The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  “Just up there, my lady,” William exclaimed, trotting past them. “Watch your step. Wouldn’t do to have you falling down into the chalk cave. Mrs. Welch would skin me alive.”

  He halted where a bare patch stood out in the overgrown terrain. “Here it is, just as you said it would be.”

  Sophia rushed forward, forcing Nicholas to keep pace. “And so it is,” she answered, staring down at the circular metal grate in the ground.

  William knelt down, setting his satchel on the soft grass beside him, and examined the hole. “I’ve heard about these caves. Never seen one for myself.”

  “Unfortunately, I have—and more than once against my will,” Nicholas commented dryly, staring at the grate. “It can get rather dark down there. You’ll need your lamp.”

  The stablehand picked up the small lantern and smiled. “I thought I might.”

  “I remember a crude ladder of sorts cut into the side of the cave, William,” Sophia said, dropping to her knees and pointing to the right side of the grate. “The holds are small, but they’ll get you in and out.”

  She examined the manhole, brushing away bits of branches and other debris, most probably left by yesterday’s storm. “Once you are in the cave and have oriented yourself, I’ll tell you where to find the treasure.

  All right?”

  “How did you manage to hide so much from the three of us?” Nicholas interjected, squatting down to join them.

  Sophia gripped the grate. “You boys never bothered to bring a lamp with you. I’m fairly confident I could have hidden the contents of my father’s library within the chalk walls and none of you would have been the wiser.”

  “It was more exciting that way,” Nicholas muttered in response. “At least that’s what Langdon always said.”

  Sophia pulled at the grate with all of her might, not moving it in the slightest. “It must be stuck from lack of use,” she assured the other two, trying again. “I had no difficulty opening it as a child.”

  “Why would you have come to the cave on your own?” Nicholas asked, gesturing for Sophia to move aside and let him try.

  She released the grate and watched Nicholas take the iron bars in hand. “There were times I preferred to be by myself.”

  He tugged once, twice, and a third time, before the grate scraped from its hold and lifted. He grinned at her. “It simply needed a man’s touch.”

  “Such as now,” Sophia grumbled, turning her attention to William. “Are you ready?”

  The stablehand smiled, a dimple flashing in his cheek. “I am, my lady, and looking forward to it. It’s about time I saw what there is to see.”

  The lad’s excitement over the experience lightened Sophia’s heart a touch and she returned his smile with one of her own. “Well, remember that the goal is to bring you back up, so do be careful.”

  He nodded his head and stood, awaiting instructions.

  “The footholds begin here,” Nicholas explained, pointing into the lip of the cave just to the right. “Come along and step inside, then I’ll hand you the lamp.”

  William walked around the hole until he stood directly in front of the spot Nicholas had indicated, then turned his back and lowered his right leg into the cave.

  Sophia watched the young man’s progress nervously, letting out a small scream when he faltered and nearly fell back.

  “I’m all right, my lady,” William assured her just as his head dipped below ground level.

  Nicholas squeezed her arm for support. “He will be fine, Sophia. If four foolish children were able to climb in and out without incident, surely William can manage one trip—aided and supervised, no less.”

  “And what if we four were simply lucky?” Sophia asked, planting her palms near the cave entrance and carefully peering down.

  Nicholas joined her, his body brushing against hers as he positioned himself over the hole. “We were never lucky, Sophia. That much I can assure you.”

  “I’m in!” William yelled enthusiastically, his voice echoing off the walls of the cave.

  Sophia lingered against the heat of Nicholas, savoring the contact as it warmed her skin. “If we are to rely on your reasoning, then the sketch will not be found.”

  “Sophia,” he turned to look at her with a mix of empathy and frustration, “we are leaning over a chalk cave, in the middle of Petworth’s grounds, with nothing more than the hope of evidence in an old sketch standing between us and abject failure. If I do not have you to rely upon for optimism, who do I have?”

  Sophia smiled. “All right, then. Since you’ve made such a valiant and convincing plea, I suppose I’ve no choice in the matter.”

