Then the rest of his words registered, and a chill slid down her spine. What sort of business? she wanted to ask.
Only now did she recall the odd expression she’d seen on Rye’s face the morning he had announced he was going to London. To see his tailor, he’d said—as if she was likely to believe that tale. He’d had the same look on his face at the age of four, one day when he’d sworn to her that he did not have a snake in his pocket—Indeed, Mama, I do not!—right up to the instant when the snake had slithered down his leg and onto the carpet. Right about where Robert Wellingham was standing now, as a matter of fact.
But on that last morning at breakfast, she’d been concentrating on how to finagle a trip to see Ann Eliza without taking Sophie along, so Miranda hadn’t pressed to find out exactly what had put that mulish look on Rye’s face. In any case, she’d believed that whatever Rye was up to in London, it was no worse than the average young gentleman’s pastime.
Now she wished she had insisted on knowing. He was of age, which meant that technically he was no longer answerable to his mother, but surely he wouldn’t have lied to her.
What was it about Robert Wellingham’s name that nagged at her?
He looked around appreciatively. “You have a lovely home, Lady Ryecroft. This is a most pleasant room.”
Carstairs had left the drawing-room door open, and from the corner of her eye, Miranda caught a flurry of activity in the hallway outside.
Then Sophie spoke, her clear voice resounding. “You said Mama’s in the drawing room, Carstairs? Do please bring us a tray—I could smell Cook’s lemon cakes baking as I came in, and I’m famished from being out in the air all morning.” She burst into the room. “Mama, I met Emily in the village, and she says her aunt is arranging a picnic party to—Oh, I beg your pardon.”
She stopped on the threshold, almost poised on tiptoe. One small hand clutched the long skirt of her riding habit, while the other was raised to her lips in apology.
“My daughter,” Miranda said ruefully. “Sophie, this is Mr. Wellingham.”
“Have I interrupted? Well, of course I have. I am so sorry to have interrupted you and your caller, Mama.” She curtsied. “It is lovely to meet you, sir.”
“Do not distress yourself, Miss Ryecroft; I was just taking my leave.”
“But you must not let me drive you off! Mama so seldom has gentleman callers…”
Sophie’s eyes widened as she spoke, and Miranda could almost read her daughter’s mind as she put the pieces together. A gentleman calling, alone, on her mother… Sophie’s powers of observation and deduction might be improving, but she obviously had a long way to go yet.
“I see you’ve not been here long enough for her to offer you refreshment,” Sophie plunged on, “but Carstairs will be bringing a tray at any moment.” She perched on the edge of a sofa cushion. “Have you come from a great distance, sir?”
“I live in London—at present.”
“Really? How exciting. But then how did you meet Mama? Have you known her long?”
“Sophie!”
“Yes, Mama? Oh, do you mean to say I should go and change? Indeed, I must smell of horse.” She wrinkled her nose and jumped up again. “And then there will be no need for Mr. Wellingham to go away, and you can have the most comfortable chat together.”
Miranda could not stop herself. “Sophie, Mr. Wellingham is not that kind of caller!”
The instant the words were out, Miranda would have given anything to call them back. Wellingham’s dark gaze met hers, and the challenging glint in his eyes left her breathless, for she understood only too clearly how he had interpreted her thoughtless remark.
What she had said was literally true; she’d simply meant that his call was business, not a social event, as Sophie obviously believed. But he had heard an insult—deliberate and crude. Carstairs had been right; he was not quite a gentleman, and he knew it. Therefore, he thought she must be warning Sophie that he did not belong in their world. That he was not a fit person for the sister and mother of a viscount to know…
“I regret that I have disturbed you, ma’am.” But the apology was no more than words; it was apparent to Miranda that he didn’t mean it.
“Mr. Wellingham, it is I who must beg your pardon. I did not mean to imply…”
He cut her off crisply. “It is of no importance. I shall return to the village now. I shall be at the inn if Lord Ryecroft returns today.”
