He was struck mid-breath and then resumed taking in air in double-time. What would Lord and Lady Howick think of the new seating arrangements?
“George got the same message I did. Apparently, Lady Howick had a fit of a megrim, like Rumsford’s wife. Only her megrim ain’t quite so tall as the viscountess’s.”
Arnaud too had noticed that Sir Thomas’s unusually tall footman was nowhere to be seen, but kept a bland expression on his face while he punched his shoe firmly down onto Cullen’s instep. Cullen snatched his foot away and added, “Just commenting on the play. And, speaking of plays…” With that, he looked down toward the actress, Mrs. Withers, engaged in lively conversation with Sophie.
“One more ribald comment, and that will be your last utterance on this earth,” Arnaud gave the last threat with a low growl.
When he turned away from his surgeon, he caught sight of Sophie leaning into conversation with his mother. Damn—what were those two up to now? On further inspection, he realized the tops of Sophie’s creamy breasts strained over the low bodice of a soft pink dress striped like Christmas peppermints. He loved nothing more than sucking on Christmas mints. God. Where did that come from? He’d be lucky to get through this night with his wits intact. He forced himself to turn away, back toward Cullen. When he did, the look in his surgeon’s eyes told him his feelings were not as private as he’d thought.
“Captain, you’ve either got to claim that lass as your own, or get on the first ship headed away from here.”
Honore, on Sophie’s left, leaned close and patted her hand. “Are you enjoying Sir Thomas’s house party?”
“He has a wonderful home and he makes it such a happy place. Truthfully? This is the most I’ve enjoyed any of my time since the Season began.” Sophie took a careful look around to make sure no one else was listening. “This endless quest for the ‘proper’ husband has become nothing more than a tedious job one wants to get over with as quickly as possible.”
“Perhaps you search too hard for the ‘proper’ man. Sometimes the things we want most are right in front of us. If you cannot find the perfect gentleman dressed like that in one of Madame Bonheur’s confections, then something is wrong with the universe. Those soft pink stripes set off your glowing cheeks to perfection. Do not give up the quest, mon jeune amie. Love is worth everything we sacrifice, and more.”
“Were you ever hopelessly in love, Mrs. Bellingham?” Sophie leaned as close as she could for the intimate question.
“In love? Many times. Hopelessly in love? Twice. Once long ago in Martinique with my late husband, Alexandre, and once as a terrified mother with children fleeing France when a brave man risked everything to save us.”
“Arnaud’s father?”
“Yes. I wish you could have met him. Arnaud is so much like him, courageous, honorable, and dedicated, but capable of great love.”
When Sophie straightened to allow the footman behind her to place the soup, she glimpsed the face of the admiral sitting across from Honore. He must have heard, or sensed, some of their whispered exchange. When he caught her glance, his smile revealed a twinge of regret.
Sir Thomas stood and gave a light tap to his wine glass with a knife before lifting a toast. “To a gathering of fine friends, and to a blissful respite before we return to the toils of London. After dinner tonight, we will be entertained by the famous actress, Mrs. Withers, with a few selected monologues from Shakespeare. We will enjoy her performance outside on the piazza, in a beautiful English midsummer night.
“Later, my estate is yours to roam. The gardens and grounds abound with torchlights. And when you are ready to retire, my housekeeper, Mrs. White, has had cards prepared which will be on the tray in the hall. Hand-painted flowers have been applied to all of our second-floor doors. The cards are sketches of the house plan with corresponding floral images for each room. I hope that will prevent any aimless midnight wandering in case you find it necessary to leave your room.
“Now please, enjoy the evening.” He sat back down and tucked into his soup.
After Sophie turned away from Honore, she noticed for the first time, all the way down the table, Lydia with her head leaning toward Captain Neville. A quick check of Lord Howick on Sophie’s left revealed his countenance remained calm and jovial. He was enjoying the evening and seemed to have eyes only for Mrs. Withers across the table. Had he not seen his daughter’s dinner partner?
