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.
Still, he mused, standing back and allowing himself to drink in the reflection of Sophie’s lovely features as she peered through the bottle-glass window of the bookseller’s cluttered-looking premises, hope springs eternal, as they say, and in the meantime the odd little gentle nudge in the right direction can’t do any harm! For now that he had finally managed to run his chestnut-haired temptress to ground, the Viscount had no intention of allowing her to slip through his fingers again. It’s high time my sweet Sophie started to learn that I can be quite as intractable as she is, he thought, carefully hiding a self-satisfied smile as he pushed open the door to allow her to precede him into the shop.
‘Good afternoon, sir, and what may I have the pleasure of doing for you?’
The small, bespectacled, bald-headed man who was peering out at them from behind a huge pile of books located on a desk to one side of the shop being the only creature in sight, Marcus could only suppose that this was, indeed, Sophie’s Mr Broomfield.
‘I believe that you are keeping a copy of an illustrated atlas for Miss Flint here?’ he said, motioning Sophie forward.
Casting her a condescending glance, the bookseller gave a deprecating nod before turning to rummage in a nearby box for several moments. Finally extracting a decidedly tattered-looking version of a map book—one that Marcus had little difficulty recognising as having been one of his own childhood favourites many years back—he slapped it down on the desk in front of the Viscount. ‘Three shillings and sixpence!’ he announced, holding out his hand.
‘Is that the best copy you have available?’ asked Marcus stiffly.
‘It’s the cheapest I could find,’ returned the shopkeeper with a careless shrug. ‘The young lady was quite firm on that point, as I recall.’
Conscious of a slight tug at his elbow, Marcus turned, only to be confronted with an expression of earnest entreaty in Sophie’s eyes. Heaving back a sigh, he bent his head in her direction.
‘This book is perfectly adequate for my purpose,’ she murmured into his ear. ‘If you would be so good as to advance me the money, you have my promise that I will very soon find the means to reimburse you.’
At the thought of her being obliged to skimp and scrape to gather together such a pitiful outlay, Marcus felt his anger deepen and, turning back to the waiting Broomfield, he curtly ordered him to have the book wrapped.
‘Bargain books don’t usually warrant—’ began the man, but, catching sight of the steely glint in the Viscount’s eye, he gave a quick nod and, picking up the atlas, began to make his way to the rear of the shop.
‘You stay here for a moment,’ Marcus directed Sophie as he made after the shopkeeper. ‘I just want to take a quick peek at that clerk of his.’
Although she was finding it well nigh impossible to comprehend how merely looking at the fellow could possibly determine his ability to add and subtract figures correctly, Sophie gave the Viscount a brief acquiescent smile and sat herself down on Broomfield’s rather rickety-looking chair to await further developments.
‘No need for you to come along, sir,’ protested the shopkeeper as he observed Marcus’s intention.
‘Just want to see that you do the job properly,’ came the Viscount’s reply. ‘Wouldn’t do for Miss Flint’s parcel to fall apart while I was carrying it, now, would it?’
Mumbling crossly to himself, Broomfield pushed open the door to the tiny back room that served as an office. Seated before a high desk, his head bent in deep concentration as he carefully inscribed a row of figures on one of the bookshop’s bills of sale, was a sharp-nosed gangly youth of possibly sixteen or seventeen summers. Not exactly the stuff of subterfuge or other under-the-counter deeds of derring-do, thought Marcus, as he stepped across the room’s threshold and studied the clerk. Easy to understand the accounting errors, though!
Emerging from the office some few minutes later, he found Sophie immersed in a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets.
‘Would you care to have that too?’ he asked, smiling down at her.
‘Oh, no!’ She laughed, jumping up and placing the book carefully back on its pile. ‘I already have my own copy—I was just enjoying reading them again, that’s all.’ Eying the neatly wrapped volume under his arm, she then observed, ‘It was very good of you to go to so much trouble on my behalf.’
‘No trouble at all,’ he assured her, as the now surprisingly compliant Broomfield stepped forward and cheerily ushered them both out of the shop. ‘My pleasure entirely.’
‘You do seem to have quite a remarkable habit of winning people around,’ she said, the shopkeeper’s volte-face having thoroughly confounded her. ‘I suppose it comes with being born with the proverbial silver spoon in your mouth?’
‘Shouldn’t be surprised,’ replied Helstone nonchalantly, as he raised his hand to signal an approaching hackney carriage.
