Scandal Wears Satin

by Loretta Chase

  “Defiant,” Sophy said.

  “Yes. But then it wasn’t like stealing a kiss at all. It was something else completely. I wasn’t sure I liked it, but it was exciting, because I knew it was wrong. But then things happened so quickly—and then there were all those people. And then Harry came, and I knew he’d kill Adderley.”

  “I would have tried,” Longmore said. “But I suspect Miss Noirot would have come after me with a chair or a potted plant—or she would have shrieked and fainted.”

  Clara looked from him to Sophy.

  “Absolutely,” Sophy said. “I knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. Or at all. I was prepared to let him hit Lord Adderley. But that was all. If I couldn’t find something to hit him with, to get his attention, I was prepared to create a diversion.”

  “I wish I’d known,” Clara said.

  “Then you weren’t trying to protect him,” Sophy said. “I knew it wasn’t quite . . . true.”

  “The tears were true enough,” Clara said. “I was terrified for my brother.”

  “For me? Against that limp—”

  “You never think of consequences. You’d lose your temper and kill him, and then you’d have to run away to the Continent. But you’d never run away, from anything. They’d try you and hang you for murdering a defenseless man.”

  Longmore stared at his sister.

  “You were protecting me?”

  “Someone had to,” she said.

  “For God’s sake, Clara.”

  “How was I to know Miss Noirot understood, and knew what to do? I didn’t even know she was there.” She looked at Sophy. “Where were you?”

  “It’s better not to know,” he said. “Are we done talking about our feelings? Because I’ve had enough revelations for one day. You look as though you’ve had enough, too, the pair of you. Looking seedy—”

  “Harry!”

  “You both look like the devil,” he said. “I recommend a dose of beauty sleep for the rest of the morning. If we leave by midday, we ought to be able to make London tonight.”

  Chapter Eleven

  A Cabriolet . . . is in reality a regeneration of the old One-horse Chaise . . . It carries two persons, comfortably seated, sheltered from sun and rain, yet with abundant fresh air, and with nearly as much privacy as a close carriage, if the curtains be drawn in front. It can go in and out of places where a two-horse carriage with four wheels cannot turn.

  —William Bridges Adams, English Pleasure Carriages, 1837

  “This is maddening,” Longmore told Sophy, as they left yet another posting inn. “We haven’t a prayer of reaching London before dawn.”

  His sister drove ahead of them, and set the pace. Glaciers moved faster.

  “You did say she’d travel slowly,” Sophy said. “You said she’d need a powerful horse, and the inns kept those for the stage and the Royal Mail.”

  “It never dawned on me that she’d refuse to change hers,” he said. “Seventy miles and some from Portsmouth to London. I was prepared to bribe the ostlers to get her the horses she’d need. A day’s journey, I reckoned. I hadn’t reckoned on her insisting on keeping her own.”

  Men took pride in being able to handle any sort of beast. But Clara didn’t fancy herself a whipster. She wanted the beast she was familiar with. That meant extended stops to give the creature refreshment and rest.

  “I can understand her dragging her heels,” Sophy said. “Before, she had emotion driving her. It’s probably like being in a fight. You don’t think much, then, about getting hurt, do you?”

  “Certainly not. All I care about is demolishing the other fellow.”

  “She wasn’t thinking much, either, of danger or difficulties,” she said. “She swam out over her head. Now the shore looks to be a long way away. And all she sees there is trouble.”

  “I know she’s unhappy,” he said tightly. “But there isn’t a bloody thing I can do about it at the moment.”

  “No one can do anything at the moment,” Sophy said. “I only wish I knew how to drive. She and I could trade places now and again.”

  He shook his head. “Even if you knew how, you’d hate driving the cabriolet. It’s a fine, handsome vehicle to take a lady about London, but it isn’t built for long journeys. Gets uncomfortable very quickly. Before, she might have been too wrought up to mind it, but now I reckon she’s noticing the shaking her innards and bones are getting.”

  “How much farther is it?” Sophy said.

