He said, “You aren’t saying what the imp did is my fault, are you?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” She quickly moistened her lips. “He didn’t get the knife from me, and if it’s yours, he didn’t have it with him.” Suddenly, she abruptly stopped talking and let out a long, shaky, sighing breath.
She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment. Matson couldn’t help but think she was summoning some inner strength to compose herself. When her lashes lifted, her eyes were softer, calmer. Her expression was concerned and sad. Matson saw she had reasons he didn’t understand for being so frantic to get her reticule back.
“My mother’s brooch was in that reticule,” she whispered. Her attention strayed back to the teeming square. “I must get it back.”
“I’m sure your mother will forgive you for losing it. It wasn’t your fault.”
She lowered her lashes again as if shading her eyes from something she didn’t want him to see, and shook her head. “You don’t understand. It’s not a question of that. My mother died years ago.”
Her voice was clotted with emotion and hampered by erratic breathing. Matson saw a flash of anguish in her eyes, and his annoyance with her vanished.
“I’m sorry,” he offered softly.
Desire to draw her to his chest and soothe her grew inside him. He wanted to feel her soft, pliant lips beneath his in a tender, comforting kiss. If he hadn’t been so enthralled by her loveliness, patting himself on the back for stepping up and handling the situation, the boy would never have made his escape.
As if resignation had settled in, she lifted her bonnet back onto her head, and her hand knocked a loosely pinned comb from her hair. A silken torrent of red curls fell over her right shoulder, caressed her neck, and tumbled down her breast. Everything inside Matson grew taut with restraint. His fingers itched to trace one of the curls and then slowly wind its softness around his finger. His knuckles wanted to brush across the fullness of her breast, where the curl lay on such a sweet pillow.
Suddenly, the shrill sound of a frantic lady’s voice sliced through the air as if it were an icicle. “Sophia!”
Matson and the young lady looked behind them, and Matson saw her two chaperones, holding onto their hats and parasols, rushing toward them.
One lady outran the other and stumbled to a halt beside them, her face punctuated by a chaffed ruddiness. Clutching her hand to her chest and breathing hard, she said, “What is this? What is going on here?”
The chaperone may have been older, but she was not a dunce. Matson felt her question was more of a silent accusation. It was as if she had read his mind in the keenest way, making him wonder what her own romantic trysts had been when she was younger.
“We’re trying to find the boy, Aunt June. You know my mother’s brooch was in that reticule.”
“Yes, yes, I know that. Here is your parasol. Open it quickly. The sun is very bright today. And do fit your bonnet on properly, my dear.”
“Sophia,” the other lady gasped, inhaling deeply when she skidded to a stop beside them. “Thank God we caught up to you. We were so worried to see you racing off like that to heaven knows where.”
“The boy ran in there, Aunt Mae,” Sophia said, pointing toward Timsford’s Square. “I must find him.”
“Oh, but you can’t do that. Come, we’ll go to the authorities and let them handle this.”
“That’s just what I was going to say, Sister,” June added. “Why, trying to find that ruffian in so large a crowd would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
Sophia gave Matson a determined glance before turning her attention back to the women. “Perhaps it is, but you know me well enough to know that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try.”
“Oh, Sophia, for once in your life be sensible.”
Now that the chaperones were so close to him, Matson could see that they must be twins—Mae and June. They had the same color of hair, eyes, and complexion, as well as the same facial features. Being a twin himself, Matson knew how rare it was to see identical adults. Even when he and his brother were youngsters, they seldom came across another set of twins.
But Matson and his brother Iverson had been more than mere oddities, because their faces were indistinguishable from each other when they’d arrived in London last fall. They had the misfortune of being the spitting image of the older, well-respected Sir Randolph Gibson, and they didn’t resemble their legal father at all. Months later, the gossipmongers were still talking about them being Sir Randolph’s by-blow, a poet had written a slanderous parody about them, and wagers concerning their parentage were still offered at White’s and other gentlemen’s clubs throughout London.
“Ladies,” Matson said, bowing, “pardon me for interrupting, and permit me to introduce myself.”
“Absolutely not,” June said, seeming horrified that he’d even spoken to them.
“Sir, we can’t allow you to do that,” Mae added, moving to stand between Matson and Sophia as if she feared he might pounce on the young lady. “We know nothing about you.”
Matson watched the shifting emotions on Sophia’s face. It looked as if she didn’t want to remain quiet and adhere to the women’s commands, but she didn’t want to take them to task and be disrespectful to them in front of him either.
“He’s looking for the boy, too, Aunties. We know what he looks like. The authorities will not.”
“It doesn’t matter, my dear. As of here and now, this is no longer our concern.”
“Of course it is,” Sophia protested again.
“We’ll give the authorities a detailed description of the lad. June is right, and we must listen to her. We can’t allow just anyone who happens to be on the street to introduce himself to you.”
“Come along, Sophia,” June said and then made an odd clucking sound before saying, “We have much to do if we are going to have any hope of finding your purse.”
