Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B)

by Gail Ranstrom

  Still frowning, Sophie did not reply.

  ‘Did you lose a great deal?’ he then asked, recalling the pitifully small cache of coins that she had had with her at the inn.

  She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. ‘Do I really look as if I’m worth robbing?’ she demanded, hurriedly blinking back the angry tears that threatened. ‘Three shillings and sixpence and my last good handkerchief, if you really must know. All the rest went with my other purse yesterday morning.’

  ‘You’re not telling me that the same thing happened to you yesterday, too?’ exclaimed Marcus, with a shocked expression.

  Sophie gave him a weary nod. ‘While I was taking my charges for their afternoon walk in the square gardens—I would have gone after the little devil, but of course I was unable to leave the children.’

  ‘What truly damnable luck. You won’t allow me to reimburse you, I dare say?’

  She stared across at him, exasperation plain on her face. ‘Certainly not! I thought I had made my position perfectly clear in that respect at our last meeting.’

  ‘Well, yes, you did rather,’ replied Marcus, his lips curving slightly as he lifted his fingers and patted the cheek she had slapped. ‘This, however, is a somewhat different matter. I wouldn’t care to think of you going without, for the sake of a few shillings on my part.’

  Sophie shook her head. ‘I shan’t go without,’ she assured him. ‘It was money I had set aside for a book—an atlas I am in need of—I was on my way to the bookshop to enquire after it when we met.’

  Leaning closer, he stretched out his hand and laid it on hers. ‘Then at least let me purchase the book for you,’ he said eagerly. ‘Surely you must agree that it would be quite unexceptional for you to accept so mundane a gift from a friend?’

  At his touch, Sophie’s heart-rate shot up by several notches and, raising her teacup to her lips in order to hide her confusion, it was all she could do to prevent her hand from shaking. ‘Thank you, my lord, but that really isn’t necessary, I promise you,’ she eventually managed and then, having struggled to get her emotions under control, added, ‘In any event, I need to have words with the bookseller. I still have not received the book he promised to find for me, yet he has sent me the most ridiculous bill of sale. It’s just fortunate that I was carrying it in my coat pocket; otherwise I would have lost that, too.’

  A wide grin crept over Marcus’s face. ‘Well, I’ve often heard of bills being referred to as irritating, but “ridiculous”? That’s certainly a new one on me!’

  ‘Well, this one is ridiculous, I assure you,’ retorted Sophie and, dipping her fingers into the pocket of her pelisse, she withdrew a folded sheet of paper and spread it out on the table in front of him. ‘As you will see for yourself, if you care to examine it.’

  At first, as far as the Viscount could see, the document looked like any other bill of sale, until he realised that, although it had ‘Miss S. Flint’ and—to his secret delight—Sophie’s full Lennox Gardens address written clearly on the reverse of the sheet, the bill itself was, in fact, invoiced to a Mr Matthew Nyne.

  ‘A simple misdirection, I’d say.’ He smiled, handing it back to her.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought, at first,’ she said, staring down at the missive. ‘If it weren’t for the fact that the arithmetic is quite bizarre. Look more closely, my lord, if you would.’

  Although he was finding Sophie’s continual use of his title somewhat jarring, Marcus thought it best to refrain from commenting on the matter. Reaching for the proffered document, he proceeded to give it his full attention.

  Urgent Attn. Matthew Nyne

  £ : s : d

  To Items 9 : 5

  .. .. 5 : 4

  .. .. 2 :1

  .. .. 2 : 2

  To Items 2 : 4

  .. .. 3 : 7

  .. .. 5 : 4

  To Items 5 : 1

  .. .. 5 : 11

  .. .. 2 : 2

  .. .. 2 : 1

  .. .. 3 : 8

  Balance £7 : 13 : 5

  ‘Good grief!’ he exclaimed eventually. ‘Your bookseller clearly needs a few lessons in accountancy! Here! Take a look at this, Giles!’

  This last was to his brother who, having failed in his pursuit of the guttersnipe who had made off with Sophie’s reticule, had just this moment peered into the tearooms, in search of the missing pair.

  ‘Tea! Good—oh!’ he said, eyeing the teapot with satisfaction as he joined them. Then, catching sight of the piece of paper in Marcus’s hand, he queried, ‘What’s to do? Not got behind in settling up your debts, have you, bro?’

