Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection

by Scarlett Scott

  At first, it seemed deserted. But all of Laura’s paintings were there. Some were hung on walls, others on individual easels with small pots of white lilies around each leg. There were no pieces of furniture she recognized. Instead of chairs, there were large, round, upholstered seats and low tables.

  The serene sound of a harp echoed around the walls, drawing them in, while incense wafted up from polished brass censers.

  Three figures in shimming silks – yellow, deep orchid and violet – rose from the floor. Sophia hadn’t noticed them at first. The one dressed in violet stepped forward while the other pair, who seemed much younger, remained, standing together.

  The woman in violet was past the first flower of youth, but maturity suited her well. Her hair, a lustrous shade of dark reddish-brown, was set in place with a gold filigree headpiece from which fell a gossamer light veil. She cast her full attention on Laura. The woman reached out and touched her fair hair.

  “I am Hutan Rabia, consort to Sheik Selim. Greetings, Miss Laura,” she said in husky accented French.

  “B…bon soir, my lady. It’s my honor to be here,” answered Laura in halting French.

  The woman slowly reviewed Laura from head to toe.

  “My husband was most correct. Beautiful and talented,” she said approvingly before turning to Sophia who received little more than a cursory glance.

  “And you, the cousin Sophia, who has an interest in the past. Do you have any talents with which you can entertain us tonight?”

  “I play a little guitar if it pleases you, my lady.”

  Rabia smiled but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She turned back to Laura. “You must tell us more about your paintings, while the servants bring us refreshments.”

  Sophia watched the woman thread her arm though Laura’s and steer her away to examine one of the landscapes in the far corner of the room.

  Rabia had introduced herself as consort to the sheik. Strange that she made no appearance at the ambassadorial reception. In fact, the sheik had given no indication he was married at all when they met at Saint Rosalia’s shrine. Sophia’s lips quirked a smile. Well, that certainly put paid to Laura’s fancy of marrying a prince.

  She followed for a few steps before becoming distracted by some of the other artwork – elaborately woven carpets hung as wall decorations, enameled vases with intricate calligraphic designs.

  From behind a screen covering an entrance, two more women emerged, their skin as black as ebony. Each bore trays with honey-covered figs, a delightful confectionary made from rosewater called lokum, and a savory dish – a flat bread, topped with a spiced meat marinated in cumin, cayenne, cinnamon and paprika.

  The two girls dressed in the pink and yellow ignored Sophia. They returned to the cushion on the floor, speaking softly to one another in their own language. They were younger than Rabia, but not so young as to suggest they were her daughters. Were they ladies-in-waiting? If so, they were rather indolent in their duties. Nevertheless, their neglect left Sophia free to explore the room on her own.

  High on the wall were three large arches covered by carpets of jewel-like colors of red, blues and purples. They appeared to hide a balcony that overlooked this room and the courtyard beyond. Every now and again, she would see the carpets sway slightly, perhaps as a result of people walking along the passageway behind them.

  Sophia tasted the cloying taste of incense on the back of her throat; it made breathing difficult. She made her way to the courtyard, enclosed by high walls. Here, the scent of patchouli and sandalwood gave way to the fresh evening air. She continued down the gravel path attracted by the sound of the fountain. Torchlight, aided by the remaining twilight, revealed the shape of a classical Greek urn on a pedestal over which the water flowed to mask the sounds of the outside world beyond.

  Oddly, amid the luxurious surroundings, she felt claustrophobic in a way she never did in the plain and austere surroundings of the convent. She rested on the marble coping at the reservoir and trailed her hand through the water. She looked up and, through large doors that opened onto a long balcony, she could hear the sound of male voices burst into laughter.

  So, that’s where Samuel has gotten to.

  Strange. They had been invited as guests of the sheik, specifically for the purpose of exhibiting Laura’s work, and the man had yet to greet them. Were they being insulted? Surely not. Selim Omar’s ways may be strange, but he had taken a distinct interest in Laura’s work.

