue, but I don’t wish to know anything else about the tawdry affair. What has brought all this on?’

‘It’s nothing. I just hate to see a relationship—and they do seem to have loved each other, in an odd way—come to such an end.’

Rolling up her tape, she climbed down and tried to put herself to rights. The familiar sight caused an unexpected ache, but still made him smile. It was so easy and comfortable, being with Sophie.

‘What is it?’ she asked, rubbing a grubby hand against her cheek and only making it worse.

‘Nothing.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s just with dirt smudges all over you and your hair coming down like that, you look about eleven years old again.’ He let his gaze roam over curves and valleys that had never graced her younger figure. ‘Well, perhaps not,’ he said, unable to keep the husky appreciation from his voice.

She stilled and did not reply; a wild thing scenting something dangerous.

He advanced into the room, trying not to feel like a predator. ‘I didn’t wish to discuss it in front of everyone, earlier today, but I remember the first time we really discussed your designs. Do you remember?’

She still had not moved. ‘Yes.’

Her caution, her attitude of expectancy, of uncertainty, was affecting him. His heart was pounding. God, she was beautiful.

It was warm in the room, and the space was somehow growing smaller as he drew closer. ‘It was summer, and we were trying to keep cool in the gazebo by the lake. You were drawing another of your infernal rooms, another place that existed only in your mind. I remember the breeze teasing the edges of your paper.’ His own voice filled the small distance between them, wrapping, winding about them both and carrying them somewhere else entirely.

‘I had never asked you before why you created those imaginary parlours and kitchens, ballrooms and stillrooms, instead of sketching flowers or houses or landscapes like every other girl. But that day I watched you, the intensity in your eyes, the heat of the day in your cheeks, and the wind whispering in your hair. And I asked. Do you remember what you answered?’

Her eyes were closed, but he knew she wasn’t here any more. She was lost in the sweet summer’s warmth of long ago. ‘Yes.’

‘You spoke of your father’s warehouse, how he would take you there with him. You described the dust in the air, the sunlight spilling into the shadowy places, illuminating boxes, and crates, and barrels, of furniture, and paintings, and pottery. You told me how, just a small girl, you would close your eyes and dream of the homes those beautiful things would go to, of the rooms they would adorn.’

Sophie’s eyes snapped open, and the spell was broken by the spark of fear shining there. Charles knew she did not want him to go any further. She lifted her chin. ‘Pray don’t mention this to Miss Ashford,’ she said. ‘I’ve only just been warned not to discuss my mercantile background.’

He accepted her retreat, knowing they both recognised it for what it was. ‘I’m sorry if she offended you.’

Sophie shrugged. ‘I am sure she meant it well.’

He sighed. ‘I am sure that is what she tells herself, at any rate.’

‘What’s this?’ The old Sophie was back, grinning her mischievous insight. ‘The courtship’s path travels over rocky ground?’

‘No, maybe I would prefer that it did. Anything would be better than the bland, unexceptional terrain we’ve already traversed.’

‘I’m glad to hear you say that. I was afraid you hadn’t seen it.’

The relief in her voice puzzled him. ‘Seen what?’

‘Seen how ill the two of you would suit.’ She smiled again. ‘I thought I was going to have to exert myself to disentangle you from her clutches.’

Charles flinched. ‘You misunderstand. I shouldn’t have spoken so, it was a mistake.’

She stared. ‘The only mistake would be to continue to pursue her.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s an advantageous match for both sides.’ This was not a conversation Charles wanted to have with Sophie.

‘Charles, I’ve seen you with her. Watched you.’ She spoke carefully, patiently, like he was a child, too young to see things clearly. ‘In her company you disappear. There is only some sober, solemn stranger standing there in your skin.’

‘That is exactly the intended effect.’ His voice sounded as tight as the constriction in his chest.

‘I don’t understand. You mean to say you wish to be rigid, humourless, and unapproachable?’

‘No, I mean I wish to be seen for what I am—an adult, a responsible, respectable peer of the realm.’

‘Oho! Convenient, but unoriginal, Charles. I never thought to hear you playing Lord of the Manor. Does it all come back to the title, then?’

The scorn in her tone infuriated him. ‘Of course it comes back to the title!’ he said harshly. ‘The bloody thing hunted me, laying waste to my family. Now it’s got me. The duties and responsibilities are mine now; some of them so heavy, you cannot comprehend.’

‘Balderdash! Do your duty, accept the responsibility, but don’t let it change who you are.’ Her hands were moving, sharp and fast, emphasising the force of her words. If he hadn’t been so angry, Charles would have laughed. You knew Sophie was in a passion if she started talking with her hands. Then he heard what she was saying and any urge to laugh died instantly.

‘You may not believe it, Charles, but I remember many things as well. I remember a girl making herself miserable, turning herself inside out trying to please the adults who tried to forget her existence. I remember the boy who taught her to find her own happiness. I remember the small confessions, the shared stories. My uncle, your father. My sad aunt, your overburdened brother. I remember the words too. Do you want to hear them?’

‘No,’ he said harshly.

‘“We’ll think of the others, but live for ourselves.” That’s a wondrous piece of wisdom for a mere boy. Too bad the man’s forgotten it.’

Her voice was heavy with disdain, and Charles shocked himself by welcoming it. Yes, he deserved nothing but her contempt, however misdirected its focus might be.

Sophie turned away from him and gripped the faded curtain. ‘That’s what you’re doing now, isn’t it? Living the life that others expect of you?’

She would never understand. He felt a sudden, insane urge to blurt out the truth, all of it. But he couldn’t bear to see her reaction.

She’d grown tired of waiting for one. ‘It’s just a title, Charles. It may define your station in life, but naught else. You’ve hidden from yourself for so long, I think you’ve forgotten who you are. You’re more like Phillip now than I ever thought you could be.’ She paused a moment, as if digesting her own words, then realisation dawned on her face. ‘It’s Phillip,’ she breathed.

This time, Charles knew, his flinch was noticeable. He’d known she was dangerous. Now he struggled to gain control, to throw the mask back up before it was too late.

It already was too late.

‘My God, Charles! Is that what this is all about? Phillip was a serious man, a good and studious man. But it was his nature; the title didn’t make him that way. Do you think to turn yourself into your brother?’

Charles’s heart was pounding, his breath coming fast. ‘We’re not children anymore, Sophie. You don’t know me as well as you think you do.’

‘I know you well enough. Don’t throw yourself away in such a marriage. Phillip would not approve. He would want you to be happy.’

Charles almost choked on the conflicting emotions within, all trying to fight their way out. She was beautiful in her passion, terrifying in her perception. He wanted to run, back to London, if necessary, where he could bury himself in work and never hear his brother’s name again. He wanted to drop the mask and let the warmth of her affection and acceptance flow over him, absolving him of his sins. He wanted to shout the terrible truth at her: I can’t be happy. I don’t deserve to ever be happy again.

He couldn’t do any of those things. So he buried his hands in her already dishevelled hair and kissed her instead.

For a moment, a shocked Sophie could only stand frozen, stunned. It was a short moment. Then she came alive under his hot and insistent mouth.

She couldn’t push her mind past the miracle of it: Charles kissing her. She was overwhelmed by the taste and scent of him, the wonder of the dark need curling through her.

Through the long, lonely years, when Charles had been a companion only in her mind, he had represented safety, acceptance, and warmth. Then she had found him again, and he wasn’t her best friend anymore, just a stranger who had shown her mostly arrogance and disapproval. Now, with his mouth slanting hotly over hers, he radiated something else entirely: risk, danger, molten excitement that welled deep in her belly.

She welcomed it, thrilled to it, reached for him so she could demand more. He groaned as her arms went around him, and the sound made the throbbing deep within her that much stronger.

He was barely in control of himself. She didn’t care. He drove her head back with his hard, brazen kiss. She yielded to the assault and met him kiss for kiss. He backed her against the wall as his hands crept up to crush the curves he’d admired so boldly. She clung to him as if her life depended on it.

