Regency Rebels: Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss / An Improper Aristocrat

Chapter Eight

This was the last in a high stack of forms. Resolutely, Sophie dipped her pen again and signed. She paused, staring at the bold scrawl of her signature, contemplating everything that this step meant, then she pushed the papers over to her guest. ‘Here you are, Mr Fowler.’

‘Thank you, Miss Westby.’ The man ran a practised eye over the contracts before putting them away in his case. Only then, Sophie noticed, did he visibly relax, take a sip of tea, and smile. ‘I admit this is far more pleasant than my usual business meetings, but then, everything about this venture is unusual.’

Sophie sighed. There was that word again. Unusual. In the fortnight since that fateful day at Sevenoaks, it had echoed repeatedly in her head. Always in Miss Ashford’s ever-so-slightly condescending tone. She took a deep breath. Perhaps it was time to make unusual work for her, rather than against her.

She raised her cup and an ironic brow. ‘Then let us drink to the unusual success of our enterprise, sir,’ she said.

‘Hear, hear.’ Mr Fowler drained his glass and began to gather his things. ‘I have no doubts on that score, however. Your work is delightful. It is sure to make us both a success.’

‘I sincerely hope so,’ Sophie said, standing to bid him farewell.

He took her hand, but paused. ‘I feel I have to ask again. Are you certain you wish your portion of the proceeds to be paid to this … gentleman?’

‘Mr Darvey, yes.’ Sophie fixed her guest with a penetrating look. ‘He may not be a gentleman, as you have obviously discovered, but he is a good and worthy man, and he will see that the money goes where it is needed most.’

‘He’s a lucky man, to have attracted a patroness like you, miss.’

‘As I am a lucky woman to have found a friend like him.’ She smiled. ‘Nor am I unaware of my good fortune in securing a publisher of your calibre, Mr Fowler.’

He grinned and picked up his case. ‘I’ll send you round a copy of the book as soon as it is ready. It has indeed been a pleasure.’

Sophie watched from the window as Mr Fowler descended to the hired coach that had brought him. His cheerful whistle and jaunty step only served to frustrate her further. Her temple rested against the cool and soothing glass long after he had gone.

It was disheartening, really. She had accomplished so much. She’d found friends who felt more like family as each day passed. She was in London, with a major design project coming along relatively smoothly, and now this. A design guide of her own. It was a victory, a culmination of a dream that she had worked towards for years. More importantly, it was a means of helping those who might otherwise have no chance of a future.

Fate had surely had a hand in her meeting with Mr Darvey, all those months ago, for it had come at a time when they had both been in desperate need of some hope. The combination of her vision and his talent had resulted in some lovely pieces, such as little Edward Lowder’s cradle. But that had only been the beginning. With a bit of Sophie’s money, Mr Darvey’s good sense, and a few members of his former regiment, they had created more than beautiful furniture, they had manufactured opportunity. They had given hope to others as well as themselves. This book could lead to more of the same.

She should be flush with success, awash in triumph, but she had found that she couldn’t truly enjoy any of it. Instead she was only filled with a ceaseless, restless anxiety.

It was all Charles’s fault, damn his eyes. She had neither seen, nor heard from, him in the fortnight since that unexpected, heart-pounding, earth-shattering kiss. And unsettling though his continued absence may be, worse was her inability to reconcile her unruly feelings.

Once she had recovered from the pure, physical shock of their embrace, she had been furious. How dare he resurrect a moment of their past, seduce her with the beauty and intimacy of it, then use it to push her away!

A little more thought, however, had reinforced the notion that his kiss had been an act of self-defence. She had touched him. Her patient chiselling had succeeded at last, and she had found a tiny breach in the stone rampart around him. She had reached the man inside and it had frightened him. Typically, like a scared little boy, he had pushed back, trying to scare her off in the same manner.

Perversely, his tactic had had the opposite effect on Sophie.

And perhaps that was characteristic of their relationship as well, she thought with a smile. But she could not help the feeling of intense relief that had swept over her with the realisation that there was indeed a mystery to be solved here. It wasn’t a natural tendency for prudery and sanctimony that had changed Charles. Something had happened to induce this drastic alteration in personality and demeanor, to cause him to retreat behind that bulwark of prickly pride. Something to do with his dead elder brother.