  Sophia decided she had been outside for long enough. She returned to the room, just in time for Laura to spot her.

  “There you are! You must really try some of this lokum, it’s really quite delicious. You’ll have to forgive Sophia, my lady, she is actually quite shy.”

  Sophia smiled benignly and accepted a square from the servant’s salver. She saw Rabia’s suspicious expression soften a little and suspected very little got past the woman. All the times Sophia had been treated as invisible served her well now for Laura’s sake. Her cousin made friends easily – and trusted too readily. It would be up to her to be mindful of her cousin’s safety, even here.

  “When you have eaten, you must entertain us on guitar, Sophia.”

  Rabia clapped her hands, and the harpist stopped playing. The woman spoke sharply to the two girls on the floor. For the first time this evening, Sophia saw them move with alacrity, and they disappeared behind the screen, which Sophia assumed led back into the heart of the house.

  “Hutan Rabia,” said Laura, using the woman’s Turkish title, “will Sheik Selim join us this evening?”

  “Perhaps,” she said, placing a hand on Laura’s cheek. “After the audience with your brother, I think. Ah, here is your instrument, Sophia.”

  The harpist handed Sophia a guitar made of beautiful honey-colored maple with a beautiful mother of pearl inlaid rosette around the sound hole. She approached the stool vacated by the harpist and ran her hand along the neck getting a feel for its scale before strumming a chord to test whether it was in tune.

  It was, so she picked something simple, a Spanish folk tune to remind her of her childhood in Catalonia. She closed her eyes as she played and, for a brief moment, she could see her mother’s face.

  At the end, their hostess and Laura gave polite applause.

  “May I impose on you to keep playing, Sophia, while I show Laura the gardens?”

  Sophia agreed with a bow of her head and watched the two women disappear into the darkness of the gardens, although she wondered why she played when there was no one to hear her. Sounds emerging from further inside the house reached her – normal household activity and, over the top of that, the sound of a reed instrument being played and the unmistakable rhythmic tap of dancing feet from the floor above.

  There was so much contradiction – a piety publicly exhibited, Selim Omar left the ambassadorial party because there was music and dancing that was against his religion, yet she could hear music and dancing upstairs in his home.

  Sophia caught the eye of the harpist who peered around the corner like a performer waiting in the wings. The black woman gave her a tentative smile, and Sophia offered one of her own. She stopped playing and alighted from the stool to approach the woman.

  “Parlez vous Francais?” she asked softly. If Rabia spoke French, perhaps this woman did, too. The woman’s eyes widened for a moment. She shook her head and whispered in a language Sophia didn’t understand.

  Sophia stepped closer to hear. The other woman looked back nervously as though fearing to be overheard, then she took a deep breath and tried again in another language. To Sophia’s surprise, it was English.

  “You, your sister must go,” she whispered. “The master…”

  “Yasmeen!”

  Sophia jumped. So, too, did the woman, who now bowed to Rabia, fear evident in her eyes. Selim’s consort spoke in a series of short sharp sentences. Yasmeen turned on her heel and hurried down the corridor.

  “Come and sit with us here, Sophia.”

&
nbsp; Rabia’s expression gave little away but also brooked no argument, so she joined Laura on the cushions vacated by the sultana’s women. Rabia held the end of a nargile, larger and more ornate than the men used in the garden pavilion. Multiple hoses from the central stem gave it an organic, almost spider-like appearance.

  “Women in our culture use them; it can be quite relaxing.”

  The smoke rising from the pipe was different from the nargile in the tearoom, sickly sweet, perhaps a little like gardenia but smoky.

  “I’m not sure how to use it,” said Laura.

  “Like this,” Rabia put the hose tip in her mouth and drew in deep. She held her breath for a moment and let out the grey wispy smoke in a long stream.

  Laura brought the tip of her hose up to her mouth.

  “Are you sure you should do this?” Sophia whispered.

  “Don’t be such a prude. It would be impolite to refuse and, besides, I promised myself I would try every foreign custom so I would have wonderful stories to tell when I return home.”

