Graham could almost hear Sophie’s tart tone if he were to ask her. “He’d send him off to Edencourt with a skeleton staff to start putting that house in order!”
Laughing softly, Graham rubbed the weariness from his eyes and found the wherewithal to put his feet on the chilly floor. Coal was at a premium at the moment and Graham meant to save every penny he could. If that meant he had to tolerate a cold floor and extra blankets, then he would. Sophie would approve.
Where had she gotten that luxurious gown? It had obviously been created just for her, for there were few women in England who could have pulled it off so elegantly. A gift from her new cousin, Brookhaven?
Probably, and it was none of Graham’s business anyway. Deirdre was just the impulsively generous sort to give Sophie an impossible gift like that.
Impossible? Seemed rather possible last night, didn’t it?
Which was odd, really. After all, this was Sophie. Sophie was the sort of friend one laughed with and talked to and played cards with—but not the waltz-until-the-world-fell-away sort, not at all!
Yet there you were, as smitten as all the rest.
Uncomfortable with that knowledge, he banished it thoroughly. That lasted until Peabody finished shaving him. He wiped his face with a steaming towel and then—
“Such marvelous sketches of you and Miss Blake in the gossip sheets this morning, Your Grace,” Peabody commented as he cleared away the shaving implements. “It was very kind of you to help her make such a splash. She’s sure to find a good match now.”
Match? As in, husband? Graham felt his jaw drop, then shut it hurriedly. “Do you think she’s angling to get married?”
Peabody gazed at Graham as if he weren’t very bright in the mornings. “Of course, Your Grace. Ladies do like to get married. Why else go to all the trouble of making such a display of themselves?”
Sophie, married to one of those sniveling idiots? Sophie running the idiot’s household? Sophie, buttering the idiot’s morning toast? Sophie, going to the idiot’s bed?
Over my dead body.
Which was ridiculous. Of course Sophie should get married. She’d make a marvelous wife—well, if a fellow was discerning enough to desire clever conversation over deference and obedience. It would help if he was a well-read man, with educated opinions and the backbone to voice them. And there was no helping the fact that Sophie wasn’t in the least bit social, so she’d be a terrible hostess. A bloke would have to be tolerant and generous enough to compensate for that, as well.
Yet in return, the aforementioned paragon of husbandly virtues would receive a lifetime of fierce loyalty, razor wit, open warmth and, rather surprisingly still to Graham, considerable beauty.
No. That wasn’t quite right. Even with all the trappings and bits, Sophie hadn’t been beautiful last night. Not beautiful, or pretty, or any other faint praise would do.
Last night, Sophie had been quite simply . . .
Magnificent.
Lucky idiot.
She only danced once, they all said so. She liked you best.
Well, that might be because he was the only one there who could form a complete sentence without lisping or guffawing or uttering something completely banal. Sophie wasn’t very tolerant of the less-than-sharp. He smiled thinking of the way she’d flicked him away with her fan—twice!—when he’d been rude. Fatal flirtation. Death by Fanning.
Buttoning his waistcoat, he wandered to the tall window in his dressing room. He gazed unseeing outside as his mind traveled back to the way she’d looked in that gown.
Magnificent.
Graham felt a familiar stirring within—familiar, but not something he’d ever experienced in regard to his plain, innocent friend Sophie!
Oh, really? What about when you woke her in the window? What about when you played that thrice-damned game?
No. He didn’t want Sophie.
A boy crying for a lost puppy. Please, Papa, please go look for him!
Shut that racket! A man doesn’t weep!
A sharp backhand blow, a round of vicious jeering, but worse was the loss. Nothing was to be loved. Nothing was to be treasured, for it would surely be mocked and derided. Don’t dare care about anything because he wouldn’t get to keep it.
Nor would he get to keep Sophie. He needed an heiress. Last night was . . . simply an aberration. He’d been supportive of a friend who was making a change, helping her along socially, dancing with her to show all of London how special she was.
The way he’d felt—as if he was floating above the crowd, as if a wall of mist had lingered between them and the rest of the world, surrounding them, containing the magic—was ridiculous.
