“It’s not more important?” she prompted, wondering what he’d do if she lifted up her hand, ran her fingers through his hair. No. Better not. The fellow was hanging by a frayed thread as it was.
“No, it’s not. It’s just—different. This problem is about your mother’s journals.”
“Her—you know about Maman’s journals? How?” Sophie was suddenly all attention, thoughts of love and fools and happily-ever-afters flying from her mind.
She could sense that he wasn’t going to tell her the whole truth, even before he opened his mouth. But that didn’t matter for long, not when he began speaking.
“Peggy has been commissioned to bring me anything, um, unusual she might find in Aunt Gwen’s rooms,” he said, taking up his wineglass, and his pacing, once again. “When she brought me Lord Buxley’s journal this morning, I confronted my aunt.”
“Oh, dear,” Sophie said, her shoulders slumping. “I never should have mentioned them to her. She does possess a prodigious love of gossip, doesn’t she, Bram? It must have been much like hanging a sugar treat in front of a baby. Lord Buxley’s journal, did you say? Well, that was innocuous enough, I suppose. Unless Aunt Gwendolyn wanted to learn more about the first time his lordship cornered a fox on his own. That,” she ended quietly, “and how he liked to chase Maman about the room while she wore nothing but a fox cape he’d given her, with him calling out ‘Yoicks! Away!’”
“I know. I’ve read the journal. But there were also several mentions of many personages in the ton, many of them not exactly flattering if anyone were to go about in Society, quoting them,” Bramwell said, one side of his mouth lifting in a smile. “I’ve read four of the journals so far, as a matter of fact. I now understand where you got the idea that led to Wally’s freedom. Very inventive, your mother.”
“You’ve read—did you say four of them? I thought Peggy only brought you the one.”
“And I only intended to read the one,” he told her earnestly, and she believed him. “However, after speaking with my aunt, and learning that she had already read them all? Well, you can see the problem, can’t you?”
He had read four of them? But, obviously, not the one about Uncle Cesse. No, he wouldn’t have done that. Stubborn, stubborn man! Sophie turned toward the window but closed her eyes, able to see the pages of the journals page by damning page. “Uncle Tye’s brushes with the cent-per-centers. Uncle Dickie’s dabbling in cheating during his years at Oxford. Angus McLeish’s sympathies with the French. Horace Autley’s by-blow, set up as a footman at his father’s own country estate. And all the rest. All those little bits of gossip they’d told Maman over the years. About Lady Jersey, Lord Byron, two prime ministers, even that business about the Prince Regent, back when he was the Prince Regent, and—”
“Yes, for all the gossip about our new and still-uncrowned king, that one retained the power to startle,” Bramwell cut in. “And now Aunt Gwen knows it. She knows it all, Sophie. And, unfortunately, she’s already nattered a time or two with some of her friends about one or two of the less, shall we say, incriminating tidbits?”
“This isn’t good,” Sophie said, knowing she was understating the enormity of what had happened, and by a long chalk.
“Oh, but it gets better, Sophie. Much better,” Bramwell told her as she watched him, her bottom lip stuck between her teeth. “After I sent my aunt and Mrs. Farraday off to Bond Street—buying a new bonnet seems to hold a most miraculous power to cheer my aunt no end, even when she knows she’s been very naughty—I had Peggy help me search her rooms. And we came up with this, sitting right out in the open, on her dresser, so that we know it’s a new addition to her collection.”
She took the small object Bramwell held out in his hand, recognizing it as a snuffbox. It was a lovely piece, all gold and polished enamel, with initials engraved on the top lid. She turned it over and over in her hands, then opened it. “She’s done this before, poor dear,” she said. “And you’ve returned things like this before, with no one the wiser. I know you have because you’ve already hinted at it, and Peggy told me the rest. You can do it again, yes? The cover is initialed, like so many of them are. Do you know to whom it belongs? I imagine you do. Or is there something I’m not seeing? There is, isn’t there? You wouldn’t be looking quite so stern if there weren’t.”