  He grinned at her reply and gestured toward the hole. “I believe William is ready for further instructions.”

  “Oh yes,” Sophia said, feeling foolish for having delayed. “William,” she called, “are you near the footholds?”

  “Yes, my lady. I’m standing right in front of them.”

  Sophia shifted her weight until she was looking into the cave once more. “Excellent. Now, bend down until you can see the very last hold.”

  The lamplight moved lower, indicating William’s progress. “All right.”

  “Now walk your hand to the middle of the hold, then from that point, directly to the bottom of the wall. You should come upon a slightly raised section.”

  “Aye, there it is!” he yelled up to them. “It’s a circle.”

  Sophia gripped the grass with tense fingers, wanting to join in William’s excitement but afraid to do so quite yet. “Grasp the circle as best you can and turn it to the right. Then pull.”

  She held her breath, waiting for the young man to say something, fearing she’d only dreamed the second sketch out of sheer desperation.

  “Breathe,” Nicholas commanded, his voice thick with absolute conviction.

  “I’ve got something,” William reported, his enthusiasm audibly deflated. “Only a bit of paper, I’m afraid.”

  Sophia pushed up and launched herself at Nicholas with exuberance, her arms encircling his waist. “I was so afraid it would not be there,” she said fervently.

  “As was I,” he admitted as he peered down at her, his full lips curved into an apologetic grin.

  “Here it is,” William announced as he emerged from the hole.

  Sophia hastily released Nicholas and stepped back.

  “No crown jewels, to be sure,” William added, handing the roll of parchment to Sophia.

  She tugged gingerly at the faded red ribbon around the paper, untying it with careful hands. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she replied, unrolling the brittle parchment to reveal a complete, if sketchy, portrait of the masked man as he conversed behind a dressing screen with a woman wearing a ball gown.

  June 5

  “I’m very angry with the three of you,” Sophia said in a stern voice. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Nicholas continued to gaze up at the dark sky, amazed by the seemingly million stars sewn into its swath of silken blackness. “Whatever for?”

  The two lay side by side on the Petworth Manor lawn, basking in the hushed silence of the late hour.

  “While I slept tucked up tight in the nursery, you boys crept from the house and had all sorts of adventures without me—that’s what for,” Sophia explained, slapping him on the arm.

  Nicholas captured her hand in his and tugged until Sophia was settled against him, her head resting on his chest. “Oh that. Well, it wasn’t my decision.”

  “Langdon’s?” Sophia ventured, her arm wrapping about his waist.

  Nicholas began to draw lazy circles along her spine with his finger. “Of course. Late night wanderings were far too dangerous for you. Even then you were his princess in a high tower.”

  Sophia squeezed him possessively.

  “Even more so now,” he lamented, the stars suddenly subdued.

  “Nicholas?”

  He’d dreaded this moment since they’d awoken in each other’s arms that
morning. Interviewing the remaining servants and making a final search of the attic for clues had occupied their day, while dinner and an impromptu dance in the kitchens had kept them busy throughout the night.

  Nicholas breathed in Sophia’s floral scent. Perhaps they might stay in each other’s arms right there, suspended in time.

  “Nicholas?” Sophia said again.

  He sighed deeply. “We will have to tell Langdon—once we’ve captured the Bishop. We cannot put him in such a difficult position.”

  “How will we possibly keep our feelings hidden from him?” she asked, rubbing her cheek against his linen shirt. “What if he grows suspect …”

  Nicholas felt Sophia’s breath hitch as she began to cry. “Shh,” he murmured, tightening his hold. “I know this will sound cruel, but we cannot risk all that we’ve worked for by drawing attention to ourselves. Do you agree?”

  “Yes,” Sophia whispered. “You’re right—I know it is for the best. I simply cannot bear to think what he will feel when he learns of us.”

  Nicholas looked up at the sky once more, his bloody emotions threatening to get the best of him. “He will feel betrayed, Sophia. Cuckolded. Taken advantage of.”