“Do I have soup in my beard?” Lord Howick stopped mid-sip and laid down his soupspoon,
“No, no, of course not.” Sophie gave a nervous flutter with her hand. “Please, do not let me interrupt your dinner.”
“There must be a reason you were staring.”
Sophie noticed a gleam of humor in his eyes. “Of course not.”
“I hope you’re not worried about Lydia’s guard joining us for dinner.”
“Me? No, I am not.”
“You do realize I fully trust Captain Bellingham and all of his men?”
“You do?”
“I’ve entrusted them with both of your lives, and they are honorable men. I’m confident they would never take advantage of my trust. And, fortunately, they all know I have the power to end their careers if they betray that trust.”
Sophie gave a shiver. “You’d do that?”
“Do you doubt me?”
With that, Sophie nearly knocked her soupspoon to the floor. “Never, Lord Howick. Never.”
“Then that is settled. Now finish your soup and try not to worry about things over which you have no control.”
Arnaud had just finished a fine piece of roast beef and after the footman behind him whisked away his plate, he noticed Frannie leaning toward him, lips parted. Her white-blonde curls feathered from her elaborately styled hair and glittered in the candlelight.
“I wonder…” Her tone was tentative, unusual for Frannie.
“Yes?”
“Did you notice the woman down the table across from Lord Howick?”
“Of course. That’s the actress, Mrs. Withers.”
“You’ve been introduced?”
“Not exactly.” Arnaud had to loosen his damned neckcloth again.
“But you’ve met?” A hint of humor laced Frannie’s query.
“In a fashion, yes.”
“All right. I understand. I’ll not press you, but you ought to know she was a very, shall we say, close friend of Miss Brancelli’s late father.”
“Frannie, quit buzzing around what you mean to say.”
“You know what I mean. The parties, his circle of friends, the late nights while her father was alive. And of course Miss Brancelli kept house for him.”
“Whatever went on in Mr. Brancelli’s house before his daughter came to stay with the Howicks is none of my business.”
“Then why are you here?”
“There is someone who wishes her harm. Dr. MacCloud and I happened by and intervened when some hired villains tried to kidnap her, and now Lord Howick has retained me and my men to guard Miss Brancelli and Lady Lydia Howick.”
“I thought there was an understanding between you and Miss Brancelli.”
“Who is spreading that nonsense?”
“Why, it’s all over town. Didn’t you know?”
She stopped her stream of gossip as abruptly as she’d begun and turned back to Lord Howick.
Arnaud whipped his head around to Cullen and spoke barely above a whisper. “What was all that blather about? Why was she going on and on about Sophie?”
Cullen, who had been caught mid-bite, merely shook his head. “You have to be the densest man in the Royal Navy, Captain, if you can’t figure out why one woman is trying to tear down another.”
“But she’s spent the last three weeks avoiding me. Why would she suddenly reverse tides?”
Cullen rolled his eyes and tucked back in to his roast beef.
“In my opinion, you Royal Navy men are to be commended.”
Now what? Arnaud turned to the elderly woman who
ruled their end of the table by dint of serving as Sir Thomas’s official hostess. His mother, Lady Fitzroy, the dowager countess, was a veritable dragon of the ton. She’d thus far been quiet, but Arnaud feared he was probably in for a drubbing by yet another woman in the dinner party.
“We’re glad to be of assistance,” Arnaud said, and both his surgeon and Captain Neville nodded.
“No, no, I’m not talking about guarding the Brancelli chit. I mean I laud your efforts with the African problem.”
For a moment Arnaud’s mind stopped working. He gave her a quizzical look. What was she trying to say?
“For heaven’s sakes-ending slavery at sea.”
“We do what we can, Lady Fitzroy.” Cullen saved Arnaud from another social gaffe.
“Yes, sometimes it seems like we go three steps back for every two steps ahead, but we keep going. There are a lot of ship owners who fight us in the prize courts, but every once in a while we win,” Arnaud said.
