Courtship and Curses (21 page)

“She’ll love them.” Sophie set them on the table. But Parthenope wasn’t finished.

“I’ve also got a very interesting article for her in the
Lady’s Magazine
about the rhododendrons of Asia Minor and the Black Sea, and one about the
Orchidaceae
of North America, whatever those are, and the agricultural report in the most recent number of Ackermann’s
Repository
. What is barley, anyway? Do you eat it, like wheat?”

“No. I think you stuff it down the throats of people who behave nonsensically.”

“Pooh.” She dropped the magazines next to the violets. “I’d thought about bringing Hester to distract her too, but I’m afraid he’s in disgrace.”

“What did he do?”

Parthenope grinned. “I brought him to Lady Mansfield’s last night, and while I was playing whist, he went for a little jaunt onto the old Countess of Exton’s shoulder, took a look at her cards, proclaimed, ‘Fancy that! Five kings!’ then made a mess on her new French silk shawl. I guess I’m in disgrace too, for bringing him, but not as much as the countess.”

“Did she really have five kings in her hand?”

“She certainly did.”

Sophie laughed, but her laugh faded into a sigh. Parthenope frowned at her. “What? Don’t worry—they’ll forgive me eventually, but I shouldn’t probably expect her grandson to be asking me to dance anytime soon. Not that I’m devastated or anything.”

“It’s not that. Come sit, and I’ll tell you.” She told Parthenope about her talk with Papa.

“Ah,” Parthenope said when she’d finished. “Well, I suppose I can’t much blame him—it does sound rather far-fetched. And if you’d told him about the magic, it would have been even worse.”

“I know. And now I don’t know what to do next. If no one will listen to us—”

“Ahem.” Parthenope was regarding the toes of her slippers. After a pause, she looked up. “I had an interesting conversation myself last night.”

Sophie waited and, when Parthenope didn’t continue, prodded her friend with the tip of her cane (today the green-painted one wrapped with lace, so that the color showed through the pattern). “And?”

Parthenope eyed her. “You won’t be angry with me?”

“How can I be, if you don’t tell me?”

“That’s hardly inducement to talk. Very well, I told Peregrine about our suspicions. I was worried after your aunt’s accident, and I had to do something. Not that it helped.”

Oh. That wasn’t so bad. “Did he say it was outrageous fudge?”

“No. That’s what worries me. I was sure he would, because I … er, have been known to be economical with the truth with him in the past, but he said that you had spoken to him about something similar. I pretended not to know that. Anyway, he didn’t tell me not to be a codfish. He only looked very serious and thoughtful. Goodness, if
Perry
thinks there might be something to worry about … Sophie, you have to talk to him again. He might actually believe you.”

Sophie sat back. Of course she had to, but life would be so much easier if she didn’t. She and Peregrine—er, Lord Woodbridge—had reached a—a place of balance. They had finally begun to trust each other after their spectacularly bad start, and she was afraid to do anything to jeopardize that delicate equilibrium lest their trust be destroyed a second time. But if he would actually
listen
to her.… “The last time we spoke about it, he suggested I speak to my father.”

“And you did, and it didn’t help. You can tell him that when you talk to him.” Parthenope looked at her, all traces of laughter gone from her face. “Which I hope you’ll do soon. In the meanwhile, please be careful. I don’t want to have to bring you violets and articles about the progress of this year’s barley crop because
you’ve
gotten caught in a magical trap.”

Chapter

13

Sophie’s
chance to talk to Peregrine came a few days later, when Aunt Molly was deemed well enough that Bunty no longer had to sit up with her at night and Amélie could go out in the evening again. Indeed, Aunt Molly was feeling sufficiently improved to talk of getting out of bed in a day or two to check on her conservatory and see if the aphid mixture had done its job. Bunty sniffed dubiously at these signs of returning vigor, but Sophie was delighted. Perhaps in another day or two, she’d be ready for callers. Wouldn’t the poor comte be happy to see his Marie?

