“I’ll catch up with him at Whitehall then, I expect.” John shot a look at Fidelia. “Tell me, Miss Llewellyn, have you plans later this afternoon? Sophie and I were going to Gunter’s.” Sophie hid her surprise and managed a nod without, she hoped, anyone realizing there’d been no such engagement. John’s gaze slid to Banallt and back to Fidelia. “Perhaps you and your mother might join us.” He hesitated, and really, it was a very charming hesitation. “If you are not otherwise engaged, that is.”
“It would be wonderful if you did,” Sophie added.
Fidelia’s face lit up. “I enjoy Gunter’s very much. May I go, Banallt?”
He put down his coffee. “I’ve no objection. You may if you are free and your mother agrees.”
Mrs. Llewellyn came in as Banallt was speaking. “If I agree to what?”
The invitation was made anew and accepted, and John actually gave Banallt a grateful look, which Banallt did not acknowledge. Sophie and John were to meet them at Gunter’s at three since Mrs. Llewellyn and Fidelia had a call to make first.
She and John left Gray Street before eleven. They walked home, despite Banallt’s offer of a carriage. Never once, by look or word or deed, had Banallt done anything to arouse suspicion that the nature of their relationship had changed. That stood to reason. He had years of experience at such things. Conducting affairs was second nature to him.
John seemed to have a lot on his mind, too. He walked with a repressed gait, as if he wished he could run rather than match Sophie’s slower pace. “You’re all right, Sophie?”
She looked at him. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You were very quiet at breakfast.”
“We were up late last night, John. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.”
“I thought perhaps it would be difficult for you. To be at Gray Street with Lord Banallt there.”
They walked a way without speaking. “Like you,” she said eventually, “I have made a treaty of peace with Lord Banallt.” Her stomach churned. She was lying to her brother, perhaps not directly, but by omission. “You needn’t fear for my delicacy if he happens to be near.”
“I see.” They turned the corner to Henrietta Street. John slowed. “It’s just you seemed so unhappy when he came to Havenwood. Distraught, even.” He looked at her. “Are you sure, Sophie? I wouldn’t have you unhappy for the world.”
“That’s past now.” She put a hand on his arm. “Lord Banallt and I have made up our differences.” She wasn’t lying. And yet, of course, she was, since she knew John was imagining something quite different from what had actually happened between her and the earl.
“You don’t mind that I’ve asked Miss Llewellyn to join us this afternoon?”
She drew the edges of her cloak together. “If you wish to court Miss Llewellyn, John, I think you ought to.”
He looked down his nose at her. “What makes you think I want to court Miss Llewellyn? An invitation to join us at Gunter’s hardly constitutes an offer of marriage, Sophie. I extended a polite offer to her, nothing more.”
“Well,” she said carefully. “Then I think you’d best be careful with her, for it was my impression she feels differently than you.” She bumped his arm with her shoulder. “I rather thought she might be in love with you. But that’s ridiculous, I see that now.”
John stopped short. He grabbed her shoulders. “Fidelia? In love with me? Why is that ridiculous?”
“John, you’re an awful dissembler.” She shook her head. “Don’t think for a moment you can hide from me the fact that you are in love with her, too. It’s preposterous.”
“I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”
“I’ve known for days, John.”
He let out a sharp breath. “Do you mind?”
They reached their door, and she faced him on the steps. “No, of course not. But even if I did, you mustn’t let that stand in the way of your happiness. Will you promise me that? I want your happiness, John, more than anything. It’s plain to me that you and Miss Llewellyn belong together.”
“Despite that Banallt is her godfather and her relative?”
“I don’t think he would disagree with me.”
“I’ve not made a friend of him, Sophie.”
“No,” she said. “You have not.”
Light danced in his green eyes, but then he fell serious. “You’re not the one who must face him to ask his permission, Sophie. He’s the head of the family, after all.”
“And what of her father?”
“I’ll manage him.” He broke out in a huge grin. “Somehow.”
