As Luck Would Have It (23 page)

“Perhaps, but some of the situations she has found herself in—”

“Have been primarily of her own making. The girl is headstrong and rash.”

The stocky man smiled and tapped his over-large nose. “Which makes her perfect for the job.”

“Yes, but we’ve still to see if she’ll accept it.”

“I believe she will. By all accounts she’s enjoying herself immensely.”

“That she is, the little hoyden.” The shorter man smiled and stood. “I’ll be leaving for Wales for a few days. She’ll be attending the Coles’ house party, and I suspect she’ll be safe enough there without my following her.”

“She’s safe enough anywhere.”

The shorter man shook his head and tossed a few coins on the table. “As I said—headstrong and rash. The girl needs watching.”

Eighteen

T
he Cole house party was considered by many to be the high point of the season. The widowed Lady Thurston, or her son rather, spared no expense on the affair. Every year, the enormous house was packed to the rafters with people eager to enjoy the entertainments Haldon Hall offered—two weeks of the finest meals, some of the best hunting grounds in England, and opening, mid, and closing balls.

Lady Thurston had confided to Sophie that as much as she enjoyed entertaining, she would rather have a usual house party, with fewer guests and just one ball. But her husband had started the tradition years ago, and now she felt obligated to keep it.

Haldon Hall was a massive manor that seemed to ramble for miles. The original structure was built when the first Cole was granted the title of baronet some three hundred years ago. From the looks of the house, Sophie guessed that every ensuing generation had made an addition to the home, and it was clear they varied wildly in their tastes. The effect was disorienting.

She got lost in the maze of corridors twice before making it to dinner the first night. An unsettling notion for a girl who prided herself on her sense of direction (a skill she’d honed in the jungle). When she finally managed to locate the front staircase, it was only to find Alex waiting for her at the bottom of the steps wearing a knowing smile.

“You’ll get used to it,” he guessed.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked innocently. She wasn’t
comfortable with the idea that he knew her well enough to know she’d gotten lost. So her room was nowhere near this particular staircase. How did he know she hadn’t just been exploring? She was even less comfortable with the almost overwhelming desire to just…touch him. Everywhere. Lord, he was handsome, and she hadn’t seen him for days.

“You needn’t beg mine,” he returned smoothly. “Lady Thurston, however, has been in quite a dither about her lost guest. You’re twenty minutes late for dinner.”

“Damn.” Sophie picked up her skirts and hurried down the stairs, deciding now wasn’t the time to worry about wiping that smug smile from Alex’s face.

Alex took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. “I’ll give you a tour after dinner if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary, thank you.”

“I could show you all my favorite spots,” he argued pleasantly.

“All of them dimly lit and well concealed, I imagine.”

“I’ll do my best to make them your favorites too,” he whispered as they entered the dining room.

“Also unnecessary,” she whispered back, before taking her seat.

Lady Thurston wasn’t the least put out by Sophie’s tardiness. She was too busy sending servants to search for the six other missing guests. Apparently, getting lost in Haldon Hall was also something of a tradition.

The dinner was an elaborate affair, with dish after dish of foods Sophie had never tried before…lobster, oysters, escargot. Unfortunately, she was unable to enjoy much of it. Lady Thurston had seated her between Lord Verant and Mr. Johnson, both “Listed Gentlemen” and both exceedingly dull dinner companions. It took all her energy to maintain a conversation and appear suitably silly in the process.

Farther up the table, Alex viewed his plate dispassionately. He loved oysters, but watching Sophie flirt shamelessly with her two companions turned his stomach.

Enough was enough, he decided. He’d shown the patience of Job these last few weeks, stifling every instinct that screamed at him to set himself between Sophie and her admirers and yell, “Mine!” Maybe even thumping his chest once or twice. Certainly, he’d wanted to thump their chests a few times, and what he ached to do with her chest didn’t bear pondering in public.

And all for what? A few stolen kisses. As lovely as those had been, Alex wanted more. He wanted all of her. Her time and attention. Her affection. And he didn’t want to share.

He watched her giggle at something Lord Verant said. Oh, he’d been patient all right. He deserved a bloody sainthood.