Realising his intention, Sophie immediately let go of his arm and stepped away from him. ‘Oh, I’m not at all sure that I can agree to this,’ she said pensively. It had temporarily slipped her mind that her very agreeable companion was still none other than the notorious Hellcat Helstone, and, while sitting in a public tea shop with him and strolling along London’s busy thoroughfares whilst surrounded by scores of other shoppers might be considered quite unremarkable, climbing into a hackney carriage with so infamous a character might be regarded in a somewhat different light.
&nb
sp; Raising his eyebrows at her uneasy expression, the Viscount let out a soft chuckle. ‘My days of seducing females in carriages are long gone, I assure you,’ he twinkled, as he unceremoniously bundled her up into the cab. ‘Decidedly uncomfortable business it was too, as I recall! I just figured that we might avoid the inevitable battering experience if we resorted to wheels for our return journey?’
In point of fact, being closeted in such a confined space with so charismatic an individual as Marcus was showing himself to be was turning out to be the icing on the cake as far as Sophie’s afternoon was concerned. Throughout the whole of the journey from Gilbert Street to Lennox Gardens the Viscount had no difficulty keeping her fully entertained with his charming and witty observations. At least now she would have plenty to fill her dreams in the coming lonely days and nights, she thought, mentally hugging herself with delight as she gazed across the carriage at the Viscount’s smiling countenance. Although on the other side of the same coin was the painful realisation that this short afternoon spent in his company could only serve to bring her greater heartache when the inevitable parting finally came. And come it must, she was forced to concede, given the wide disparity of their respective circumstances.
‘I do hope that my employers don’t see me arriving home in a hackney,’ she ventured, with a nervous laugh. ‘They will begin to think that they are paying me too high a salary!’
Having spent the whole of the past fifteen minutes or so fighting off a rapidly growing desire to haul her into his arms and feast his lips on hers, this disagreeable reminder of Sophie’s disadvantaged situation was too much for Marcus to bear.
All at once he was at her side as, with a despairing groan, he pulled her towards him, murmuring huskily, ‘Accept my offer, then, why don’t you? How can you think of going back to humiliations of that sort when I could give you everything your heart desires!’
And then, before Sophie had either the wit or sense to prevent him, he had captured her lips with his and her whole world seemed to explode into a million sparkling fragments. Every single fibre of her being suddenly leapt into life as he trailed the tip of his tongue across the contours of her lips before finally forcing entry and deepening the kiss. Her entire body was awash with such indescribable feelings of rapture that the temptation to give in to his request was almost too much for Sophie to resist. The thought of never again having to bite back a stinging retort to one of Mrs Crayford’s constant put-downs, never again having to grapple with Arthur Crayford in unexpected corners of the house, having a home of her own—with a fire in every room, should she so desire it, a well-stocked larder and wardrobes full of the most fashionable wear imaginable. Why, mother and Roger would—
At that sudden thought she froze and, wrenching herself away from his grasp, shunted to the far end of the seat, crying, ‘How could you? You led me to believe that you would not attempt anything of that nature! Can it be that you truly are as black as you are painted?’
His jaw set, the Viscount flinched visibly at her accusation and, his body still aching with unfulfilled desire, sank back against the squabs, struggling to catch his breath as he tried to come to terms with his inexplicable behaviour.
What the hell is happening to me? he thought, as he stared across the carriage at Sophie’s dumbfounded, wide-eyed expression. Have I lost my wits entirely? Am I really reduced to behaving like an unfledged stripling on his first outing?
‘Please accept my apologies,’ he managed eventually, desperately trying to summon up his customary air of insouciance. ‘I really had not intended that to happen—some sort of fleeting aberration appears to have overruled my better judgement.’ Summoning up a smile, he held out his hand. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘It won’t happen again, I promise you. Please don’t let us part as enemies.’
Having had all her newly formed dreams so violently fractured, it was as much as Sophie could do to shake her head and wriggle herself more securely into her corner, and, since she was conscious of the carriage slowing down, she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the door handle, ready to make as speedy an exit as possible the minute the vehicle stopped.
But then, to Marcus’s bewilderment, just as she leant forward to wrench open the carriage door, upon raising her eyes to peer out of the window she slumped back into her corner, her fingers to her lips, and uttered a moan of dismay.
Leaning across and staring through the glass in order to ascertain what it was that could have caused her such unease, the Viscount could see nothing amiss. The hackney driver had pulled his vehicle up outside number twelve, as instructed, and apart from the rather flashily dressed young man who was in the process of mounting the steps to the front door of the house there was no one else about.
Somewhat perplexed, he sat down again and studied her, a frown forming on his brow as he registered her apprehension.