She had cracked his armour, touched the man underneath. His passion served in part as a stalling technique, a way to avoid dealing with the emotions that frightened him. But it was true, and it was hers. She accepted it and while the wind gusted through the open window, draping the faded curtains over them and enclosing them in a cocoon of desire, she gave him back all the fervent warmth in her heart.

He wasn’t ready to accept it.

With a despairing moan he tore his mouth from hers and slid his hands up to grasp her shoulders. His chest heaved as his eyes closed and he rested his forehead on hers.

‘I remember it all, Sophie,’ he gasped, ‘even the part you didn’t wish to hear. I asked you that day why the rooms you drew were always empty. You said they were waiting for the happy people who would come to live in them.’

Sophie closed her own eyes in pain. She’d pushed him too far. She deserved this, she knew.

‘Don’t do it here,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t create rooms for my happy family. They don’t exist. They never will.’

He loosed her abruptly and strode out of the room. He didn’t look back.

## Chapter Eight


This was the last in a high stack of forms. Resolutely, Sophie dipped her pen again and signed. She paused, staring at the bold scrawl of her signature, contemplating everything that this step meant, then she pushed the papers over to her guest. ‘Here you are, Mr Fowler.’

‘Thank you, Miss Westby.’ The man ran a practised eye over the contracts before putting them away in his case. Only then, Sophie noticed, did he visibly relax, take a sip of tea, and smile. ‘I admit this is far more pleasant than my usual business meetings, but then, everything about this venture is unusual.’

Sophie sighed. There was that word again. Unusual. In the fortnight since that fateful day at Sevenoaks, it had echoed repeatedly in her head. Always in Miss Ashford’s ever-so-slightly condescending tone. She took a deep breath. Perhaps it was time to make unusual work for her, rather than against her.

She raised her cup and an ironic brow. ‘Then let us drink to the unusual success of our enterprise, sir,’ she said.

‘Hear, hear.’ Mr Fowler drained his glass and began to gather his things. ‘I have no doubts on that score, however. Your work is delightful. It is sure to make us both a success.’

‘I sincerely hope so,’ Sophie said, standing to bid him farewell.

He took her hand, but paused. ‘I feel I have to ask again. Are you certain you wish your portion of the proceeds to be paid to this … gentleman?’

‘Mr Darvey, yes.’ Sophie fixed her guest with a penetrating look. ‘He may not be a gentleman, as you have obviously discovered, but he is a good and worthy man, and he will see that the money goes where it is needed most.’

‘He’s a lucky man, to have attracted a patroness like you, miss.’

‘As I am a lucky woman to have found a friend like him.’ She smiled. ‘Nor am I unaware of my good fortune in securing a publisher of your calibre, Mr Fowler.’

He grinned and picked up his case. ‘I’ll send you round a copy of the book as soon as it is ready. It has indeed been a pleasure.’

Sophie watched from the window as Mr Fowler descended to the hired coach that had brought him. His cheerful whistle and jaunty step only served to frustrate her further. Her temple rested against the cool and soothing glass long after he had gone.

It was disheartening, really. She had accomplished so much. She’d found friends who felt more like family as each day passed. She was in London, with a major design project coming along relatively smoothly, and now this. A design guide of her own. It was a victory, a culmination of a dream that she had worked towards for years. More importantly, it was a means of helping those who might otherwise have no chance of a future.

Fate had surely had a hand in her meeting with Mr Darvey, all those months ago, for it had come at a time when they had both been in desperate need of some hope. The combination of her vision and his talent had resulted in some lovely pieces, such as little Edward Lowder’s cradle. But that had only been the beginning. With a bit of Sophie’s money, Mr Darvey’s good sense, and a few members of his former regiment, they had created more than beautiful furniture, they had manufactured opportunity. They had given hope to others as well as themselves. This book could lead to more of the same.

She should be flush with success, awash in triumph, but she had found that she couldn’t truly enjoy any of it. Instead she was only filled with a ceaseless, restless anxiety.

It was all Charles’s fault, damn his eyes. She had neither seen, nor heard from, him in the fortnight since that unexpected, heart-pounding, earth-shattering kiss. And unsettling though his continued absence may be, worse was her inability to reconcile her unruly feelings.

Once she had recovered from the pure, physical shock of their embrace, she had been furious. How dare he resurrect a moment of their past, seduce her with the beauty and intimacy of it, then use it to push her away!

A little more thought, however, had reinforced the notion that his kiss had been an act of self-defence. She had touched him. Her patient chiselling had succeeded at last, and she had found a tiny breach in the stone rampart around him. She had reached the man inside and it had frightened him. Typically, like a scared little boy, he had pushed back, trying to scare her off in the same manner.

Perversely, his tactic had had the opposite effect on Sophie.

And perhaps that was characteristic of their relationship as well, she thought with a smile. But she could not help the feeling of intense relief that had swept over her with the realisation that there was indeed a mystery to be solved here. It wasn’t a natural tendency for prudery and sanctimony that had changed Charles. Something had happened to induce this drastic alteration in personality and demeanor, to cause him to retreat behind that bulwark of prickly pride. Something to do with his dead elder brother.

What could it have possibly been? As far as she knew, Charles and Phillip had had the normally contentious relationship of brothers a few years apart in age. They had been especially close as young boys, tumbling through the home woods, racing their ponies, and perpetrating endless pranks. Even later, when separated by school and their father’s increasing demands on Phillip’s time, they had maintained the rough-and-tumble, slightly competitive regard of adolescents.

Had something happened to change that? Sophie did not know, but she was going to find out. It was a relief to have the task before her. It gave her hope, at least, that if Charles faced whatever it was he was hiding from, he might have a chance to be happy.

That, at the last, must be her goal. With everything in her, she longed to see her tousle-haired, smiling Charles again, even if it meant he found his happiness without her.

Such a thought, of course, led right back to that burning kiss. Good heavens, but every girl dreamed of such a kiss, when not only lips and bodies mingled, but souls brushed each other as well. Heat, desperation, spiralling desire—it all came rushing back. A small, triumphant smile escaped her as she touched her lips. Let him kiss Miss Ashford and see if he felt like that.

She drew away from the window. He could not escape her tonight. Lady Dayle was throwing a dinner party and expected him. It was time she prepared herself for the confrontation ahead. A silk gown would be her armour tonight, her weapons nothing more than determination and a smile. But perhaps she would carry along her chisel as well.

‘That’s all I know, I swear on my mother’s grave!’

Charles tightened his grip, choking off the remainder of the man’s lies, along with most of his breath. ‘Your mother is alive and well and living in Kensington,’ he said in disgust. ‘How do you think I tracked you down?’

Like her son, the mother of the editor of the Augur liked money. Charles wasn’t complaining, however. Greed was far easier to get past than radical fervour—which still blocked any progress with the Oracle’s editor.

‘That’s all you can give me?’ Charles released the man, allowing him to slump back against the wall. ‘A small, dark, wiry man. No name? No idea for whom he worked?’

‘No, no,’ Mr Mills said, rubbing his throat. ‘He came around at night, left me a fat file of papers—all dealing with you.’

‘And a fat purse, I’ll wager.’ Charles snorted. ‘Do you still have the file?’

‘Aye.’ The man turned sullen now. ‘I left it at my mother’s place.’

No wonder the old woman had looked at him so strangely. ‘What, exactly, was in this file?’ Charles asked.

Now the little editor was eyeing him up and down. ‘A right long reckoning of your career as a hellraiser, my lord.’ He chuckled. ‘And may I salute your creative thinking too! We never got to print half the juiciest stuff.’

‘You’re sure this small, dark man never mentioned where he got this file?’

‘No, it was always “my employer” wants this, “my employer” wants that. But whoever it is—it seems they have been watching you a long time.’

Charles had come here expecting to solve this mystery; instead it was only growing deeper. Frustrated, he sat abruptly down upon a nearby chair. His opponent watched him warily as he drew a purse from his pocket. He tossed it on to the scarred desk the man was obviously using as a temporary office. ‘That’s a sign of good faith. I believe you have told me everything you can, and I believe that if you remember anything else, you will contact me right away.’

The scoundrel snatched it up. ‘I swear, that’s all of it.’

