Daughters of the Storm (19 page)

Ned took a pinch of snuff.

‘Let us discuss it later,' he said. ‘But you are very kind,' he added, with a slight bow to Héloïse.

‘Of course,' said Héloïse, and moved away to her duties.

‘Miss Luttrell.' William launched his carefully considered strategy. ‘I know you are interested in political ideas – or you were – and I wonder if you would care to join me at one of the dinners in White's Hotel? It is a gathering held by English and Americans living in Paris to discuss such matters. The invitation, of course, includes Mr Luttrell.'

The two men looked at each other. It was clear that neither had revised his opinion of the other.

‘I would be delighted,' said Sophie with a pale pink creeping into her cheeks.

‘Thank you,' said Ned firmly. ‘But I think not.'

Sophie's smile faded and William felt that the sun had gone in.

‘Of course, if you would rather not...,' he said, anxious to spare her embarrassment.

‘That is correct,' said Ned. ‘Miss Luttrell and I prefer not to be associated with anything political. Our position, you see.'

Although politely put, his explanation was provocative. Sophie was annoyed. Up to this moment she and Ned had been getting on so well, and they had been happy. Ned had ceased flirting so blatantly and had taken trouble to squire her on outings and to balls. He had been more careful of her feelings and she had been grateful. Nevertheless, the unquestioning adoration in which she had once held him had vanished. For Sophie was now a grown woman who could see more of the truth. Her tastes had developed, and so, under her self-imposed régime of reading, had her mind. Ned did not follow her in this and she regretted sometimes that she could not talk to him more seriously. Most of the time, however, she was content. If she ever thought of Mr Jones with inexplicable flashes of regret during the period he had been absent from Paris, she suppressed them.

Mr Jones had now returned and, like all women faced with the prospect of two suitors – and William's invitation was a deliberate challenge to Ned – Sophie could not resist enjoying the power it gave her. At the same time, she was also constricted by her sense of duty, and by her loyalty. Sophie did not wish to question those. Even so, the re-emergence of Mr Jones had thrown her into confusion and she was frightened by how sharp her pleasure was at seeing him again.

Ned went into battle.

‘I would like a word with you, Mr Jones,' he declared.

William was taken aback.

‘Ned!' interjected Sophie.

‘Certainly,' said William, collecting his wits. ‘Is anything wrong?'

‘In private, if you please,' said Ned.

William looked around. The situation was developing quicker than he had supposed. He led the Luttrells into the music room at one end of the saloon. Ned took up a position by the fireplace and William went over to the harpsichord. Sophie sat on a chair and fiddled nervously with the button on her long gloves.

‘I thought it best to speak plainly,' said Ned. ‘In that way we can avoid any confusion.'

‘Yes?' queried William, knowing perfectly well what Ned was talking about.

‘Miss Luttrell is in Paris under my protection. When we return to England we will be married. You will quite understand, therefore, that neither of us welcomes your attentions. I am sorry to be so blunt, but I think the situation requires it.'

So, nothing had changed in his absence and it seemed that Sophie was out of reach. At this point, a wise man would have bowed himself out and forgotten the whole episode. But Ned's cool assumptions and treatment of him acted as a goad. He glanced at Sophie, who was gazing into the fireplace.

‘Perhaps the lady herself is the best judge of that,' he replied. He turned to Sophie. ‘Are my attentions unwelcome, Miss Luttrell?'

‘I... what I mean... no, of course not...' Sophie looked up, quite unable to say either ‘yes' or ‘no'.

‘Sophie!' His mouth was set in a hard line, Ned was clearly furious. ‘I think you should make it absolutely clear to Mr Jones that you cannot accept his invitations.'

But Sophie had been changed by her months away from home. Until this moment of confrontation, she had not been conscious of this new growth and development. Now, she was and found herself saying: ‘May I remind you, Ned, that I am not yet married to you?'

There and then, William made up his mind to fight.

Ned's jaw dropped. He had never, ever heard Sophie address him in that way.

‘I think you owe an apology to Mr Jones,' she was saying. ‘At once.'

