Lady Scandal

by Wendy Lacapra

  “And I have been grateful for your discretion,” Sophia interjected.

  “I know the distress of finding thyself without home or family,” Elizabeth began. “I know sometimes we are called to make choices others cannot understand.”

  Sophia swallowed over the rough dust in her throat. “Yes, we are.”

  “None,” Elizabeth continued, “who shelter with me canst afford revelation.”

  Sophia drew back. “I would never put the home you have created at risk.”

  “I believe thee.”

  Elizabeth pursed her lips and closed her eyes, as if seeking her words through some other medium than just her own thought. When she opened them again, Sophia saw greater peace…and a greater resolve.

  “Art thou, in the world’s words, a Lady?” she asked.

  Sophia did not answer.

  Elizabeth’s grip tightened. “Art thou running from thy rightful husband?”

  From the tone in the matron’s voice, Sophia understood Elizabeth already knew. Sophia’s heart hit the bottom of her well-worn half boots.

  “I am.” She turned her face to the sunlight streaming through the window and let its warmth fall over her cheeks. Her heart pushed upward into the dusty dryness of her throat. “Has he come?”

  Elizabeth’s voice was soft, “A Lord Randolph hath requested our direction at the inn.”

  “He is my husband.”

  Elizabeth sighed. “Thy husband has been sent the long way around the village—his journey here will take a quarter hour, at least.”

  Sophia exhaled. She still had a chance. “I will leave you and your borders in peace. I will not tell you which direction I take, so you may answer truthfully that you do not know.”

  She would gather her things together…she would find another place to hide. In her mind, a map of England unfolded. Roads spread like veins through hamlets and towns and stretches of wood and countryside.

  If he could find her here, was there anywhere she could hide from Randolph? And what of Kasai and his men? Was there anywhere she could be safe from her father’s enemies?

  Elizabeth touched her arm. “Thee hast no other choice? Cannot the rent between thee and thy husband be mended?”

  “No. It cannot.” Sophia’s answer was immediate. Her resolve, she realized with a growing distress, was not.

  “Canst,” Elizabeth offered, “is far from wishith.”

  The words were said without judgment. And for reasons she did not understand, tears stung behind Sophia’s eyelids.

  Elizabeth hesitated. “Is thy life in danger from thy husband?”

  Was it? If Randolph had intended to cause her harm, she had given him plenty of chances—a fact which had escaped her angry, frightened heart the night she had left London. She hated, hated having been so easily deceived. But was shame reason enough to set out into the woods with only the clothes on her back?

  Who was the real Randolph? The executioner of her nightmares or the lover of her dreams? Though to stay and find out was unwise, to run without destination could be worse. Despite the pride Sophia took in being strong, despite the renewed strength of peaceful sleep, she could not stop the wetness seeping between her lashes.

  “Did the message give the number in Randolph’s party?” she asked.

  Elizabeth frowned. “I expect only thy husband.”

  Well, that was something. He had come alone. Alone, when he could have easily had her forcibly removed by the weight of his station backed by his right as her husband. When trapped in place with an opponent who may or may not be his enemy baring down, what would Baneham have done?

  She had no answer. Baneham had been a ruthless, soulless bastard and Baneham was dead. He was dead because he had trusted the wrong man or men.

  The question Sophia needed to answer was, could she live by trusting the right one?

  …

  Earl Baneham’s Rules for Winning

  “Keep the larger objective in sight.”

  To reach his wife, Randolph need only triumph over a petite woman whose snowy white hair was capped with an equally white bonnet. Unfortunately, the task was not as simple as he had first assumed.

  “Randolph is thy title, not thy name.” As she repeated herself, the old woman’s melodic voice soothed, though her soft hazel eyes remained obstinate.

  “Lord Randolph,” he clarified.

  “All men are equal in God’s sight,” she said. “Here, however imperfectly, we live according to His law.”

  “What of the laws of England, Madam?” he asked.

