Regency Rebels: Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss / An Improper Aristocrat
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‘She’s not family,’ Charles said, trying to keep his temper. He tried to look apologetic. ‘Listen, Matthews, Miss Westby is not your conventional débutante. She’s not the sort of girl your father would probably even wish for you be courting.’
‘Don’t try to turn me up sweet, now. It must be me you object to. Nothing wrong with the girl. She’s got breeding, and money. Your own mother dotes on her, and so do the Lowders.’
‘Seen the Duchess of Charmouth take her up in her carriage at the park, myself,’ Henley put in. ‘Heard her Grace asked for the girl’s advice on her new ballroom. If the duchess embraces her, the rest of the ton will have no choice in the matter, even if the chit has spots and six fingers on each hand.’
That was the problem, Charles thought. Embrace her the ton already had, with a vengeance. Her name was on everyone’s lips, as much as his own. Suddenly everyone had an amusing little tale to tell of Miss Westby. The events she attended were an instant success. The vivid colours of her gowns were touted as a natural expression of her artistic temperament and were aped by matrons, widows and any woman old enough to escape pastels. The Prince Regent himself demanded an introduction, examined her portfolio, and spent an hour discussing designs with her. Now her passion for décor was an asset, not an oddity, and the fickle haut monde clamoured for her advice.
It was galling. He behaved like a monk and was cursed for a fiend. She broke half of polite society’s rules and they worshipped her for it.
Not that he could blame them. She’d hit their insular little world like a mortar shell, scattering insipid young misses like shrapnel, but she’d done worse to him. She’d bewitched him with her beauty, seduced him with her laughter. She’d made him forget.
He had forgotten his companions. They were both staring at him with knowing expressions on their faces.
‘Perhaps you aren’t the problem after all, Matthews,’ Henley mused. ‘Perhaps Dayle wants the chit for himself.’
‘You got the Ashford girl all wrapped up,’ complained Matthews. ‘You don’t need both of ‘em.’
Charles had had enough. He stood. ‘I must go. I wish you good hunting, Matthews.’ He threw a handful of coins down on the table, enough to pay for the entire evening’s tally of drink, and he strode out, calling for his vehicle.
He had wasted enough time, mooning like a schoolboy. He didn’t have time for it. He had to concentrate. He must work out this mess that passed for his life—for the sakes of those who no longer had one.
He forced his thoughts back the encounter he had had with Mills this morning. A small, dark man. A file tracing his activities. It was devilish little to go on. Though he racked his brains, he could not think who might hate him so. The only people he’d ever truly wronged were dead. And now to find his enemy had been watching him so closely for years? It made no sense, but it sent a shiver of unease up his spine.
Perhaps Jack had made some progress. With luck, his brother would be in his rooms and they could have a private word before the party. He took the ribbons from his groom and set out.
He was passing Humphreys, the renowned print shop, where the usual crowd gathered to see the new prints in the windows, when the cry went up.
‘It’s him!’
‘Hey, Dayle! Can I have an invitation to your next party?’
A chill descended over Charles and he pulled the horses up short. On the street, an older woman pulled a young lady away. ‘Don’t look at him, dear,’ she said, with a sniff. ‘Let us go.’
Tossing the reins to his groom, he approached the window, already certain what he was about to see.
It was worse than he imagined. Burning rage twisted in his gut, bubbled up and spewed out of him in a particularly inventive string of blasphemies. Stalking inside, he snatched one of the offending things off the glass. The catcalls and ribbing continued as he accosted the first apprentice he found. ‘Where’s your mistress?’ he barked.
‘U-upstairs,’ the boy stammered.
‘Lead on,’ Charles said.
‘Oho!’ The involuntary chuckle escaped Jack when Charles handed the paper to his brother. ‘Oh, my.’
‘Is that all you can say?’ growled Charles. They were in Jack’s cluttered bachelor’s quarters and Charles was trying to pace without toppling one of the many towers of books and papers.
‘No, as a matter of fact. I have to say I’m insulted that you never invited me to any of your orgies.’
Despite himself, Charles laughed. ‘Damned caricaturists. Yes, they’re clever, but it doesn’t sit so well when it’s you they ridicule.’
