Yes, definitely coy. Flirtatious even. Considering he hadn’t had a woman in his bed in days, he should have been tempted. But he wasn’t. The girl couldn’t have been much older than Liddy.
She grimaced, as if shocked at her own brazen question.
For Grey’s part, he was tired, achy, and eager to see the end of another train journey. Damnably, this one would end in Derbyshire, the place he’d been avoiding for a decade.
“I offer you my heartiest apologies, miss,” he said, firing off a practiced grin and sitting up straight in his seat so that their legs were no longer in danger of tangling.
The young lady glanced at the train car door before leaning toward him. “Can’t you offer anything more scandalous?”
Grey pinched the bridge of his nose and studied the girl’s pale skin, silt brown hair, and eager eyes. With her pristine gloves and fashionably modest gown, she was the picture of feminine innocence. Yet above her buttoned-to-the-chin neckline, she gazed at him in breathless anticipation of mischief.
“I’m afraid I cannot.” Grey shook his head. Honestly, he claimed no understanding of young women. He’d never bedded a virgin in his life. Indeed, he steered clear of women of propriety.
Like Sophia Ruthven.
At the thought of her, he shifted in his seat. Why couldn’t he have awoken to find Sophia seated across from him? He wondered if he’d ever be able to embark on a train journey again without missing the sight of her perched on the opposite bench.
“Trust me, scandal is not as appealing as it seems.” After growing up in a family endlessly sullied by the infidelities of his parents, he’d spun his own brand of outrage by abandoning his title to seek fame on the stage.
Despite the debaucheries he’d enjoyed, he couldn’t recommend the stain of scandal to a young woman with her whole life ahead. For Liddy, he hoped for a better future. Their father insisted his sister’s marriage to a powerful aristocrat would keep whispers of Stanhope scandals from following her into adulthood. Marrying well worked for his eldest sister, Olivia, who remained blissfully ensconced with her Scottish duke in a Dunkirk castle.
“Is it because I’m plain?” His train companion slumped against her cushioned bench, crossed her arms, and glared at him. “My sister’s the pretty one. Gentlemen trip over themselves to compete for her attention, but nothing remotely exciting ever happens to me.”
Had that been Liddy’s motive too? The prospect of excitement, even if it led to social ruin? Derbyshire could be dreadfully quiet.
Before he could reassure the young lady, the train’s whistle drew his attention. They couldn’t be at the Derby station yet. Grey glanced out the window. Far down the line, he spotted a gathering of enormous ruddy brown cows. Though one perked an ear and turned its head at the whistle’s screech, none of the beasts seemed inclined to abandon their spot on the tracks.
“Brace yourself,” Grey urged as a series of high-pitched air whistles sounded again.
“For what?”
After the piercing screech of crushing metal, the train car jerked to a stop. The girl lurched toward his bench, and Grey positioned himself to blunt her fall. She cried out in pain as they crashed together. They held each other a moment, and then he released her gently, helping her back onto her bench.
Tears spilled over her cheeks.
“Are you all right?” Grey scanned the girl for any outward sign of injury.
“My arm and shoulder smart a bit, but I’m in one piece.”
“You can move your arm all right?” Grey stood and handed the girl a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. She moved her arm gingerly as she gripped the square of cloth.
“Yes,” she said, swiping at the dampness on her cheeks. When he started out of their train carriage, the young woman called out, “Where are you going?” Her crystal sharp voice took on a panicked note.
“To find out what’s happened. I’ll return shortly.”
Grey proceeded down the train car hall. Cries, shouts, and grumbles were overrun by a terrible grinding squeal emerging from below the train car itself. Outside the windows, a billow of black smoke clouded his view.
A man in a conductor’s uniform approached. “Are you injured, sir?”
“No, but it sounds as though others might be.”
“We’ve already sent to the local village for a doctor. If you’re able-bodied, we need assistance to disembark passengers.”
“Here?” Grey hunched his shoulders and peeked out beyond the rising smoke. “In the middle of a field?”
“ ’Fraid the train’s not moving for a while. Seems we have a bad cylinder, and it will take time to check the cranks and line.”