  After giving the Major’s ankle a swift but harmless kick under the table, Marcus grinned and shoved the bill under his brother’s nose while Sophie busied herself with the tea things. ‘What do you make of that, then?’ he asked.

  Giles cast a cursory glance over the figures, and his expression was at first quite indifferent. Then, stiffening, he shot a quick sideways look at Sophie and said quietly, ‘May I ask how you came by this document, Miss Flint?’

  ‘It was delivered along with yesterday morning’s post,’ she replied, somewhat taken aback at his abrupt manner. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You were expecting an invoice from this Mr Broomfield?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes, but my bill would only have been for three shillings and sixpence, and as you see …’

  ‘Yes. Quite.’ Giles nodded, continuing to stare at Sophie in the most searching manner.

  ‘Steady on, Giles!’ protested Marcus, laughing. ‘Why the interrogation? Miss Flint is not the one who has got her sums wrong!’

  ‘Yes, I am aware of that,’ said the Major abruptly, shooting his brother an exasperated glance before turning once more to Sophie and asking, ‘Would it be possible for me to borrow this invoice for a day or so, I wonder? I would like to have one of my men take a copy, if you have no objection.’

  ‘Take a copy!’ exclaimed Sophie in astonishment, while Marcus simply looked at his brother in dumbfounded incredulity. ‘Whatever for? Surely Mr Broomfield just needs to tell his clerk to sharpen up his ideas?’

  ‘Possibly,’ replied Giles briskly, rising to his feet, his tea still untasted. Folding the bill of sale carefully, he raised his eyebrows questioningly at Sophie and, at her mystified nod, tucked it into his jacket pocket, bowed neatly and bade them both farewell, before exiting the tea shop in considerable haste.

  ‘Well, I’ll be well and truly damned!’ muttered Marcus under his breath, as he glared at his brother’s departing figure in mystified disbelief.

  Her sharp ears having caught his nonchalant profanity, Sophie was all at once put in mind of the scurrilous tales she had heard the servants whispering about the notorious Viscount, causing her to ask herself what on earth she thought she was doing, sitting in a public tea shop with so infamous a character as Hellcat Helstone. ‘Oh, I do hope not,’ she murmured softly, as she allowed her eyes to drink in the never to be forgotten contours of his features.

  He, not having missed her words, stared across at her, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips.

  ‘It would appear that your earlier opinion of me has undergone little alteration since our last encounter,’ he sighed. ‘Doubtless you have spent the past two weeks perusing the gossip columns—might I venture to suggest that I’m not actually as black as I have been frequently painted?’

  A sudden flush covered her cheeks as she recalled her previous ruthless assessment of his worth.

  ‘I seldom have the opportunity to read gossip columns,’ she said, carefully avoiding his eyes. ‘I usually prefer to make up my own mind about people.’

  She paused, her brows furrowing slightly as she searched for the words. ‘I am, however, sometimes a little too swift to reach conclusions,’ she added, albeit somewhat reluctantly. ‘My father was often obliged to remind me never to judge people on first appearance.’

  His pulse quickening, the Viscount leant forward eagerly, finding himself inexplicably
keen to learn whether her former opinion of him had changed.

  ‘And so, after due consideration,’ he said, hiding his innermost feelings behind the light bantering tone that he was wont to employ when he was not entirely in command of the situation, ‘may I be so bold as to enquire what conclusion you have now reached in regard to my reprehensible character?’

  Frowning, Sophie gave a quick shake of her head. ‘I have decided that I really don’t know you well enough to have formed any worthwhile opinion, my lord,’ she replied carefully. ‘And, whilst your sterling efforts back at the tavern were certainly more than enough to revise my original view of you, I still do not understand why you felt it necessary to hide your true identity from all of us there—were you afraid that someone might try to take advantage of your lofty position?’

  Shifting uncomfortably, the Viscount gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘It has been known,’ he replied. ‘But I have to say that on that particular occasion it all came about rather by accident. I supplied my name—which is Marcus Wolfe, as it happens—and merely failed to qualify my title. Besides which …’ Here he gave a rueful grin, before continuing. ‘Following my behaviour towards you on the previous evening, I judged that it might be more circumspect to remain relatively anonymous for the duration of my stay there—I fear my reputation in that particular direction has the habit of preceding me.’