Matson watched in surprise as, in tandem, the matching sentinels hooked their hands around the young lady’s elbows, turned her around, and marched away with her, the ribbons hanging from their parasols fluttering in the breeze.
Matson had no idea who Sophia was, but he wanted to know.
She was beautiful. She was delectable. She was aggressive, inviting, and intriguing. Most captivating of all was the small flare of vulnerability he witnessed when she told him the brooch was her mother’s. She had covered the weakness quickly, and he liked the fact that she wasn’t going to let it keep her from going after the cutpurse. That is, until the two soldiers came along and waylaid her.
Matson watched as the three rounded the corner and disappeared from view. He smiled to himself and wondered which gave the other more trouble: the chaperones or Sophia. He chuckled to himself and thought perhaps the twins. They were definitely double trouble for the young lady.
He spoke softly to himself: “What man wouldn’t be instantly drawn to her?”
She couldn’t be engaged or married. If she had a husband, she wouldn’t be so carefully watched by her aunts. He’d learned years ago with Mrs. Delaney that there were some boundaries a gentleman shouldn’t cross, and pursuing an engaged or married lady was one of them.
But what if she was a powerful duke’s daughter, as he had suspected when he first saw her? Would the second son of a viscount be a welcomed suitor, especially a son who’d gone to America, made his fortune, and had only recently returned to London and the polite society to which he’d been born?
Matson snorted ruefully and shook his head. He had another strike against him too. He was very obviously the son of Sir Randolph Gibson, a man who was not his legal father. That gave Matson more pause than the prospect of the lovely Sophia having a fiancé. Fathers could be damned difficult about their daughters.
Especially powerful fathers.
His oldest brother, Brent, was testament to that.
The first thing Matson had to do was to discover who she was.
He placed his hat back on hi
s head and looked out over the packed square. No, the first thing he had to do was find the boy and take back the reticule and dagger. Returning the beloved brooch should win him favor with the young lady and perhaps her father too.
Two
Nothing so much prevents our being natural as the desire of appearing so.
—François de La Rochefoucauld
Sophia Hart stood with her two aunts and her guardian, Sir Randolph Gibson, in the crowded ballroom of the Great Hall and looked at the faces of all the gentlemen on the dance floor. She was in a quandary.
How was she going to fulfill her promise to her father? Even though it wasn’t in her nature to be an obedient or submissive daughter, she didn’t regret making her vow to him. It was the right thing to do then and now, but until she had arrived at her first ball and seen the sheer number of gentlemen present, she had no idea how difficult that promise would be.
It wasn’t very late in the evening, but the large, opulent room was crowded, hot, and loud. Candlelight from the magnificent chandeliers bathed everything in a golden glow. The dance floor was centered in the middle of the room, and the host of people stood around it, talking, laughing, and whispering.
She’d arrived at the Great Hall over two hours ago, and already she’d encountered more gentlemen than she could remember. Much to her aunts’ and Sir Randolph’s excitement, she had been presented to an earl, two viscounts, five barons, and more than a dozen other eligible gentlemen. The problem was she couldn’t envision herself spending the rest of her life with any of them.
Her aunts had done well in preparing her for her first ball. Because of her father’s illness and then his death, she’d missed the past two Seasons and had already turned twenty. They were all eager for her to make a match before the spring parties ended, and be a bride before the fall chill set in.
Mae and June had seen to it that the year she’d spent mourning her father was productive. All her gowns, wraps, headpieces, and shoes were elegantly styled in the latest fashions. Before he fell ill, the settings of her pearls, emeralds, and sapphires had been handpicked by her father and had been tucked away in the safe, waiting for her first Season to begin.
From her birth, it seemed, she had been groomed for this. Her dance instructor had sung her praises, delighting in how light she was on her feet. She had been well tutored in writing, reading, and sums, as well as the finer things ladies were supposed to excel in, such as painting, embroidery, and playing the pianoforte.
Sophia had endured many lessons on how to properly manage a large household with up to twenty staff. Nothing in her dowry, education, or her trousseau was lacking, and as far as her father, Sir Randolph, and her aunts were concerned, there was no reason she couldn’t tempt a titled gentleman to offer for her hand. To them, her great fortune, which Sir Randolph was currently in charge of, was just an added enticement to her many personal accomplishments.
A month ago, Sophia and her aunts had arrived in London and had settled into Sir Randolph’s comfortable but eccentrically decorated town house. Everything possible had been done to ensure that Miss Sophia Hart, heiress to Shevington Shipping Company, would keep the vow she had made to her father on his deathbed and become the bride of a titled gentleman. Now, actually settling on the man and getting him to offer for her hand was up to Sophia.
The wealth or title of the man wasn’t important to her, but that he allow her freedom to continue to have a substantial say in how Shevington Shipping was managed mattered a great deal, so Sophia had to be careful whom she chose. She couldn’t turn her back on what she had promised her father; as Sir Randolph had said many times: a person was only as good as their word. She would keep hers.