Grey could read Ovid in the original Latin, Sappho in Greek, and memorize lines for a play within a few hours’ time, but the mechanics of locomotion were beyond his knowledge and interest. He did, however, know how to calm overwrought young women. Dozens thronged around the stage doors to see him after every performance.
“I’ll help. Tell me what to do.”
Nothing about Rothley Ladies College was as Sophia expected.
Kit and Ophelia had traveled with Clary to get her settled in, and their only descriptions on returning had been about the institution’s admirable curriculum and fearsome headmistress. Having been educated at home, first by a governess and later by various tutors in art, music, and decorum, Sophia imagined a ladies’ boarding school to be a place of strictures as forbidding as her father’s. Dull uniforms and general drudgery. Now, she thought perhaps she was relying too much on visions of Jane Eyre’s Lowood School for expectations.
Filled with trees, Rothley’s campus brimmed with carefully snipped box hedges and clusters of flowers around stone benches. On carved balustrades, dozens of female students sat or reclined in the sun with books in hand. The severity of the three-story main building was tempered by riots of ivy festooning every brick. From one of the windows, a beautiful harmony of voices lifted in song.
“You’re here!” Clary shouted, her arms encircling Sophia from behind.
She patted her sister’s clasped hands and smiled. “You’ll have to let go so I can get a look at you.”
One glance and Sophia could see that Clary had changed. Not in the measure of her exuberance or blinding smiles, but something in her face and eyes. A leanness she hadn’t recalled, a maturity she hadn’t expected.
Yet examining Clary from head to toe, much remained the same. Paint-splotched fingers, a flower tucked behind her ear, and ribbon rosettes decorating her school uniform. The bodice and skirt were a decidedly odd color. All the other young ladies dotting the campus wore a simple cream shirtwaist over a straight black skirt. Clary’s blouse was a strange shade of pink on purple.
“It’s mauve,” she proudly announced. “I dyed it myself in chemistry class.”
“You definitely stand out among your classmates.” Clearly a few months at college hadn’t hampered Clary’s unique sense of style or her rebellious nature. Sophia had to admit there was a soothing appeal in the shade. If nothing else, the color set off Clary’s violet eyes. “What does your teacher say?”
“What could she say? She’s the one who taught us the formula.” Clary clasped Sophia around the arm. “Come up to my dormitory where we can chat privately. The rest of my dorm sisters are at choir practice or the monthly tennis tournament.”
Clutter was a gentle description of the chaos reigning in Clary’s shared dormitory. Amid four spartan beds, lady residents had scattered books, sporting equipment, and clothing. An apparatus that had the air of a medieval torture device dominated an oval rug in the center of the room.
“Impressive, isn’t it? One of my dorm mates has been working on that engineering project for weeks.” Clary tidied as she spoke. After clearing books and empty teacups off a wingback chair, she wiped the seat clean with the edge of her sleeve. She gestured toward the chair proudly afterward. Sophia restrained a wince and took the chair.
“I would fully explain the mathematics of
it all to you, but you know how despairingly I feel about mathematics.”
None of the Ruthvens had ever been numerically inclined. Words were their domain. Even as a child, Sophia had kept a hidden box full of unfinished story starts under her bed, and Clary endlessly scribbled tales of fright and tragic romance, which she allowed no one to read. The few scraps Sophia had been able to get a glimpse of included mention of ghouls and misery. Despite her sunny disposition, Clary’s artistic and reading tastes possessed a darker bent.
When she finally plopped down into a chair opposite Sophia, Clary let out an unladylike whoosh. “When Juliet gets old enough, we must convince her to come to Rothley too.”
“I agree. She’s not fond of London, but I suspect she’d feel at home here in the countryside.” Their sister-in-law, Juliet, was a few years younger than Clary. Only her love for mathematics matched her disdain for social graces. Preferring the country, she resided with her aunt in Briar Heath. Juliet staunchly refused to relocate to London, but Rothley, nestled in the Leicestershire countryside, seemed a place she might flourish.