“Do stop glowering, Alex dear. People will think there’s something wrong with the food.”

Alex gave his hostess an apologetic smile. “The food is wonderful. I’m afraid I was lost in thought.”

“Yes,” Lady Thurston replied nonchalantly. “She is a lovely girl. And such an eye for fashion.”

Alex prudently kept his mouth shut and found a renewed interest in shellfish.

Something had to be done.

The next night featured the opening ball that signaled the official start of the party. Sophie stood with Mirabelle and the newly introduced Evie Cole a little way from the dance floor. Poor Kate had been left behind in her room. Not yet officially out, she would have to settle for a detailed account of the ball from her friends.

Sophie found Evie fascinating. She was shorter and a good deal more curvaceous than the other two girls, with light brown hair and a face that Sophie thought was rather pretty despite the thin scar that ran from her temple to her jaw.

There was a shy wariness about her at first, and she was given to the occasional stutter. But after a time, Evie began to relax. And as Mirabelle related the story of how Sophie had
tossed out her own cousin, Evie grew more and more animated, revealing a woman of clever mind and sharp tongue. It was, to Sophie’s mind, a considerable transformation of appearances.

Their conversation lulled as Alex and Whit approached. As always, Alex was splendidly turned out in his formal attire, opting for black when some of the young gentlemen were sporting waistcoat colors that bordered on outrageous, putting Sophie to mind of overgrown flightless parrots.

The usual round of greetings followed, strictly adhering to tradition and the rules of etiquette, until Whit turned to Mirabelle and, in a surprisingly cool tone, said, “Imp.”

Sophie watched as Mirabelle’s normally luminous eyes slowly narrowed into angry little slits before she dropped a quick and careless curtsy.

“Cretin.” There was a wealth of feeling in Mirabelle’s greeting, and none of it pleasant.

Whit returned her glare with a cocky grin. “Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you here. Lord knows you’re never anywhere else.”

Mirabelle pasted on a coy smile and opened her eyes wide in mock distress. “Oh dear, you’re displeased with my attendance to night, aren’t you? Well, this
is
your home so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just say my good-byes to your mother and be on my way.”

“Mirabelle,” Whit growled.

“She did issue the invitation after all and I would be remiss in not giving her a full and detailed explanation for my early departure. What would you like me to tell her, Whit? Shall I just mention that you asked me to leave?”

“Don’t you dare.”

“No? Well, that you turned me out then? Sent me packing?”

“Mirabelle—”

“Really, you are entirely too difficult to please. Tossed me out on my ear, strenuously encouraged my immediate absence?”

“If you even
think
—”

“Booted, exiled, or otherwise uninvited me? Come now, Whit, don’t look so frightened, it’s most unmasculine of you. Surely your mother will acquiesce to your wishes. You
are
the man of the house are you not?”

“
That
is enough.”

“Yes. I rather think it will do,” she replied jauntily. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s far past time for me to pay my respects to the hostess.” Mirabelle left with what could really only be called a smirk and a swagger.

Sophie rather felt Mirabelle deserved her victory. Whit had been decidedly rude. At the moment he was watching Mirabelle with some trepidation. “She wouldn’t.”

Alex barely managed to speak through his stifled laughter. “She does seem to be headed in that direction.”

They all watched Mirabelle make her way efficiently through the crowd. When she reached Lady Thurston, a strangled sound issued from Whit’s throat and he set off toward the two women without a backward glance.

Alex laughed at the sight.

“Mirabelle won’t really—” Sophie began.

“No, she won’t,” Evie replied. “She loves Lady Thurston like a mother and wouldn’t upset her for the world, certainly not just to spite Whit. She just wanted to make him squirm.”

“I’d say she succeeded rather nicely,” Sophie commented.

“Yes, she did,” Evie agreed. “She manages to best Whit on a fairly regular basis. It bothers him no end, and amuses the rest of us even further. If you’ll excuse me, I had better make certain they stay clear of each other for a while.”

Sophie waited until Evie left, then turned to Alex. “Is there a particular reason those two are so angry with each other tonight?”

