Courtship and Curses (6 page)

Still chattering about hair, Lady Parthenope helped her back to her seat, then boldly stepped up to Papa and Amélie. Lord Palmerston and Lady West had left, and the crowd around them had by now mostly dispersed. A pair of footmen had gathered up the pieces of Zeus, and the musicians were again playing, but Amélie still looked pale as she leaned on Papa’s arm, sipping a glass of wine.

“Lady Lansell—Lord Lansell.” Lady Parthenope curtsied. “I must apologize for my cousin. Your daughter seems to have been injured by his clums—”

Amélie blushed hotly and shook her head in protest. “Mademoiselle, you are mistaken. I am not Lady Lansell—”

“Aren’t you?” Lady Parthenope looked interested.

“Sophie’s injured?” Papa turned quickly to find her.

“Oh, not badly injured, I don’t think,” Lady Parthenope assured him. “He tripped over her, you see, and seems to have stepped on her foot. He isn’t usually that clumsy, but I suppose the circumstances were extenuating. Anyway, I think it might be a good idea if you took her home and did something for it. Her foot, that is. A cold poultice, probably. My Macky always—she’s my governess, you know, Miss MacTavish—anyway, Macky always puts an angelica root and oatmeal poultice on bruises—”

“Angelica root and
oatmeal
?” Aunt Molly had materialized behind Papa. “I’ve never heard it used for that before.”

“It’s a Scotch remedy. They use oatmeal for everything, I think. Oh, you must be Lady Lansell, then—”

“Goodness, no!” Aunt Molly shook off the suggestion impatiently. “Tell me, does she grind the angelica or does she just bruise it?”

Lady Parthenope stamped her foot in annoyance. “I don’t know, and I don’t care! Won’t someone find Sophie’s mama so that she can take poor Sophie home so her foot doesn’t swell like a grape and keep her from dancing the rest of the season?”

Everyone stared at her except Amélie, who was looking at Sophie with raised eyebrows. Sophie returned her inquiring look with a pleading one. Amélie gave her a tiny nod. “
Vraiment
, mademoiselle, you are entirely right,” she said crisply. “
Pauvre
Sophie, you must take my arm—or should I call for help? No? Very well. Monsieur le Marquis, won’t you ask that the carriage be brought?”

“Under the circumstances, I think that is an excellent idea.” Papa turned to find a footman.

Lady Parthenope looked relieved. “Thank you. I’ll call tomorrow, then, to see how you do, Lady Sophie. Good night.”

“Um, that would be lovely. Good night,” Sophie said, clinging to Amélie’s arm as Lady Parthenope swept away.

“Must we go so soon?” Aunt Molly asked plaintively, looking back at the comte, who hovered on the edge of the conversation.

“I too shall call tomorrow, if I may,” he assured her, bowing with his hand over his heart. Aunt Molly dimpled.

“Sophie?” Amélie asked quietly as they moved slowly down the stairs. “What is all this? Are you truly hurt?”

“Yes—no—I don’t know! I didn’t know what else to say to her. She seemed to gallop over everything, and it was easier just to let her think what she wanted and…”

And her first ball had turned into an utter disaster, hadn’t it? Sophie stared down at her hand clutching the banister. First her hair, then that Sir William being so unpleasant to Amélie, then overhearing that horrid man and Zeus nearly killing Papa and the mysterious magic she’d felt and the beautiful Lord Woodbridge being scared off by Lady Parthenope and … and
everything
. Her hand blurred through a film of tears.

“
Chut!
I am not scolding,
petite
.” Amélie squeezed her arm as they gained the lotus-columned hall. Lady Whiston herself came fluttering toward them with their wraps and bid them good night. Amélie thanked her and took Sophie’s arm once more. “This evening has been even more exciting than we expected, no?”

“Not exciting—horrible!” Sophie muttered.

“Are you all right, Lady Sophie?” someone asked.

Sophie looked up—and straight at Lord Woodbridge, who was standing at the base of one of the columns. He was regarding her steadily, brows slightly drawn.

“I—it has been a t-tiring evening, sir,” she stuttered.

He bowed and stepped back, but Sophie was sure she could feel his eyes on her as they proceeded to the door being held open by a tall footman.