  “We’re not even halfway to London,” he said. And the sun was sinking ever closer to the horizon.

  “Do you think we ought to press on?” she said. “I know nothing about driving, and you know everything. I’m not concerned about traveling the entire distance this day—but from what you tell me, it’s different for your sister.”

  “Completely different,” he said. “The cabriolet is made for short jaunts about Town, not for long-distance work.” He went on to explain the vehicle’s design, its advantages and drawbacks, concluding with, “I bought it for her to drive herself about London. I never meant for her to take off across the country—and without her tiger, of all things!”

  “She managed,” Sophy said.

  “I’m amazed, I must say,” he said. “I didn’t think Clara even knew how to put on her own stockings.”

  “I don’t think she does,” Sophy said.

  “Did she tell you how she managed it?” he said.

  “No.”

  Clara had shared Sophy’s room. They’d slept in the same bed. Like sisters.

  So strange. But Clara trusted her. Or was charmed by her.

  Not that it made any difference.

  “Did she happen to say anything more coherent than what she told us this morning?” he said.

  “I thought it was coherent enough,” Sophy said. “I don’t need to know any more. I understand perfectly now. In any case, I thought rest would do her more good than talking. She seemed in better spirits after she slept.”

  “And you?” he said. “Are you in better spirits?”

  She’d seemed a trifle blue-deviled.

  “I’m relieved we’ve found her,” she said. “I’m relieved she came to no harm. I’m only waiting for a brilliant solution to her problem.”

  No brilliant solution had presented itself by the time they stopped at the King’s Arms at Godalming. By then, the sky was darkening, and they were, according to Lady Clara’s road book, thirty-three and a half miles from London.

  “We’ll stop in Guildford,” Longmore told them. “It’s well supplied with inns, and I know we can count on a good dinner and decent rooms at any one of several.” He eyed his sister, who looked worn out and deeply unhappy. ‘It’s only four miles, Clara. We’ll find better lodging there than here. Thence it’s a shorter drive to London tomorrow. Can you manage?”

  She lifted her chin. “Of course I can. I drove to Portsmouth, didn’t I? I can jolly well drive h-home.”

  The wobble at the end told Sophy all she needed to know. It must have told Longmore something, too, because his brow furrowed. But he said, briskly enough, “I’ll take the lead this time. If you encounter any difficulties or feel unwell, signal to Fenwick, and he’ll tell us.”

  He turned away to tell the boy he’d have to sit facing backward, to keep a sharp eye for trouble with the cabriolet. “And you’re not to be sick with traveling backward,” Longmore said.

  “Sick?” Fenwick said scornfully. “From a little thing like that?”

  Sophy didn’t doubt he’d have a fine time amusing the women by pulling faces and attempting various tricks liable to land him on his head in the road.

  That, at least, would give Lady Clara some distraction from her misery.

  A little while later, when they were on their way again, Longmore said, “When we reach Guildford, I’d better send an express to Valentine. That way the family won’t be up all hours, waiting for her. They’ll know she’s safe, and they can go to bed and rest easy.”

  Sophy lo
oked at him.

  “What now?” he said.

  “She’s lucky to have you for a brother, and your parents are lucky to have you for a son,” she said.

  He laughed.

  “It’s true,” she said. “To a point.”

  “To a point.”

  “So many other men would not be understanding at all,” she said.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “I don’t understand anything about it.”

  Yet he was kind, unexpectedly kind. Men weren’t, always. They didn’t necessarily mean to be unkind. But they were so accustomed to the world rolling on according to their desires that they never noticed when it rolled over women and crushed them.

  “You understand that your sister needs help, not judging,” she said. “That’s a great deal.”

  He laughed. “What a joke. Who am I to judge anybody, I wonder? If not for Clevedon, I should have been ejected from school a hundred times. As the eldest son and heir, I make a deuced poor show.”

  She thought he made a fine and exciting show, but she wasn’t like the members of his class. She was a Noirot, and drawn to daring and rule-breaking. By the standards of his world, he was primitive, she knew.