Charles drew out another, fatter purse. ‘This I will give you if you agree to print another story about me. A remorseful story. A favourable story.’

The man weighed the first purse in one hand while eyeing the other. ‘No insult intended, but your randy youth is the most interesting thing you’ve got. What else is there to draw the readers in?’

‘The truth. An apology for the damage you’ve done me. I don’t know, something about the good I’ve accomplished in Parliament, the charities I support, something. Do your own research this time, man. Write a real story.’

He nodded agreement and reached for the second purse.

Charles tucked it back into his coat. ‘You will receive it on the day the story is printed.’ He stood. ‘I want that file delivered to me tomorrow.’

Without waiting for a response he turned and strode out. Once outside the man’s dingy little hideaway, Charles vaulted back into his curricle, took the reins from his groom and set his bays off sharply. He had several hours before he had to be back home in time for his mother’s blasted dinner party. The idea had him groaning out loud. A house full of people. It was the last thing he wanted when this whole mess had him feeling so desperate.

Despite his best efforts with the ton, despite his obvious perusal of the available debs, despite his intensifying courtship of Miss Ashford, the tide of public opinion was turning against him again.

He wasn’t a madman. Someone, for some unknown reason, was orchestrating this siege against him, but this time the tactics had changed. Nothing new was in the papers. Instead, the attacks came in the form of vague rumour and untraceable innuendo. He was living a masquerade, people whispered. He hadn’t reformed, he’d just taken his illicit activities underground. He was lulling Parliament, pulling the wool over society’s eyes. He was a secret radical, a closet Catholic, a Whig sympathiser, a bacchanal, or an opium addict, depending on whom you spoke with, and whose friend of a friend they knew.

Charles would have laughed if he hadn’t known that the truth about himself was far worse than anything society could come up with. And he would have realised the serious nature of the situation, nipped it in the bud earlier, if he hadn’t been obsessed with Sophie.

A discreet cough from his groom recalled his attention to the road. Just in time too. He pulled his pair up as traffic slowed at the crossing of the Westminster Bridge. He was doing it again. Obsessing. And on the road, no less.

He sighed. It was still early, but he could not go home, it would be under siege, buried in a flurry of activity as his mother prepared for her party. As his wheels met terra firma once more, he turned the curricle smartly and set off for his club.

It appeared that even this small pleasure was to be denied him. There was a crowd of gentlemen at White’s. Charles pushed his way through the crowd, looking for an empty seat. He finally found one, at a corner table. The vacancy was probably owing to the cloud of gloom that hung over the pair of occupants, nearly as tangible as the heavy haze of smoke in the air.

Charles paused as he grew closer. It was that infamous pair of his erstwhile friends, Matthews and Henley. What the hell.

‘Gentlemen,’ he bit out. ‘Do you mind if I join the ranks of your dismal consortium?’

Matthews did not even look up. Henley rolled one bleary eye at him and waved for him to take the remaining seat.

Charles dropped into the chair and waved at a passing porter. Glancing at the empty brandy bottles still on the table, he sent the man off for another.

A brooding silence reigned in the corner, which suited Charles perfectly. A swirl of troubles floated through his head. He had to focus, had to find a way to salvage what was left of his life. But only one thought consistently rose to the top of the maelstrom: Sophie.

Good Lord, he’d kissed Sophie. Devoured her, more like, as he thought back to that shockingly intense embrace.

He’d had no business kissing her. It had been an idiotic thing to do. Cruel, even, when he thought of the harsh words he’d uttered afterwards. But how could he not have kissed her? When she had stood there, so beautifully tousled, so dangerously perceptive, so close to the unspeakable truth? And why, then, had he spent the fortnight since reliving it?

Because it was nigh on impossible not to, that’s why. Bad enough that he was obsessed with thoughts of the dratted female, but suddenly so was everyone else in London, and as much as he bemoaned his own notoriety, he almost cringed more at Sophie’s.

The porter returned with the brandy and with a clatter began to clear away the empty bottles. Matthews looked up in surprise, and then started even further at the sight of Charles. ‘Good Lord, when did you get here, Dayle?’

‘A good ten minutes ago, you drunken lout,’ snapped Henley. He gave Charles a good once over. ‘Though I must say, Dayle, you look as bad as I feel.’

‘Just looking at the pair of you makes me feel worse,’ Charles retorted. He sighed, then. ‘Sorry. What is the trouble with you two?’

‘Female trouble, what other sort is there?’ asked Henley.

Matthews was pouring them all a glass of the brandy. He flourished his own high. ‘Women, bah!’

Charles lifted his own glass in a show of solidarity and they all drank deep.

‘Got to get leg-shackled, Dayle,’ Matthews said in a voice of deepest mourning. ‘Don’t want to. Family insists.’ His head lolled a bit, but he got himself under control and fixed a reddened eye on Charles. ‘M’father put his foot down. Cut my quarterly allowance. Refuses to cover my expenses. Not even my debts of honour, not until I fix my attention on some deb.’ He shot a hateful look over at Henley. ‘And my so-called friends have deserted me in my hour of need.’

‘I’ll tell you one final time—you keep away from my sister!’ Henley shouted. ‘When she marries it will be with far better than the likes of you.’ He turned to Charles. ‘Tell him, Charles—you wouldn’t want a sot like him marrying your sister, would you?’

‘Dayle ain’t got a sister, toff head,’ snorted Matthews. He stopped and Charles suffered an instant dislike for the light dawning in his unfocused eyes. ‘But you do got that pretty little filly your mother has been squiring about town,’ he said with sudden enthusiasm. ‘She’ll do. Will you do it, Dayle? Fix me up with an introduction to the girl? Slide in a good word for me?’

‘No,’ Charles spat.

Matthews gasped, then looked like he was going to cry into his brandy.

‘See?’ Henley crowed his triumph. ‘Dayle don’t want you pawing any of the females in his family, either.’

‘She’s not family,’ Charles said, trying to keep his temper. He tried to look apologetic. ‘Listen, Matthews, Miss Westby is not your conventional débutante. She’s not the sort of girl your father would probably even wish for you be courting.’

‘Don’t try to turn me up sweet, now. It must be me you object to. Nothing wrong with the girl. She’s got breeding, and money. Your own mother dotes on her, and so do the Lowders.’

‘Seen the Duchess of Charmouth take her up in her carriage at the park, myself,’ Henley put in. ‘Heard her Grace asked for the girl’s advice on her new ballroom. If the duchess embraces her, the rest of the ton will have no choice in the matter, even if the chit has spots and six fingers on each hand.’

That was the problem, Charles thought. Embrace her the ton already had, with a vengeance. Her name was on everyone’s lips, as much as his own. Suddenly everyone had an amusing little tale to tell of Miss Westby. The events she attended were an instant success. The vivid colours of her gowns were touted as a natural expression of her artistic temperament and were aped by matrons, widows and any woman old enough to escape pastels. The Prince Regent himself demanded an introduction, examined her portfolio, and spent an hour discussing designs with her. Now her passion for décor was an asset, not an oddity, and the fickle haut monde clamoured for her advice.

It was galling. He behaved like a monk and was cursed for a fiend. She broke half of polite society’s rules and they worshipped her for it.

Not that he could blame them. She’d hit their insular little world like a mortar shell, scattering insipid young misses like shrapnel, but she’d done worse to him. She’d bewitched him with her beauty, seduced him with her laughter. She’d made him forget.

He had forgotten his companions. They were both staring at him with knowing expressions on their faces.

‘Perhaps you aren’t the problem after all, Matthews,’ Henley mused. ‘Perhaps Dayle wants the chit for himself.’

‘You got the Ashford girl all wrapped up,’ complained Matthews. ‘You don’t need both of ‘em.’

Charles had had enough. He stood. ‘I must go. I wish you good hunting, Matthews.’ He threw a handful of coins down on the table, enough to pay for the entire evening’s tally of drink, and he strode out, calling for his vehicle.

He had wasted enough time, mooning like a schoolboy. He didn’t have time for it. He had to concentrate. He must work out this mess that passed for his life—for the sakes of those who no longer had one.