Sophie opened the door, but her brother caught the edge and held it for her. She laughed when she went inside. “I know you’re up to the challenge, brother dearest.”
John changed his clothes and left straightaway for Whitehall with a promise to be back in time to escort Sophie to Gunter’s. She bathed, changed her frock, and spent the rest of her afternoon copying out the documents John had left for her. More bills of lading. A few letters. But her attention kept wandering to a new story. She had the perfect hero in mind. When John returned and he’d changed yet again, they walked, as the afternoon was fine. Mrs. Llewellyn and Fidelia arrived at Gunter’s only minutes after they did. With Banallt. She had the opportunity to watch him without his knowing, and she learned she was still giddy over their new relationship.
Banallt took Sophie’s hand and bowed over it, as proper—more, even—as he’d ever been. Then he and John went inside to order. Sophie, Mrs. Llewellyn, and Fidelia sat outside. They kept up a lively conversation until Fidelia said, “Isn’t that Miss George?”
“Why, yes,” Sophie said when she looked. Miss George was alone at a table, which Sophie thought odd, without even a maid for a companion, and she did not have anything to eat or drink before her.
“Her father must be inside,” Fidelia said.
“Or her mother,” said Mrs. Llewellyn.
From where Sophie sat, she could see a small valise at the girl’s feet. Worse than the valise, which was just large enough, Sophie noted, to hold a change of clothes, was that Miss George kept craning her neck as if she were looking for someone. It was this constant checking of passersby that kept her from noticing the ladies.
Sophie leaned over and called to her. “Miss George?”
The young woman started. Her cheeks turned a violent pink. She rested a hand on her upper bosom, and her fingers drummed over her collarbone. “Oh, it’s Mrs. Evans, isn’t it?” Her eyes darted to Mrs. Llewellyn and Fidelia. “Mrs. Llewellyn. Miss Llewellyn. Good afternoon.”
“How do you do, Miss George?” said Mrs. Llewellyn.
“Fine thank you, and you?” The words came out just as they had been drilled into her by her parents and her governess. She looked to her left again.
“Very well. Are you here with your parents, Miss George?” Mrs. Llewellyn smiled. “I’ve a particular question for your mother. Will she return soon, do you think?”
Miss George opened her mouth and closed it. “Why, I-I ... Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’m sure she will.”
Sophie patted the empty seat beside her. “We’re here with my brother, Mr. Mercer, and Lord Banallt. Won’t you join us? I’m sure they’ll bring you an ice. A lemonade, too, if you are thirsty.”
“What’s this?” John said, having returned from inside. Banallt was with him. A servant put lemonades and ices on their table.
“I’ve asked Miss George to join us, John.”
John bowed. Like Sophie, he looked around for Miss George’s parents or a maid and, like Sophie, saw none. His eyebrows drew together. “We should be delighted if you did, Miss George.”
Banallt pulled a pound note from his pocket and handed it to the servant lingering with his now empty tray. “Another lemonade. And an ice. Have you a favorite flavor, Miss George?”
“No, thank you, sir. My lord.” The girl’s fingers drummed faster. “Though you are very kind to ask me.”
�
�I do wish you would,” Banallt said. “We need a woman of sense at this table.”
Fidelia snorted and playfully slapped Banallt’s arm.
A dreadful certainty settled over Sophie. “Is your father near, Miss George?”
“What?” Her foot hit the valise at her feet, and she winced. Not because she’d hurt herself but because she’d drawn attention to it.
Banallt studied her. “Don’t tell us you’ve come out alone, Miss George.”
“No.” Her eyes went wide. “No. I wouldn’t do that.” She swallowed. “I haven’t.”
“Then do sit with us while you wait,” Banallt said. “If something’s gone amiss, Mrs. Llewellyn will see you safely home.”
“I am not here alone,” Miss George said. Her cheeks were bright red. “Mama saw someone she knew when she was a girl. A schoolmate. And she left me here to wait.” Her eyes flickered over them. “Only for a moment. She did so want to say hello to her friend.” She pointed. “There.”
