by Joanna Shupe
He waited as she traveled the study floor, slapping her bonnet against her thigh. Nervous, clearly. Her dress was both expensive and flattering, yet her boots were worn. No jewels. A practical woman underneath the trappings of a lady.
Interesting.
And he hated that he still found her interesting, even after she’d so thoroughly rebuffed him more than three years ago.
“What in God’s name is that?” She pointed to an abandoned teacup on the desk.
He shot up and grabbed the forgotten porcelain container, which held a greenish-brown gelatinous mixture comprised of various herbs and spices. It looked every bit as terrible as it had tasted. He set the cup inside his desk drawer.
“Why are you here, Sophie?”
She folded her arms over her chest, a motion that called attention to her small, enticing breasts. He forced his eyes away as she spoke. “I would normally approach Colton or Lord Winchester with this request, but as you know, they are both unavailable. You are the only person I can ask.”
“Your flattery overwhelms, madam.”
She stopped and pinned him with a hard stare. “I did not mean to offend you, as you well know. Stop being obdurate.”
“Fine. I readily acknowledge I am to serve as the last resort. Pray, get it out, Sophie.”
She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. “I need you to serve as my second.”
Lord Quint never sputtered. He did not fluster or ever forget himself. Logical, reasonable, and maddeningly unflappable, she knew the viscount could be counted on to keep a level head. It was one of the things Sophie liked best about him.
So when his jaw dropped, she braced herself.
“Your second?” Quint’s brows flattened. “You need me to serve as your second? For a duel? As in, ten paces in a field at dawn?”
“Yes. Precisely that.”
“And with whom in the name of Heracles would you be dueling?”
She nibbled her lip. What were the chances she could avoid explaining it before he agreed? “Does it matter?”
He traveled around the bulk of the desk and stopped in front of her. Though she was on the tall side, he was a few inches taller. She liked that he didn’t loom over her. It allowed her to better see his face, and he had an interesting face. Astute brown eyes with golden flecks. A strong, angular jaw. High, sharp cheekbones that set off a nose too masculine to ever be called pretty.
His hair was shaggy, his clothes rumpled and appallingly ill-matched. No, he did not inspire swoons in the ballroom, but perfection had never interested Sophie.
And there was the root of the problem.
The man was intelligent in ways most people couldn’t even comprehend. They thought him odd. Unsocial. Aloof. He never danced or paid afternoon calls. But those opinions, if he even paused to hear them, didn’t affect him as far as Sophie could tell. He exuded confidence, unshakable beliefs that were based on well-researched facts. His ability to recall the smallest detail he’d read fifteen years ago fascinated her.
Quint folded his arms across his chest. “Yes, it very much matters. And it’s not as if you can hide the other party’s identity, if I’m to serve as your second—unless you plan to blindfold me. But all of that is irrelevant as I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to go through with a duel.”
Without a cravat, the strong column of his throat shifted and rippled as he talked, and she was reminded that she’d once had the opportunity to experience the power in his lithe frame. Had once shivered as he’d clutched her so tight she could hardly breathe.
But that was long ago, years now, all before he’d fallen in love with someone else. A lump formed in her throat, regret nearly choking her, but she forced it down. “And I cannot see how you can possibly prevent it. I do not need your approval.”
Cocking his head, he studied her with shrewd scrutiny. “What happens if I say no?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I shall muddle through somehow.”
“If you do, your reputation will suffer.”
“My reputation has already suffered—which is why I have accepted the challenge. To repair it.”
He huffed a seemingly exasperated laugh. “That is ridiculous.”
“Oh, because I’m a woman I cannot have honor?”
“I never said that. Women can duel if they so choose, as far as I’m concerned. Stupidity is not ascribed to gender. What’s ridiculous is thinking no one will learn of it. Nigh on impossible to keep a duel private these days.”
“Yes, but you won’t tell anyone. Neither will I, for that matter.”