  “I have told thee,” she replied, “to call me Elizabeth. And, I will call thee…?” She paused with a pleasant smile gracing her face.

  In the light of her smile, understanding dawned. She meant to somehow enforce their equal status in God’s sight by using his Christian name. He blinked. Not even his mother called him by his Christian name—although, come to think of it, Harrison may have mentioned the first-name custom in his litany of Quaker peculiarities.

  Randolph had only ever been called Randolph since the day his father had died. A day he could not remember that marked the loss of a father he could not remember.

  The woman’s gaze softened, as if she had felt the unexpected stab his lack of memory released.

  “Friend,” she said gently as she gestured to the bench by the table, “Wilt thou rest from thy journey? Perhaps thee will then be more at ease.”

  “Rest?” he snorted. “Madam—” he checked himself, “Elizabeth, I do not have the time or inclination to rest. What I have is—”

  “Thou needest rest,” she said firmly. “Friend…?”

  Mad. He was going to go stark raving mad.

  “Hugh,” he said to the infuriating woman, taking a seat at her table.

  “Hugh,” she repeated. “Welcome.”

  The woman reached for a pitcher and poured a measure of water into a cup. Reluctantly, he took the glass and sipped. As if rest would help him. If Elizabeth had poured him a finger of strong Scottish whiskey, now that may have helped.

  “I have come,” he tried again, “for my wife.”

  A slightly worried light entered the woman’s eyes. “Only the Light possesses the power to compel.”

  “You speak in riddle, Elizabeth.”

  The woman folded her hands in front of her chest, closed her eyes, and shut him out. When she opened her eyes, the troubled look had vanished.

  “Thee may not use force. Thy wife may remain here, if so guided.”

  May remain here? As if this woman had the ability to force him out.

  “Men and women,” she said, “come to me in need of reprieve.”

  He looked away from the accusation behind the old woman’s gaze and glanced out through the wavy glass to the courtyard beyond. Two weeks had taken their toll on his patience, but they’d also taken a toll on his certainty. Night after long night, he had imagined Sophia in the worst of situations…dead in the ditch, or worse, taken by Kasai—shackled and whisked off to a ship he would never be able to track.

  He sucked in a country-scented breath.

  All the while, she had been here. Here. And, safe.

  He was far more comfortable in the bustling activity of a London street than in this place of peace. Which was to say, he was far more comfortable among thieves than those of virtue.

  The thought nagged at his conscience. Virtue or no, he had but one objective.

  Sophia may be his by right, but she was not yet his by volition. And by her choice was the only way she would return.

  If he thought differently, he need only talk to the duke of Wynchester about his estranged wife, Thea.

  He stared at the little woman—the only person remaining between he and Sophia. Certainly, she must be some sort of witch. For he was about to make a devil’s bargain.

  …Or was he, perhaps, making an angel’s bargain?

  “I understand, Elizabeth.”

  She cocked her head. “And thou will not use force to compel thy w
ife?”

  “I swear,” he said.

  “Thou hast no need for an oath. A simple ‘I will not’ will suffice.”

  Was the woman in earnest? He sighed. “I will not use force to compel my wife.”

  She smiled, finally satisfied. “Then, I will happily retrieve her.”

  Retrieve her.

  Happily, no less.

  As if he had misplaced Sophia. He had clearly misplaced something. Several things, in truth. For instance, his pride, his purpose, and his mind.

  He glanced around the now empty chamber. The door through which he had entered opened directly into a dining area like an old medieval hall, but without the tapestries and torches. In fact—he looked around—the room had no ornamentation.

  He thought of Sophia’s stuffed sofas and the decorative inlay in her opulently carved desk. He thought of the Belgian lace that spilled from her cuffs and the diamonds that dangled from impossibly perfect little ears.

  Begrudgingly, he had to admit this farm had been an excellent choice for a place to hide.

  The floorboard creaked without a discernible footstep, and he looked up. The woman standing at Elizabeth’s side possessed Sophia’s face—but the rest of her body caused him to question his recognition.