“Oh, I know who it belongs to, Sophie. And, yes, there is something you’re not seeing. Here, let me show you,” he said. “You already know so many secrets, one more shouldn’t make any difference.” He took the snuffbox from her nervous fingers and, pressing on a nearly invisible button on its lid, opened a secret compartment and pulled out a small scrap of paper, carefully unfolding it before reading its contents aloud. “‘16 Aug. St. P F. Troops ready, per my order. S.’”
“Well, that’s certainly clear,” Sophie said, genuinely confused. “But I suppose it means something to you, yes?”
“Let me refresh your memory, all right? The sixteenth of August of last year marks the day of Peterloo, the massacre of innocent men, women and children in Manchester, at a place called St. Peter’s Fields. It has been said, ever since, that Lord Sidmouth may have planned the whole thing, turning what was meant to be a peaceful protest assembly into an excuse to set government troops on the citizens. Sidmouth, of course, denies this. He also must have never needed to pass the note, and likewise forgot he’d left it in his snuffbox.”
“And he might still not remember the note, unless losing the snuffbox jostles his memory. But if he does remember? Bram, that note—if he thought Aunt Gwendolyn had taken the snuffbox, and if you were to personally return the snuffbox, pretending to have found it, and if Lord Sidmouth believed you had discovered the note...” She gave a small shiver. “Lord Sidmouth isn’t a nice man, if I remember Maman’s journals correctly.”
“Exactly. There are a great many ‘ifs’ in all of what you say, Sophie—except that business about Sidmouth’s bulldog disposition—and none of them appeal. So, as I see it, we have two problems in front of us right now. The first, my aunt’s gossiping, which may have already prompted at least one of your uncles to wishing you out of London, or underground. We’ll consider that tomorrow, as I already believe I can settle that whole business successfully. And secondly, the return of Sidmouth’s snuffbox. That, I’m afraid, we’ll have to deal with tonight.”
“Can’t we simply throw the thing away? Connecting its disappearance to Aunt Gwendolyn is possible, but farfetched, yes? We could be worrying about nothing. He’ll most probably just think he’s lost it, and that will be the end of things.”
“It would, if my aunt hadn’t been one of a very small party of ladies to take tea with Lady Sidmouth yesterday afternoon. I’ve already returned one of Lady Sidmouth’s fans to her, last Season, telling her Aunt Gwen picked it up by mistake, and a silver teaspoon this Season, explaining how it had somehow fallen into my aunt’s reticule. I don’t think she believed me either time, but she didn’t say anything, and just accepted the return of the articles.”
“Oh, Bram,” Sophie said on a groan. “The spoon fell into her reticule? Couldn’t you have done better than that? I could think of a half dozen reasons more believable than that obvious farradiddle, without even applying myself to the task.”
“And you’re proud of that, I suppose?” Bramwell asked, softening his voice with a smile. “However, if Sidmouth has realized his snuffbox has gone missing, and if he remembers that he might have a note inside its secret compartment—it doesn’t much matter what the note contains, just that one might be there—and if Lady Sidmouth puts fan and spoon together, coming up with one lovable but light-fingered Lady Gwendolyn? Well, I really don’t want to think about that, do you?”
“No. I don’t suppose I do.”
Bramwell took a deep breath. “Now,” he said, releasing that breath slowly, almost reluctantly, “as much as I didn’t want to tell you any of this, I have been able to think of one way, only one way, to return the snuffbox without anyone from this hou
sehold crossing Sidmouth’s threshold before he discovers the thing among his belongings. Unfortunately, my plan includes Giuseppe which, doubly unfortunately, includes you, as he listens to you. I tried earlier to have him obey me, but I might as well have been speaking to the fireplace poker.”
Sophie looked up at Bramwell, saw the concern in his eyes, his seriousness—and something else. He looked eager, alive, adorably young, ready for adventure. Lovable. So wonderfully lovable. She leaned forward, her every sense quivering with excitement. “Go on, Bram. Tell me your plan. I’m listening...”
On such an occasion as this,
All time and nonsense scorning,
Nothing shall come amiss,
And we won’t go home till morning.