He forced his thoughts back the encounter he had had with Mills this morning. A small, dark man. A file tracing his activities. It was devilish little to go on. Though he racked his brains, he could not think who might hate him so. The only people he’d ever truly wronged were dead. And now to find his enemy had been watching him so closely for years? It made no sense, but it sent a shiver of unease up his spine.

Perhaps Jack had made some progress. With luck, his brother would be in his rooms and they could have a private word before the party. He took the ribbons from his groom and set out.

He was passing Humphreys, the renowned print shop, where the usual crowd gathered to see the new prints in the windows, when the cry went up.

‘It’s him!’

‘Hey, Dayle! Can I have an invitation to your next party?’

A chill descended over Charles and he pulled the horses up short. On the street, an older woman pulled a young lady away. ‘Don’t look at him, dear,’ she said, with a sniff. ‘Let us go.’

Tossing the reins to his groom, he approached the window, already certain what he was about to see.

It was worse than he imagined. Burning rage twisted in his gut, bubbled up and spewed out of him in a particularly inventive string of blasphemies. Stalking inside, he snatched one of the offending things off the glass. The catcalls and ribbing continued as he accosted the first apprentice he found. ‘Where’s your mistress?’ he barked.

‘U-upstairs,’ the boy stammered.

‘Lead on,’ Charles said.

‘Oho!’ The involuntary chuckle escaped Jack when Charles handed the paper to his brother. ‘Oh, my.’

‘Is that all you can say?’ growled Charles. They were in Jack’s cluttered bachelor’s quarters and Charles was trying to pace without toppling one of the many towers of books and papers.

‘No, as a matter of fact. I have to say I’m insulted that you never invited me to any of your orgies.’

Despite himself, Charles laughed. ‘Damned caricaturists. Yes, they’re clever, but it doesn’t sit so well when it’s you they ridicule.’

‘Yes, but Cruikshank, no less! No one is truly notorious today until Cruikshank mocks them!’ Jack bent to examine the piece more closely. ‘Well, old chap, sorry to say it, but he is very clever. Portraying you entertaining the ton in one room while the wild orgy is going on behind partially closed doors! And the detail is brilliant.’

‘Brilliant and devastating.’

‘Look—half the patronesses of Almack’s are on one side, while on the other.’ Jack looked up. ‘Did you truly have an affair with the Annie Ewing?’ he asked, his voice filled with awe.

‘Of course not,’ Charles snapped.

‘Oh, well, I’ve always enjoyed her singing. It’s clear from this how she came by her nickname.’

‘You are missing the important part, Jack.’

‘More important than Amply Endowed Annie’s bared breast?’ his brother asked, grinning.

‘Take a look at what the half-clothed revellers are reading.’

‘Hmm, yes, that lucky fellow is holding a paper, isn’t he? The Radical Review? And look over here, on the floor next to these energetic ladies, a book, The Real Rights of Man. Bad form, my boy, to mix pleasure and politics.’

‘But that’s just it, it’s the same thing as last time. An attack on my morals and my politics in one fell swoop.’

‘So you think that the same person is behind both?’

‘I feel that it must be. But who?’

‘I feel sure that it is not Avery,’ Jack said with a sudden serious turn. ‘I’ve kept an eye on him, as you asked. He truly is miserable, Charles. I don’t believe it is an act, and I don’t believe it is only his honour that is damaged. I think he misses the old girl.’

‘But why should he continue to stir up trouble for me? He certainly does it openly at Whitehall, if not clandestinely with these attacks.’

‘You’re an easy target, and a natural one for him. You’re mixed up in the business that has humiliated him, and there is a true political divide between you. Frankly, I admire the old man for staying in town. Many a lesser man would have fled home in the face of such embarrassment, and never been heard from again.’

Charles stopped pacing and turned to face his brother. ‘Perhaps that is the whole idea. Perhaps either one or both of us were supposed to withdraw, to tuck our heads and hide, but from what?’ He sat in the chair across from Jack and scrubbed his hair to help him think. ‘It must be me, since the latest round was aimed at me as well.’

‘But perhaps the caricature is only the natural result of all the rest, and not a new attack.’

‘Ah, but I haven’t told you all of it.’ Charles told his brother of what he had learned from the Augur’s editor. ‘And, when I found that—’ he gestured toward the cartoon ‘—I had a little talk with Hannah Humphreys.’

‘She gave up Cruikshank?’

‘Told me where I might find him, rather. He was not a bit apologetic, but he did tell me something interesting.’

Jack only raised a questioning brow.

‘He said he would never have had the idea for that thing if he hadn’t met someone new at his regular coffeehouse.’

‘A small, dark, wiry man?’

‘Who got into a political discussion with him one afternoon, and bought him dinner one night, so they could continue their interesting debate.’

‘And you were served up along with the chops, I gather.’

‘Not outright, but very subtly.’ Charles stopped. Something was nagging at the back of his mind. ‘There is something familiar about all of this, but I can’t quite place it.’

‘Familiar?’ Jack laughed. ‘Good Lord, if this sort of thing is familiar, then I don’t envy you.’ He rubbed his eyes and shook his head as if to clear it. ‘It’s still not a lot to go on. Even if we could find the right man, what would we do, charge him with scandalmongering?’

‘I’d find out who he works for, by God, and I’d make his life as miserable as he has made mine.’

‘It wouldn’t fix the damage already done,’ Jack said philosophically, ‘and it might send you fleeing for the continent. No,’ he mused, ‘I know I scoffed at your idea at first, but I’m beginning to think you have had the right idea all along. Ignore the rumours. If you aren’t visibly affected, maybe he’ll grow tired and move on to play games with someone else.’

‘It’s too late for that,’ said Charles.

‘No, it isn’t. Focus on your work, and your search for a wife. If everyone is discussing which lady you are courting now, they will not be talking about who you poked last year. Even if it was Amply Endowed Annie Ewing,’ he finished with a grin.

‘I’m not sure even that will save me now. The highest sticklers were already avoiding me. That—’ he gestured to the caricature ‘—may well be a killing blow.’

Jack stood, an odd gleam in his eye. ‘It has been a hard couple of years, Charles, for all of us. I would not wish to be saddled with some of the burdens you have carried. But you’ve done well.’ He approached, and clasped Charles’s shoulder. ‘It’s the perfect time for you to take a step back. Look around. Decide, once and for all, what it is that you want. What you want. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you get it.’

Jack grinned, lightening the mood. ‘But for now, you had better get home and get ready for Mother’s dinner party. She’ll shoot us both if we’re late.’

‘I forgot.’ Charles dashed back his drink and rose to shake his brother’s hand. He clasped it longer than necessary, trying to convey his gratitude and so much more. ‘Thank you, Jack.’

It started to rain as he set his tired horses for home. Charles shrugged out of his greatcoat and gave it to his ever-patient groom. He hunched his shoulders as his brother’s words echoed in his head. Decide what it is that you want.

## Chapter Nine


Sophie entered Charles’s house poised for battle. If nothing else, at least she would see him, and this interminable wait would be over. She was not good at waiting, and hadn’t been since she was eight years old, and had decided that a year was long enough to wait for an uncle who was never coming. That fateful day she had shed her good-little-girl persona along with her pinafore, climbed the tallest oak in the forest, and found a tousled-haired, kindred soul at the top.

It was poetic justice, she thought as she smoothed her long gloves and twitched her gown into a more graceful fall, that Charles should reap some of the forceful nature he had helped to sow.

Sophie had brought Nell along, and, after a few whispered words of instruction, she sent her off on her covert mission. Before long she was entering the parlour on Lady Dayle’s arm, confident that she looked well, and confident that, whatever the outcome, Charles would no longer be able to ignore her.

Her poise faltered a bit when the first person she saw was her uncle. She arched a brow at the viscountess, who only grinned and urged her forward to greet him. A hostess’s duties soon called her away, and Sophie was left alone with her uncle once more. She had seen him only once since their first, distressing private interview, and that had been at Mrs Dawson’s musical evening. She had been relieved that it had been a public scene with no chance for private conversation. He asked her now if she would join him on the corner settee.

‘I’ve been hoping for a moment with you, niece.’