What could it have possibly been? As far as she knew, Charles and Phillip had had the normally contentious relationship of brothers a few years apart in age. They had been especially close as young boys, tumbling through the home woods, racing their ponies, and perpetrating endless pranks. Even later, when separated by school and their father’s increasing demands on Phillip’s time, they had maintained the rough-and-tumble, slightly competitive regard of adolescents.

Had something happened to change that? Sophie did not know, but she was going to find out. It was a relief to have the task before her. It gave her hope, at least, that if Charles faced whatever it was he was hiding from, he might have a chance to be happy.

That, at the last, must be her goal. With everything in her, she longed to see her tousle-haired, smiling Charles again, even if it meant he found his happiness without her.

Such a thought, of course, led right back to that burning kiss. Good heavens, but every girl dreamed of such a kiss, when not only lips and bodies mingled, but souls brushed each other as well. Heat, desperation, spiralling desire—it all came rushing back. A small, triumphant smile escaped her as she touched her lips. Let him kiss Miss Ashford and see if he felt like that.

She drew away from the window. He could not escape her tonight. Lady Dayle was throwing a dinner party and expected him. It was time she prepared herself for the confrontation ahead. A silk gown would be her armour tonight, her weapons nothing more than determination and a smile. But perhaps she would carry along her chisel as well.

‘That’s all I know, I swear on my mother’s grave!’

Charles tightened his grip, choking off the remainder of the man’s lies, along with most of his breath. ‘Your mother is alive and well and living in Kensington,’ he said in disgust. ‘How do you think I tracked you down?’

Like her son, the mother of the editor of the Augur liked money. Charles wasn’t complaining, however. Greed was far easier to get past than radical fervour—which still blocked any progress with the Oracle’s editor.

‘That’s all you can give me?’ Charles released the man, allowing him to slump back against the wall. ‘A small, dark, wiry man. No name? No idea for whom he worked?’

‘No, no,’ Mr Mills said, rubbing his throat. ‘He came around at night, left me a fat file of papers—all dealing with you.’

‘And a fat purse, I’ll wager.’ Charles snorted. ‘Do you still have the file?’

‘Aye.’ The man turned sullen now. ‘I left it at my mother’s place.’

No wonder the old woman had looked at him so strangely. ‘What, exactly, was in this file?’ Charles asked.

Now the little editor was eyeing him up and down. ‘A right long reckoning of your career as a hellraiser, my lord.’ He chuckled. ‘And may I salute your creative thinking too! We never got to print half the juiciest stuff.’

‘You’re sure this small, dark man never mentioned where he got this file?’

‘No, it was always “my employer” wants this, “my employer” wants that. But whoever it is—it seems they have been watching you a long time.’

Charles had come here expecting to solve this mystery; instead it was only growing deeper. Frustrated, he sat abruptly down upon a nearby chair. His opponent watched him warily as he drew a purse from his pocket. He tossed it on to the scarred desk the man was obviously using as a temporary office. ‘That’s a sign of good faith. I believe you have told me everything you can, and I believe that if you remember anything else, you will contact me right away.’

The scoundrel snatched it up. ‘I swear, that’s all of it.’

Charles drew out another, fatter purse. ‘This I will give you if you agree to print another story about me. A remorseful story. A favourable story.’

The man weighed the first purse in one hand while eyeing the other. ‘No insult intended, but your randy youth is the most interesting thing you’ve got. What else is there to draw the readers in?’

‘The truth. An apology for the damage you’ve done me. I don’t know, something about the good I’ve accomplished in Parliament, the charities I support, something. Do your own research this time, man. Write a real story.’

He nodded agreement and reached for the second purse.

Charles tucked it back into his coat. ‘You will receive it on the day the story is printed.’ He stood. ‘I want that file delivered to me tomorrow.’

Without waiting for a response he turned and strode out. Once outside the man’s dingy little hideaway, Charles vaulted back into his curricle, took the reins from his groom and set his bays off sharply. He had several hours before he had to be back home in time for his mother’s blasted dinner party. The idea had him groaning out loud. A house full of people. It was the last thing he wanted when this whole mess had him feeling so desperate.

Despite his best efforts with the ton, despite his obvious perusal of the available debs, despite his intensifying courtship of Miss Ashford, the tide of public opinion was turning against him again.

He wasn’t a madman. Someone, for some unknown reason, was orchestrating this siege against him, but this time the tactics had changed. Nothing new was in the papers. Instead, the attacks came in the form of vague rumour and untraceable innuendo. He was living a masquerade, people whispered. He hadn’t reformed, he’d just taken his illicit activities underground. He was lulling Parliament, pulling the wool over society’s eyes. He was a secret radical, a closet Catholic, a Whig sympathiser, a bacchanal, or an opium addict, depending on whom you spoke with, and whose friend of a friend they knew.