‘Yes, but Cruikshank, no less! No one is truly notorious today until Cruikshank mocks them!’ Jack bent to examine the piece more closely. ‘Well, old chap, sorry to say it, but he is very clever. Portraying you entertaining the ton in one room while the wild orgy is going on behind partially closed doors! And the detail is brilliant.’
‘Brilliant and devastating.’
‘Look—half the patronesses of Almack’s are on one side, while on the other.’ Jack looked up. ‘Did you truly have an affair with the Annie Ewing?’ he asked, his voice filled with awe.
‘Of course not,’ Charles snapped.
‘Oh, well, I’ve always enjoyed her singing. It’s clear from this how she came by her nickname.’
‘You are missing the important part, Jack.’
‘More important than Amply Endowed Annie’s bared breast?’ his brother asked, grinning.
‘Take a look at what the half-clothed revellers are reading.’
‘Hmm, yes, that lucky fellow is holding a paper, isn’t he? The Radical Review? And look over here, on the floor next to these energetic ladies, a book, The Real Rights of Man. Bad form, my boy, to mix pleasure and politics.’
‘But that’s just it, it’s the same thing as last time. An attack on my morals and my politics in one fell swoop.’
‘So you think that the same person is behind both?’
‘I feel that it must be. But who?’
‘I feel sure that it is not Avery,’ Jack said with a sudden serious turn. ‘I’ve kept an eye on him, as you asked. He truly is miserable, Charles. I don’t believe it is an act, and I don’t believe it is only his honour that is damaged. I think he misses the old girl.’
‘But why should he continue to stir up trouble for me? He certainly does it openly at Whitehall, if not clandestinely with these attacks.’
‘You’re an easy target, and a natural one for him. You’re mixed up in the business that has humiliated him, and there is a true political divide between you. Frankly, I admire the old man for staying in town. Many a lesser man would have fled home in the face of such embarrassment, and never been heard from again.’
Charles stopped pacing and turned to face his brother. ‘Perhaps that is the whole idea. Perhaps either one or both of us were supposed to withdraw, to tuck our heads and hide, but from what?’ He sat in the chair across from Jack and scrubbed his hair to help him think. ‘It must be me, since the latest round was aimed at me as well.’
‘But perhaps the caricature is only the natural result of all the rest, and not a new attack.’
‘Ah, but I haven’t told you all of it.’ Charles told his brother of what he had learned from the Augur’s editor. ‘And, when I found that—’ he gestured toward the cartoon ‘—I had a little talk with Hannah Humphreys.’
‘She gave up Cruikshank?’
‘Told me where I might find him, rather. He was not a bit apologetic, but he did tell me something interesting.’
Jack only raised a questioning brow.
‘He said he would never have had the idea for that thing if he hadn’t met someone new at his regular coffeehouse.’
‘A small, dark, wiry man?’
‘Who got into a political discussion with him one afternoon, and bought him dinner one night, so they could continue their interesting debate.’
‘And you were served up along with the chops, I gather.’
‘Not outright, but very subtly.’ Charles stopped. Something was nagging at the back of his mind. ‘There is something familiar about all of this, but I can’t quite place it.’
‘Familiar?’ Jack laughed. ‘Good Lord, if this sort of thing is familiar, then I don’t envy you.’ He rubbed his eyes and shook his head as if to clear it. ‘It’s still not a lot to go on. Even if we could find the right man, what would we do, charge him with scandalmongering?’
‘I’d find out who he works for, by God, and I’d make his life as miserable as he has made mine.’
‘It wouldn’t fix the damage already done,’ Jack said philosophically, ‘and it might send you fleeing for the continent. No,’ he mused, ‘I know I scoffed at your idea at first, but I’m beginning to think you have had the right idea all along. Ignore the rumours. If you aren’t visibly affected, maybe he’ll grow tired and move on to play games with someone else.’
‘It’s too late for that,’ said Charles.
‘No, it isn’t. Focus on your work, and your search for a wife. If everyone is discussing which lady you are courting now, they will not be talking about who you poked last year. Even if it was Amply Endowed Annie Ewing,’ he finished with a grin.
‘I’m not sure even that will save me now. The highest sticklers were already avoiding me. That—’ he gestured to the caricature ‘—may well be a killing blow.’