  “I abhor politics,” he said. “Philanthropy means a lot of tedious dinners with bad food and pompous speeches. No fun there. You’d think the military would be promising, since it offers so many happy opportunities for fighting. But no. Even an officer must follow orders. Intolerable.”

  “The church isn’t appropriate for the eldest son, I know,” she said. “Otherwise, it would be perfect for you, would it not?”

  He stared at her.

  “Yes, let me think about it,” she said. “Lord Longmore in holy orders. Now there’s a picture.”

  He laughed, and the worry lines in his handsome, piratical face went away.

  “What appalling choices you aristocrats have,” she said. “I almost begin to feel sorry for you. You can’t become a pugilist or a sword swallower in the circus—”

  “The circus!”

  “Or a buccaneer or a highwayman or a charioteer.”

  “Indeed, it’s a deadly dull life sometimes, Miss Noirot, and my father doesn’t care for my ways of livening it up. He gave up on me long ago. I’m no paragon. But you know that.”

  “You’re a paragon of a brother,” she said. “As to the rest, you’re simply the sort of man who chafes at rules. Your sister does, too. The trouble is, it’s nearly impossible for a lady to get away with breaking them.”

  “It’s easier once she’s wed,” he said. “If Clara ends up married to that swine, I’ll encourage her to break them. I’ll offer suggestions.”

  “It won’t come to that,” Sophy said.

  “You’re so sure.”

  “Utterly sure,” she lied.

  At the moment, she had no idea what to do. All she knew was, everything depended on her doing it.

  White Hart Inn, Guildford

  That night

  “I’ve had so much time to think, and I can’t think how to get out of it,” Lady Clara said.

  Lord Longmore had sent his express message to London as soon as they’d arrived. He’d hired rooms, placing his sister in the one between his and Sophy’s. Davis had a cot in her mistress’s room, and a greatly surprised and gratified Fenwick had been given his own little room—the type of cupboardlike space usually allotted to a manservant—adjoining Longmore’s.

  After washing off the dirt of travel, Longmore, Lady Clara, and Sophy had dined. Following that, Longmore had told the women to get a full night’s sleep, and had retired to his room.

  But Lady Clara had invited Sophy to stop in her room first, to drink tea.

  It wasn’t tea Sophy discovered on the tray, though. It was brandy, a clear sign that her ladyship was more rattled than she’d seemed at dinner.

  The night was by no means cold, but she’d complained of feeling chilled to death, and ordered a fire. They sat before it, their chairs close together.

  “If I were less of a catch,” she went on, “and if it hadn’t happened so publicly, with all those people seeing me half undressed, there would be an easier way out.”

  “You weren’t half undressed,” Sophy said. “Your bodice was a little disarranged, that was all.”

  “Not that it makes any difference,” Lady Clara said bitterly. “Ruined is ruined.”

  “We’re going to un-ruin you,” Sophy said. “Don’t worry about it. Let me worry. All we need at present is a tale, in case anybody’s recognized you at any point on the journey.”

  “That’s not very likely.”

  “You truly believe that, don’t you?” Sophy said. “How you contrived to survive a journey to Portsmouth is beyond me.”

  “It was more complicated than I thought, I’ll admit,” Clara said. “I’d no idea what things cost. But I knew we’d need money. I sent Davis to sell some of my dresses before we left London. She was the one who dealt with the innkeepers and such. We pretended she was my aunt. I kept in the background as much as possible.”

  “You, in the background.” Sophy smiled. “That must have been a prodigious trick.”

  “I wore my plainest clothes and one of Davis’s bonnets while we traveled.”

  “But you weren’t so plain in Portsmouth,” Sophy said. “Someone there might have recognized you. I think we’ll say that Lord Longmore took you to Portsmouth to collect an old friend who was coming to the wedding.”

  The amusement faded and her ladyship’s beautiful face set into the stubborn expression Sophy had seen before. “There isn’t going to be a wedding.”

  “It’s what we’ll say,” Sophy said. Her insides churned. There could not be a wedding. But she still had no idea how to stop it. Shedding an unwanted fiancé was simple enough. But to do it in a way that restored Lady Clara’s good name? Was it even possible?