She rose to her feet and stood between them. Faced with an intransigent Sophie and with the threat of a rival, Ned lost his temper.

‘Certainly not,' he said. ‘Mr Jones should leave. Now.'

‘Ned,' said Sophie. ‘If you say one more word, I shall never forgive you. I shall...'

Ned sent her an angry look.

‘What, Sophie?'

Sophie was silent.

‘I see,' said Ned. ‘Are you trying to tell me that you
don't
wish to marry me?'

Sophie was hot with guilt and shame. Whatever wrongs she might be doing to Ned, he should not expose her like this in front of Mr Jones. On the other hand, Ned's ungallant behaviour ratified her doubts... and was there some comfort to be taken from that?

‘I am surprised at you, Sophie,' Ned said. ‘I had no idea you were a flirt.'

Sophie was plunging deeper and deeper into confusion.
Why can't I tell Ned it isn't true?
Has
all reason deserted me?
What she felt at this moment for Ned was overwhelmingly distaste – for the unpleasant scene they now found themselves in and for his stupidity in provoking it. Fully intending to tell William that, under the circumstances, it would be better if they did not meet again, Sophie raised her eyes and met the American's gaze. The words failed to form on her lips.

There was a breathless pause broken only when William dropped his hand on to the harpsichord and played the first few bars of a Mozart aria. Sophie took a deep breath. It was Don Giovanni's unforgettably seductive invitation to Zerlina, which she knew and loved.

‘I suggest we rejoin the guests,' she said, with a calm she was far from feeling. ‘If you wish to talk to me, Ned, then you may do so later. I think Mr Jones has been treated to quite enough of your rudeness.'

Ned drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece.

‘So you will say nothing, Sophie? Can I add dishonesty to the list of your credits? A dishonesty that prevents you from telling Mr Jones that you are contracted to me? Well, I have no wish for a wife that cheats.'

‘You forget yourself, Mr Luttrell.' William had stood enough. ‘I have listened while you have insulted me. That is your privilege and I am prepared, for various reasons, to overlook it. But I cannot allow you to insult Miss Luttrell. I suggest you retire to your room and throw a jug of water over your head.'

His words were meant to offend, and they succeeded. For an ice-cold second Sophie thought Ned was going to hit William. She held up her hand to parry the blow. It never came, for some last vestiges of prudence restrained Ned. He pulled himself upright. Sophie hardly recognised the man who glowered down at her.

‘I have been thinking for a while that it's time this visit to Paris came to an end,' he said. ‘And perhaps now is the moment. If you are determined to stay, which I imagine you are, then I cannot force you. However, my absence will give you time to think over what has happened. I shall inform your parents as to the reasons for leaving you.'

Sophie blanched and William clenched his fists.

‘Mr Luttrell,' he spat out between his teeth. ‘You are beneath contempt. Not only are you abandoning the lady you profess to love but you are returning to England as a tale-bearer.'

Too late, Ned realised he had made a tactical error. But his pride refused to allow him to retreat.

‘At least,' he replied maliciously, ‘at least, Mr Jones, I am not a thief.'

He looked towards Sophie, hoping for a reprieve.

‘Go, then,' was all she said.

Ned sketched a bow.

‘With pleasure, Miss Luttrell. I trust that Madame la Marquise will have better control over you than I have had. But rest assured, I shall be back.' He left the room in such haste that he almost knocked over the figure in the doorway. Ned muttered an excuse and shouldered his way into the saloon, where he stood downing glass after glass of brandy.

Left alone, William raised Sophie's hand to his lips. In a daze, she allowed him to do so.

‘Thank you,' he said, ‘you have given me hope.'

‘Dear me,' said de Choissy from the doorway where he had been listening with interest for some time. ‘I had no idea I harboured so much passion under my roof. How unwise of Mr Luttrell to abandon the field.'

‘Good God,' expostulated Sophie weakly. ‘Did you hear everything?'

‘Enough,' replied her host. ‘I did not mean to intrude. I came merely to introduce you to a friend of mine. I see that I shall have to exert myself to induce Miss Edgeworth to remain with you in Paris. I hardly think that my wife, who informs me you are coming to live here, will suffice. I shall be away quite a lot in the future on... on business, shall we say?'