  It was precisely what would consume Nicholas if he were Langdon, the knowledge of his brother’s impending pain piercing his chest like an arrow through his heart. “He will suffer whether we tell him now or wait until the Bishop is ours.”

  A tear ran from the corner of his eye and slipped down his face, reaching his unshaven jaw. “Goddammit.”

  Sophia released his waist and reached up, settling her hand on his cheek. “I am meant to be with you. Not Langdon. In time he will come to understand. He has to.”

  “And if he does not?” Nicholas asked, afraid of her answer.

  “I will not give you up,” Sophia replied with conviction, placing her palm on the ground and pushing up until she came eye to eye with him. “Not now. Not ever.”

  “Goddammit,” Nicholas muttered a second time as more tears fell. “A happy ending. Is that what you’re proposing?”

  Sophia kissed him, the full intent of her pledge communicated in the soft, sacred gesture. “I would settle for nothing less—which means I have one more request. One that you might not like.”

  The sweet taste of her disappeared from Nicholas’s mouth, replaced with bitter apprehension. “Is this to do with my drinking?”

  “Yes. I told you I would not give you up, and I meant it. Not one moment of your life will be wasted in the company of brandy—not when you could be spending it with me.”

  “I’m afraid, Sophia,” Nicholas admitted, the warm night breeze making him feel even more vulnerable than his words did. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.”

  Sophia lowered herself and rested her head once again upon his chest. “It’s not a matter of stopping your drinking. It’s a matter of starting to live the life you were meant to lead.”

  19

  June 9

  EN ROUTE TO BEECHAM HOUSE

  MAYFAIR

  LONDON

  “How is your great-aunt?”

  Sophia stared at Langdon seated across from her in the warm carriage and tried to decipher his words.

  She’d returned from Sussex two days before and still could not regain the usual sensible rhythm of her days—to be expected, yes, but no less troubling.

  “There has been improvement,” Sophia replied vaguely, belatedly remembering she’d gone to Petworth under the pretense of visiting an ill aunt.

  She discreetly wiped at perspiration beading above her lip while silently chastising herself. Why had she not prepared in advance for Langdon’s polite inquiries? She’d frittered away the hours earlier in the day, occupied with a tray of letters and calling cards until there’d been barely enough time to dress for the Beechams’ ball. Lettie had enlisted a housemaid’s help in order to finish Sophia’s hair and see to the jewelry.

  “And yet, you seem disappointed,” Langdon added thoughtfully.

  “Oh no,” Sophia assured him. “It is simply a pity to see Great-aunt Harriett trapped inside. She lives for her garden, you see.”

  Langdon nodded in reply. “Well, I do hope I’ll have the opportunity to meet her someday. Perhaps at our wedding?”

  Sophia wanted to scream. Or cry. Or both.

  “Oh, you have met her before, don’t you remember?” she replied, fidgeting with her reticule.

  “When I was a child, Sophia. And if I’m being completely honest,” Langdon said, crossing his legs, “no, I do not remember her. Why has she never come to London for a visit?”

  Sophia removed a painted fan from her reticule and attempted to cool herself. “Great-aunt Harriett was never one for travel. Nor for town. As she is so fond of saying, she ‘prefers the fine fresh air in the country to the smoggy environs of the capital,’ and at her age, I do not blame her. Better to stay comfortably settled in one’s familiar surroundings, I say.”

  She held tight to the fact that she truly was in possession of a great-aunt named Harriett, who did indeed prefer not to travel. The woman was, as she always had been, healthy as the draft horses who worked her land, even at her advanced age of ninety and three. Still, one never knew when a cold or ailment of the stomach might strike.

  Sophia closed her eyes and concentrated on the minuscule amount of relief the fan was providing from the evening’s heat.

  Langdon nodded. “Ah well, as I said, let us hope Great-aunt Harriett considers coming to London for the wedding. Speaking of our wedding, I’m planning a trip to Wales to visit your father.”

  Sophia’s eyes flew open and she quickly turned to look at Mrs. Kirk—as if she might be of some use.