So she and Amélie and Papa were free to attend Viscountess Montashton’s musicale that night. Parthenope would be there, and she’d assured Sophie that Peregrine would be too, although as they were ushered into Lady Montashton’s reception rooms, crowded with rows of small gilt chairs rapidly filling with guests, Sophie still wasn’t entirely sure how she would broach the topic of the attempted murders with him. Trying to discuss anything of such a sensitive nature in a crowd like this would be almost impossible. But she had to try.

She was pleased to see the comte, who came to bow over her hand and ask after Aunt Molly. His smile when she told him that Aunt would probably be well enough for visitors soon lit his whole face. Less pleasing was the attention—or lack of it—which she saw being paid to Amélie. Two ladies (though they hardly seemed to deserve the name) quite pointedly cut her while gushing over Papa, and others were distinctly chilly, greeting Sophie and Papa in a friendly fashion, then barely acknowledging Amélie.

“This is outrageous!” she murmured as they seated themselves. “What have you ever done to anyone, besides be incredibly kind?”

Amélie lifted her shoulders. “I exist,
ma chère
. We have discussed this before—why do you still let it trouble you?”

“Because it’s horrible and unfair!”

“They think they are being
patriotique
, Sophie. It does not trouble me. Please, do not permit it to trouble you.” She patted Sophie’s hand. “See, there is Parthenope. It looks as though she is trying to gain your attention.”

Sophie scanned the crowd and spotted Parthenope waving at her enthusiastically from partway across the room while the duchess tried to catch her sleeve. Sophie nodded to them, and the duchess looked relieved as she captured Parthenope’s arm and brought it down. Parthenope grimaced, then began to jerk her head to one side in a most pointed manner. Sophie smiled, wondering if the duchess would try to grab her head, and looked where Parthenope had indicated. And saw Peregrine Woodbridge sitting alone, his eyes fixed on her.

The music was probably very good, as Lady Montashton was known to be something of a connoisseur, but Sophie heard very little of it; every time she allowed her gaze to wander over to where Peregrine sat, she saw that he still watched her. As soon as the applause had died away and the quartet had laid down their instruments, she saw him rise and begin to make his way toward her. There was a seriousness and purpose in his stride that made her heart beat a little more quickly.

He greeted them all, then asked Papa, “May I claim the pleasure of your daughter’s company in the supper room?”

“If Sophie wishes it, then by all means.” Papa smiled indulgently and turned away with Amélie on his arm.

“Lady Sophie?”

He was regarding her steadily. She made him a small curtsy and replied, “Thank you, sir.”

He held out his arm. “I was very sorry to hear about your aunt’s accident. I assume that your being here means she’s improving?”

Oh, good. This sort of polite social exchange she could handle … but why was he still looking at her so intently? She could almost
feel
the weight of his regard. “We hope she might begin to come downstairs soon. She was rather battered by the fall and is just feeling better.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He was silent for a moment as they followed Papa and Amélie and the rest of the crowd toward the dining room, then said, simply, “I’ve missed you. It’s been fiendishly dull and flat without you. I thought about calling, but I didn’t want to disturb your household, so … so I’ve been waiting for you to return. I think it’s been the longest week of my life.”

Sophie dropped her eyes and wished she could hide behind her fan, but using her cane got in the way. What reply was one supposed to make to such a statement? And how was she supposed to discuss possible assassins with him when he said things like that?

“I—I am flattered, Lord Woodbridge,” she said carefully. “In fact, I am especially glad to see you, as there’s something that I would like to dis—”

“Sophie.” His voice dropped, and he glanced around them as if to make sure they were not overheard as he drew her arm a little closer. “Not being able to see you this week made up my mind.… I know it’s not the usual thing, but I … I thought this way was the best. I would like to speak to your father about paying my formal addresses to you.”

Sophie would have liked to stop and try to make sense of what her ears were telling her, but the press of guests behind them was too great. He had said … he was more or less asking her to— But he was still speaking.

“I am asking you first if … if you would not mind if I did. Under the circumstances, I would not wish to speak to him if you find the idea repugnant. That would just distress the both of us. So … would it be all right with you if I do?”

Would she be able to take another step without collapsing from sheer shock … and from sheer happiness? More important, could she give him a coherent answer without dying of embarrassment? Preferably one that was gracious and polished and elegantly phrased.…

“Yes, please,” she murmured, and felt her face burst into flame.

