A Rake by Any Other Name (8 page)

“Certainly, Mr. Seymour.” Sophie's mother rose from her place. “There's room for you at the dowager marchioness's table.”

“Ah, my thanks, Mrs. Goodnight,” Seymour said as he dismounted, eyeing Lady Ella and Lady Petra with a wide grin. “You're aiding and abetting my evil plan to charm the unmarried Barrett ladies.”

“You're a bit young for me, Lawrence,” the dowager said, lifting a lace-gloved hand to him as he drew near, “but I give you leave to try.”

Seymour chuckled and kissed her bony knuckles before settling at her table.

Lord Hartley was still atop his mount, looking as if he was likely to bolt at any moment. Sophie could almost pity him if it weren't more fun to watch him struggle. She just wished he'd remember that they were in this difficult situation together. Neither of them wanted this match their parents had devised. If they worked together, surely they could extricate themselves.

Of course, it would be easier to remember why she didn't want the betrothal to go forward if he weren't so striking on horseback. The man might be a bit awkward in the parlor, but he was a veritable centaur in his saddle. A little thrill ran over her as she remembered the way they'd taken that jump together, the wind singing, their thigh muscles moving in concert, his arm around her waist, and his hard chest against her spine…

“Mr. Porter, please find a chair for Lord Hartley at the small table,” her mother said, interrupting her increasingly wicked thoughts. “I think there's room, don't you, Sophie?”

“Certainly. Richard, stop fidgeting on your horse and join us. I'm sure Lady Antonia doesn't bite, and I've given it up since we returned to civilized society.”

Her mother shot her a dagger glare. Sophie returned a falsely sweet smile to her.

Sophie hitched her chair a quarter of the way around the small table. “You see, Richard. Plenty of room.”

Lord Hartley looped the reins around the fencepost and advanced toward them in long strides. He removed his hat to reveal hair darkened with sweat after his punishing ride. His grim expression was that of a man destined for the rack. It occurred to Sophie that pinned between her and the girl he hoped to marry, Richard must feel even more out of place at this garden party than she did.

“I don't mean to intrude, but Seymour was set on stopping,” he said once he settled uneasily on the chair Porter provided.

“Nonsense,” Lady Antonia said, lighting up like a candle now that he was there. “We were just talking about you.”

“And you think that could only be bad for you, don't you? Rivals of the heart sniping away at each other and all,” Sophie said softly as she poured him some tea. The guests at the other tables were conversing in normal tones, but she felt the need to keep their conversation a bit more private. “But actually it's good that we're talking, since Lady Antonia and I are not rivals of any sort, much less of the heart. I was about to explain to her that if she finds my behavior objectionable—”

Antonia nearly choked on her tea. “Never did I say such an ill-bred thing.”

“Did you not? My mistake. At any rate, I was hoping to convince Lady Antonia that by simply being myself, I will demonstrate how very unsuited you and I are, Richard.” Sophie sipped her tea with her pinky properly out, well aware that her behavior—barring that bit about biting earlier—was exemplary. “Then once all parties are satisfied on that point, the deck will be cleared for an appropriate candidate for your affections.”

Richard relaxed visibly and smiled as if he meant it. The tight, harried expression left his face, and she realized in a blinding rush just how much pressure was being brought to bear on him from all sides.

And how it made her chest constrict strangely that she was part of his troubles.

If she'd been alone with him when he smiled, she'd have said something to make light of things like,
“Ah, there's the real Richard. You really ought to do that more
often.”

“Smile, you mean?”
And then he might say,
“I would if you were with me more
often.”

And she'd say,
“If I was with you, you'd never wish
for—”

“Sophie has been incredibly decent about the whole thing.” Richard's voice yanked her out of her momentary daydream.

“Sophie?” Lady Antonia hissed. “You call her Sophie?”

“He does.” Sophie leaned forward to whisper to the lady. “And while we're plotting together to overthrow the powers that be who would leg-shackle Richard to me, perhaps you and I should be on a first name basis as well.”

“Really, I don't think—”

“Oh, I suspect you do think, but if thoughts are small, they're easy to overlook. Shall I call you
Tonia
then?” When the lady didn't respond immediately, Sophie went on. “May I point out to you that your other choice is
Ant
?”

***

“Now's your chance, Eliza,” Miss Quimby was saying. “Mr. Porter has more than enough on his hands. Help him out a bit, why don't you?”

“I'm not dressed to serve.”