Repeating his name, however, had finally jolted Miranda’s memory loose. “You’re a banker,” she said slowly. Fear slithered along her veins. What has Rye done? Why has he gone to the moneylenders?
A chill ran down her spine. You have a lovely home, Mr. Wellingham had said. But had it been an appreciative comment or an acquisitive one? I live in London—at present. Had there been a hidden meaning in that brief hesitation?
Was it possible that Rye had put a mortgage on the manor? He could not sell it, of course. The estate was entailed and had to pass along with the title. But borrowing against the land or the house—he might have found a way to do that. Now that he had full control of his affairs and his money—what there was of it—he would no longer even have to consult trustees before taking such a major step.
“A banker?” Sophie asked. All thought of going off to change her clothes seemed to have vanished. “What do you do as a banker, exactly? Do you have to sit and count money all day? How perfectly dull.”
Wellingham smiled. Under other circumstances, Miranda might have thought it a charming smile, but in her current frame of mind, it appeared more predatory than amused. “Not usually, Miss Ryecroft.”
“Do you ever lose your place when you’re counting and have to begin all over again? I do. Not when I’m counting my pin money, because I haven’t that much. But just yesterday, when I was counting towels for Mama…” Sophie settled herself on a couch. “Do sit down, Mama, so poor Mr. Wellingham can too.”
“Why are you here, Mr. Wellingham?” Miranda blurted. “What is it you want from us?”
His face hardened. “I have told you my errand, Lady Ryecroft. I have private business to discuss with Lord Ryecroft, whom I expected to have returned home by now. I am sorry to have troubled you.” He turned to Sophie. “It seems we must discuss my profession at another time, Miss Ryecroft.” He bowed once more and departed, his step firm and unhurried.
Miranda sank down onto the sofa. Her head was buzzing. Had Rye lost a fortune at the gambling tables while trying to win a stake to take Sophie to London? Would a banker even loan money if it was to settle a debt of honor? And if he did, what would he demand as security?
Where was Rye? Was he ashamed to tell her what he’d done?
In the same moment Sophie bounced up again. “Beg pardon, Mama—I’m going to see what’s keeping Carstairs with my tray,” she announced, and before Miranda could draw a breath to scold her, the thoughtless child had gone.
***
As she rounded the corner from drawing room to hallway, Sophie heard the rattle of Wellingham’s curricle pulling away from the manor. Carstairs began to speak, but she raised her finger to her lips, cautioning silence, and slipped past him through the still-open front door.
She could never catch up with the curricle if she tried to chase it down the drive, but if she took the shortcut to the gate, she might—with luck—get there in time to intercept him.
She had no idea what she’d do then, but she wanted some answers. What had this stranger said to her mother that had made Lady Ryecroft nearly faint? Why had he avoided a simple question about his reason for coming? What sort of business did he have with the Ryecrofts?
And why, Sophie asked herself wryly, was there never a horse saddled and waiting by the front door at the moment when she needed one? The boots she wore for riding were not intended for this sort of hurried cross-country walking.
The carriageway wound and turned for more than a mile from the manor before it reached the gate, but the distance was not nearly so long by t
he footpath Sophie took. She was panting, however, when she reached the last turn in the carriageway, still several hundred yards from the gate, just as Wellingham’s horses came into view around the last bend.
She strode out into the center of the path and faced the team, with her head up, shoulders back, and arms outstretched.
The team came to a gentle halt just a few feet away from her, and he looked down at her from the driving seat with polite inquiry.
“I need to speak with you, sir,” Sophie said. “Kindly come down from there so I do not have to shout.”
He didn’t move. “The word please would not come amiss.”
“Please, Mr. Wellingham. I would like to speak with you.” There was the slightest breathlessness in her voice, but that must be from walking so far and so fast.
“Take them, Henry.” His groom climbed down from the back of the curricle to take the horses’ heads, and once they were controlled, Wellingham leaped lightly down from the carriage and came toward Sophie.