*   *   *

She knew in a distant sort of way that they had made it into the supper room, and knew too that Peregrine left her at a table with Amélie while he and Papa went to fetch ices and
marrons glacés
and tiny cakes. Gradually her breath came back to her along with the ability to think … and an enormous happiness. He
did
love her. Of course, now it would be impossible to discuss her concerns about Papa’s safety: Her inability to think about anything but the enormous shiny bubble of joy inside her had seen to that. But they could talk tomorrow. Surely he would be willing to go driving or riding with her in the park—

“Something has happened,” Amélie observed quietly.

Startled, Sophie met her eyes. “What?”

But Amélie only smiled and adjusted her gray gauze shawl more snugly about her shoulders. “I should not have spoken. It is too soon, I am thinking. Ah, Monsieur le Comte.” She nodded graciously as he strolled up to their table. “I am happy to say that your friend is looking forward to receiving callers again in a day or so.”

“So I have heard from Lady Sophie.” He bowed. “It is news that makes me very happy, you may be sure, and I will plan on calling the day after next, if you think it will not be too soon.” For a moment he looked pensive, then brightened. “Ah, but might I be of service to you ladies? I shall be happy to procure some champagne.” He turned and spoke to a footman, who nodded and disappeared.

Papa and Peregrine reappeared then with several little plates of delicacies and convinced the comte to join them. Peregrine sat down next to Sophie; she was deliciously aware of his proximity, of how he was able to gracefully arrange his long limbs on Lady Montashton’s silly little chairs, even of his breathing. She stole a glance at him from the corner of her eyes and saw that he watched her too. Was he thinking thoughts similar to hers? Someday—the thought gave her shivers—someday she would ask him.

The footman appeared with a tray of glasses. Sophie idly watched him set them down in front of Amélie and her and Papa and—there was something wrong with Papa’s glass.

Sophie leaned forward, gazing at it, ignoring the sprightly conversation being conducted around her. The glass looked just the same as the others, but it wasn’t: a feeling of wrongness, of badness, radiated from it like stink from a pile of manure. What could it—

And then Papa picked it up and began to raise it to his lips.

“Papa!” she shrieked, scrambling half to her feet, and pointed at the glass. It broke in his hand, the bowl cracking away from the stem and falling into halves, as if cleaved by a sword.

For a second there was stunned silence at the table and at the tables around them. Then everyone seemed to move and speak at once.

“
Mon Dieu
—Gilbert!” Amélie cried, jumping up and grasping Papa’s sleeve.

“My dear marquis,” the comte exclaimed. “Are you injured?”

“What—Sophie, what happened?” Peregrine turned to her, helping her back down into her seat.

Sophie thought fast. “Papa—your glass—I saw it crack!” she said loudly, then pretended to collapse in her seat.

“Thank God that you did,” Amélie said fervently, trying to hand her dainty, black-edged handkerchief to Papa. He took it from her, glanced at it wryly, and used it to blot some of the champagne from his hand. Sophie winced as she looked at the liquid that bespattered the table, and wondered what would happen if, say, a mouse were to happen along and drink some of it.…

Except that she didn’t have to wonder. Papa’s champagne had been poisoned. That’s what the sense of badness she’d felt meant.

*   *   *

They left for home early, of course, as Papa was drenched in champagne. Sophie sped matters along by coming down with a convenient headache. She didn’t want Papa wearing those clothes any longer than he had to.

The ride home was a quiet one. Sophie sat with eyes closed and head back because of her supposed headache; she thought she felt Amélie watching her, but she was too preoccupied with trying to figure out how this latest attempt on Papa’s life—for it had to have been one—had happened. Magic had not been used—at least, she didn’t think it had. It looked as though it had been a straightforward attempt to poison him. But who had managed to get the poison in the right glass? If only there were some way for her to go back and question Lady Montashton’s footmen … but there wasn’t. To the rest of the world, this had been a simple incident of a breaking glass, and that had been her doing. No one else knew what she did … except the person who had arranged it. If she hadn’t sensed the wrongness about it …