— J. B. Buckstone
Chapter Thirteen
Bramwell sat on the edge of the bed, having dismissed Reese after that man had all but wept over his employer’s choice of late-evening attire. The journal, the journal concerning his father’s time with Constance Winstead, burned his hands as he held it, stared at it, but steadfastly refused to open it.
He’d begun to forgive his father. Had remembered the love he’d borne the man, even when it wasn’t returned. He’d begun to feel some compassion for his sire, not to mention an astonishing degree of empathy, and he didn’t want to muddy the waters of his memories now with the truth. A lie he could live with, a comforting lie based on his father’s problems and the man’s apparent inability to love his child born of a woman he’d despised. But the truth? Ah, did he really want to face the truth?
He pushed his tongue around inside his dry mouth, trying to moisten it, slowly drew in a deep breath, and opened the journal.
There was a lot he didn’t bother to read, although he did find himself chuckling over those first pages and Constance Winstead’s hilarious reminiscences of the evening she and his father had first met, and she had believed his eloquent father to be somewhat slow. For he’d barely spoken a word to her, and then only in “stammers and terse proclamations.” Hadn’t he been much the same, when first he’d discovered Sophie Winstead standing in his foyer?
For all their differences, it appeared the Seaton men had equal failings when it came to their initial encounters with the perfect Winstead beauty. And, as time had gone on—not much time, no more than a week—his father had seen Constance Winstead as more than a perfect beauty, but as someone he could love.
As Bramwell loved Sophie.
He would leave Constance and her Cesse their privacy, he’d decided as he’d quickly paged through some of the more personal pages, those recounting their blossoming love affair in all its glory, its passion—and its considerable foolishness. Constance had been a rambling sort of journalist, her sentences long, and faintly garbled. But then, since she was writing the journal for herself, he supposed it was enough that she understood what she was writing. Still, it was difficult going. In fact, after he had skimmed over nearly half of the journal, he’d been about to close it and put it away—until he’d seen his name written in Constance’s lazy, looping scrawl.
Cesse came to me tonight, so happy! Bramwell was mentioned in dispatches again, with some feat of derring-do or another. He was about to burst, Cesse was, telling me yet again how proud he is of his son, his brilliant, stubborn, wonderful son who would put himself into danger, make a hero of himself just to spite his papa. I remember how unhappy he used to be when he spoke of Bramwell. I remember the first time Cesse told me what a sad failure he had been as a father. Ah, men, they are such fragile creatures.
Bramwell blinked, finding it difficult to believe what he was reading. Then, eagerly, he turned the page.
But it is not too late, I told him then. It is never too late to go to the boy, to tell him what a sad muddle those years had been, and to beg forgiveness. To take the boy in his arms, to begin again. How easy it is to make others happy, and how rewarding for someone like me to see my dearest Cesse smile and say that, yes, yes, I can do this! I love now. I know love now, and I can do this. I can risk everything, make a fool of myself if he spurns my apology. But I will have gone to him, clasped him tightly to me, and said the words. I will have taken that step so long untaken.
But the eighth duke of Selbourne had never taken that step. He had died before Bramwell’s return to England. And the son had never known. Bram blinked several times, for his eyes stung. He turned the next page with trembling fingers, and read on.
Ah, since that day, the day my Cesse wept, and lamented, and finally forgave himself—how happy he has been, we have been. We plot Bramwell’s course, sticking pins in a map my clever Cesse has drawn, charting each battle, saving the newspapers that tell of the events of this terrible war. There is little but storms at sea to threaten Bramwell now, so that Cesse is content to wait, knowing his son is safe, will soon be home.
Indeed, at times I tire of this talking of this paragon of a Bramwell, of the recounting of letters Cesse had from his deans, telling of the boy’s brilliance at school. Of course he is brilliant! He is my beloved Cesse’s son. But still we laugh, and Cesse tugs on Sophie’s curls, teases her, and tells her he knows of a handsome young man—ah! the dreams my Cesse dreams! Only last night, he awoke laughing, saying he had dreamed we were at a masquerade ball together. He was dressed as a satyr, complete with tail, he told me, and I was an innocent young maid in white. Forever young and beautiful and innocent, and rather dangerously coy and flirtatious. I liked that. And then, being Cesse, he reached for me, smiling so wonderfully, so silly in his pretending to be evil, and we began to kiss, and kiss. He even nipped at my neck, like a stallion about to cover a mare, silly man, before he...