“Doesn't matter. Take this.” She shoved a china plate into Eliza's hands. A single helping of lemon cake was arranged artfully in the center, drizzled with a little raspberry sauce. It glistened in the dappled shade and the tart aroma made Eliza's mouth water.

“Who should I serve it to?”

“Miss Goodnight, I should think. She'll be looking for more servants here at Barrett House after this party. I overheard her talking with the dowager about it. This'll make her notice you. Play your cards right, and you could be moving up right smartly, girl. Wait a moment.” Miss Quimby took off her own crisp apron and tied it quickly around Eliza's waist. “We haven't time to fix a little cap to your head, but your hair looks fine. Just set the plate in front of her, from the left, mind. Serve from the left, clear from the right. And then come back for the next one.”

“But there are three at Miss Goodnight's table,” Eliza said. “Shouldn't I take enough for all of them at once?”

“And risk dropping one? I should think not. Go on. The sooner you go, the sooner you're back and the whole table will be served in a wink.”

Eliza nodded and crossed the expanse of green with the dainty dish in her hand. No one was paying the least attention to her, but her insides jittered in any case. This could be the start of something. She wouldn't be just a kitchen maid anymore. She'd be somebody. She'd—

She was there.

Did she serve from the right or the left? Which had Miss Quimby said? It was like the old adage about whether to feed a cold or starve a cold. For the life of her, she couldn't remember which was correct.

Eliza stepped closer to the table on Miss Goodnight's right.

“That looks good enough to eat.” Lord Hartley, who was on the lady's right, took the plate from Eliza when she continued to hesitate. “I worked up quite an appetite riding with Seymour.”

“Since we're dining al fresco, I dare you not to wait for a fork,” Miss Goodnight said with a laugh. “Or don't fancy lords eat with their fingers?”

“This one does.” He picked up the small cake and put the whole thing in his mouth in one bite.

Between my son decimating the lilacs, Miss Goodnight savaging the roses, and poor Hartley being sick in the hydrangeas, this family will be lucky to have any sort of garden at all this year.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

“I'm all right,” Richard protested. He couldn't remember a time when he felt more ridiculous.

“If you were all right, you wouldn't have been doubled over in the flower bed,” Sophie said as she helped him up the stairs of Barrett House. Seymour had positioned himself on Richard's other side and was bearing most of his weight.

Richard turned his head far enough to catch his friend covering his mouth to stifle a laugh. If he weren't as weak as water, he'd cheerfully strangle Seymour. Another wave of nausea washed over him, and it was all he could do to master his stomach.

“Dear God, how long is this staircase?” he groaned.

“Only a bit further, my lord, and we'll have you right as rain in no time.” Porter ran ahead to open the door to an unused room. By the time Richard and his bearers entered, the butler had turned back the bedclothes and then replaced Sophie at Richard's left side.

“Let us get him settled, miss,” Porter said, “and then you can tend him if you like while I fetch the doctor.”

“No. No doctor.” Richard pulled away from them. Eyes closed, he leaned against the wall, massaged his temples, and drew slow, measured breaths. His irritation at being ill was only exceeded by his self-loathing over it.

He was never weak. Seymour, on the other hand, was unnaturally fearful of heights and had once fainted dead away when the tip came off his rapier in a practice match, and he'd accidentally pinked Richard on the forearm. If there was any justice in the world, Seymour would have been the one casting up his accounts on the hydrangeas.

But the world was not just, and Richard was sick once again, though this time he made it to the ewer on the washstand. He wiped his mouth on the towel hanging on the rod beside the stand as Porter deftly took the ewer away.

“I'll just nip down to the parlor and get you a whisky, shall I?” Seymour said as he followed Porter out. “Expect there's a liquor cabinet there somewhere.”

Too shaky to remain standing, Richard sank onto the bed, his chin on his chest.

“Can I help with your boots?” came a soft voice.

Oh
God.
She was still there. He flopped back on the bed and covered his eyes with his forearm. Would Sophie Goodnight never leave him alone?

Richard felt her tug at his feet, and the boots came off, one after the other.

“You don't have to do that,” he said.

“Would you rather destroy the linens?” She lifted his legs, and he found himself being arranged and tucked, and too feeble to protest. “They're a bit old but still quite fine. Besides, I rather doubt you can afford to replace them.”

“Unless I marry you, you mean.”

“Why, of course, Richard.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm. “Because every girl longs to wed a man who ruins her tea party by flashing the hash all over the garden.”

He glared at her. She had a point, but he wasn't about to admit it.