There was no such thing as magic. Only too much bad champagne.
Still, he wondered if he ought to call on her today—just to see how she was doing in her new persona. Last night the throng had been bewitched. They’d be all over her today. She’d never had a great many callers before. How was she to know who was worth her time? He’d hate to see her waste herself on those panting puppies.
Somers Boothe-Jamison, now, he was all right. Solid. Not one to be swept up in fashionable passions, only to lose interest when something brighter and shinier came down the river. A man like that might be just the ticket for Sophie.
So why did the thought make Graham’s fists clench?
Chapter Thirteen
The formal parlor at Brook House was inundated. It was horrifying, like contemplating throwing oneself into a pack of snapping hounds. Tall men, short men, thin men, fat men. Some so young that shaving was a hobby, some so old that Sophie could be sure they’d be blind to her faults.
Outside the door, Fortescue and Patricia took point, readying Sophie for the encounter. According to Lementeur’s instructions, she was to stay no longer than fifteen minutes.
“It will be a speedy maneuver, miss,” Fortescue assured her. “In, out, then I’ll show them the door.”
“Won’t they think it’s odd that Tessa isn’t here?” Sophie plucked nervously at the lace on the sleeves of her day gown. Another of Lementeur’s miracles of simplicity, the deceptively plain muslin was cut to play off Sophie’s length of limb. Layered ruching at the bodice provided a bit of feminine trickery and long, fitted sleeves gave her arms a dancer’s grace. Patricia gently took Sophie’s hands away and deftly repaired the worried threads. Then she removed Sophie’s spectacles and tucked them into her lace sleeve.
Fortescue made a noise. No one could make noises like Fortescue. He had an entire vocabulary of “disdainful,” “contemptuous” and, for the truly reprehensible, “disgust.”
“This is Brook House, miss,” he intoned grandly. “No one would dare hint at such an impropriety.”
Sophie swallowed, then nodded. “Open the door.”
She swept into the parlor, her Sofia hauteur in place. She accepted the greetings as if she was one breath away from a yawn, moved carefully around the furniture, then settled herself languidly in the chair by the fire. She’d intended to allow no one to sit at her side, but it had the added effect of serving as throne.
Quelling the always-nervous trembling in her belly, she waved an indolent hand. “I may only stay a few moments, as my chaperone is indisposed.”
Somers Boothe-Jamison, one of the only men who wasn’t completely dim, leaned forward. “Ah, how is Lady Tessa?”
Suppressing her alarm—if everyone knew Tessa, how was she to pull this off? Tessa would ruin it for her in a moment!—she turned to Boothe-Jamison. “Indisposed.” As if to an idiot.
Yet no sooner had she established that her chaperone was at death’s door, but Tessa herself floated in, smiling and lovely. How had she made it past the butler’s watchful eye?
Over Tessa’s shoulder Sophie could see a blurred Fortescue, his handsome face entirely devoid of expression, although one got the distinct impression that he’d just smelled something foul. Well, he could hardly refuse her entrance. Blast it.
Somers Boothe-Jamison was
delighted. “Now you may stay as long as you like, Miss Blake!”
“Oh, dread,” Sophie muttered. The gentleman who was currently boring her with tales of his sporting exploits gave her a startled look. Sophie, who had already crossed him off her list of potential husbands—she refused to spend the rest of her life listening to that idiot blathering about cricket!—merely gazed back at him with one brow raised.
Then matters worsened still. A few steps behind Tessa came Lady Lilah Christie herself. Sophie’s hackles rose at the sight of Society’s most beautiful widow. Black haired and silver eyed, rich, high-born, elegant and completely immoral, Lilah was everything that Sophie was not.
Blast it.
Tessa smiled and leaned over Sophie’s shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind, Sophie dear, but poor Lilah’s been so blue lately. Her husband died recently, you know.” Tessa’s stage whisper carried clearly through the room. Lilah obviously tried to look appropriately mournful, but she was practically slavering over the roomful of men.
As for Tessa, it seemed she had seen this morning’s newssheets as well. She was never one to pass up a chance to advance herself socially.