Charles would have laughed if he hadn’t known that the truth about himself was far worse than anything society could come up with. And he would have realised the serious nature of the situation, nipped it in the bud earlier, if he hadn’t been obsessed with Sophie.

A discreet cough from his groom recalled his attention to the road. Just in time too. He pulled his pair up as traffic slowed at the crossing of the Westminster Bridge. He was doing it again. Obsessing. And on the road, no less.

He sighed. It was still early, but he could not go home, it would be under siege, buried in a flurry of activity as his mother prepared for her party. As his wheels met terra firma once more, he turned the curricle smartly and set off for his club.

It appeared that even this small pleasure was to be denied him. There was a crowd of gentlemen at White’s. Charles pushed his way through the crowd, looking for an empty seat. He finally found one, at a corner table. The vacancy was probably owing to the cloud of gloom that hung over the pair of occupants, nearly as tangible as the heavy haze of smoke in the air.

Charles paused as he grew closer. It was that infamous pair of his erstwhile friends, Matthews and Henley. What the hell.

‘Gentlemen,’ he bit out. ‘Do you mind if I join the ranks of your dismal consortium?’

Matthews did not even look up. Henley rolled one bleary eye at him and waved for him to take the remaining seat.

Charles dropped into the chair and waved at a passing porter. Glancing at the empty brandy bottles still on the table, he sent the man off for another.

A brooding silence reigned in the corner, which suited Charles perfectly. A swirl of troubles floated through his head. He had to focus, had to find a way to salvage what was left of his life. But only one thought consistently rose to the top of the maelstrom: Sophie.

Good Lord, he’d kissed Sophie. Devoured her, more like, as he thought back to that shockingly intense embrace.

He’d had no business kissing her. It had been an idiotic thing to do. Cruel, even, when he thought of the harsh words he’d uttered afterwards. But how could he not have kissed her? When she had stood there, so beautifully tousled, so dangerously perceptive, so close to the unspeakable truth? And why, then, had he spent the fortnight since reliving it?

Because it was nigh on impossible not to, that’s why. Bad enough that he was obsessed with thoughts of the dratted female, but suddenly so was everyone else in London, and as much as he bemoaned his own notoriety, he almost cringed more at Sophie’s.

The porter returned with the brandy and with a clatter began to clear away the empty bottles. Matthews looked up in surprise, and then started even further at the sight of Charles. ‘Good Lord, when did you get here, Dayle?’

‘A good ten minutes ago, you drunken lout,’ snapped Henley. He gave Charles a good once over. ‘Though I must say, Dayle, you look as bad as I feel.’

‘Just looking at the pair of you makes me feel worse,’ Charles retorted. He sighed, then. ‘Sorry. What is the trouble with you two?’

‘Female trouble, what other sort is there?’ asked Henley.

Matthews was pouring them all a glass of the brandy. He flourished his own high. ‘Women, bah!’

Charles lifted his own glass in a show of solidarity and they all drank deep.

‘Got to get leg-shackled, Dayle,’ Matthews said in a voice of deepest mourning. ‘Don’t want to. Family insists.’ His head lolled a bit, but he got himself under control and fixed a reddened eye on Charles. ‘M’father put his foot down. Cut my quarterly allowance. Refuses to cover my expenses. Not even my debts of honour, not until I fix my attention on some deb.’ He shot a hateful look over at Henley. ‘And my so-called friends have deserted me in my hour of need.’

‘I’ll tell you one final time—you keep away from my sister!’ Henley shouted. ‘When she marries it will be with far better than the likes of you.’ He turned to Charles. ‘Tell him, Charles—you wouldn’t want a sot like him marrying your sister, would you?’

‘Dayle ain’t got a sister, toff head,’ snorted Matthews. He stopped and Charles suffered an instant dislike for the light dawning in his unfocused eyes. ‘But you do got that pretty little filly your mother has been squiring about town,’ he said with sudden enthusiasm. ‘She’ll do. Will you do it, Dayle? Fix me up with an introduction to the girl? Slide in a good word for me?’

‘No,’ Charles spat.

Matthews gasped, then looked like he was going to cry into his brandy.

‘See?’ Henley crowed his triumph. ‘Dayle don’t want you pawing any of the females in his family, either.’