“Your opponent might, as could the surgeon who is taxed with removing a ball from your chest. But it hardly matters because I cannot serve as your second.”
“Cannot—or will not?”
A flush stole over his cheekbones. Was he embarrassed? She’d never, ever seen him blush. “Cannot,” he said. “And you’d better not go through with it.”
Intolerable, high-handed males. Sophie had suffered them her whole life. Between idiotic rules and unrealistic expectations, an English woman’s life was more constricting than stays after a five-course meal. “I must. And will you tell me why?”
“No. Will you tell me why you need to duel?”
She shook her head. “No. I cannot.”
He shifted, coming close enough to send her pulse racing. She could see the rise and fall of his chest, the shadow of tomorrow’s beard on his jaw. Strong, wide shoulders, lean waist. Heat radiated off his body to warm her in all the places ladies never mentioned—places that Sophie happened to like quite a bit. He was such a complicated specimen of brains and brawn, a combination she happened to find particularly appealing.
Not to mention he had full, strong lips that she knew firsthand were quite adept at turning a woman’s insides to jelly. Well, hers, at least.
“Cannot, or will not?” he asked, refocusing her attention.
She hated having her words turned around on her, so she ignored the question altogether and sidled away. “Will you at least teach me how it’s done?” She peered at the stack of books on the floor behind his desk, the ones he’d hidden when she entered. They were all medical journals on . . . diseases of the brain. Every single one. Now why hadn’t he wanted her to see those?
“Dueling? You want to learn how to stand on a field and shoot at another person?”
She glanced up at him. “Yes. I’ve never even fired a pistol before.”
“Firing is not the hard part. Hitting something is the trick.”
“I thought the point of a duel was to miss.”
“Deloping is considered ungentlemanly. Have you not even read the Code Duello? The point of a duel is to restore your honor while not getting yourself killed. And to place your bullet where it will do the least damage.”
“See how little I know? You can teach me.”
“No. I cannot involve myself in this. You should merely apologize to whichever lady you’ve slighted and end it.”
“It is impossible to apologize. And why can you not be involved?”
He placed his hands on his hips. “Many reasons. Six, to be precise. Would you like them in alphabetic order or order of importance?”
She sighed. This was going badly. She had no one else to ask, no one with a chance of keeping her secret. And she and Quint were friends . . . of a sort. Based on their previous history, she’d thought he’d agree. That he would, at the very least, want to protect her. What could she do to convince him?
“Fine. I shall ask someone else.”
He quirked an eyebrow, his expression too knowing, drat him. “And whom shall you enlist in this tutelage?”
She rapidly searched her brain for a name, for any bits of gossip she’d overheard. “Lord MacLean has been rumored in a number of duels. He must know the way of it.”
“And he’s a rake. Burned through the entire lot of Edinburgh innocents and had to come to London just to ravish more. Your reputation would never survive it.”
�
��That hardly signifies.” In more ways than one. “I merely want the ins and outs of the thing. And if you will not show me, I will find someone who can.”
His jaw hardened, but his eyes burned into her, churning with an emotion she’d never seen before. Was it . . . doubt? It gave her pause. Quint moved about the world with ease, with no need to question himself because he was rarely wrong. Any criticisms he encountered were for matters he cared little for, such as the unfashionable length of his hair or his appalling sartorial sense.
But this was new. He looked . . . uncertain.
“Then you must do whatever you feel necessary,” he finally said, reaching to knead his temples with his fingertips. “I apologize I am unable to fulfill your request. Taylor will see you out.” He bowed and then headed for the door.
She watched him go, stunned at both his rudeness and the expression on his face.
“Quint,” she called to his back. He stopped but did not turn. “Are you all right?”
“Never better,” he answered and disappeared into the corridor.
“No,” she whispered into the empty room. “Somehow I think not.”
“Well, that did not take long,” Alice said once they were on the walk back to the Barnes town house. “Did his lordship agree, my lady?”