  ‘Yes, I imagine that it must,’ returned Sophie in a somewhat distracted tone of voice, unable to prevent her colour heightening as the well-remembered sensations of that encounter once again flooded through her being. But then, as she observed the almost imperceptible slump of his shoulders, her heart turned over, causing her to add gently, ‘That being so, I have to say that, whilst you may not be quite as black as rumour seems to have painted you, you do appear to be verging on a rather dark shade of grey!’

  At this, Marcus tipped back his head, letting out a sudden shout of laughter that reverberated across the room, causing several of the other customers to turn and cast disapproving frowns in their direction.

  Still grinning, he then rose to his feet and held out his hand to her. ‘Thoroughly hoist, then, I would say!’ he chuckled. ‘Let us hie ourselves off to your bookshop, then—it seems clear that I am desperately in need of a tome on moral rectitude, and you, my dear Miss Flint, seem to be the very person to point me in the proper direction.’

  ‘But I no longer have the bill of sale to take to Mr Broomfield,’ protested Sophie, as she got to her feet and began to pull on her gloves. ‘What am I to say to him?’

  ‘There is no need for you to mention anything about it—the fellow’s not to know that you received the wrong invoice. The other note—the one that this Mr Nyne is now very likely in possession of—was probably to tell you that the book you had asked about had arrived. That being so, it will be perfectly in order for you to call into the shop and enquire after it.’

  Yes, she could do that, thought Sophie, her eyes brightening at the notion of extending this chance meeting for a further half hour or so. Having given up all expectation of ever setting eyes on Marcus again—especially once she had been made aware of his true identity—there was no way on earth that she was even going to consider rejecting such an opportunity. Besides which, she reasoned, surely there was little need for her to concern herself with all those unproven rumours of the Viscount’s less than perfect reputation since, after today’s out-of-the-blue reunion, the chances of the pair of them ever crossing each other’s paths again were extremely unlikely. That being so, the mere idea of spending even just a few more precious minutes in his company was far too tempting an offer on which she was prepared to turn her back. Regrettably, however, there was still that one troublesome drawback to consider.

  ‘But if Mr Broomfield should happen to have my atlas in stock,’ she felt constrained to point out, ‘he will be expecting me to pay for it there and then, and—’

  ‘Let’s not cross that particular bridge until we get to it, shall we?’ retorted Marcus, cutting her off before she had a chance to remind him of her lack of finances. ‘I merely wanted a plausible excuse to take a quick peek at this numbskull clerk of his. My brother seemed extraordinarily interested in that invoice of yours—maybe this bookshop of yours is the hub of some shady goings-on and this Mr Broomfield is some sort of master criminal!’

  Taking hold of her elbow, he manoeuvred her across the tea shop’s threshold and out into the busy street where, on a sudden impulse, he beckoned over a nearby flower-seller and selected a large bunch of violets from her tray. Dividing the bunch into two halves, he drew Sophie towards him, and before she had any idea of his intent he had tucked one small posy into the top buttonhole of her threadbare pelisse.

  Smiling down at her, a mischievous glint in his eye, he held the remaining flowers out towards her, allowing their delicate fragrance to waft into the air.

  ‘I believe I have already earned the right to relieve you of that confounded cap, but if milking a cow is what it takes, I dare say I could prevail upon one of the milkmaids in the park to allow me to manhandle one of her charges!’

  ‘Oh, but I couldn’t possibly—’ she began, uncomfortably aware of the crowds milling all about her, but then, as the powerful look of entreaty in the Viscount’s eyes threatened to stop her breath entirely, a soft flush covered her cheeks and she began shakily to unravel the bow of her shabby grey bonnet, saying, ‘I really cannot imagine what it is about the poor thing that annoys you so!’

  ‘Apart from it being quite hideous in its own right,’ he retorted softly, as he reached across and whipped the offending article from her head, before stuffing it into his jacket pocket, ‘it makes you look about a hundred and five. But, more to the point, it has the damned effrontery to cover up your glorious hair.’