Sophie dipped a cloth in the pitcher, wrung it out, and folded it into a rectangle. Then she placed it over his forehead. “Did you arrive already foxed?”

“Foxed? No.” He hadn't had a thing to drink all day, though the whisky Seymour was fetching to settle his stomach wouldn't come amiss. Still, he'd expected sympathy from her instead of accusations. Where was the womanly concern? “Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired.”

She arched a brow at him. “I can see why you might have been tempted to drink to excess, since you knew Lady Antonia and I would be in close proximity. That couldn't help but cut up your peace. But I assure you, I have only the best intentions regarding her.” She hitched a hip on his bedside and blotted the damp cloth on his cheeks.

It was cool and soothing. A faint whiff of roses tickled his nose, and he was grateful for his uneasy stomach's sake that she favored such a light scent. His eyes drifted shut.

“I support your choice, no matter how wrong I think Antonia is for you.”

His eyes popped open at that. He reached up and grasped her wrist. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, for one thing, she's not here now, is she?”

“And I wouldn't want her here. No man wants a woman to see him so… Damn it, I don't want you here either.”

“Damn it,” she repeated with a half smile. “Spoken like you mean it too. Dear me. So you can become upset when properly motivated. I'd wondered. You Barretts seem so wretchedly calm at all times.”

He wasn't calm on the inside. Half the time, he felt as if he were about to explode. Then it occurred to him that Sophie Goodnight might not limit herself to needling him with her words. “Is that why you dared me to… Did you do something to that cake?”

Her dark brows drew together, and she stood. “Of what are you accusing me?”

“I was perfectly well when I rode up to Barrett House's gate. That cake,” he said slowly. “You had something put in that cake, didn't you?”

“How utterly ridiculous.”

“Is it? But was it meant for me?” he wondered. “Or did you intend that cake for Antonia?”

“Of all the juvenile, petty, spiteful—”

“Indeed. It was all of those things. How could you?”

She dropped the wet cloth on his face with a splat. “If you get sick again, my lord, you can tend yourself.”

Without another word, she flounced from the room, almost barreling into Seymour in her haste. Lawrence juggled the two glasses and a half-full bottle for a moment after Miss Goodnight's jostling, but he managed to hang on to all of them.

“Looks like you handled that well.” Seymour poured up a couple fingers of the amber liquid for each of them and offered Richard one of the glasses. “Miss Goodnight couldn't leave fast enough.”

“Good riddance.” Richard sat up and sipped his whisky gingerly. At least it cut through the sick taste and warmed his assaulted belly.

“Don't look for Lady Antonia to sully her lily-white hands to care for you,” Seymour said, drawing a chair close to the bed, turning it around, and straddling it so he could drape his long arms over the back. “As soon as you started retching, she began sidling toward the curricle she came in.”

“Good.” But part of him did wonder at her lack of concern. “I don't want her to see me like this.”

Seymour shrugged. “What about that whole ‘in sickness and in health' bit? Antonia might have at least hovered at the door to learn if you're all right.”

“I hate to be hovered over.” Richard shot him a glare. “In fact, you're doing it right now. I'm all right. I was just… Do you know I think Sophie Goodnight tried to poison me?”

Seymour snorted. “Well, that's an inventive way to break off your understanding.”

“We have no understanding.”

“My mistake.” Seymour knocked back his glass and gave himself a slight shake at the high alcohol content in the single malt liquor. “That'll put hair on your chest. But back to Miss Goodnight. I thought your parents had the details of the betrothal all drawn up.”

“They may have, but it would never work between Sophie and me. We can't seem to be in the same room for more than a few minutes without being cross as crabs with each other.” Richard shook his head. “She's terribly touchy.”

“And can you blame her after the way you've swatted down any talk of a match between you? I feel a mite insulted on her behalf my own self.”

“Believe me, she doesn't want the match either.”

“With a tip of the imaginary hat to the Bard,” Seymour said, suiting his actions to his words, “‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.'”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just that if you and Miss Goodnight are at loggerheads with each other each time you're alone, it may be because the lady wants to be doing something else with you.” Seymour waggled his brows. “Something just as passionate as arguing but with a good bit less clothing involved.”

“Is it ever about anything but shagging for you?”

“Not really. But just because you doubt, that doesn't mean I'm wrong. Mark my words. She has the look of a woman who wants…tending, shall we say?”

Memory of Sophie Goodnight's kiss in the gallery rushed back into him with the force of a gale. She was no pale flower. She kissed like a woman who knew and appreciated passion. And she wasn't a virgin. She obviously didn't want to marry him, but he couldn't deny that her body called to his. Maybe Seymour was right.