Sophie agreed. He looked tired, his once-handsome face pinched, as if he were in pain. Fleetingly, she wondered if her father would have resembled him as he grew older.

He didn’t waste any time. ‘I wondered if you had given thought to our last discussion?’

‘I’ve thought much on it, Uncle.’

‘And?’

Sophie breathed deep. Daringly she took his hand—it was cold and thin. ‘There was a time, sir, when I would have given anything to have received such a show of interest from you. But I’ve had to make my own way, forge my own happiness, for too long now to submit myself to anyone else’s ideas for my future.’

‘Stubborn girl! You could choose—’

‘No, sir,’ she interrupted. ‘I’m afraid we are both too wilful to get along together in the manner I think you are suggesting.’

He withdrew his hand from her grasp. ‘I’d expected as much.’ He gave her a look she thought might be regretful. ‘But I’d hoped I was wrong.’

‘I would like it if we could find our way toward some kind of relationship.’

He was silent a long time. So long she thought he might not answer at all. When he finally spoke, he avoided her eye. ‘I wondered if perhaps you remember. Did your father ever speak to you, of me, when you were a child?’

‘Yes, of course. He had your likeness in a miniature, which he often showed me. He told me tales of your childhood. He loved Cranbourne House.’ It was the earl’s principal estate, situated five and twenty miles from the small estate where Sophie had grown up. She had never seen it.

‘And, your mother?’

Still, he looked away, where Sophie could not read his face. She understood what it was he was asking. ‘She spoke fondly of you.’ Now Sophie was the one looking down at her hands in her lap. ‘It was one of the reasons I was so looking forward to living with you.’

A trill of nearby laughter distracted them both from their sombre thoughts. It was a party, after all, and life did go on, despite old hurts.

‘Well, then …’ Her uncle had recovered and was motioning someone toward them. ‘You’ll recall Mr Huxley, won’t you?’

The gentleman reached them and made his bow. Sophie and her uncle stood to greet him. She did indeed remember him—her uncle had gone out of his way to present him at Mrs Dawson’s. Sophie had wondered at it, as the two seemed as unlikely a pair as she had ever seen.

An odd, but likeable gentleman, Mr Huxley had talked at length of his map collection.

‘A pleasure to meet you again, sir.’

‘The pleasure is mine, Miss Westby. Will you take a stroll about the room with me?’

‘Yes, you young people run along,’ her uncle agreed. ‘There’s a discussion on the Corn Laws going on over there that needs my insightful input.’

The realisation struck Sophie suddenly that her uncle might be matchmaking. Nevertheless, she laid her hand on Mr Huxley’s arm and allowed him to lead her off.

‘Your uncle tells me, Miss Westby, that you have been travelling a great deal into Kent.’

‘Why, yes, I am involved in a project that takes me there every few days of late.’

‘Which roads do you travel? I’ll wager a monkey that I know a route that will shorten your travel time by at least a quarter of an hour.’

Finally dry and presentable, Charles made his entrance after most of the guests had arrived and dinner was nearly ready to be announced. He went first to his mother, to apologise for his lateness, and found her chatting with Miss Ashford.

His mother simultaneously scolded and embraced him. Miss Ashford greeted him with her customary cool courtesy. He supposed he should be grateful that she acknowledged him at all, considering the escalating scandal surrounding his name. Indeed, he was grateful, he told himself sternly. He noticed that a few of the other young ladies his mother had invited for his benefit were not to be seen. Her very presence tonight was a testimony to Miss Ashford’s loyalty and character. He resolved to devote himself to her this evening, and to firmly suppress the small part of him that wished to feel more than gratitude for his future bride.

Miss Ashford’s father, however, requested a moment of his time, and Charles could not but agree. The baron drew him aside, and gestured to the long, crowded room full of glittering guests.

‘A nice evening,’ he said. ‘Perfect mix of business and pleasure.’

‘Thank you, sir. I hope you and your family will enjoy yourselves.’

‘No doubt. Womenfolk are in alt planning that charity ball.’

Charles nodded his sympathy. Miss Ashford had indeed struck upon the idea of a charity ball, and showed more enthusiasm for it than anything he had yet seen in her. ‘It is very good of your daughter to devote herself to such works.’

Lord Ashford gave an indulgent smile. ‘She’s a very good sort of girl, Dayle. Just what a lady ought to be.’

‘I hope you are aware of my agreement on that score,’ Charles said easily.

‘Well, that’s the subject I wished to discuss with you. I thought we had an understanding regarding your intentions, but now I find myself unsure.’

Startled into stupidity, Charles just gaped. ‘Sir?’

‘Rumours are one thing, Dayle. A man can’t help what the tabbies will say about him, most especially if he possesses as chequered a past as your own.’ He nodded his head in approval. ‘You’ve had a rough spot recently, and I thought you were handling it well. Some kind of ruckus seemed inevitable, and I thought you might as well put your past to rest early in your career rather than later. Good for you too. Tempered steel is stronger, as they say.’

‘I can honestly say, I never thought about it in that light.’

‘But this broadsheet’s another thing entirely. Takes it to another level, so to speak. Can’t have my girl mixed up in such.’

‘Surely you don’t believe such rubbish, Lord Ashford?’ said Charles, his temper starting to get the best of him.

‘Don’t matter what I believe, when it gets to this point. Matters what the rest of the world believes. I have a good bit of political weight. Meant to throw it behind you, if you and my girl found you suited. But I don’t mean to hitch my girl to a runaway wagon, if you understand. Want what’s best for her.’

‘I comprehend your meaning, sir,’ said Charles. And he did indeed understand the most salient point: his unseen opponent was gaining ground.

‘Now, don’t fret. You just keep your feet on the straight path and the situation will right itself.’ He squeezed Charles’s shoulder in a fatherly gesture. ‘My girl rather fancies you, I believe. At least she likes you as well as she’s ever liked anyone. If you need my help, you need only to ask.’

‘You are most generous,’ said Charles. It was a struggle to keep the bitterness from his voice.

The baron departed in search of his spouse, and Charles returned to Miss Ashford and his mother. Once there, however, he found it difficult to concentrate on the conversation. The events of this long and trying day were beginning to take their toll. He could swear the universe was conspiring against him. The harder he tried, it appeared, the heavier his burdens grew.

Suddenly the crowd in the parlour shifted. His gaze fell on Sophie, and the weight of his troubles was instantly forgotten. She was stunning. Her shining dark tresses were arranged in an elaborate coiffure that accented the length and slenderness of her neck. Her shimmering gown, dark blue over a white satin slip, had the same effect on her frame, without hiding her luscious curves. She was standing with Mrs Lowder and a blonde gentleman he had never seen before. A gentleman who had taken the opportunity of her turned head to run an appreciative gaze over her décolletage.

‘Is that Mrs Lowder over there with Sophie?’

‘Indeed it is,’ his mother answered. ‘Does she not look divine this evening? I believe motherhood agrees with her.’

‘I had a mind to speak to her husband. If you will excuse me, I believe I’ll go and ask if he is here.’

Oh, Lord, but he was seven kinds of an idiot. He’d just spent a fortnight avoiding Sophie, trying to forget how she’d felt in his arms. He’d thought long on what to say to her tonight, and promised himself that he’d make sure he never found himself in that situation again. He’d just determined to spend the evening securing another woman’s favour, and been warned by her father to keep his nose clean. Yet one glance had him abandoning all those good intentions, stifling the warning ringing in his head. He cursed himself for a fool all the way across the long, crowded parlour, but he didn’t stop.

‘Good evening,’ he said when he reached them.

‘Charles! You have finally come!’ Sophie said, reaching out to him. Was that relief he heard in her voice? And was she relieved to see him or to be distracted from her companion? ‘Please, allow me to present Mr Huxley? Mr Huxley, this is our host, Viscount Dayle.’ They greeted each other and Sophie continued, ‘And of course you are already acquainted with Mrs Lowder.’

‘Of course. May I present my compliments? You look lovely this evening.’

Mrs Lowder thanked him with an amused look and a brow raised in Sophie’s direction. Sophie, predictably, was not impressed.