“Not just to night, Sophie,
every
night, and every day between those nights. They’ve never gotten along.”

“Really? Why ever not? She’s best friends with his sister
and cousin, and his mother likes her.
I
like her. What’s not to like about her?”

“Don’t work yourself into a snit. I like her too. Just don’t ask Whit for a list of her faults, it’s bound to prove extensive.”

“And imagined,” Sophie scoffed.

“Now, to be fair, Mirabelle gives as good as she gets.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed. “It seems odd, though, that they shouldn’t get on together.”

“Not so unbelievable if you know the story behind it.”

“Do you know the story behind it?” she asked.

“Of course, everyone does. It’s no secret.”

Sophie thought about that for a moment. “Well, then we wouldn’t
really
be gossiping about our friends if you told me, would we?”

Alex gave her a winning smile and Sophie’s heart lurched in reaction. She really, really needed to get a hold of herself. Or at least learn to keep her eyes trained on the floor.

Alex chuckled. “You really are an original, and a higher compliment I cannot think to pay.”

“Oh, well…thank you then,” Sophie mumbled, feeling awkward and a little letdown. She could certainly think of a few compliments she’d rather hear from him.

Alex took her arm gently. “You’re quite welcome. Come, are you thirsty? I’ll procure us some champagne, we’ll have a seat out on the terrace, and I’ll regale you with all the sordid details of Whit and Mirabelle’s story. How does that sound?”

“If you’re sure they wouldn’t be upset.”

Alex led them to the refreshment table and handed her a flute. “I promise you they won’t mind at all. In fact, both would be more than happy to relate, at length, every nuance of that fateful afternoon, but their views are decidedly skewed. You require an objective narrator.”

“You.”

“Oh, yes. I was
there
, you see.”

“I feel as if we’re about to discuss the details of some horrid
crime to which you were witness,” she said as he took her arm and led her outside.

“The players in this particular drama would probably agree with that description, but really it was not so very bad. They’re just too stubborn to admit it. Ah, this should do.”

The terrace was large and well lit with a few people sitting or walking about. He led her to a relatively secluded bench at the far end that afforded them a degree of privacy.

He took a drink of champagne and cleared his throat dramatically.

“The theatrics are unnecessary,” she laughed.

“Yes, most pleasures are. Now behave, I’m trying to begin an epic tale here. It requires a certain degree of concentration.”

“Yes, of course, terribly sorry.”

“Quite all right…. Where was I?”

“You hadn’t yet begun.”

“Ah, yes. It was the summer of…well, I don’t remember what year it was, but Whit and I were seventeen and here at Haldon Hall on holiday from Eton.”

“That would be 1798.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You were seventeen then, and you’re one-and-thirty now, so the year was 1798.”

“Right. Yes, 1798 it is, or was, rather. Whit and I were home on holiday and Lady Thurston was having a house party. Quite a few people attended, including a very lovely young woman by the name of Sarah Wilheim. She was about our age, perhaps a year or two younger and an absolute angel to behold. Glorious locks of golden spun hair, eyes the color of the sky, and a bosom a man could—”

“I quite understand, Alex. She was attractive.” She scowled at him.

He winked.

Her heart lurched again.

“She was a vision,” Alex continued. “And Whit fell for her like a rock. As it happens, Mirabelle’s guardian, her uncle,
lives but two miles from Haldon Hall and she was more often here than not, as is still the case. That summer she was just a tiny mite of a girl—couldn’t have been more than eleven.”

“Ten, and Kate would have been seven.”

“Excellent. May I continue?”

“Please do.”

“The girls were ten and seven, and forever following us about the estate.”

“How sweet.”

“The sweetness was lost on us at the time. We were seventeen if you recall and quite puffed up with self-importance as only boys on the verge of manhood can be.”

Sophie took mental exception to the use of “only” in that statement, but wisely held her tongue.

“One fine afternoon, a small group of us decided to picnic down by the lake. It had been an unusually hot spring and the water had turned rather green and murky, but Whit insisted on securing the lovely Miss Wilheim for a row on the water. And she did indeed look lovely, all peaches and cream in a fetching little ensemble with matching bonnet and—”