“No.”
A pair of older ladies strolled near in the rare spring sunshine, and Sophie smiled politely as they passed. The streets of Mayfair were busy once again, with horses and carriages each way you turned—a sign that another Season was nigh.
The familiar heaviness settled in Sophie’s chest. She dreaded the next few months. More dress fittings. More inane chatter. Dancing with the men her stepmama foisted on her. Pretending to ignore the pitying, curious glances.
She had no one to blame but herself. Some mistakes could not be undone.
Alice came alongside. “What shall you do now?”
“I’ll figure something out. Do not worry on it, Alice.”
Her maid made a dismissive noise. “A dangerous game your ladyship is playing.”
“So you’ve said on more than one occasion.”
“I wish your father had not let you sit in on some of those cases, my lady. It was not proper for a young girl at such an impressionable age to hear sordid tales of criminal behavior.”
Sophie hid her smile. Oh, she had loved every minute. Instead of ignoring her after her mother died, her father had kept her even closer. Wherever the marquess went, so did his little girl. The quarter sessions he would oftentimes attend were her favorite.
When she was nine, she’d told him she wanted to be a magistrate when she grew up.
He’d laughed. My dear, girls cannot be magistrates, though you’d make a fine one. But you’re to marry and have your own family. That is what proper young ladies do.
Sophie didn’t like to be told no, especially because “that is what proper young ladies do.” Hang propriety.
Turning to Alice, she asked, “Did you learn anything from Lord Quint’s staff?”
“Superstitious fools, the lot of them,” Alice snorted. “All but the butler, who seems entirely loyal to his employer. The rest of them believe his lordship to be the devil himself.”
“The devil? Ridiculous.” Quint was far from evil. He was intelligent and kind, a man most of London did not understand for his eccentricities. But the devil? “Why would they believe such a thing?”
“Say his lordship stays locked in his study for hours, never sleeps nor eats. Never leaves. No visitors. Rooms off limits to the staff.”
“Never leaves?” She’d suspected something was off. He hadn’t missed an opening of the Royal Society in recent years, a fact she could attest to because she always attended as well. Quint routinely gave a speech, and Sophie could listen to him lecture for hours. He had a deep, clear voice that rang with knowledge and purpose, his ideas elucidated logically. His talks were heartfelt and passionate, and Sophie felt the depth of that passion down in her soul. It was the closest she allowed herself to get to him.
Instead, he’d shut himself up in his house to study books about diseases of the brain. Odd—though perhaps she’d never known him as well as she’d thought. Merely because a man kissed you as if his next breath depended on it didn’t mean you were of a like mind.
Especially when that man proposed to another woman within three weeks of said kiss.
Sophie forced that thought away. You rejected him. What did you think he’d do?
“It does seem strange,” Alice said. “But as your ladyship knows, it hardly matters if it’s true. Servants love to gossip.”
This felt like more than gossip. Something was wrong. Yet Sophie couldn’t very well explain her intuition to her maid. How did one describe that gnawing, slightly nauseated sensation in one’s belly that was more suspicion than fact? But Sophie trusted her gut—it had led her away from trouble more often than not.
Besides, were she and Quint not friends after all this time? She’d saved his life two months ago, though he didn’t know it. For nearly a week she—along with a physician—had cared for him, bringing him back from the edge of death. Once he’d begun to recover, however, she’d instructed his staff on what to do and stayed away.
She recalled a few minutes earlier, the uncertain expression that had appeared on his face. A hopeless, confused sort of look, as if he’d lost his way in the world. If he had a problem, she might be able to help. If not, then perhaps she could pick up tips on dueling.
“Alice, I believe I’ll return there tonight.”
Her maid clucked her tongue. “I cannot see how that’s wise, if you don’t mind my saying. Not when his lordship has already refused.”
“Perhaps I can help him to see reason.”