“You all seem successful, if the papers are to be believed. Why are all of you still without wives?”
Captain Neville choked on a piece of beef and covered his mouth with his napkin. Cullen sat up straighter in his chair and looked to Arnaud for help.
“Our squadron handles some of the most dangerous duty in the service. It would not be fair to marry young women only to make them widows in the first year. Also, our tours of duty last a year and a half to two years at a time, sometimes longer.”
“What do your mothers think of your single states?”
Cullen raised his hands in surrender. “My mother died when I was a babe. And my father doesn’t care what I do as long as I work my way up to a larger ship of the line.”
So that’s why Cullen’s father had kept him occupied so much the last few weeks. Arnaud would be sorry to lose his surgeon and friend to another assignment, but he understood. The elder Dr. MacCloud was one of Prinny’s court physicians and could use his influence to get Cullen promoted.
After dinner Arnaud and his men joined the others for brandy. The women of the party adjourned with Lady Fitzroy for tea.
Sophie sat enveloped in the warm velvet night in Sir Thomas’s torchlit garden and let Mrs. Withers’s velvet delivery of Titania’s speech wash over her.
The fairy land buys not the child of me.
His mother was a votaress of my order:
And, in the spiced Indian air, by night,
Full often hath she gossip’d by my side,
And sat with me on Neptune’s yellow sands…
Lancelot, his freshly washed fur smelling of lavender, sat quietly at her feet, for once behaving himself. She let one of her slippers fall from her stockinged foot and rubbed his warm little body with her foot. Bless Mrs. Bellingham for thinking of her and bringing the pup to the party.
Mrs. Withers wore a diaphanous gown over a pale body suit, and her hair flowed down her back in perfect gold, tumbling curls. A crown of fresh flowers sat lightly on her head.
Sophie and Lydia sat in the front row of garden chairs next to Lord Howick. He leaned back, fully at ease, as Sophie had rarely seen him. Several times throughout Mrs. Withers’s performance his lips curled in a sudden, random smile. His face took on the look of a much younger man, a man not weighed down by sorrow and responsibility.
Sophie could only wish for a love that simple, that complete. However, she realized with a touch of sadness, Lord Howick could be with the woman he loved only in private. Arnaud’s mother was right. Whatever one had to suffer for love must be well worth the effort. Would she ever know that kind of love?
In the pause between recitations, Sophie gazed around the garden. Each of Arnaud’s men were seated throughout the guests, but Arnaud was missing. She refused to conjecture as to where he might be, but she remembered the looks he’d exchanged with the Dowager Viscountess Frances Fairfield.
After the entertainment, Sophie linked arms with Lydia and they made their good-byes. A footman retrieved Lancelot and took him to his cushioned bed in the stables. Once they reached the first landing of the stairs leading to their rooms on the second floor, Sophie squeezed Lydia’s hand and whispered, “I’ll come up later.”
“Where are you going?” Lydia eyes widened in the low light.
“I can’t wait any longer to see Sir Thomas’s library. I’ve heard so much about all the volumes, and he hasn’t said anything more about showing me. I don’t want to bother him. No one will ever know I’m there.”
“What has happened to my old friend, the upright, well-behaved writer?” Lydia giggled. “You’re getting as bad as me at sneaking off to do what you please.”
“Jupiter, Lydia. I promise I’ll behave from now on, but I have to see this library.”
“Why ever would you promise me of all people that you’ll behave?”
“Please. Don’t tell anyone, least of all that nosy Captain Bellingham.”
“Of course.” Lydia pantomimed twisting her lips shut with an imaginary key. She turned with her candle and made her way alone toward their rooms.
When Sophie paused on her way down, she looked out a window and saw Captain Neville turn and follow the progress of Lydia’s light until she reached her room. He gave a slight smile and walked on toward the inn. He’d been watching over them. She hoped he hadn’t overheard her plans.
Sir Thomas’s library dominated about half the length of the west wing. After checking both ways along the corridor, she opened the heavy door and slipped inside. She didn’t want to be detected from the outside, so snuffed out her candle and let the light of the full moon streaming through full-length windows illuminate the space.