  Meanwhile, time was running out for Maison Noirot.

  Sophy bent over Lady Clara and set her hands on her shoulders. “Listen to me,” she said. She spoke firmly. Her expression was confident and reassuring. She could persuade anybody of anything, and she’d persuade this girl. “This is a tricky situation, as you’ve said. You’re the fly who’s stepped into the spider’s web. It’s a sticky one, and unsticking you with your reputation intact is going to be a delicate business.”

  “It’s bad,” Lady Clara said. “I knew it was bad.”

  “It is,” Sophy said. “But I’ve made you my mission, my only mission for the present. You need to be patient, though, and trust me.”

  “I’ll try to be patient,” Lady Clara said. “But we have so little time.”

  Sophy kept the confident and reassuring expression firmly in place while her heart sank. “How much time?” she said.

  “Less than I’d thought.” Lady Clara explained what had happened on the Wednesday and Thursday before she’d run away.

  “Before the Queen’s last Drawing Room of the Season,” Sophy repeated when the tale came to an end. She hoped she hadn’t heard correctly. She knew it was too much to hope.

  The last Drawing Room was scheduled for the twenty-fourth of the month. Quarter Day. Doomsday.

  “That’s why I bolted,” Clara said. “That was the last straw. I’d been counting on having months. Mother was so opposed, I was sure she’d put it off for as long as possible.”

  It made no difference, Sophy told herself. The shop needed to recover lost business by Quarter Day, no matter what.

  “More than a fortnight, then,” she said calmly. “Plenty of time.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.”

  Lady Clara looked up at her, and the hope and trust in her eyes made Sophy want to cry.

  “Leave it to me,” Sophy said.

  Dammit, now what?

  Sophy closed the door of Lady Clara’s room behind her and stood for a moment staring blankly at the wall opposite.

  She’d helped hunt the girl down.

  She was taking her
back to London.

  Then what?

  Only a little more than a fortnight—at most—to work a miracle.

  If she failed . . .

  “What ho!” a male voice called. “Look what’s turned up, lads.”

  Sophy looked toward the sound of the voice.

  Oh, perfect. It only wanted this. A quartet of drunken gentlemen. Worse, young drunken gentlemen, some of them still sporting spots.

  “A miracle, an angel, most fetching,” another of them said. “An angel dropped down from heaven.”

  “Whither, fair one?”

  “Don’t mind him, madam. That one’s a clodpoll.” The last speaker made a drunken attempt at a bow.

  Sophy treated them to one of the special Noirot curtseys, the kind that took actors and dancers years of practice to perfect, and the kind that took onlookers completely by surprise. It made an excellent distraction. While the boys were trying to decide what to make of it, she reached into the concealed pocket of her skirt and unpinned the hatpin she kept there for emergencies. With luck, she wouldn’t need to use it. The question was, Retreat to Lady Clara’s room or continue on to her own?

  “A ballet dancer, by Jupiter,” one boy decided.

  “Won’t you dance for us?” said another. He lurched toward her, and stumbled. He grabbed her for balance, making her stagger and drop the hatpin.

  She pushed. He held on. “Yes, let’s dance,” he said, blowing alcoholic fumes over her face.

  “Get off,” she said.

  “That’s right, get off,” another one said. “She wants to dance with me.” He pulled her away from his friend.

  She thrust an elbow into his gut. He only laughed, too drunk to feel it, and pulled her against him, grabbing her bottom.

  She stumbled back and he pushed her against the wall. The smell of drink was making her sick.

  “I saw her first,” one said.

  “Wait your turn,” said the one on top of her. “First I get a kiss.”

  He thrust his face at hers, lips puckered. She kicked him in the shin. He fell back, but someone else was there, grabbing her arm.

  Panic welled, ice forming in her gut. They were merely boys, drunken boys, but there were too many of them. She had no weapon. She saw nothing in the corridor. Only an empty pair of boots, a long way away, awaiting cleaning.