John looked, but Sophie didn’t, because she’d just seen Mr. Frederick Drake walking toward Gunter’s from the opposite side of the street. Miss George saw him, too, and a deeper flush spread over her chest and throat. Drake lifted a hand and then saw that Miss George was not alone. He dropped back.
“There’s Mama now.” Miss George popped off her chair, her valise clutched in one hand. “You see? Everything is fine. Thank you for the ice, and the lemonade.”
Mrs. Llewellyn shaded her eyes. “My dear child, where?”
Fidelia looked, too, and then sat against her chair, quiet. She leaned to Sophie and whispered, “Mr. Drake is there. Not her mother. Everyone knows she’s mad over him.”
“Just there.” Miss George pointed again. “She’s waving at me. I really must go or she’ll be cross with me. Can you not see her?”
“Banallt,” said Mrs. Llewellyn. “Will you see Miss George to her mother?”
Sophie stood. “I shall. Please Banallt, stay here.”
But Miss George was already on her way. Sophie hurried after her. “Miss George,” Sophie said when she’d caught up. She captured the young woman’s free hand. “Please don’t do something you’ll regret the rest of your days. Please.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She stopped and pulled her cloak tight over her shoulders, trying unsuccessfully to hide her valise behind her legs. A heavy cloak, suitable for traveling.
“Reconsider this course of action,” Sophie said, bending near Miss George so she would not be overheard. “I speak from experience. Don’t do this. Your future is at stake. Your happiness.”
Miss George glanced away. “I see Mama now,” she said. And she hurried off, valise in her hand. From across the street, Sophie watched Frederick Drake take a course to intercept her.
“Banallt,” Sophie said when she’d returned to their table. “Please, follow them.” She thought of all the things that might have prevented her elopement with Tommy. How different her life would have been if someone had intervened. “Prevent this. Please.” She reached for him, touching a hand to his arm. “Don’t let that girl ruin her life.”
“Of course.”
“John,” she said at the last minute. “Will you go with him?”
Her brother was already on his feet.
Mrs. Llewellyn took Fidelia’s hand in hers. “We’ll see your sister safely home, Mr. Mercer. Have no fear.”
Twenty-one
Number 26 Henrietta Street, London,
APRIL 3, 1815
WHEN JOHN WASN’T BACK BY SEVEN, SOPHIE ASSUMED he and Banallt must have had to follow Drake and Miss George out of the city. In which event John might not be back until quite late. Possibly not even until tomorrow if they ended up obliged to spend a night on the road. She dined alone and afterward went to her room to finish copying out the documents John had given to her.
Her mind kept wandering off to Banallt, and how he’d gone after Miss George without hesitation. Not the act of the sort of villain she’d made him out to be all these years, was it? She gripped her pen, stilled by an awareness that hollowed out the pit of her stomach. She had never thought Banallt might refuse to go with John. The Banallt she’d known at Rider Hall might well have sat back in his chair and asked, in his familiar bored drawl, why he ought to bother rescuing a girl so obviously determined to ruin herself?
In fact, she had known in her heart he would go after Miss George. Without question. And if that were so, if she had really, honestly, known that to be true of him, why was she clinging to her conviction that he had not changed? Her hand shook and droplets of ink scattered over her page. Had she, all this time, been relying on the fact of his not having changed, in order to protect herself? If so, from what? What, precisely, were her feelings toward him? Please, she thought, let her not have left herself open to being hurt. The side of her hand brushed over the ink and smeared the page and her skin. Was it possible?
She knew Banallt. Better than anyone. He’d said as much himself. She’d seen him at his worst.
And yet.
Before her gaped a yawning abyss. If she fell into it, she would be vulnerable in exactly the way she’d been vulnerable when she’d married Tommy. She didn’t want to give anyone the power to crush her like that again. But if she believed that Banallt had changed? What then?
Impossible.
She didn’t have the strength to go through that again. She didn’t want Banallt to break her heart.