‘There, Emily, now you have experienced first hand a bit of Lord Dayle’s famous charm! Come now, Charles, enough flattery, what we really wish to see is your hand.’

‘My hand?’

‘Oh, yes, my lord!’ Mrs Lowder was smiling quite genuinely now. ‘You see, Miss Westby and I were walking in the park today.’

‘Which park?’ asked Mr Huxley.

‘Hyde Park, of course,’ said Sophie, ‘and we walked there via Brook Street to Park Lane.’

‘I’ve always found Mount Street to be superior,’ Huxley answered. ‘Less traffic, you see.’

‘In any case, we were introduced to a most impertinent young lady there. She knew we were acquainted with you, Charles.’

‘But what does any of it have to do with my hand?’ asked Charles.

‘She wished to know if it were true that you were part-Selkie, Lord Dayle!’ interjected Mrs Lowder. ‘Can you imagine?’

Despite himself, Charles laughed. ‘Unfortunately, I can imagine.’ He shot Sophie a look of mock-severity. ‘I can also imagine you telling the poor child it was true.’

‘Well, I did assure her we would check for webbed fingers when next we saw you, but considering the light such a thing would cast upon Lady Dayle, I felt compelled to deny the charge. In any case, I told her, you most assuredly have your father’s nose.’

Charles just shook his head. He didn’t know which was more outrageous, the rumours or her method of dealing with them. ‘I must thank you for defending my family’s honour.’ His mother, he could see, stood in whispered consultation with the butler, and was turning to leave the room. He turned to Mrs Lowder. ‘I remember your skill on the pianoforte very well. I hope you will play for us all after dinner, but right now I must whisk Miss Westby away, as my mother has requested her assistance.’

‘Of course, I would be honoured,’ Emily answered with a smile.

‘Mr Huxley, grand to have met you,’ said Charles as he firmly grasped Sophie’s elbow, ushering her away before she had a chance to protest. He led her out the door his mother had just exited, and stood a moment in the hall, debating. Likely, his mother had been called to the kitchens. The dining room, he knew, would be swarming with servants. As he hesitated, Sophie pulled her arm from his grasp.

‘Where is your mother, Lord Dayle?’

‘Soothing the cook, I imagine.’

‘She doesn’t need my assistance.’

‘No, I do. We have to talk.’

Ah, the bookroom. He herded Sophie in and carefully left the door partially open. She looked around curiously, and then turned to him with a frown. ‘How disappointing. Nary a radical nor a ladybird in sight.’

‘Very amusing.’ Charles grimaced.

‘Well, I do have first-hand knowledge of what you get up to in empty rooms.’

‘Stop it, Sophie, can we not talk seriously for a moment?’

She took a calming breath and threw back her shoulders. He wished she wouldn’t—it strained both her neckline and his control. ‘You’ve ignored my existence for a full fortnight, but you are compelled to talk now, in the middle of your dinner party?’

‘My mother’s dinner party, but yes.’

She waited; he stared, trying to gather his thoughts. What was there to say? There were at least a thousand thoughts crowding his brain, he had to tread carefully and choose just the right one.

‘You’d been kissed before,’ he said.

Her jaw dropped. He groaned and pushed a hand through his hair. That had not been the right one.

Her décolletage was heaving now, in perfect time with his gut. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she gasped. ‘That’s what you dragged me in here to discuss? That’s what you took away from our—encounter?’

Lord help him, but it was true. Though he hadn’t articulated the thought to himself, it had been nagging at him, poking and prodding, making him squirm perhaps even more than his other troubles. ‘You knew how to kiss. Someone had to teach you.’

True to form, Sophie laughed, but it was a desolate sound. Despairing. She turned and walked away.

Well, what did he expect? She would be well within her rights to leave the room and never speak to him again, but he couldn’t stop himself, he had to know.

‘Was it Sean Hill?’

‘The blacksmith’s boy?’ Anger brought her back, and Sophie was angry indeed. Her dark eyes flashed, her cheeks flushed, and she advanced on him like Ney and d’Erlon into Wellington’s centre line.

‘You were gone, Charles. You left for school and never looked back. I didn’t blame you. I knew how things were with your father.’ She stopped before him, magnificent in her fury. ‘But I was still there. I might be there still if not for Emily and your mother.’

She turned away again, and retreated to the far side of the room. ‘Did you think because their mamas disapproved of me, the boys would steer clear of me? Foolish—don’t you know that that made me even more interesting?’ Her voice fell away to a whisper. ‘I was alone, Charles.’

She rallied and shot him a look of defiance. ‘Thank God for Emily. If we hadn’t struck up a friendship, I might have done far worse than allow a boy to kiss me.’ She gave an ironic snort. ‘I might have run off to Gretna with the first man old enough to ask me, just for the conversation on the way. Had any of them paid me any serious attention, I think I might have done almost anything.’

Charles found himself barely able to respond. The picture she painted was devastating. ‘I didn’t know—I never thought …’

Undaunted by her own admission, she faced him squarely. ‘You judge me if you wish, Charles Alden. But you remember that I never judged you. I cheered when the rest of the world reviled your exploits, and wished I could be kicking up rows right along with you. Nor did I judge you when you stayed away all those years, with never a word or a letter. You returned home for what—a mere two days—for Phillip’s funeral? Less than that for your father’s, but you never came to see me.’

Her anger seemed to have fled. It was disappointment he read in her eyes now. ‘I didn’t judge you, Charles. Even when you forgot me.’

Her skirt flared as she turned her back on him. This time she was the one to sweep out of the room without looking back.

Had he forgotten her? Charles sat through dinner ignoring his food, nodding as Miss Ashford talked—she had decided her ball must be a masquerade—and trying to answer that question.

He remembered the brash youth he had been, daring anything, risking everything, determined to force his father’s displeasure, since nothing had ever earned his respect. He had indeed left for school, but he had always looked back—back to be sure his father was watching.

No, he hadn’t forgotten Sophie. Unconsciously, he had held her memory close, sure as he raised every kind of hell he could imagine, that there was one person in the world who would forgive him. But he had held her static in his mind, never considering her growing older, becoming a young woman. She had always been his pig-tailed, adventurous partner in crime.

He hadn’t forgotten her, but he had failed her.

That truth gnawed at him throughout the evening as he watched her. Another sin to shoulder responsibility for, another person who had suffered while he exercised his fertile imagination and frittered away his life. He wasn’t sure his soul could bear another such burden.

Oddly enough, though, he found a measure of peace while he watched her. She had been hurt—perhaps only he knew how much—yet she had risen above it. Sophie had grown up, and Lord knew she had turned out to be unconventional, but she was also good natured, amusing, and intelligent. She was a beacon of light in the room, smiling and animated, and the people around her responded. She charmed her partners through dinner and was kept happily occupied in the drawing room afterwards. He noticed Mr Huxley was often at her side.

Watching her gave him hope. And that was only the top reason on a long list of them to stop.

Nevertheless, he was achingly aware of her as he circulated through the guests after dinner. There was excited talk of costumes for Miss Ashford’s masquerade, and much animated gossip over the state of Prinny’s health. The knot of young people about Sophie all seemed to be embroiled in a discussion on fashion, and of course, there was a good deal of political debate going on in pockets about the room.

At his request, his mother had invited a few members of the Board of Trade. Charles knew he should be courting them, but he was more worried about the young men courting Sophie. Was this the sort of attention she had craved? The thought had him contemplating mayhem, not party platforms.

But he knew his duty. Resolutely he turned his back and joined the men plotting the course of the nation.

He found his own situation to be nearly as dire as England’s. Though the men here tonight supported him, there were others, they reported, who felt that his character was not steady. Charles sighed. Before all this he’d been at the top of the list to chair their new committee; now he’d be fortunate to be invited as a committee member.

Sir Harold commiserated with him, but advised him to be patient. ‘Now is perhaps not your time, Dayle,’ he said. ‘Wait until this gossip dies down. There will be other committees, other paths to the ministry.’ He sympathised with him on the simmering scandal broth as well. ‘Still no idea who your enemy might be?’