All the preparation that went on before her arrival in London had been easy compared to the task at hand now. Her first two hours at the ball were a series of one introduction after another. Sir Randolph had paraded her around the room, making sure she met everyone who was there at the time. She found out only tonight that Sir Randolph had not told one soul that he had become the guardian of a young lady little more than a year ago. Everyone was surprised and clamoring to meet her. It truly wasn’t remarkable or unusual for an older, well-respected gentleman to become the guardian of an heiress. She could only assume the whispers behind fans and hands were because Sir Randolph had never married and had no children of his own.
Her father and Sir Randolph had been business partners in several shipping ventures and good friends for many years. Sophia had always known Sir Randolph was the only person her father would trust with her future. Her father wanted her to have what his lowborn social standing could never achieve for her, even though he’d beaten the odds, considering his impoverished upbringing, and become a very wealthy man. He’d wanted her to marry a titled gentleman.
She had no doubts that Sir Randolph could see her properly wed, but she had many doubts concerning his ability to oversee her fortune. Unlike her father, who had worked hard and developed his business empire from shrewd dealings over many years, Sir Randolph had inherited his wealth. He had little knowledge or interest in the finer details that kept a business thriving.
Since Sophia was an only child, her father had indulged her and allowed her to learn far more about his shipping business than most would consider appropriate for a daughter. Long before his death, he’d allowed her to go over the account books with him and help him make decisions concerning companies, cargo, and countries that were eager for fabrics, spices, gemstones, and a host of other things from India and the Orient. Sir Randolph was much too willing to leave many details and decisions up to the solicitors and Shevington Shipping’s primary manager, Mr. Edward Peabody.
A rotund gentleman no taller than Sophia approached them. Sophia was well acquainted with the procedure and smiled all through the complicated introductions and curtsies while she and her aunts were presented to the robust Earl of Bighampton.
“You two look so much alike, you must be twins,” Lord Bighampton said to one of her aunts, causing them both to beam.
“Yes, we are,” June said.
“That’s just what I was going to say,” Aunt Mae added, smiling sweetly at the man. She opened her fan and started slowly fanning herself. “We are twins, my lord, though we were born on different days.”
“And different months, too,” June quickly inserted.
“I’m sure that is quite uncommon,” Lord Bighampton said, seemingly a bit taken aback by the comment.
“Not really. You see, Mae was born just before midnight on May thirty-first, and I was born just after midnight on June the first.”
“That’s why our mama named us Mae and June,” Mae said, finishing the story for her sister.
“We think it’s an exceptional story indeed, and we do seem to attract attention wherever we go.”
“It’s been that way all our lives,” Mae added.
“I’m sure that’s true,” the earl said drily, making no show to hide how uninterested he was in the aunties’ account of their birth.
There was nothing her aunts liked better than telling the story of their birth, and they told it often. While her aunts were keeping the earl occupied, Sophia let their chatter and the roar of the large and crowded room fade from her thoughts. Once again, her gaze flitted across the face of every gentleman in the room.
Off and on all evening, she had scanned the crowd for the gentleman who had tried to help her with the little thief she’d encountered a few days ago. She’d wished a thousand times since then she’d defied her aunts and had gotten his name before they whisked her away. If she had, she would have been able to send him a note to thank him for his willingness to aid her. She knew she had acted too hastily in the square when she was looking for the boy, but at the time she couldn’t do anything else. She couldn’t let herself admit that the lad had gotten away. Thoughts of having lost the brooch always caused a pang of angst in her chest, but she refused to give up hope or faith that it would be returned to her. It was the last tangib
le thing she had of her mother’s.
The constable had quietly listened to her story and description of the lad but didn’t leave her with much hope of recovering her treasured item. He insisted that London had many young ruffians and pickpockets roaming the streets, looking for mischief. But just this afternoon an idea had come to Sophia that she would put into action tomorrow—if she could talk Sir Randolph into letting her do it. She couldn’t continue waiting on the authorities and doing nothing to help find the brooch.
Thinking of that afternoon reminded her of the exciting and delicious feelings that tumbled in her stomach when she first noticed the gentleman who’d helped her. She’d never seen so young a man wear a beard. For a moment she wondered if one could call the narrow line of closely trimmed hair that bordered the outside of his clean-shaven cheek, along his jawline, and across his chin, a beard. It certainly wasn’t much of one, but what little there was made him appear so devilishly handsome—just how she envisioned a rogue or rake of the highest order would look. Her heartbeat had raced at the sight of him chasing after the boy, dodging people, smashing pies, and jumping over tumbling loaves of bread.
She’d tried every argument she could think of to get her aunts to take her back to the square to look for the lad, hoping she might see the man again too, but the aunties would have none of that. They insisted there was no way they would risk even a breath of scandal touching her name. They had worked too hard to help keep her reputation pure and unblemished, and a brush, no matter how slight, with the unsavory side of life was not in the best interests of her future.
The earl faced Sophia, and she realized he was talking to her, so she smiled.
“When the music resumes, Miss Hart, would you give me the pleasure of a dance?”
“Yes, thank you, my lord.”
“Good. I shall return for you later.” He nodded to her aunts and Sir Randolph before walking away.
Amelia Grey - [Rogues' Dynasty 06] Page 2