Jack stood, an odd gleam in his eye. ‘It has been a hard couple of years, Charles, for all of us. I would not wish to be saddled with some of the burdens you have carried. But you’ve done well.’ He approached, and clasped Charles’s shoulder. ‘It’s the perfect time for you to take a step back. Look around. Decide, once and for all, what it is that you want. What you want. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you get it.’
Jack grinned, lightening the mood. ‘But for now, you had better get home and get ready for Mother’s dinner party. She’ll shoot us both if we’re late.’
‘I forgot.’ Charles dashed back his drink and rose to shake his brother’s hand. He clasped it longer than necessary, trying to convey his gratitude and so much more. ‘Thank you, Jack.’
It started to rain as he set his tired horses for home. Charles shrugged out of his greatcoat and gave it to his ever-patient groom. He hunched his shoulders as his brother’s words echoed in his head. Decide what it is that you want.
Chapter Nine
Sophie entered Charles’s house poised for battle. If nothing else, at least she would see him, and this interminable wait would be over. She was not good at waiting, and hadn’t been since she was eight years old, and had decided that a year was long enough to wait for an uncle who was never coming. That fateful day she had shed her good-little-girl persona along with her pinafore, climbed the tallest oak in the forest, and found a tousled-haired, kindred soul at the top.
It was poetic justice, she thought as she smoothed her long gloves and twitched her gown into a more graceful fall, that Charles should reap some of the forceful nature he had helped to sow.
Sophie had brought Nell along, and, after a few whispered words of instruction, she sent her off on her covert mission. Before long she was entering the parlour on Lady Dayle’s arm, confident that she looked well, and confident that, whatever the outcome, Charles would no longer be able to ignore her.
Her poise faltered a bit when the first person she saw was her uncle. She arched a brow at the viscountess, who only grinned and urged her forward to greet him. A hostess’s duties soon called her away, and Sophie was left alone with her uncle once more. She had seen him only once since their first, distressing private interview, and that had been at Mrs Dawson’s musical evening. She had been relieved that it had been a public scene with no chance for private conversation. He asked her now if she would join him on the corner settee.
‘I’ve been hoping for a moment with you, niece.’
Sophie agreed. He looked tired, his once-handsome face pinched, as if he were in pain. Fleetingly, she wondered if her father would have resembled him as he grew older.
He didn’t waste any time. ‘I wondered if you had given thought to our last discussion?’
‘I’ve thought much on it, Uncle.’
‘And?’
Sophie breathed deep. Daringly she took his hand—it was cold and thin. ‘There was a time, sir, when I would have given anything to have received such a show of interest from you. But I’ve had to make my own way, forge my own happiness, for too long now to submit myself to anyone else’s ideas for my future.’
‘Stubborn girl! You could choose—’
‘No, sir,’ she interrupted. ‘I’m afraid we are both too wilful to get along together in the manner I think you are suggesting.’
He withdrew his hand from her grasp. ‘I’d expected as much.’ He gave her a look she thought might be regretful. ‘But I’d hoped I was wrong.’
‘I would like it if we could find our way toward some kind of relationship.’
He was silent a long time. So long she thought he might not answer at all. When he finally spoke, he avoided her eye. ‘I wondered if perhaps you remember. Did your father ever speak to you, of me, when you were a child?’
‘Yes, of course. He had your likeness in a miniature, which he often showed me. He told me tales of your childhood. He loved Cranbourne House.’ It was the earl’s principal estate, situated five and twenty miles from the small estate where Sophie had grown up. She had never seen it.
‘And, your mother?’
Still, he looked away, where Sophie could not read his face. She understood what it was he was asking. ‘She spoke fondly of you.’ Now Sophie was the one looking down at her hands in her lap. ‘It was one of the reasons I was so looking forward to living with you.’
A trill of nearby laughter distracted them both from their sombre thoughts. It was a party, after all, and life did go on, despite old hurts.
‘Well, then …’ Her uncle had recovered and was motioning someone toward them. ‘You’ll recall Mr Huxley, won’t you?’
The gentleman reached them and made his bow. Sophie and her uncle stood to greet him. She did indeed remember him—her uncle had gone out of his way to present him at Mrs Dawson’s. Sophie had wondered at it, as the two seemed as unlikely a pair as she had ever seen.
An odd, but likeable gentleman, Mr Huxley had talked at length of his map collection.
‘A pleasure to meet you again, sir.’