‘No.’ Charles did not go into detail. ‘Jack seems convinced that it is not Avery, however.’

‘Hmm. His antipathy doesn’t help your situation, for certain, but I tend to agree. Avery’s style is to confront you directly, just as he has been doing. He’s not the sort to sneak behind a man’s back.’

Sir Harold was quiet a moment. ‘I have the feeling that whoever is behind this is more powerful than we suspect. It won’t be easy rooting him out.’

‘I begin to wonder if the struggle is worth it,’ Charles said. This setback disheartened him. He was tired, tired of fighting, tired of trying to prove himself to a world determined to see only the worst in him.

‘Don’t give up, Dayle. You’ve a great future ahead of you. Find the man behind all this and give him back a taste of his own misery. Once you’ve done that, take a little time for yourself. Concentrate on choosing one of these fine young ladies. Set up your nursery. Show the doubters that your judgment is sound, that you’ve finishing sowing oats and are ready to reap a more steady crop.’ He gestured to the others, still energetically debating the latest Poor Relief Bill. ‘We’ll still be here for you.’

His mood low, Charles shook the man’s hand and thanked him for his kindness. He stood alone a moment, wishing all his guests back to their own homes, himself to his favourite brooding chair, and his unseen enemy to the devil. He sighed. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. The way Charles’s luck was running, he’d likely be trampled instead. He would do better to seek out his brother.

He’d just spotted Jack in animated conversation with a crowd of young bucks when the sound of Sophie’s name, spoken with derision, drew him up short. He glanced quickly around and saw a cluster of dandified gentlemen just off to his right.

‘Impudent chit. I don’t care if she is an earl’s niece; she has spent her life buried in the country. What does she presume to know of fashion?’

Charles stared. Was that his cousin Theo rigged out in that hideous get-up of turquoise and buttercup yellow? Yes, he rather believed it was.

‘Didn’t like your waistcoat, old boy?’ sniggered one of Theo’s companions while gesturing to the elaborately embroidered disaster.

‘Don’t you dare laugh—this is the height of fashion, and cost me ten guineas! No, the chit betrayed her own ignorance when she said that not only should I not wear this colour combination, but no one in all England could pull it off.’

‘Except for a jockey on the back of a deep chestnut bay!’

Peals of laughter rang out from the group, heightening Theo’s colour, along with his temper, Charles surmised.

‘Theo’s right,’ interjected a gentleman arrayed in silver and puce, ‘the girl has no business giving fashion advice.’

‘Well, you cannot deny her success, and certainly I’ve never seen her look anything less than smashingly gorgeous,’ someone argued.

‘True enough!’ came a chorus of agreement.

‘I wonder what her dowry is like?’ someone wondered out loud. ‘I think I shall ask her to partner me in whist.’

‘You shan’t get a jump on the rest of us,’ someone cried and as a group they moved off to seek out the lady’s attention, leaving only Theo and the other malcontent still grumbling.

Moving forward, Charles decided to nip that little bud before it could bloom into a larger flower of disgruntlement.

‘Good evening, Theo. It has been a while, has it not?’

‘Dayle,’ returned Theo, still in a pout over the attack on his sartorial splendour.

‘My mother must be pleased to have you tonight, I know she wants all the family to meet her particular friend, Miss Westby.’ As a warning it was not much, but it was all that was required. Mumbling his agreement, Theo and his friend took themselves off.

Charles watched them go. He was annoyed with Theo, but, oddly enough, the bulk of his irritation lay on Sophie’s shoulders. Just once he wished she would hold her tongue and not say the first thing that leapt to mind. Yes, Theo was ridiculous, but must she point it out in such a public forum?

Who was he to conjure criticisms? His life was unravelling faster by the minute. He left in search of a drink.

He found one, but his mother also found him.

‘Charles, dear,’ she fussed, drawing him aside. ‘Do you think you could influence Sophie and persuade her to allow me to make an announcement about her book?’

He lifted a questioning brow. ‘Her book?’

‘Yes, her book.’ His mother sounded exasperated, but when she saw his puzzlement she relented. ‘Do you mean she hasn’t even told you? Oh, she must indeed be serious about keeping it quiet.’

‘Explain, please, Mother.’

‘Well, I suppose it’s too late now, and I’m sure she doesn’t mean to keep it from you. And at least I can break the news to you, if to no one else.’

‘Mother.’

‘Oh, yes. Well, isn’t it the most wonderful thing?’ She leaned in and lowered her voice. ‘Sophie has written her very own design guide! And a very reputable publisher has agreed to take it on. The proceeds, of course, will be donated, but I know you can appreciate what such validation means to her.’

Indeed he could. Charles was sure that the accomplishment left Sophie feeling deeply satisfied. Unfortunately it left him feeling frustrated and strangely upset. He shook his head. Why should Sophie’s good news make him furious? He murmured something to his mother about finding a drink and wandered off, quite forgetting the one he held in his hand.

The party broke up soon after, but far too late for Charles’s peace of mind. He caught Sophie alone as her party was preparing to leave. In the dark corner of the hall he caught up her hand and held it, searching for something, anything, he could say to express the myriad of emotions that swamped him. It was all too much. He’d schooled himself to feel nothing save ambition for so many long months, and now Sophie had him twisted in ten different knots in one evening.

He couldn’t just stand here, dumb as a doorknob. He opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him with a shake of her head. Her hand lingered in his, however, and they stood together, silent, connected in a way that went beyond touch. The moment stretched on, but Sophie never looked up. Instead she kept her gaze locked on their clasped hands, until Emily Lowder cleared her throat, then Sophie recalled herself and her hand and swept away.

Somehow Charles got through the next hour. He bid goodbye to all the guests, kissed his mother goodnight, bade the servants to go on to bed and leave the mess for the morning. He took himself to the book room and shut the door. He poured a brandy, but didn’t drink it. He stared long at the fire, without seeing it. He sat down in his favourite chair and slowly descended the slippery slope into insanity.

It must be what this was, insanity—or as close as he’d ever come to it. His mind was whirling, events and voices from the past weeks were haunting him. Sacrifice anything … decide what you want … you forgot me.

They were all slipping away, all the reasons that had given him purpose, allowed him to go on. If Viscount Dayle faltered, would there be enough left of Charles Alden to survive?

All of his hard work had been for naught. The progress he’d made in redefining his character, his potential—wiped clean. His committee position—gone. Even his social standing stood in jeopardy. He was a joke again, Wicked Lord Dayle who had played the greatest prank of his career on his peers.

He stood and leaned into the mantelpiece. It had been so hard, and now he must start again. But damn it, he would. He would. Just as soon as he could focus his thoughts, just as soon as he could deal with Sophie.

His heart began to pound, his hand, still holding a drink, to shake. He regarded the trembling amber liquid in a vague, detached way for a moment, wishing it contained the solace he needed. His goals were ripped out of his reach, his life was falling apart, and all he could think about was Sophie.

He stood abruptly and flung the glass into the fireplace, where it erupted into a flash of blue flame. He left the book room, grabbed a walking stick from the urn in the entry hall and strode past his startled footman into the night.

Damn her. Damn her for coming back into his life at the worst possible time and wreaking her own special brand of havoc. Damn her for being beautiful, and funny, and irresistible. Damn her for waking him up, making him laugh, making him want.

He walked far and long, but he could not escape his thoughts. The past had often haunted him, but now the future loomed troublesome as well. He didn’t know which terrified him more—possibilities he feared might be closing to him, or the ones that he sensed might open.

Decide what you want. Perhaps Jack was right, perhaps it was time he faced the truth. It was simple and frightening at once. He wanted Sophie, passionate, beautiful, impossible Sophie.

She was intoxicating in a way that spoke directly to his soul. She comforted his battered spirit, captivated his wary mind, and tempted him with her exotic beauty.

For a dangerous moment he allowed himself to imagine what life might have been like if Phillip had never come to him on that fateful day. He might have reunited with Sophie a free man, unencumbered by grief and guilt. They could have met by chance in Dorsetshire or here in London—No, down that path lay madness. The nightmares were real. He would never be free.