“Should I attempt to scare up some tea and biscuits? Later, I can speak to our headmistress about securing you a seat in the dining hall this evening.”
“No need, my dear. I only came to see how you are. I’ve purchased a return to London on the afternoon train.” Perhaps if she didn’t stay long, saying good-bye wouldn’t prove as gut-wrenching as the day Clary had first set off for college.
“Then we must be quick.” Clary took up a pencil and paper, centering them on her lap. “Do you mind if I sketch you while listening to your stories of London and how ridiculously happy our newlywed brother is?”
“If you must.” Sophia patted at the chignon at the back of her head, which had been infinitely tidier when she’d pinned it up early in the morning. “Should I move near the window to catch the light?”
“Not at all,” Clary said as she began laying long vigorous strokes on the paper. “We’ve just the shadows needed for a true chiaroscuro sketch.” When Sophia said nothing, Clary glanced up. “Go on. Tell me all I’ve missed.”
Sophia cleared her throat and stared at the carpet under her feet, considering what to tell her sister and what to leave for another time. Ogilvy was best left out. No use giving Clary hope of another forthcoming family wedding. She didn’t wish to give her little sister fodder with which to tease her mercilessly in the meanwhile. Mention of Grey seemed inappropriate too. He wanted his sister’s disappearance to remain a private matter, just as Sophia preferred to conceal every example of her lack of restraint in the man’s presence.
“My goodness,” Clary said quietly. “What’s happened? It must be awful. You’ve gone positively crimson.” She set aside her art supplies and dropped off her chair to kneel in front of Sophia, gripping her hand as if she could save them both from blowing away.
A breeze would do quite nicely, Sophia thought, if only to cool the heat in her cheeks. None was to be had on this sunny summer day, though the tall dormitory windows had been left open wide.
“Nothing awful, I assure you. Don’t fret.” After patting her sister’s hand reassuringly, she urged Clary back into her chair. “Kit and Phee are as you say. Happy. Incandescent most days. They departed for France on Friday and promise to send postcards as soon as they’re able.” Sophia scanned her memory for any other pleasant facts to share. “The new lady housekeeper I’ve hired has proven to be extraordinarily adept at her duties. I believe you’ll like Mrs. Cole immensely.”
After a moment of silence, Clary tipped her head, her eyes narrowed. “You’re still very good at hiding, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” But even as she denied the claim Sophia fought the urge to bolt and conceal herself from Clary’s searching gaze.
“No matter the crisis or family squabble,” Clary said as she began sketching again, intermittently glancing up. “I could always count on you to be calm. To be the sensible one. The strong one. But I always knew you were more volcano than mountain.”
Sophia made a little harrumphing sound and flicked an invisible speck of lint from her skirt.
“So which is it, sister dear?” Hunched over her drawing, Clary’s pencil stilled as she stared at Sophia. “That color in your face indicates you’ve done something you don’t wish to confess. Since I can’t imagine you doing anything truly horrible, it must be something slightly scandalous.”
“Nonsense.” Sophia longed for a bit of tea to clear the sudden dryness in her throat.
She’d spent so many years of her life striving to live up to their father’s expectations. Even if it meant her life was quiet and cloistered. Or that she never ventured far from Briar Heath. Bad behavior was to be avoided. No exceptions.
Now she’d skirted scandal every day of the past week between her run-in with Lord Westby and her interactions with Lord Winship everywhere else.
“Is it a gentleman?” Clary set her drawing aside and leaned forward, one elbow braced on her knee as she perched her chin on her fist. “Or more than one gentleman? Now that truly would make for intrigue!” She edged forward, eyes dancing with amusement and the prospect of gossip.
Sophia swallowed against the lump that stuck in her throat like a bite of over dry scone. Aside from reassurances when their parents were at odds, Sophia had never lied to her sister. She loathed falsehood in others. Now she yearned for some easy prevarication to avoid telling Clary about Grey.
Wasn’t it sufficient that the man hadn’t left her thoughts since the day she’d met him?