‘The pleasure is mine, Miss Westby. Will you take a stroll about the room with me?’
‘Yes, you young people run along,’ her uncle agreed. ‘There’s a discussion on the Corn Laws going on over there that needs my insightful input.’
The realisation struck Sophie suddenly that her uncle might be matchmaking. Nevertheless, she laid her hand on Mr Huxley’s arm and allowed him to lead her off.
‘Your uncle tells me, Miss Westby, that you have been travelling a great deal into Kent.’
‘Why, yes, I am involved in a project that takes me there every few days of late.’
‘Which roads do you travel? I’ll wager a monkey that I know a route that will shorten your travel time by at least a quarter of an hour.’
Finally dry and presentable, Charles made his entrance after most of the guests had arrived and dinner was nearly ready to be announced. He went first to his mother, to apologise for his lateness, and found her chatting with Miss Ashford.
His mother simultaneously scolded and embraced him. Miss Ashford greeted him with her customary cool courtesy. He supposed he should be grateful that she acknowledged him at all, considering the escalating scandal surrounding his name. Indeed, he was grateful, he told himself sternly. He noticed that a few of the other young ladies his mother had invited for his benefit were not to be seen. Her very presence tonight was a testimony to Miss Ashford’s loyalty and character. He resolved to devote himself to her this evening, and to firmly suppress the small part of him that wished to feel more than gratitude for his future bride.
Miss Ashford’s father, however, requested a moment of his time, and Charles could not but agree. The baron drew him aside, and gestured to the long, crowded room full of glittering guests.
‘A nice evening,’ he said. ‘Perfect mix of business and pleasure.’
‘Thank you, sir. I hope you and your family will enjoy yourselves.’
‘No doubt. Womenfolk are in alt planning that charity ball.’
Charles nodded his sympathy. Miss Ashford had indeed struck upon the idea of a charity ball, and showed more enthusiasm for it than anything he had yet seen in her. ‘It is very good of your daughter to devote herself to such works.’
Lord Ashford gave an indulgent smile. ‘She’s a very good sort of girl, Dayle. Just what a lady ought to be.’
‘I hope you are aware of my agreement on that score,’ Charles said easily.
‘Well, that’s the subject I wished to discuss with you. I thought we had an understanding regarding your intentions, but now I find myself unsure.’
Startled into stupidity, Charles just gaped. ‘Sir?’
‘Rumours are one thing, Dayle. A man can’t help what the tabbies will say about him, most especially if he possesses as chequered a past as your own.’ He nodded his head in approval. ‘You’ve had a rough spot recently, and I thought you were handling it well. Some kind of ruckus seemed inevitable, and I thought you might as well put your past to rest early in your career rather than later. Good for you too. Tempered steel is stronger, as they say.’
‘I can honestly say, I never thought about it in that light.’
‘But this broadsheet’s another thing entirely. Takes it to another level, so to speak. Can’t have my girl mixed up in such.’
‘Surely you don’t believe such rubbish, Lord Ashford?’ said Charles, his temper starting to get the best of him.
‘Don’t matter what I believe, when it gets to this point. Matters what the rest of the world believes. I have a good bit of political weight. Meant to throw it behind you, if you and my girl found you suited. But I don’t mean to hitch my girl to a runaway wagon, if you understand. Want what’s best for her.’
‘I comprehend your meaning, sir,’ said Charles. And he did indeed understand the most salient point: his unseen opponent was gaining ground.
‘Now, don’t fret. You just keep your feet on the straight path and the situation will right itself.’ He squeezed Charles’s shoulder in a fatherly gesture. ‘My girl rather fancies you, I believe. At least she likes you as well as she’s ever liked anyone. If you need my help, you need only to ask.’
‘You are most generous,’ said Charles. It was a struggle to keep the bitterness from his voice.
The baron departed in search of his spouse, and Charles returned to Miss Ashford and his mother. Once there, however, he found it difficult to concentrate on the conversation. The events of this long and trying day were beginning to take their toll. He could swear the universe was conspiring against him. The harder he tried, it appeared, the heavier his burdens grew.