  Gone were her silks. Gone were her jewels, her artfully piled hair and, most disconcertingly, her secure superiority. This apron-clad, bonneted servant could not possibly be Sophia. Out of habit, he stood, but could move no further. Surely, some iron-jawed trap had burst through the floorboards and snapped closed around his legs.

  She raised her eyes to his, and the woman he knew came alive in their blue depths. Awareness grabbed his lower gut and twisted its fist.

  “Hugh.” Her voice quivered as the unfamiliar name rolled off her tongue.

  “My lady,” he managed.

  His hostess—Elizabeth—cleared her throat. “I have explained to thee our ways, Hugh. Here, she is Jane.”

  He raised a brow. “Jane?”

  “Sophia Jane.” She glanced nervously at their host and then back. “You have had a long journey, Hugh. Would you like—?”

  “Sophia!”

  She jerked back.

  He hadn’t meant to growl—but it was all too much, the meek voice, the servant clothes, and the Quaker talk.

  Elizabeth placed her hand on Sophia’s shoulder. “Perhaps Hugh would appreciate a turn in our lane. The view from the hill is very soothing.”

  Sophia’s eyes clouded and the skin around her strawberry lips pinched. Randolph read distrust in her expression—and was ashamed at the consequent surge of power that flooded his veins.

  He was well within his rights to have her forcibly removed, but he had sworn—no, given his word—he would not use force to compel Sophia. Even if he did possess the legal power to drag her if he wished to do so…and if he were the amoral animal she evidently believed him to be.

  “I would enjoy,” he said, with as much gentility as he could muster, “a turn in Elizabeth’s lane. I have told Elizabeth I will not use force to compel you to leave.”

  Elizabeth looked him right in the eye. “Remember.”

  He shifted his gaze, taking in the soft curve of Sophia’s cheek and the small glimmer of hope within her cornflower blue eyes. The shock of her presence raced through him like a living thing, stronger than the fury in his pursuit, stronger than his fear.

  “I have given my word,” he said.

  In fact, he would have given a great deal more for a few moments by Sophia’s side.

  Chapter Seven

  Earl Baneham’s Rules for Winning

  “Trust no one, least of all a friend.”

  Sophia headed toward the lane, matching strides with Randolph, or—she eyed him askance—Hugh. She had dutifully echoed the Bishop’s words as they wed, but she would not have thought to call Randolph by his Christian name. Somehow calling him Hugh made him less threatening.

  …slightly less threatening.

  As they headed in silence toward the hill, invisible tension grew heavy in the air as if a storm approached—a storm whose ravages she could not fathom. Internal, scattered lightning coursed through her body, leaving her with heightened awareness. Her emotion lurched from a prisoner’s grim impatience awaiting a verdict, to a pilgrim’s daunted anticipation of untamed land she must forge into a home.

  She was stirred. She was wary. She was—she checked her heart—decidedly not in fear for her life.

  Would a ruthless killer have arrived hat-in-hand, alone? Would a callous villain have promised Elizabeth he would not use force to compel his wife, when the law allowed him force and so much more? Would a peer intent on vengeance reveal his Christian name to a common Quaker?

  Perhaps he would have done those things…if the killer-villain-peer were lying to win her confidence. But if her demise was Randolph’s aim, he had easier means than elaborate deception. And only a heart seeped in generations of corruption would expect so many layers of malfeasance. She did not want to be so distrusting, so certain of widespread villainy. Although she would never be as kind as Elizabeth, she wanted to live differently than she’d lived under Baneham, differently even than she’d lived with the Furies.

  But she did not know how to create a life of candid simplicity while maintaining some protection from the hazardous residue of her Baneham heritage.

  Randolph stopped at the edge of the wood. She kept moving, unable to be still in her confusion and in her apprehension of the torrent yet to come.

  “Sophia.”

  She halted. Randolph’s voice might have been a line in the darkness, or a band clicked closed around her arm.