  With a moue of determination on her face, Laura followed the actions of their hostess and inhaled deep. Her face turned red and her cheeks puffed before she vomited out the smoke and broke into a wracking cough.

  Rabia laughed. “Oh, my pet, you have to practice. Start with a little bit. Will you not try, Sophia?”

  Sophia quelled her reluctance and picked up a hose. She drew the smoke through the end gently until she got the barest taste of the strange tobacco but, instead of drawing it into her lungs, she held it in her mouth for a moment then let it out slowly.

  “Excellent!” Rabia approved.

  For a little while, all three women sampled the sweet smoke from the nargile, until another servant entered, bowed to them and whispered in her mistress’ ear. Sophia couldn’t make out the words spoken but, soon, three more servants emerged who put out a variety of food before them including another meat dish served sizzling on a hot stone. It was delicious, and Sophia found herself unaccountably famished.

  Rabia clapped her hands twice and the young women in pink and yellow returned but, this time, they wore costumes. So much flesh on display! The girls’ faces were covered by gauzy veils, but their bellies were bare and their modesty only protected by a sleeveless top tied below the bust and loose fitting trousers that sat low on the hips and gathered in at the ankle.

  The same type of music Sophia had faintly heard upstairs was played, this time louder. It appeared to be coming from behind the curtained wall on the upper level. The girls danced, their bellies undulating in time to the music. Their arms and hands twisted sensuously, tiny brass timbrels on their thumbs and forefingers kept time with their steps.

  Their flexibility and grace was stunning to behold. Mesmerizing. This feeling reminded her of how she felt when she watched Kit dance the flamenco. The strength of his body. She could almost feel it against her now. Her body reacted to the memory of his kisses and touches, which had awoken something wonderful in her.

  She shook her head to stop it wandering in such a dangerous direction. She glanced across to Laura who stared enraptured by the dancers. She drew more smoke from the nargile and rested back on the cushions.

  Movement up on the balcony caught her eye. A hand pulled the curtain aside slightly. She could not see its owner. A sinister feeling crawled up her spine but lethargy made her limbs heavy.

  So she lay back to watch those who watched them.

  The dance was soon over. The hand on the balcony above released the carpet. Sophia looked to Laura. Her lids were heavy. Rabia was observing Laura with a smile of satisfaction.

  Getting up was an effort. As Sophia stood, the room swayed ever so slightly, but the uneasy feeling finally reached her head and her tongue loosened at last.

  “Thank you very much for your hospitality, Hutan Rabia, but we really should find Samuel and bid you and the sheik a good evening.”

  Sophia bent and tapped Laura on the arm to rouse her. Her eyelids opened halfway and Sophia tapped her arm again.

  “Is it time for bed?” Laura asked as she also struggled to her feet.

  “Yes, it’s time to go home,” Sophia answered, all the while watching Rabia. One part of her waited for their hostess to object, and she found herself holding her breath. Instead, the older woman rose herself, opened the door to the room and spoke to the guard who, in turn, shouted to another servant who ran up the marble steps of the palazzo, his sandals slapping with each step.

  “We will serve tea in the atrium while we wait for your brother.”

  Sophia was grateful for Rabia’s suggestion. Yes, tea. That would help clear her throat of the sickly sweet smoke that left her a little lightheaded with traces of a headache. Tomorrow she would ask Kit what other types of tobacco were used in the nargile.

  She sat beside Laura on the large, round, upholstered sofa. The tea was served to them in glasses with gilt-decorated rims, presented on pretty, enameled salvers. The drink was hot and strong, and, although served without milk, it revived Sophia markedly. She noticed Laura take merely a polite sip and nothing more.

  Abruptly, there was the sound of a scuffle outside the room and, a moment later, Samuel stumbled in, the guard grabbing him by the elbow to steady him.