“When I was a child, Kit used to tickle me until I confessed where I’d hidden all the boiled sweets.” Clary slumped back and sighed. “I don’t suppose that would work with you, so go ahead and tell me. Perhaps you’ll feel better if you do. Right now you look like a balloon in need of bursting.”
A volcano and now a balloon. If Clary was to have any success in society, she’d need to attempt more delicacy in her assessment of others. Never mind that she was unerringly correct. No one liked having someone hold a lamp to her distress.
“I’m considering marriage.” Sophia rushed the words so that they nearly melded together into one. A bit like air bursting from an overstuffed balloon.
Eyes wide, mouth agape, Clary sat motionless for a moment, then rose from her chair and began pacing. “When? Who? Why have you shared none of this with me before now?” She stopped behind her chair, gripping the wooden frame. “I know you prefer to conceal emotion, but I’m your only sister. Should sisters not share such details with each other?”
The hurt in Clary’s voice surprised Sophia.
“I’m sorry. Please come and sit, and I’ll explain.” When Clary resumed her seat, Sophia edged forward and took one of her sister’s hands. “You’re rushing ahead. I merely said I’m considering marriage, not that one is in the planning stages or even that a groom has been selected.” She managed a wan smile. “Much is undecided. I only know that I wish to be settled. Kit and Phee have their home in London. Kit will wish to sell Ruthven House, as is his right. It’s far too large for me to manage on my own. Why not begin planning for my own home?”
Clary knitted her brow. “So you wish for a home more than a husband? Shouldn’t falling rapturously in love with a dashing gentleman come first?”
Clearly, despite her ladies’ college curriculum, romance and high drama still formed a large part of Clary’s reading material.
Sophia pressed her lips together. What was worst was that she’d once harbored romantic expectations like Clary’s. When there were men like Jasper Grey in the world, how could a woman’s thoughts not turn to passion? Yet he’d been the one to insist he was not a gentleman for whom any proper young lady should set her cap. Not that Sophia had. Or ever would. Temptation. That’s what he’d called her. That’s all he was. A tempting man.
“There is someone,” Clary said past one of her beaming smiles. “You speak of practical choices, but being sensible wouldn’t make you
color as if you’d sat near the fire too long.”
“It’s a warm day.”
“What’s his name? Tell me that much at least.”
“Timothy Ogilvy. Esquire,” Sophia added. The honorarium seemed important to him and thus an affront to leave off.
One of Clary’s brow arched up. “Impressive, I suppose. But there’s more you’re not saying. Your nose is twitching.” Clary peered closer, giving Sophia’s face a disturbingly intense perusal. “And you have freckles,” she whispered in a shocked tone. “I’ve known you for eighteen years, and I’ve never seen a single spot to mar that perfect skin of yours.”
Sophia rolled her eyes and wished she’d taken Cate’s lemon juice advice. “I went out in the sun without a hat. Hardly evidence of a crime.”
Clary began circling her chair, assessing as she chewed her nail. Sophia stifled the urge to reprimand her younger sister as she’d spent so many years doing as her caretaker. Not that it had done much good. Clary, she feared, would always do precisely as she pleased.
Her sister’s burning gaze made Sophia’s skin itch. “Mr. Grey,” she finally blurted out, just to make Clary’s roving stop. “Kit’s actor friend. I encountered him in London last week. Not purposely, of course. Quite unintentionally. But none of that matters. He’s likely in Derbyshire now.”
“How do you know?”
“He said so in a telegram.”
Clary stopped in front of Sophia. “Why would he inform you where he’s going?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? One she’d been wrestling with since Cate read his telegraphed message aloud. “I’m not sure,” she admitted, unable to come up with any reasonable guess.
“Perhaps it’s an invitation.” Clary sounded suspiciously like Cate. If she hadn’t known better, she’d suspect the two were conspiring. “And what a coincidence. Here you are, less than fifty miles from Derbyshire.”
“To see you.”
“I’m thrilled you came to visit, but I don’t believe in happenstance.” Eyes fierce and wide, Clary said in a low tone, “I believe in fate.”
A Study in Scoundrels Page 15