Not even for her could he abandon the vows he’d made. There it was, plain and simple, the festering truth that had tormented him. He’d wanted her since she’d nearly knocked him down in the street. He’d known, almost since then, that to choose her would be to forsake everything he owed to his dead brother and father.

He’d told himself many times that Charles Alden had died right along with his brother. Viscount Dayle had sprung from the ashes of his former life, a shell of a man whose only purpose was payment of dark and deep debts.

Sophie had changed all that when she fell back into his life. Suddenly Charles Alden was alive again, resurrected by the laughter in her eyes, and torn between heart and mind, want and need.

He’d become a living cliché. A stone bench sat up ahead—he sank on to it and buried his head in his hands. It was an age-old dilemma. He supposed he was no worse off than a thousand poor devils before him. But who would have thought it would hurt so much?

A book. Charles could hardly believe she’d done it. He had given her her first design guide himself, to help her fill the imaginary rooms she created. His mother was right; he did know how much this meant to her, not just the book, but everything.

He felt a twinge of guilt. After a lifetime of censure, Sophie was finally enjoying what she longed for: welcome, acceptance. He should be happy for her, not begrudge her this first real triumph. But begrudge it he did, because her unconventional, meteoric success pushed her beyond his reach.

He was afraid for her too. Fickle society loved to force people on to pedestals, if only to watch them fall. Look at what had happened to Byron. Look at what had happened to him.

A cool breeze swept by, ruffling his hair and just possibly, bringing the idea with it. Look at what had happened to him. He lifted his head. It seemed so simple. Was it possible? Could both Charles Alden and Viscount Dayle have what they wished?

He looked about and found himself near the gates of the garden in Hanover Square. How long, he wondered, had he been here, across from the house where Sophie slept? A light came on in one of the upper windows, and Charles laughed softly. Perhaps Fate had finally taken pity on him and come to intervene on his behalf. There could be no other explanation. It must be Sophie up there, stirring long before anyone else would dream of doing so.

One way to find out. He searched out a few small stones, and, stifling a strong sense of déjà vu, launched them at the window.

Sophie had spent a restless night, but to no avail. Finally, just before first light, she gave it up as a bad business. She hadn’t slept a wink, and still her thoughts were in a worse tangle than her sheets.

She had spent half the night fuming over Charles’s perfidy. ‘You’d been kissed’ indeed! How dare he? When he’d spent years wenching his way through the female half of the population? He was no better than a child; he didn’t want her, but he didn’t want her playing with anyone else either.

Never would Sophie have imagined Charles indulging in such hypocrisy. She shook her head. But then, neither had she predicted the change in his temperament. And now his vacillation between hot and cold had taken on new and frightening dimensions.

She’d been so naïve! She had longed for the connection she’d felt with him so long ago, and had allowed her fantasies to run away with her. The understanding and intimacy that they had enjoyed had been so strong, so vital to her, that she’d assumed they would survive the years apart.

She sighed. There had been too many changes. He’d been correct, she didn’t know the new Charles, but she was beginning to suspect that he didn’t know himself either.

The thought led her back to Nell’s attempt with the family’s servants last night. Though Nell had enjoyed the idea of intrigue, she hadn’t been very successful. The only thing of interest she’d heard was that old Lord Dayle had been furious when Phillip had accepted Lord Castlereagh’s mission, and travelled with important papers to Wellington in Brussels. Sophie still wasn’t sure just how he’d ended up at the battle at Waterloo, but she supposed it made no difference. Phillip had died, just as many thousands of other good and gallant men had.

Could she be making too much of the situation? Perhaps there was no mystery, only her own desires and the wish to fuel her own fantasies. There could be a simple explanation that she didn’t wish to see. People changed. Or perhaps Charles’s wish to mould himself into his brother’s likeness had simply been the desire to impress his hard-to-please father?

Something kept her from embracing such an idea. She hoped it wasn’t her own self-indulgence, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Charles was hiding something. There was a desperation about him that she could not explain. He seemed driven to succeed in politics, to impress the men in government with his solidity and responsibility. It must go deeper. Also, she thought, why wouldn’t he have eased off after his father’s death? And why the strange talk about old Lord Dayle’s death? No, there was something more here she couldn’t yet see.

Sophie shook her head and rang for Nell. She might suffocate if she stayed in this room any longer. She needed to get out, to breathe fresh air, to walk and clear her mind.

A small clattering sound, quite nearby, had her suddenly jumping back into her bed. Heart pounding, feet tucked safe away under her night rail, she inspected the floor. The noise came again, there by the window, but she could see no sign of a rodent invader. Once more, louder this time, and Sophie recognised the sound for what it was. Laughing despite herself, she climbed down, threw back the curtains and looked below.

Charles. He stood there on the pavement, wearing a grin and last night’s clothes.

‘Are you insane?’ she called in a loud whisper. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Come down!’

‘Now? Can’t you pay a morning call like all the other gentlemen?’

‘Where would be the excitement in that?’ He gestured to the burgeoning light in the east. ‘It’s morning. Come! We have to talk.’

Behind her a drowsy Nell scratched on the door and let herself in. She came wide-awake, however, when she took in the situation. ‘Miss!’ she gasped.

‘I’ll be down presently,’ Sophie called to Charles. She turned to the maid. ‘I know, Nell. Pray, don’t look at me like that! Just fetch my wrapper, quickly.’

Oh, Lord, but she was a fool. She couldn’t help it. This smacked of older, better times, and was nigh irresistible. She hurried into a heavy robe, allowed Nell to put her hair up loosely, and crept quickly down the stairs.

The night footman dozed in his chair. Nell put her mouth to Sophie’s ear. ‘It is Richard. He sleeps like a stone.’

Sophie held a silencing finger to her lips and slowly turned the lock on the front doors. With a sigh of relief she stepped out into the cool, early morning air. The street was deserted except for Charles, beckoning her from the gate to the square. Leaving Nell to quietly close the door again, Sophie ran lightly across the street.

‘You imbecile! I thought it was your wish to stay out of the papers!’ she scolded.

‘I had to chance it. In any case, I knew it must be you waking. Anyone else would have been too cruel.’

Sophie drew back. ‘Are you drunk, Charles?’

He grasped her hands tight in his. ‘No, I’m just. Oh, I don’t know. I feel as if I am waking from a long and terrible dream.’

She looked him over carefully and tried to calm the pounding of her heart. Her mind was racing almost as fast. What could it mean? She didn’t know whether to dread what he had to say, or to long for it. The only thing she knew was that a rumpled and unshaven Charles was devilishly more handsome than the usually immaculate Charles. The image of her tangled sheets came to mind before Sophie could curb her wayward imagination. Blushing, she reined it in. ‘Where is your coat, your hat? Heavens, but you are a mess!’ She laughed. ‘I’ve spent too much time with your mother. Never mind! What is it that you must say, that couldn’t wait until a decent hour?’

‘I had to apologise. The things you said tonight—they are burnt into my mind like a brand. I’m so sorry. I can’t bear the thought that I added even a jot to your unhappiness.’

‘No.’ She bowed her head. ‘I do beg your pardon for attacking you so unjustly. You owe me nothing, I shouldn’t have implied that you do. You were, in fact, the one who taught me to be responsible for my own happiness. I’m sorry I failed to heed your perfectly correct advice.’

‘You haven’t failed.’ He lifted her chin. ‘Look at what you’ve done, Sophie. I saw you talking—cordially—with your uncle tonight. We thought such a thing would never come to pass! You’ve learned so much, and used your talents to make people happy. You should be proud of all that you’ve accomplished. I am. And I do owe you, for being such a good friend to my mother. But none of that is why I wished so desperately to speak with you.’

Sophie’s eyes closed and she allowed a sigh of pleasure to escape her. She knew it was wrong, even dangerous, to allow his praise to warm her. But there was no fighting it. His understanding meant so much because only he knew how hard it had been for her to get to this place in her life, how much it had cost her. When she opened her eyes again, she knew her pleasure shone transparently, and probably more as well. ‘Why then?’ she asked.

‘Miss!’ Nell hissed from her position across the street. ‘The baker’s girl is coming up the street. We must go back in!’