She brushed her fingers along a shelf of volumes of Greek classics—“The Odyssey,” “Medea,” “Hippolytus,” “Antigone,” “Lysistrata.” She had to read that one. And then “Meno,” “The Histories,” and “The Poetics.” A number of single, fragile pages were framed along one wall. She hoped she could get a full tour in better light later from Sir Thomas when he was not so busy with guests.
The door creaked open without warning, and Sophie sucked in a breath. She backed into a dark corner without a sound. Someone came around the door with a candelabra of eight candles which he placed on the long, narrow table in the center of the room. Sir Thomas.
“Sophie, come out of the shadows. I know you’re in here. I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away.”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice squeaked.
“No need for apologies. I promised you a tour, and then my wretched guests held me up. Not to worry. Tomorrow, when there’s more light, you’ll have your fill of the Fitzroy legacy.”
Unable to contain herself, Sophie stood on tiptoe and pointed to a thick, beautifully bound volume. “What is that?”
“An Italian dictionary, the first one, I think.”
Sophie’s mouth dropped open.
“And those?” She pointed to the opposite side of the aisle. The titles were mostly in Latin.
“I have no idea, but that’s the old side of the room. They’re probably from the first earl in the sixteen-hundreds.” He shook his head. “I need a librarian, someone to love these books and organize them for the next generation of Fitzroys.”
He gave her a fond look and then broke into laughter. “We are getting entirely too serious. Let me call my housekeeper to see you safely back to your room.”
Sophie shivered. Something had shifted between them, something that made her sadder than she would have thought.
Chapter Nineteen
Sir Thomas’s groom helped Sophie up to the mounting block before she climbed onto the back of Rosslyn, a mare her host had promised was exceedingly mellow. Lancelot had raced out to greet her when she first arrived at the stables, but then was banished back into the barn because of his love of barking at the grooms while they went about their work.
She moved with confidence from practicing so many times the art of hauling herself onto the horse’s back with her left foot in the stirrup whilst boosting her we
ight upward with her right foot. She doubted one of Sir Thomas’s gentle mares could outwit her. That performance had to be accompanied all the while gathering the voluminous skirts of her wine-colored habit, so not a bit of ankle would show.
Added to the stress of getting her riding performance just right, she was sorely missing sleep from the adventures of the night before. She’d applied extra powder beneath her eyes to hide the shadows.
When first she’d begun her riding lessons, she’d abhorred the thought of carrying the light whip required to communicate with the horse on the right side where her leg looped high over a pommel. A few lessons with Sir Thomas’s head groom in the art of light, guiding touches had allayed her fears. The man knew horses almost as well as Sir Thomas.
She marveled at the way the denizens of his stables perked up their ears and gave out welcoming whinnies whenever he walked past their stalls. Of course, he always took pockets full of carrots and apples which he dispensed with kind words and murmurs of praise for his “beauties,” as he referred to them.
Although at first she’d been intimidated by all the details of what one had to do to present oneself as a lady, she’d soon ceased to be confounded. She’d picked up the tempo of social nonsense and was now playing the marriage game with vigor. If she could not be with the man she loved, she would get on with the intricate steps of the tonnish husband hunt. Of course, she did not have an eager mama in the wings forwarding her best interests, but the Howicks had been more than helpful in that regard.
And now, after the previous night, Mrs. Withers had presented her with the key to her father’s old cottage. No matter how the husband hunt ended, she would at least have a roof over her head. When she tried to turn down the extravagant gift, her old friend had insisted.
Besides, Arnaud’s cousin had called often at Howick House since they were introduced at her coming out ball. She’d come to enjoy his company. If she had to choose a husband who wasn’t Arnaud, his cousin was easy to talk to and was as solid as Arnaud, but in an inverse, fair-haired way. The family resemblance was startling.
Pride Of Honor: Men of the Squadron Series, Book 1 Page 17