  “Forgive me if I’ve embarrassed you by speaking of our marriage in front of Mrs. Kirk.” Langdon uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “It’s just that I think of her as family. Besides, I am sure she is as tired of waiting for such news as everyone else.”

  Lettie turned to take in Langdon, a polite smile curving on her lips. “My lord, it is happy news, indeed.”

  Sophia clasped her companion’s hand under concealment of her skirts. She knew that Lettie could say no more on the topic; she had no right to comment beyond congratulations, and doing so would only look odd and improper.

  “Are you speechless, Sophia?” Langdon asked good-naturedly, clearly unaware of the reaction his comment had elicited. “Surely you are as anxious as I to finally wed. Not that I see it as a burden, mind you. But setting the date for our union has eluded us for long enough, wouldn’t you agree?”

  The bodice of Sophia’s cream silk gown seemed to slowly shrink, squeezing her chest uncomfortably. “Yes,” she whispered, barely able to manage even that.

  Langdon smiled brightly. “Was that a yes to being speechless, or yes to the idea of becoming my wife? I know which one I would prefer.”

  The Beechams’ townhome came into view as the carriage turned up South Street. Sophia fixed her gaze on the stately home in a vain attempt to quell a rising tide of nausea.

  “Are you quite all right, my lady?”

  Sophia heard Mrs. Kirk’s question. She could not answer, as the carriage began to slowly spin around her. She grasped the lacquered window frame in order to stay upright, barely aware of her fan falling to the floor of the coach.

  Langdon reached across and steadied her. But his touch only deepened the growing sense of panic and dread in Sophia.

  “Lettie, please,” Sophia asked in a panicked plea as the suddenly intense heat and stuffiness of the carriage became unbearable. “Please, I cannot breathe.”

  “My lord, please look away,” the woman instructed Langdon, reaching for the buttons on Sophia’s dress. She made quick work of the row before moving on to the corset beneath.

  Sophia panted, struggling for air. The sudden release of the ribbon ties allowed her to drag in several deep breaths and fill her lungs. She fell back onto the seat and squeezed her eyes shut.

  The carriage sl
owed. Sophia heard Langdon yelling something to the driver, though she could not make out what, precisely, he had ordered the man to do.

  And just as quickly, the carriage began to move again. Langdon’s large, warm hand covered hers as he whispered indistinct words of comfort into her ear.

  “Everything will be fine, my lady,” Mrs. Kirk assured Sophia in her practical way. “We’re returning home now. Soon enough you’ll be in your bed with nothing, only the quiet to keep you company.”

  It occurred to Sophia that the only situation worse than what she found herself in presently was the one Lettie described.

  Beecham House

  Nicholas stood near the orchestra in the Beechams’ ballroom, nursing a cup of tepid lemonade. He watched Singh as the man entertained a group of people, including Lord Beecham, a particularly annoying sort who never tired of his own importance.

  Nicholas smiled. Lord Beecham would be horrified to know that Singh was not the son of a Maharajah, as Nicholas had informed his hosts, but in fact a holy man of sorts who preferred a simple robe and bare feet to the colorful silk and linen Indian costume he currently wore.

  Nicholas was not about to tell anyone the truth. And Singh was clearly enjoying himself. Rumors of his false identity as foreign royalty had spread throughout the ballroom and earned him a growing following. The man deserved a spot of fun. After all, he’d seen to the running of the house while Nicholas had been away—a house that now boasted a cook, a maid, and a footman.

  If he was not careful, he thought with amusement, he would soon be seen as something approaching social respectability. “Blast you, Singh,” he muttered wryly, then finished off the lemonade.

  He could grouse all he wanted. Secretly, Nicholas was making plans. With Sophia at his side, anything was possible. Suddenly the world had opened up to him in ways he never could have imagined.

  Laughter erupted from the group around Singh and Nicholas smiled at his friend. Perhaps he’d underestimated the man’s wisdom, after all. Not that he would ever admit such a thing.