“Yes indeed. The lady craves a man's attention. If you won't do it,” Seymour mused, “maybe I should.”

“She'd eat you alive.”

“Here's hoping.”

“Seriously, Seymour, if you were caught with her, you'd find yourself saddled with an unintended bride for your trouble.”

“A man has to marry some time,” Seymour said. “An unintended bride with a dowry that would beggar a king. You know, that's not a bad idea. And it would certainly help you out of your unexpected entanglement, my friend. If I were to shag Miss Goodnight six ways from Sunday, you could—”

Seymour didn't get a chance to finish his thought. Richard was out of bed before he knew what he was doing. White-hot rage flared inside him, the onset just as quick as the sickness he'd experienced earlier—and much more virulent. He dragged Seymour by the collar up from his chair and slammed him against the wall, sending the shot glasses flying. Then he pinned his friend to the faded wallpaper with an arm across his windpipe.

“You are not to touch Sophie Goodnight; do you hear me?”

Seymour's mouth moved but no sound came out.

“Well?” Richard demanded.

Lawrence's fingers clawed at his forearm, and he eased up enough for his friend to gasp a breath.

“All right. Won't touch her,” he bleated. “Not so much as a pinky.”

As quickly as it had flared up, his anger dissipated, and he cursed himself for losing control. Richard staggered back and slumped into the chair.

“You're no fun when you're sick,” Seymour said, taking care to remain out of reach. “Actually, you've been no fun since we left Paris. First, you declare your sisters off limits, and now you warn me off Miss Goodnight. While we're rusticating here in Somerset, is there anyone to whom I may direct my attentions without you threatening to strangle me?”

“My grandmother gave you permission to charm her.”

“Thanks, friend.” Lawrence retrieved the shot glasses, which hadn't shattered thanks to the Turkish carpets spread over the hardwood. “Your generosity overwhelms.”

He refilled both and gave Richard another shot. “But you need to ask yourself something.”

“What's that?”

“If you don't want Miss Goodnight, why does it bother you that someone else might?”

***

All Eliza wanted to do was curl up in a ball by the hearth and cry, but she had to keep working. Mr. Porter was in a frantic state and desperate to remove all traces of the spoiled party, so she kept fetching and carrying while Mrs. Goodnight bade her guests farewell at the garden gate. The poor woman was wringing her hands and apologizing for this horrible bumble-broth, but all the fine ladies were making their excuses, prettily and politely but firmly. They were dead set on leaving.

And
who
could
blame
them?
After Lord Hartley became ill, no one wanted to eat another bite.

Eliza trotted back and forth between the kitchen and the garden. Outside, Mr. Porter was muttering a blue streak as he removed chairs and tore down the tables. Inside, Mrs. Beckworth rattled her pots and made the crystal in the cupboard hum in sympathy as she shrilly declared it wasn't her fault. Her food had never sickened anybody.

Miss Quimby had vanished.

Eliza blinked back tears. If she wept, everyone would wonder why. She hadn't just fallen off the back of the potato wagon. It was plain to anyone with eyes that Lord Hartley had taken sick awfully quick.

It wasn't natural. Which means it was something he ate, no matter what Mrs. Beckworth said. And the only thing he'd eaten was that lovely bit of lemon cake.

Which Eliza had put into his hands herself.

She fought to keep from shaking. Once the Goodnights started thinking about things, they'd realize she was the one who delivered the offending cake. She'd be out on her ear in less time than a than a hare took with his missus.

And then what would she do? Her mum couldn't take her back in again. There were far too many little ones still at home to feed. Without the money Eliza sent home from her wages each week, they'd be pinched even tighter.

Her friend Celia had gone to London looking for work. Celia couldn't write more than her name, but she'd promised to send word once she got herself settled. Only trouble was no one had heard from her again.

It was as if the big city had swallowed her whole.

Trying her luck in London looked to be Eliza's only choice if Mr. Hightower let her go over this. She'd be dismissed without character too. She'd never get a position in another reputable house without references.

Oh
God.

Unable to hold back the tears any longer, she ducked behind the overgrown gorse bush next to the door that led to the kitchen. Eliza finally let herself weep. She tried to stifle her sobs, but a few slipped out in any case. Then she tried to stop crying altogether and only succeeded in giving herself a case of the hiccups. Eliza pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose loudly.

“If you're finished back there, I'd like to speak with you, if I may.”

Lord, it's that Miss Goodnight. Now I'm for
it.