Suddenly the crowd in the parlour shifted. His gaze fell on Sophie, and the weight of his troubles was instantly forgotten. She was stunning. Her shining dark tresses were arranged in an elaborate coiffure that accented the length and slenderness of her neck. Her shimmering gown, dark blue over a white satin slip, had the same effect on her frame, without hiding her luscious curves. She was standing with Mrs Lowder and a blonde gentleman he had never seen before. A gentleman who had taken the opportunity of her turned head to run an appreciative gaze over her décolletage.
‘Is that Mrs Lowder over there with Sophie?’
‘Indeed it is,’ his mother answered. ‘Does she not look divine this evening? I believe motherhood agrees with her.’
‘I had a mind to speak to her husband. If you will excuse me, I believe I’ll go and ask if he is here.’
Oh, Lord, but he was seven kinds of an idiot. He’d just spent a fortnight avoiding Sophie, trying to forget how she’d felt in his arms. He’d thought long on what to say to her tonight, and promised himself that he’d make sure he never found himself in that situation again. He’d just determined to spend the evening securing another woman’s favour, and been warned by her father to keep his nose clean. Yet one glance had him abandoning all those good intentions, stifling the warning ringing in his head. He cursed himself for a fool all the way across the long, crowded parlour, but he didn’t stop.
‘Good evening,’ he said when he reached them.
‘Charles! You have finally come!’ Sophie said, reaching out to him. Was that relief he heard in her voice? And was she relieved to see him or to be distracted from her companion? ‘Please, allow me to present Mr Huxley? Mr Huxley, this is our host, Viscount Dayle.’ They greeted each other and Sophie continued, ‘And of course you are already acquainted with Mrs Lowder.’
‘Of course. May I present my compliments? You look lovely this evening.’
Mrs Lowder thanked him with an amused look and a brow raised in Sophie’s direction. Sophie, predictably, was not impressed.
‘There, Emily, now you have experienced first hand a bit of Lord Dayle’s famous charm! Come now, Charles, enough flattery, what we really wish to see is your hand.’
‘My hand?’
‘Oh, yes, my lord!’ Mrs Lowder was smiling quite genuinely now. ‘You see, Miss Westby and I were walking in the park today.’
‘Which park?’ asked Mr Huxley.
‘Hyde Park, of course,’ said Sophie, ‘and we walked there via Brook Street to Park Lane.’
‘I’ve always found Mount Street to be superior,’ Huxley answered. ‘Less traffic, you see.’
‘In any case, we were introduced to a most impertinent young lady there. She knew we were acquainted with you, Charles.’
‘But what does any of it have to do with my hand?’ asked Charles.
‘She wished to know if it were true that you were part-Selkie, Lord Dayle!’ interjected Mrs Lowder. ‘Can you imagine?’
Despite himself, Charles laughed. ‘Unfortunately, I can imagine.’ He shot Sophie a look of mock-severity. ‘I can also imagine you telling the poor child it was true.’
‘Well, I did assure her we would check for webbed fingers when next we saw you, but considering the light such a thing would cast upon Lady Dayle, I felt compelled to deny the charge. In any case, I told her, you most assuredly have your father’s nose.’
Charles just shook his head. He didn’t know which was more outrageous, the rumours or her method of dealing with them. ‘I must thank you for defending my family’s honour.’ His mother, he could see, stood in whispered consultation with the butler, and was turning to leave the room. He turned to Mrs Lowder. ‘I remember your skill on the pianoforte very well. I hope you will play for us all after dinner, but right now I must whisk Miss Westby away, as my mother has requested her assistance.’
‘Of course, I would be honoured,’ Emily answered with a smile.
‘Mr Huxley, grand to have met you,’ said Charles as he firmly grasped Sophie’s elbow, ushering her away before she had a chance to protest. He led her out the door his mother had just exited, and stood a moment in the hall, debating. Likely, his mother had been called to the kitchens. The dining room, he knew, would be swarming with servants. As he hesitated, Sophie pulled her arm from his grasp.
‘Where is your mother, Lord Dayle?’
‘Soothing the cook, I imagine.’
‘She doesn’t need my assistance.’
‘No, I do. We have to talk.’
Ah, the bookroom. He herded Sophie in and carefully left the door partially open. She looked around curiously, and then turned to him with a frown. ‘How disappointing. Nary a radical nor a ladybird in sight.’
‘Very amusing.’ Charles grimaced.
‘Well, I do have first-hand knowledge of what you get up to in empty rooms.’