  He bowed low to Hutan Rabia and brushed away a flop of hair that covered his eyes. “Madam, on behalf of my sisters, I want to thank you for a most delightful evening.” At least that was what Sophia thought Samuel said; the last half of his sentence was more of a mumble than anything else.

  Oh, Samuel. He did look rather the worse for wear.

  Sophia didn’t recall much of the walk home, except it was cooler and she wished she had brought a shawl with her. When she opened the door to their suite, Laura rushed in and collapsed on her bed with a dramatic sigh, throwing an arm over her eyes.

  Sophia stopped in the doorway and giggled. Samuel was close beside her. She turned and noticed his bloodshot eyes. She had seen him drunk a few times, but she had never seen him look like this. He smelled of the same sweet-scented nargile smoke she and Laura had had.

  “You are beautiful,” he whispered. “How come I never noticed that before?”

  Sophia closed her eyes. Oh, Samuel, why now? This was the moment she had been waiting on for years. She had rehearsed it in her own mind so often. He would say those very words, and she would fall into his arms and pledge her love for him. But now, they meant little, other than returning a little aching sadness for a lost daydream.

  “You should go to bed now,” she said, once again closing her eyes briefly in weariness.

  It had been a strange evening – the strange food and drink, the strange tobacco and music. By the time the new day dawned, this night would seem like a bizarre dream. It might be better that way.

  Suddenly, she detected in the nargile smoke that clung to him a sharper, distinctly feminine perfume. How did it get there? What would his fiancée, Lady Victoria, think? Sophia was conscious of her rambling thoughts, and her niggling headache grew a little worse.

  She opened her eyes and Samuel’s face loomed in front of her. He never stood this close to her before. Her lips were covered by a soft, wet kiss. The effect was one of being doused by cold water. She fully awakened and pulled her face away from his.

  “My lovely Sophia,” he crooned her ear. “You’ve always been so good to me.”

  Whether he stumbled again accidentally or whether it was deliberate, Samuel pressed his body up against hers, making it difficult to breathe. He laved loose kisses on her neck and collarbone. Sophia started pushing him away and, after a moment, was successful.

  “It’s too late, Samuel,” she said. “You’re engaged and I’m…” She shook her head; now was not the time to reveal her complicated relationship with Kit.

  “It’s late. Go to bed.”

  He nodded, looking like a little boy.

  “I’ll miss you telling me what I ought to do,” he said, swaying towards the door up the hall. “Sometimes, I wonder
whether I should have married you instead. Perhaps you could be my mistress.”

  “Good night, Samuel.” Sophia swallowed against a lump in her throat. “Things will look a lot different in the morning.”

  She closed the door behind her and smothered a hiccoughed sob, lest Laura waken. She didn’t – instead she lay already asleep on top of the bedclothes, still in her evening gown.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Kit felt the tension as soon as he entered the pavilion in the center giardini botanique.

  Sophia’s face was neutral, reserved, with none of the animation and brightness he’d witnessed more regularly since being in Palermo. Laura seemed close to tears, while Samuel looked ready to throw up.

  All-in-all, it reminded him of the Pembrokes’ ball those many months ago. The only thing different was Sophia’s sage green morning dress flattered her. When she saw him, her eyes brightened, and there was the beginning of a smile.

  He ordered coffee – strong, black – and approached the table.

  “Captain Hardacre.” Sophia rose to meet him. He saw the warning in her eyes not to ask about the formal greeting. “Please join us.”

  At least he was not being treated like a complete stranger, he thought. He elected to remain standing. Laura offered him a tremulous greeting, and he saw the dark circles under her eyes. Samuel’s acknowledgement was a monosyllable. He felt a frown cross his brow, and Sophia shook her head briefly in answer and offered a small smile.

  She was fine. To be honest, it was only Sophia’s welfare he cared about, the selfish bastard that he was.

  “Miss Laura, my men have returned from the envoy’s palace. They were told the sheik will be keeping all your paintings and will arrange payment. I hope that meets with your approval.”

  The young woman’s eyes brightened and she started to look like her normal self at the news.