  A breeze sang through the leafy branches and wafted over her skin like a lover’s soft caress. In contrast, he approached from behind, each footfall a crack of thunder. Through wool, his heat overwhelmed the gentle heat of the sun. As always, he radiated strength.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  Why did she feel that if she turned, she would lose what little she had left? He was a man—just a man. Every London rogue had clamored for her favor. Could she not handle Randolph?

  “You promised,” she reminded, “not to compel me by force.”

  “You promised to obey me.”

  Something in her crumpled—discarded pride, perhaps. She had been deceived. Such fundamental deception was hard to accept and harder still to forgive. So he was furious, was he? She could meet such rage.

  She turned, ready for battle, only Randolph did not appear as she expected. His arms hung loose at his side. His grey eyes held hers, not damning but inquisitive and expectant.

  “When I married you,” she said, “I married you under false pretense.”

  “I challenged you before, and will challenge you again. Are you certain I deceived you, sweetness?”

  A swollen river of feeling roared between them.

  “Yes.”

  “Whom did you think you were marrying, then?”

  A frivolous man. A man she could manage. Her gazed dropped from his broad shoulders to his leather-wrapped thighs. A man who had made her hot with longing.

  “Not you,” she answered. But for the last reason.

  With the gentle promise of agility and skill, he rested his hands on her shoulders. His scent infused her senses and her skin sighed in anticipation. A shiver of pure longing skittered down her arms, stopping where she held her stomach before settling deep within. She closed her eyes against urges beyond her ability to master.

  “Why then,” he asked in the same smooth voice, “did you marry this false version of me?”

  She bristled, pushing back against an unseen, ever-tightening web. “I lost a wager.”

  “You did,” he agreed, “but you first suggested marriage, not I.”

  “I did not,” she said firmly, “I merely told you my charms were not for sale.”

  “If you had not wanted to marry me,” he continued smoothly, “you could have had your solicitor draw up an addendum to the marriage co
ntract with additional terms I never would have signed.”

  “You signed the most outrageous terms I could imagine.”

  “True. Still, no one beyond you and I knew the terms of our wager, let alone the outcome of the additional game. You could have offered me an alternate prize—or you could have extended the wager.”

  She opened her eyes. “There are no higher stakes to play than my freedom. I had given you my word.”

  His eyes softened. “If you had broken your word, you would not have been to blame.”

  “Oh?” She swallowed. “Why is that?”

  “Because,” he replied, “I unfairly used our mutual desire to force the wager.”

  Mutual desire. The words hardly captured the frenzied nature of her starvation-laden need. She had wanted Randolph enough to fix the outcome of their final game.

  Denial was of no use. Randolph was right. If she’d had her wits fully engaged, she would have recognized his nature. Looking at him now, she could hardly credit the assurances she’d used to quiet her sense. No one looking at Randolph would believe him lazy. Licentious, perhaps. But driven by ennui? Never.

  Again, she’d been a servant to her weakness.

  What a foolish chit she had been. She had wanted to marry the lie…a widow’s flimsy creation, constructed from the ache of too many a nights alone. Watching her good friend Lavinia fall heedlessly in love had not helped. She had grown jealous of the ease and closeness between Lavinia and Maximilian Harrison. Love was not for the likes of her, but she had believed she and Randolph could share laughter, and banter, and lust.

  “Did you,” Randolph asked, “truly marry me believing me to be weak and frivolous?”

  “Frivolous is not weak, Randolph.”

  “No,” he released her shoulders, “but admit…” He lifted her hand. “…You thought you could meld me,” he drew his thumb down her palm, “like putty.”

  Maddening, he was. And oh-so-attractive, blast her penchant for mysterious eyes.

  …and muscular thighs.

  …and squared shoulders.

  …and a scent so enticing she wanted to take a bite out of his shoulder.

  “Instead,” she said, while his heavy hands baked her shoulders, “you intend to meld me.”