Lord Whiston accompanied them out to their carriage and handed her and Aunt Molly and Amélie into it. After Papa climbed in and gave the coachman the signal to start, Sophie looked out her window toward the house. She thought she saw a dark-haired figure in a blue coat standing with Lord Whiston under the torches by the door, watching their carriage clatter down Mount Street.

“Well,” Amélie commented quietly, “perhaps not
entièrement
horrible.”

“Indeed not,” said Aunt Molly, sounding dreamy and faraway.

Chapter

4

Breakfast
was barely over the following morning when the front door knocker rat-a-tatted loudly. A few moments later Aunt Isabel swept into the breakfast room, grim-faced above her enormous ermine muff. She fixed Papa with a steely look.

“Gilbert, we must talk,” she announced, then turned to Aunt Molly. “And you too,” she added. “
If
you feel that you can face us.”

Aunt Molly blinked. “What did I do?”

“You have to ask?” Aunt Isabel demanded.

Amélie rose at once. “Good day, Lady Dow. You must talk, and me, I must write some letters, which I should have done many days ago.” She glided calmly from the room, giving Sophie a meaningful glance.

Sophie rose too, ready to follow but wishing she could slide under the table instead and find out just what Aunt Isabel was so indignant about. It must have something to do with Aunt Molly’s comte last night, but why had he so upset her? If Mama were alive, she would have stood up for Aunt Molly—she had always been protective of her, especially when Aunt Isabel was around. If only Sophie could … but first she had to know what Aunt Isabel’s visit was about.

“I think the library would be more appropriate, if you do not mind, Isabel.” Papa climbed reluctantly to his feet.

“Indeed,” she snapped. “Come along, Molly.”

Aunt Molly’s vague blue eyes were troubled as she followed her sister, but her mouth had set itself in a line fully as stubborn as Aunt Isabel’s own. Good for her. Now all Sophie had to do was wander upstairs as if she hadn’t noticed the drama playing itself out in front of her, then set up a quick listening spell on the library—

Except that while Mama would approve of her wanting to help Aunt Molly, she would emphatically
not
approve of eavesdropping … and especially not of using magic to do so. And besides, by the time she’d concentrated hard enough to cast any spell, it would be time to dress for dinner. Which only left her one daunting option.

“Papa!” she called, as he was about to leave the room.

He paused. “Sophie?”

“Please—” She paused too, then said in a rush, “Please tell me what has upset Aunt Isabel so. Is it anything to do with Aunt Molly and the French comte we met last night?”

He frowned. “I am not sure that’s anything a young girl needs to know about—”

“But I’m not a young girl anymore, Papa.” She drew herself straighter and met his eyes. “If I am old enough to be out in society, then surely I’m old enough to know what is going on in my own family.”

He looked at her then—really looked at her, she thought, as he hadn’t for a long time—and let his hand drop from the door latch. “Yes … very well. But I shall have to give you the abbreviated version, or Isabel will be down here to drag me bodily up the stairs. When she was your age, your aunt Molly fell in love during her first season with a young Frenchman. He had escaped from the Terror, which had just gotten under way in France, and though he was heir to his family title and estate, there didn’t seem to be any chance that he’d ever inherit any of it, since the aristocracy of France had been abolished. So your grandfather forbade them to meet, and…” He hesitated.

“Go on.” Poor Aunt Molly!

Papa coughed. “Your grandfather arranged for the young Frenchman to be arrested and deported. It was not hard to do—there was concern that the Revolution might spread outside France, brought by secret agents, and in fact it was proven that the revolutionary government did try to encourage it here, to destabilize England and reduce any threat from us.”

“So that’s why she never married,” Sophie said softly.

“Indeed. The, er, problem was that she very nearly succeeded in running away with him. There was rather a scandal that had to be smoothed over, and your Aunt Isabel is sure that it cost her an offer of marriage from a duke.”

Ah. So
that
was what had Aunt Isabel so upset. Still … “But it’s all so long ago!”

“True, but I do not think she ever forgave Molly, and it turned her bitter. Never bear a grudge, Sophie. It will eat up your soul. Furthermore, she now has your cousins to find wives for—preferably wealthy wives—and doesn’t want old scandals revived. I expect she wants me to bundle Aunt Molly back to Lanselling and pretend we never met the comte last night.”

“Gilbert!” Aunt Isabel’s voice drifted down from the head of the stairs.

Papa grimaced. “That’s it in a nutshell. I had better go before she has apoplexy.”