She hadn’t realized how tall he was. Or perhaps it was only the cut of the capes on his driving coat that made him look so imposing. In the drawing room, she’d thought he might be as old as her mother, but out in the open air, with his hat concealing the few silvery threads in his hair, he looked far younger. His mouth was a firm, straight line, and there was no humor in his eyes. He looked dangerous… but how ridiculous of her to think so. What could possibly happen to her within sight of the gate cottage?
“I suppose I ought to have anticipated that a holdup would be exactly your style, Miss Ryecroft, though I observe you seem to have mislaid both your mask and your pistol.”
He sounded different too. His tone was deeper and more melodious; perhaps being outside let him expand somehow. It made her feel all shivery, as if his voice had gotten inside her and was vibrating.
“What is it you wish to discuss with me? Or shall I guess? Let us walk while I contemplate.” He strolled a few steps and paused. “I have it. You have decided to seek employment in banking, and you would like my advice as to how to go about establishing yourself.”
Sophie was momentarily diverted. “Could I?”
“Doubtful. Banks—at least my banks—do not generally employ young ladies.”
She frowned at him. “Well, then it was ill done of you to lead me on by suggesting it. Because, as a matter of fact, it sounds as if it would be ever so much more pleasant than dancing in a theater.”
“Dancing in a… You are not like your mother, are you, Miss Ryecroft? Looks aside, of course.”
“You are laughing at me, sir.”
“Indeed no.” But there was a catch in his voice that belied his words. “Let’s get on with it, shall we? What is it I am to be taken to task for, Miss Ryecroft?”
“Why did you upset Mama just now?”
“I assure you it was not my intention to do so.”
“Why didn’t you answer her questions?”
“Perhaps if she had been as insistent as you, I should have done. However, once my word is given on a matter of business, I do not make a practice of telling others the details.”
He meant he’d promised Rye. But what about? Sophie chewed on that as they strolled.
Wellingham seemed to think he’d said too much already. “Unlike you, it appears Lady Ryecroft has taken a strong dislike to my profession.”
“I don’t understand what’s wrong with being a banker.”
“Moneylenders, in general, are not well thought of, Miss Ryecroft.”
“Oh, well, if you’re talking about the cent-per-centers, no. They’re rapacious and greedy, and they drive people into debtor’s prison. But that’s different. I’m convinced you don’t do that.”
His eyebrows rose. “What makes you so certain?”
She had to pause to consider why she was so positive. “I suppose because when you said you don’t talk about matters of business, you seemed so… firm about it. As if you have high standards and you keep to them always.”
“I am flattered,” he murmured.
“And you said something about banks—surely if you are associated with more than one, you don’t need to be rapacious and greedy. At any rate, if you wish my mother to think well of you…” She looked up at him through her eyelashes. “Do you?”
“Somewhat to my surprise,” he said slowly, “I find that I do. I’m sure you’re about to recommend a course of action, Miss Ryecroft; I await your advice with breath held.”
“You’re laughing at me again. So I shall not offer my assistance after all.”
“I am humbled,” Wellingham said gently. “But not ready to beg.”
She noted a twinkle in his eyes. She smiled up at him and wondered how she could have thought him dangerous. He was nice really. What was wrong with her mother, not to see that?
“Will you be going back to London soon?” she asked.
“Perhaps tomorrow. I had planned to return today.”
“You’ll go even if Rye hasn’t come home yet?”
“I have obligations, you see. And there will be another opportunity for discussion with your brother. Why do you ask?”
She took a deep breath. “I want you to take me with you.”
For the first time, she saw surprise in his face. “Miss Ryecroft, only a moment ago you offered to point out to me how I might maneuver my way into Lady Ryecroft’s good graces. Now you suggest that I abduct you? It hardly seems the way to win your parent’s heart.”
“It’s not abducting if I ask you to do it.”