Bramwell closed the journal without reading on, wondering what Sophie had thought of such intimate details as she had read the journals. For an innocent, she’d had quite an education. Which, he thought, smiling in a bit of a satyric way himself, might not be all that terrible.
Then he opened the journal again, found the passage concerning himself again, and reread the entry.
“You read the journal, yes? The one Maman kept while she was with Uncle Cesse? I can see it in your eyes.”
Bramwell lifted the hood of the black-velvet cloak Sophie wore and gently pulled it over her head. “I read it, yes. Why didn’t you tell me?”
She adjusted the hood more closely over her curls. “You weren’t ready to hear whatever I would have said, I suppose,” she mumbled, trying not to look into his eyes. In truth, she’d wanted him to come to some sort of peace about his father on his own. Only then would it mean something for him to read her maman’s journal. And she had been right. Bramwell had always loved his father, and had finally admitted it to himself. She’d sensed that days ago, and been glad. Now, knowing his father had loved him in return completed the circle.
She kept her eyes averted, knowing that if she dared to look again and see what she’d believed she’d glimpsed in Bramwell’s eyes a moment ago, she might just have to put her arms around him and hug him. The boy and the man, at last united; whole, complete. At last at peace with the past. Not that this idea of holding him, hugging him close, didn’t have its appeal. But then she’d probably cry, and get all silly and sentimental. They had other things to do right now. Important things. Silly things. “Giuseppe!” she called out quietly but firmly. “Come here, now.”
“You don’t mind creeping out this side door, like a pair of thieves?” Bramwell asked as the small monkey lightly climbed down from the row of wooden pegs holding the servants’ cloaks, bounded across the small hallway and into Sophie’s arms. “I really should have thought of a better plan, Skulking around Mayfair in the middle of the night—it borders on the ridiculous.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” Sophie replied happily. “And it’s only a little more than an hour until midnight, with lots more time for being even more ridiculous before dawn if we want, yes? Do you like my gown? I had to borrow one, as I own no black, being a good little debutante. It’s one of Peggy’s, but w
ithout the apron. Desiree had to turn up the hem a full eight inches, and still it drags a bit.” She pushed back the edges of the cloak, to better show off her costume. “And, here, in the bosom, it’s tight, yes?”
Biting her bottom lip to hold back a giggle was becoming an enjoyable habit, she decided as she watched Bramwell’s reaction to seeing her breasts straining against the heavy black material. Lord, but she was becoming daring! But, oh, how much fun she was having. No wonder her mother had so often gone dancing about their house in Wimbledon, singing.
And didn’t Bramwell look handsome! She was accustomed to seeing him in black, but not in unremitting black. “And where did you get your clothing, Bram?” she asked as he unceremoniously pulled the edges of her cloak together for her. “Reese certainly wouldn’t allow anything like that in his wardrobe, and Bobbit and you aren’t really of a size, are you?”
“I was in the Royal Navy, Sophie, remember? I have no end of rough-and-ready clothing in the attics, more’s the pity,” Bramwell grumbled as he opened the door to the small side garden and cautiously poked his head outside, as if expecting a half dozen members of the Watch to be waiting to pounce on them, and drag them off to the nearest guardhouse. “And, in case you’re wondering, this wool itches like the very devil at my throat, and I remember these trousers as being a good bit looser. Now, come on. It’s safe to move. Sidmouth’s town house is only a few blocks from here, so we can go on foot—if you can keep that damn monkey quiet.”
Sophie dutifully admonished Giuseppe to stop his chattering—obviously the animal did not take kindly to being stuffed beneath her cloak—and followed Bramwell into the darkness, giving him a quick, impulsive pat-pat on his rather delightfully interesting backside as she did so. She really did like the way his trousers fit him, even if he didn’t.
The Straight-Laced Duke Selbourne Page 25