“Wait, Papa—one more question. What will you say to them?”

He looked at her. “My sister—both my sisters—are adults. I can no more banish Molly than I could Isabel. She will have to live with that.”

“Do you think Aunt Molly and her comte will—”

“I have no idea, Sophie. Time will—”

“
Gilbert!
”

Papa sighed. “We can finish this later, if you wish to discuss it further.” He left, closing the door behind him.

Sophie sat back down and twiddled her cane thoughtfully. So this was the secret of Aunt Isabel’s bad temper, especially toward her sister. Well, if the Comte de Carmouche-Ponthieux was going to be in London for any amount of time and was a bachelor, then she would do her best to see that he and Aunt Molly would have a chance to discover if they still cared for each other, Aunt Isabel or no Aunt Isabel.

*   *   *

She was still thinking about Aunt Molly and her comte that afternoon when the door knocker announced another caller. Lady Whiston had already been there to see how they were, which was very good of her, and Lord Palmerston had left his card. Sophie hoped that this latest caller would be the comte, and looked up from her embroidery to make sure that Aunt Molly’s cap wasn’t askew or her gown streaked with dirt from her bad habit of dusting her hands on it after making the rounds of the greenhouse downstairs.

“Lord Woodbridge,” Belton, their butler, announced at the door.

For a moment, Sophie thought,
Who?
Then realization swept over her as she caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired figure framed in the drawing room doorway. He wore a dark green coat this morning, with exquisitely cut pale buff-colored buckskin breeches and a simply but elegantly knotted neck cloth.

“I came to inquire after Madame Carswell and Lady Sophie and express my hope that they’re quite over their shock of last evening,” he said, advancing into the room and bowing to Amélie and Aunt Molly. But his eyes definitely kept flickering to her, Sophie realized with a little flutter.

“Woodbridge?” Aunt Molly echoed dubiously.

Amélie leaned over and murmured something in her ear.

Aunt Molly’s brow creased. “Did we? I don’t recall—”

“—recall when I have been to a ball more
agréable
,” Amélie said firmly, drowning out Aunt Molly. “I am quite recovered, but perhaps you should ask Sophie herself how she is.” She looked pointedly at the empty chair next to where Sophie sat, which was slightly apart from the sofa she and Aunt Molly occupied.

Sophie watched him bow his thanks and turn toward her. After they arrived home last night she had lain awake for hours, reviewing every moment of the evening and thinking about what she
should
have done or said. There was some small consolation in the fact that she hadn’t actually done any magic in public, but not much; the only thing that had kept her from it was falling over her own feet. She’d had to leave rescuing Papa and everyone to Lord Woodbridge. That might not have been so bad—according to those novels of Aunt Molly’s, men seemed to like doing the rescuing while young ladies stood by in excesses of terror-stricken sensibility before melting into their saviors’ strong yet gentle embraces. But any attempts at melting she might have made (even if she’d thought of it, which she hadn’t) had been blown away by the breezy Lady Parthenope.

Lord Woodbridge gave her another short, polite bow before sweeping aside the tails of his coat and sitting down beside her. Was her hair tidy? Were the ruffles around the hem of her white muslin morning gown flipped up or lying smoothly? She stole a peek at him from the corners of her eyes and saw that he was regarding her gravely, brows slightly drawn again over those sea gray eyes. Oh dear, he must be the handsomest man in London this season. What did one say to such a paragon?

She glanced past him and saw that Amélie was looking at her, even while she nodded sympathetically at whatever Aunt Molly was saying. Then Amélie gave her a tiny, private smile, and lifted her chin ever so slightly. Sophie felt her own chin rise in response and, with it, her courage.

“It is most kind of you to call, Lord Woodbridge,” she found herself saying with a smile. “Last night was quite an introduction to London society for me! I do find myself hoping other parties won’t be quite so, ah, exciting. Or should I be sure to take care around the statuary in all my hostesses’ ballrooms?”

“I’m relieved to see you taking it in such good part, Lady Sophie,” he replied. “I had feared that you would be more alarmed.”

“You are very kind, but as you can see we are all … er…” Drat, she should not have kept looking at him; now she’d lost the lovely smooth thread of speech that had somehow begun to unwind itself from her tongue.

“You are putting a good face upon it for me, but I should have known, when you left early … that statue … and I blame myself for my inexcusable clumsiness.”