She was at her most adorable, her tinkling laugh chiming out over the room, drawing everyone’s eye. Sophie knew perfectly well what Tessa was doing. After all, a beauty like Tessa would hardly have to exert herself to steal Sophie’s triumph.
Lilah’s mourning garb was black, but it was more revealing than concealing. The bodice of the gown was as tight as anything Sophie had seen at the masque the night before, and Lilah had more than enough bosom to make that a riveting sight. Of course, with her hair and eyes and moon-pale skin, the black only made Lilah more striking.
Her very permissive husband had recently died as quietly as he lived. For her to be out making calls was scandalous to be sure, yet when laid against Lilah’s varied and sinful past, such a thing scarcely cast a shadow. Furthermore, Lilah seemed to feel she had a bone to pick with the great-granddaughters of Sir Hamish Pickering. It might have something to do with losing her former lover, Rafe, to Phoebe—or it might simply be that Lilah couldn’t bear to share Society’s attentions.
“But Sophie, where is Graham?” Tessa trilled. “Lilah’s so very fond of Graham. They’re old, dear friends.”
Old, dear lovers, she meant. Everyone knew it. Suddenly, the whispers and gazes that had been trained on her were shifted to Lilah. Sophie gritted her teeth and prayed for a sudden breakout of locusts. Tessa was most certainly not going to behave herself. Sophie’s venture was headed for the rubbish bin, only a day after it had begun.
BROOK HOUSE WAS one of the few grand houses in London that Wolfe had never managed to force, fool or finagle his way into, probably because the Marbrook brothers hadn’t run in the same coarse, gutter-minded circles as Wolfe and his friends.
Ah, such good times . . .
Yet now, standing on the marble steps that invited even as they intimidated, Wolfe felt an unaccustomed twinge of nerves. It was possible that he would not be allowed in, if the houseman had any inkling of his past exploits. He was counting on the fact that the staff of such a house also ran in different circles than the staff of houses he knew well.
When the tall, striking butler opened the door to him, Wolfe did his best to project benign intentions. “Good morning. I am Mr. Wolfe, of Stickley and Wolfe, Solicitors.”
The man’s face did not change, but the respectability of Stickley had apparently paved his way, for he was allowed in.
“Are you here on business, sir? Her ladyship is not at home.”
Wolfe remembered not to smile. Respectable people seemed to shrink back a bit when he showed his teeth. He shook his head. “I did not mean to misrepresent myself. I am here to call on Miss Blake . . . er, socially.”
The butler reassessed him with cool precision. The man was good, Wolfe had to give him that. He felt as though his faults were written in ink on his forehead.
Fortunately, he’d planned for just such a barrier. He leaned forward. “Is she working on her translations? I so wanted to see them. Mr. Stickley knew I’d be intrigued. I’m a collector of folklore, you see. A little side interest of mine.”
Actually, it was true—if one considered a vast assortment of pornographic pamphlets from all over Europe to be “folklore.”
The butler’s faintly furrowed brow cleared. “I see, sir. Miss Blake is in the parlor, entertaining callers.”
Following him, Wolfe caught his image in the mirror hanging in the entrance hall. Wolfe’s own mother, had she lived past his birth, wouldn’t have recognized him. Without his luxurious mustache and dashing clothing, he looked entirely—well, perhaps not entirely—average.
He was still tall and broad shouldered and still had all his teeth and hair, which alone set him above most of the men his age, but more than this, he had the air of a man who’d seen more than his share of bedchambers—not to mention linen closets, carriages and dark, sticky alleys.
That simply wouldn’t do. With one deep breath, he exhaled all that he was, collapsing his chest into a bookish slump, dropping his chiseled jaw into his neck and fixing his blinking, vague gaze upon the floor. One quick glance into the shimmering mirror told him that he’d done it. He was, for all intents and purposes, no more than a taller version of Stickley himself. It infuriated him, however, to see that he suddenly looked every one of his forty-mumble years.
From where he stood in the doorway, he could see Miss Sophie Blake, or Sofia, as she now pretended, conversing with a crowd of young pups who couldn’t take their eyes off her.