  And then, before she was even aware of what he was about, he had tucked the stems of the remaining violets under the top ribbon of her bonnet, settled it back on to her head and was busily engrossed in retying the bow.

  ‘Well, really, my lord!’ exclaimed Sophie in stupefied amazement as, stepping back, the smiling Viscount gave a satisfied nod. Even though she was thoroughly astonished at his quite audacious behaviour, she could hardly help but feel secretly delighted at his rather gratifying comments regarding her hair, for, as she well remembered, her father had always considered her bright chestnut locks to be her crowning glory. It had been only as a result of Arthur Crayford’s insidious pestering that she had taken to covering up what she had decided must act as some sort of catalyst to his repulsive conduct. Not that her actions appeared to have dissuaded the youth to any great extent, she was obliged to remind herself. But then, as Marcus, an oddly intent expression in his eyes, reached out and fingered a wayward curl that had escaped its confinement, all thoughts of Crayford and his irritating ways were wiped immediately from her mind.

  Chapter Six

  ‘So where exactly are we heading?’ enquired Marcus, as he skilfully steered her through the heavy throng of Saturday afternoon promenaders. ‘I thought I knew all the book emporiums in this part of town but I don’t recall ever seeing a Broomfields.’

  ‘His establishment is in an alley off Gilbert Street,’ explained Sophie, somewhat guardedly. ‘It is not a very grand place, but one of the assistants at Hatchards was good enough to recommend it to me as a possible source of the atlas for which I was searching.’

  He looked down at her, his curiosity fired. ‘And what’s so special about this particular atlas?’ he asked.

  ‘It has some rather nice sketches in it, making it more suitable for younger children.’

  ‘And Hatchards don’t stock it?’ The Viscount sounded surprised. ‘They are usually pretty well up to snuff with that sort of thing, if my memory serves me aright.’

  ‘As a matter of fact they did have several copies in stock,’ replied Sophie, after some slight hesitation. ‘But they were priced at three guineas each, and I—well—as you know—’

  His face clearing, Marcus
nodded. ‘Ah! Now I begin to see! I take it that your Mr Broomfield is more of what we might term a “used” bookseller? May I ask how much he is asking for his copy?’

  ‘Just three shillings and sixpence.’ She sighed, uncomfortably aware of the fact that she no longer had such wherewithal available. ‘He told me that he was sure that he had one somewhere in his stock—it really is most vexing!’

  ‘I still don’t understand why you feel it necessary to purchase the book yourself. Surely that sort of thing falls within your employer’s domain? I should have thought that any household capable of employing a governess would be equipped with an adequate supply of necessary textbooks.’

  ‘That’s probably because you never have to involve yourself with people like the Crayfords,’ muttered Sophie under her breath, but then, having reminded herself that this unexpected bonus of an hour or so in the Viscount’s company was far too precious to be marred by petty grievances about her daily life, she tipped back her head and awarded him one of her most brilliant smiles—the effect of which was to cause Marcus to veer awkwardly into the path of an extremely stout gentleman who was struggling under the weight of a large assortment of boxes and packets.

  ‘I say! Have a care, young fellow!’ yelped the man, clutching at his mound of parcels.

  Inwardly cursing, Marcus stooped to retrieve the lone packet that had fallen from the pile, before returning it to its former position with a bow and an apologetic smile. No second-hand books for this extravagantly dressed figure of fun, he thought bleakly, having instantly recognised Hatchards’ distinctive wrapping paper on the neatly packaged item.

  All of a sudden the fact that Sophie should feel obliged to make do with someone else’s cast-off reading matter filled him with a red-hot fury the like of which he had never before experienced. That her employers were clutch-fisted upstarts was becoming increasingly clear to him, and to think of her having to live her life in so penurious a manner was becoming almost more than he could bear. He was consumed with an overpowering desire to sweep her up into his arms and carry her off to some secluded retreat where he could lavish upon her every luxury at his disposal—silks, satins, jewels, furs, perfumes—whatsoever she might wish for. He would be only too happy to see her every desire fulfilled—not to mention one or two of his own! Not that there was the least likelihood of being able to persuade the lady in question to even consider such a plan, he was obliged to remind himself as, with a painful jolt, the realisation that they had finally reached their intended destination brought him swiftly back to earth.