“Perhaps not, though the finer points seem to elude me.”
“And Mama needn’t know that you had anything to do with it.”
“I beg pardon for my no doubt limited understanding. But we have been walking and talking for some time within sight of the gatekeeper’s cottage, and I note that the gatekeeper himself has been paying particular attention.”
She glanced over his shoulder toward the cottage. He was right; though Curtis, the gatekeeper, seemed to be stacking wood behind the back door, he kept looking in their direction.
“It seems likely that your departure from the estate in an open carriage would not go unnoticed, Miss Ryecroft.”
Sophie said crisply, “I hardly intended that you should boost me up into the curricle and drive away right now!”
“I am relieved. How did you… er… intend to go about the matter?”
“Well, I hadn’t entirely figured that out. It just seemed to me that I should seize the opportunity when it presented itself and work out the details later.”
“If you run away to London now, you would miss out on the picnic party.”
Sophie sighed. “Yes, and I would regret it. I do love picnics, though it’s apt to be chilly as yet, and I do hate getting my hems wet on dewy grass… But I don’t see that it can be helped.”
“Your willingness to make the sacrifice is noble indeed,” he murmured.
Sophie eyed him narrowly. Yes, there was that twinkle again. “If you’re leaving tomorrow, I could ride to the village as I usually do in the morning, and Mama would not even know I was gone for hours and hours. You would have to hire a post chaise, I’m afraid, but I could manage to climb into it in the inn yard, where no one would see.”
“I don’t doubt you could. I had anticipated the need for a closed carriage, and fortunately I am well supplied with ready cash.”
“Well, that’s good. I would offer to pay for it myself, but…”
“But you have a shortage of pin money at the moment, I believe.”
She nodded, pleased that he understood how things were. “And I could hardly arrange to do the hiring for myself, you see, because everyone in the village knows me. So it is agreed?”
“Do you feel you can wholeheartedly trust me, Miss Ryecroft?”
“Yes,” she said, but she had to own that there was something about the deep rumble of his voice that made her just the slightest bit nervous. Which was foolish, for it wouldn’t be at all like g
oing off with one of Rye’s friends. Wellingham was old enough to be her father… near enough.
“You would be comfortable being alone with me in a closed carriage for some hours, without even your maid in attendance?”
“Absolutely not,” she said.
“You relieve my mind.”
“Because you wouldn’t be in the carriage. You’d be driving your curricle instead.”
Wellingham gave a burst of laughter. “Indeed I must, in order to draw off suspicion that I was the one behind your abrupt disappearance! Miss Ryecroft, I congratulate you—and I would be honored to take part in your grand scheme. Only—will you give me your word that you will allow me to make all the arrangements? I shall leave word for you… Where? Is there an establishment you frequent in the village?”
“The baker. I stop in for a sweet bun whenever I ride through.”
“The baker,” he repeated, as if he was not surprised. “Very well. When I have news, I shall bribe the baker to insert a message into a sweet bun and reserve it for you. However, do not be disgruntled if I am not able to make arrangements as quickly as you would like.”
“I suppose it will take some careful handling,” Sophie admitted.
“In the meantime you must promise me to be perfectly natural and go about your regular routine so that you do not attract undue suspicion. Do you promise that you will not disappoint me, Miss Ryecroft?”
Was he quizzing her? She asked suspiciously, “Do you swear that you’ll take me to London, Mr. Wellingham?”
He folded his hand over his heart. “Indeed, I swear I will see to everything. Now I must be on my way—and I am reminded that you have been away from the manor for some time, so you had better hurry back to partake of Cook’s lemon cakes before they are all gone.”
He kissed the air above her hand, climbed back into his curricle, and drove off.
It was really too bad that he couldn’t have driven her back to the manor, for Sophie suspected she had a blister forming on her left heel. But being delivered to the front door in Wellingham’s curricle would hardly have been following her regular routine.
Just One Season in London Page 8