Someone had done their best to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. To Wolfe, she looked like nothing more than an overdressed scarecrow. A woman wasn’t a woman without possessing enough bosom to suffocate a man. This creature might have cleaned up better than he would have suspected, but her new airs only infuriated Wolfe further.
Snob. She wasn’t born so far out of some Scottish hovel that she deserved to lift her chin so haughtily. Just looking at her made Wolfe’s fists clench. She was just the sort of woman he hated most—and the kind he most enjoyed destroying.
For just a moment, he allowed his natural predatory smile to cross his lips. All this and the money as well. Breaking Miss Blake was going to be fun.
Chapter Fourteen
Wolfe only had one bad moment in the parlor of suitors and alleged ladies. A harlot of the highest order—who passed herself off as a proper lady, but whom he’d seen in some very compromising positions in some very illegal but treasured moments—spotted him through his Stickley disguise.
“Wolfe?” A look of amused derision crossed Lady Lilah Christie’s face. “Aren’t you looking dapper this afternoon?” Her tone dripped with irony. Wolfe saw indignation and sympathy cross Miss Blake’s expression and pressed his suit with downcast eyes and a pained flush, which he accomplished by surreptitiously holding his breath.
“I’ll leave you to your courtship, then, Wolfe.” Lilah turned away with a snort of derisive laughter. “Take care, little girl. He’s badder than he looks.”
With his gaze downcast, Wolfe saw that Miss Blake’s fists were clenched. She felt sorry for him! He hurriedly smothered his laughter with his handkerchief, then proceeded to dab at his brow. “So sorry, miss—Oh, dear, so embarrassing—”
“Nonsense,” Sophie said sharply. “She is the one who ought to be embarrassed, mocking a respectable gentleman so!”
Wolfe sighed. “I fear I am easily mocked, for I’ve never quite been able to—to be—” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m not—”
Sophie patted his arm, feeling more warmth for him now than ever before. “I know precisely what you mean, sir. This world requires a bit of a roadmap, I fear.”
Wolfe gusted a self-deprecating laugh. “Well, it seems I’ve misplaced mine!”
His plan seemed to be working. He played along with her when she offered advice in dealing with critics—so naive!—and nodded gratefully when she spoke of sending busines
s his way.
“I’m so indebted, Miss Blake, truly. I only hope I can repay you in kind.” He leaned closer. Now was the time to begin his sortie on Edencourt’s good name—though in truth it was little better than Wolfe’s own!
He really needn’t lie at all, come to think of it. . . .
“Miss Blake, I’ve heard that you’ve taken an interest in the Duke of Edencourt.”
She shot him a hot, embarrassed glance, then looked away. “I think ‘interest’ might be too strong a word.”
Wolfe refrained from rolling his eyes. Spare him the lovelorn! “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but—”
Tessa’s tinkling laugh rang out above the general hubbub. “Oh, I have the most amusing story. It concerns our own dear Sofia!” She sent Sophie a pretty smile beneath a vicious, triumphant glare.
Oh no. Alarm swirled through Sophie. She began to shrink into her chair—an impossible feat for a girl her height.
Most of the group turned their attention politely Tessa’s way. No, don’t! Sophie wanted to scream at them to turn away. Don’t listen to her!
Tessa preened before the group. “First, I must tell you that although I had invited Sophie to share our little sojourn in London, I’d heard nothing from her mother, not even a note! Then, a week after we have settled into that dear little house, she arrives unannounced on our doorstep—I could hardly contain myself!—dripping wet, with nothing but a satchel of old gowns and a trunk of books! She was such a sight in an ancient cape that was six inches too short! I thought we’d opened the door on a skeletal specter!” She laughed musically and looked around for everyone to share in her little joke.
Sophie was completely speechless, gazing down at her hands. As always, the right retort did not occur to her until too late. What did it matter, when she was too tongue-tied to utter it anyway? If she could only maintain the icy calm that Lementeur had tried to teach her, if she could only lift her chin and portray an air of boredom—but still her belly writhed and her limbs tended to twitch from the sheer pressure of her boiling embarrassment.
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