“Heaven help his lordship then, my lady.”
Sophie nearly rolled her eyes. “Would you rather I attended the duel without learning how to do it properly, then?”
“I’d rather your ladyship did not attend a duel at all.”
Unfortunately, that might not be a choice, but she refrained from saying so to her maid.
Barnes House, the London residence of the Marquess of Ardington, stood on the northwest side of Berkeley Square, not far from Quint. While not as big as Lansdowne House at the other end of the square, Barnes House was an impressive stone structure with massive columns, portico, and rows of windows. Sophie never wanted to live anywhere else.
When she and Alice crossed the street, a soft voice reached her ears. “My lady.”
Sophie slowed as a cloaked woman emerged from around a waiting hackney. Her hood was pulled low to obscure her face. Alice was suddenly by Sophie’s side. “Here now,” Alice said. “Who are you and what do you want with the lady?”
The woman shied away, reconsidering her approach in the face of Alice’s protectiveness. “It’s all right, Alice,” Sophie said, stepping closer. “Were you searching for me?”
The woman revealed the slightest bit of her face. “I apologize for searching your ladyship out on the street.”
Sophie relaxed. “Lily! How nice to see you again.”
She offered a curtsy. “I know your ladyship said no payment was necessary, but I wanted you to have this.” She held out a parcel. “It’s nothing much, just some fancy soap I had a boy pick up in a shop.”
Sophie tried to refuse, but Lily was determined. “Please, my lady. To find my sister after all these years, and happily settled at that, I cannot tell your ladyship what it means to me.”
Sophie did not want to hurt the other woman’s feelings, so she accepted the box. “Thank you, then. I am honored to accept it.”
This is why Sophie enjoyed helping people, especially women who seldom found a champion. Magistrates ignored them—or offered aid in exchange for physical favors. Runners were expensive and generally more interested in a higher class of clientele. To whom should these women turn, then, when in need?
Sophie gave them hope. An ear to listen. Answers.
She reached to
squeeze Lily’s hand. “All my best to you and your sister.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Lily curtsied and withdrew, disappearing around the side of the hack.
Alice sniffed as they neared the stoop of the Barnes town house. “A lightskirt approaching a lady on the streets of Mayfair in broad daylight. I do not know what this world is coming to, my lady.”
“Oh, Alice. She’d likely been standing there for hours. The very least we could do was speak with her. And she brought me a gift. I think it’s sweet.”
“Some days I regret starting your ladyship on this path.”
That was a partial truth. There was one event, from ages ago, long before Alice came to work for her, when a kitchen maid had been accused of theft.
Jenny had been her name, and Sophie had liked her. She’d often snuck eleven-year-old Sophie currant buns and sugar paste when no one was looking. So Sophie hadn’t instantly believed the upper housemaid’s tale that Jenny had stolen money from the housemaid’s room—especially since Sophie had observed a footman flirting with both girls. The two maids had argued only the week before, making it clear they didn’t care for each other. Wasn’t that reason enough to doubt the allegation?
Unfortunately, Jenny had had no proof she hadn’t taken the money and no one had believed her denials. Then, when ten pounds was located under her mattress, she had been tossed out without a reference. Sophie tried to get her father to intervene, to help Jenny, but he refused, saying the housekeeper would take care of the matter. The servants were not Sophie’s concern.
When Sophie saw the housemaid’s smug smile over the next few days, she was positive the girl had lied. No one listened to her, however, and the matter was firmly dropped. Sophie had been heartbroken to learn that Jenny had died in a cholera epidemic shortly after leaving their service.
The tragic tale left a lasting mark on Sophie’s brain, one never forgotten. The truth mattered, regardless of what class one was born into.
“Do not be ridiculous,” she told Alice. “I enjoy these cases and I am good at it. Yes, this officially started when your sister was accused of stealing her employer’s silver, but if not for her, it would’ve been someone else. I feel as though I was born to do this.”