Sophie forced everything out of her head except the document she was copying. It was a speech John intended to give in the House. He liked to have her write his final copy because, he said, she always corrected his errors and managed to throw in an excellent phrase or two for him. Her writing was also easier to read, he claimed. The ink that had splattered on the page and smeared had ruined the sheet. She balled up the page and tossed it into the fire. With a sigh, she got out a clean sheet and began anew.
The house was quiet without John at home. By the time she finished copying, it was half past nine. If John and Banallt weren’t on their way home now, they must have stopped for the night. She washed up, braided her hair, and got into bed with a book.
At midnight, she admitted to herself she intended to read until she was certain John wasn’t coming home. She pulled the covers around her neck and settled in. With every unusual sound, she put down her book and listened for her brother coming up the stairs. No, that distant jingle wasn’t John at the mews. That creak was only the house settling. Later, it was rain on the windows and then a loose shutter on the house next door. At two o’clock, she woke with her chin pressed into the edge of her book. Her lamp was out. In her darkened room, she heard the front door open.
John, at last! But home so late. Had Banallt and John succeeded in stopping Drake? She hoped they’d managed to prevent Miss George from a disastrous marriage. She hurried out of bed, shoving her feet into her wool slippers and snatching her nightrobe from the chair. She lit another lamp and headed down the stairs, expecting to meet John, but he must still have been in the foyer for some reason. She heard voices downstairs.
“John?” she called. “Is that you?” As if it could be anyone else at this hour. She descended the rest of the stairs.
The voices stopped.
So did Sophie. Just a moment’s hesitation. Only a moment. She continued into the foyer. “John?”
The entrance was dark. Their butler was there, rousted from his sleep. He wore a long coat over his nightshirt, and he’d only partially succeeded in smoothing down his hair. Another man, too tall to be John, stood with him. She smelled wet wool. Drops of water plunked onto the floor.
“Banallt?” she said.
Banallt dropped his umbrella into the stand by the door. “Forgive me,” he said. He sounded tired and something else, too, but she could not fathom what that odd note was. “I’m aware it’s not a decent hour of the night,” he said. He meant that for the butler, who held out his hands for Banallt’s things. He shrugged off his dripping greatcoat and
handed over his hat. Still silent, he stripped off his gloves and dropped them into his upturned hat. He rubbed his hands together.
She didn’t dare ask him anything directly. Not yet. Miss George’s potential ruin was not a subject to be discussed in front of the servants.
He addressed the butler. “Wake someone, please, and have my horse seen to. It’s too cold and wet to leave him outside.”
“My lord.” The butler nodded and reached for the pull that would summon a servant. Raindrops fell from Banallt’s coat onto the floor.
“I know it’s late,” Sophie said to the butler. “But would you bring tea to the front parlor?” She turned to Banallt. “My lord, I’m sure you’d like something hot to drink.”
“Yes.” He was a dark shape melting into the doorway. He stood there, a silent figure, for too long. “Thank you, Sophie.” There was a bass note in his words that trembled with some meaning she could not divine. She began to think they had not successfully intercepted Drake. “Tea is an excellent idea,” he said.
“John isn’t home yet,” she said to Banallt as the butler left. “Were you thinking he’d made it back before you?”
He walked toward her. Another servant came from downstairs, heading for the parlor, else, Sophie was certain, Banallt would have spoken, perhaps told her that Miss George had not been rescued after all. Instead, he took her arm, his expression completely unreadable.
In the parlor, the servant had relit the fire and was just putting flame to a lantern. The room was not bright. Nor was it dim, not with Sophie’s light added, for she’d brought her own lamp along with her. The servant darted a look at Banallt then at her. She ducked her head and fled.
“Miss George?” Sophie asked, sinking onto the sofa. The news must be bad indeed. Drake must have escaped them.
“She has been returned to her parents. Unharmed.” Drops of rain slid down his inky hair.
“Thank goodness.” She gestured to a chair, and as she did she saw the ink smears on the outside edge of her palm. As black as Banallt’s hair. “Do sit, Banallt. Please.”
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