William pricked up his ears. With what business would Monsieur le Comte be concerned?

‘Two young and beautiful women such as yourselves', de Choissy continued, ‘will offer so much temptation, don't you think?'

He cast a meaningful look at William.

‘Don't rest on your laurels, my friend,' he said. ‘The rules of the game change constantly.'

Impulsively, Sophie reached out her hand and touched de Choissy on his satin-clad sleeve.

‘Thank you,' she said gratefully. ‘You are very good.'

De Choissy covered her hand with his own. He had his own reasons for what he had said, but he had also grown very fond of Sophie. He liked her warmth and the natural wit that lay behind her recently acquired sophistication. Sophie treated him without the slightest trace of coquetry, and he was content to admire her beauty in an abstract way. It allowed them to be friends.

‘If I am good to you it is because I am fond of you and you love my wife,' he said enigmatically, leaving Sophie at a loss as to what he meant. ‘Meanwhile, I think it would be a good idea if we rejoined the guests.'

It was only later, in the privacy of his room, that William wondered why de Choissy had been quite so emphatic on the point of a chaperon. It took him a little time to realise that the count had really been referring to the countess. It was Héloïse he wished to protect – or to guard.

Chapter 4

Wearily, Sophie picked up her hairbrush. It had been a long day, beginning with a musical gathering at Adèle's, followed by a fashionably late dinner, then by a card party and supper, neither of which had been attended by William. Or Ned.

Ned had been as good as his word. The day after Héloïse's soirée he had packed his bags and made his excuses. Something to do with the crops and Sir Brinsley requiring him. Héloïse had listened in silence, and de Choissy with a knowing smile. Then Ned had departed without another word to Sophie, only the curtest of nods.

His leaving hurt her more than she had imagined It would. With Ned went her past, and the memories of her girlhood and life at High Mullions. Nor, did she like to think of the distress she was causing. Part of her hated herself for allowing Mr Jones to come between her and Ned. Part of her dreaded the letters she knew would come from England chiding her for her behaviour, or, worse, ordering her to return. But the more truthful part of her was more puzzling. Sophie was conscious of the shabbier emotion of relief.

Her gaze slid around the luxurious bedroom that had been given over to her use in the Hôtel de Choissy. Every small detail bespoke taste and refinement, from the muslin drapes around her bed to the silver-topped bottles that littered the dressing table. Everywhere spoke of Héloïse's thoughtful and loving attention to Sophie's comfort.

Only a little while ago Sophie would have been agog at so much luxury, but now, like the life that went on in this fascinating, colourful city, she had grown accustomed to it, even to take it for granted. ‘Sophie Luttrell,' she murmured, ‘you
are
in danger of becoming spoilt.'

Spoilt? Or was it infatuated with a man she hardly knew? The seriousness of the question made her stomach lurch.

‘Have I changed very much?' she asked herself and, after a moment, went on: ‘Undoubtedly so. I cannot fail to have done. From a raw miss to a sophisticated French mademoiselle who has virtually thrown her cap at a complete stranger.'

She put down the hairbrush. What had she done? As long as she could remember, Ned had been there, a bulwark against childish disasters, a comfortable haven when trouble loomed, someone to admire as she grew up. Something of a god, too. But the urge to worship him had melted away along with those previously intense feelings and assumptions. In their place lurked anger and irritation and regret for their loss – but not sufficient to change anything.

A knock at the door interrupted Sophie's reflections. In came Héloïse followed by Marie-Victoire. Sophie straightened her shoulders. Marie-Victoire picked up the discarded brush from the dressing table and began to brush Sophie's hair. So gentle. So soothing. Sophie leant back thankfully. Héloïse settled herself on the stool by the window and prepared to indulge in the late-night conversation which had become a habit with them both.

‘I'm exhausted,' Héloïse said with a yawn.

Sophie glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. She was a little worried by her cousin who had grown thinner and more transparent since her marriage. It had not suited Héloïse, this transformation into an established bride, and she seemed anxious and unhappy.