‘What is it, my dear?’ he said, leaning forward. ‘It is perfectly safe to alight, I promise you. I saw no signs of curtains twitching or anything of that nature.’
Suddenly straightening herself, Sophie seemed to flare into life. ‘My cap!’ she ordered him. ‘You have it in your pocket. Please give it back to me!’
Still mystified, the Viscount shrugged, drew out the requested article and handed it to her, watching in growing confusion as she hastily dragged off her bonnet before proceeding to stuff the abundant coils of her hair back into their former confinement. Glancing down at her bonnet, prior to replacing it, she caught sight of the tiny bunch of violets that Marcus had tucked into the ribbon just an hour or so earlier. She hesitated, a soft sigh escaping her lips, but then without further ado plucked them from their place, did likewise with those in the buttonhole of her pelisse. She stuffed the now badly crushed blossoms into her pocket and, leaning forward again, reached for the door handle.
But Marcus, his face clearing now that he had at last begun to fathom out what was troubling her, was ahead of her. Now, this I can do something about, he thought in satisfaction as, thrusting open the door, he leapt nimbly out on to the pavement and held out his hand, giving Sophie no opportunity to do other than accept his proffered assistance.
Having heard the carriage, the young Crayford had turned to see who might be visiting his home at such an unusual hour for calling. His expression, when he witnessed his younger siblings’ governess being handed out of a vehicle and escorted up the steps by one of the Town’s most notorious rakes, was something to behold.
‘L-Lord Helstone?’ he stammered in disbelief, half paralysed with nerves as, tugging at his cravat, he made the Viscount an exaggerated leg.
‘Ah, Mr Crayford, I believe,’ drawled Marcus, eyeing the youngster gravely. ‘I have been wanting to have a word with you, if you could spare me a few moments of your time?’
That such an out-and-out Corinthian was even prepared to stop and pass the time of day with him, let alone engage him in any sort of conversation, was almost too much for Crayford to comprehend.
‘You wish to have words with me?’ he squeaked, the hue of his cheeks glowing even more brightly than the strawberry-pink brocade of his waistcoat.
‘If you would be so good as to open the door for Miss Flint?’
Without sparing Sophie even the briefest of glances, Crayford at once sprang to attention, applying the knocker with such vigour that its strident clanging reverberated halfway down the street.
Whilst it was perfectly clear to both Sophie and the Viscount that the elderly manservant who opened the door was decidedly unimpressed with his young master’s peremptory use of the knocker, Crayford was too far up in the boughs to notice the man’s barely disguised expression of contempt.
‘Ah, Hawkins, there you are,’ babbled the youngster, almost pushing an unresisting Sophie through the entrance, before turning to Marcus and asking eagerly, ‘Would you care to come into the library, my lord? My father has a halfway decent sherry I can offer you.’
‘Thank you, but no,’ replied Marcus, pausing only to flash an encouraging smile at the
somewhat distracted Sophie, as the manservant offered him a courteous bow before finally closing the door. ‘What I have to say to you won’t take long.’
Then, reaching out, he grasped hold of Crayford’s neckcloth and pulled the startled youngster towards him, his tone unmistakably menacing as he murmured, ‘If I should hear that you have dared to lay a finger on so much as a single hair of Miss Flint’s head ever again, I will make it my business to have both you and your father barred from every club in Town. Do I make myself clear?’
Satisfied that the youngster’s petrified gurgle was intended to signal some sort of assent, the Viscount nodded and released his hold.
‘Very well—now, here is my card,’ he continued, almost conversationally, and he took out his card case and extracted the pasteboard rectangle that held his noble details. ‘You may inform your mother that I have called, and will be doing so again at some time in the very near future.’
From what he had been able to gather from Sophie’s occasional references to her employer, the Viscount was reasonably certain that the parsimonious Mrs Crayford would turn out to be a social climber of the very worst sort. He had little doubt that within hours news of his visit would be circulating like wildfire amongst her cronies. Dissolute reprobate though he was considered to be, as the wealthy heir apparent to a long-established earldom he could hardly help being aware that there were few members of the Ton who would not give their eye teeth to have him grace their functions with his presence.
Society hostesses were known to go to extraordinary lengths in their endeavours to secure his attendance at their balls and soirees, and not merely for the fact of his undoubtedly compelling charm, for he was, after all, an extremely eligible bachelor. This being so, he judged that it was fairly safe to assume that not a single member of the Crayford family would be likely to take issue with Sophie if they received the impression that their humble governess was someone he held in high regard.
The Rake's Final Conquest Page 8