Kasey Michaels (32 page)

As Desiree’s voice trailed off, to be followed by a wink that was surely meant to imply what she had not bothered to explain, Bramwell found himself sitting down beside the maid once more. It was much more respectable than falling down. “Go on, please. He met Sophie, and then—what?” he said, noticing that his lips had gone numb.

“He met Sophie? Then you do not know anything, do you?” Desiree questioned him, her tone no longer happy, but disdainful, condemning. “You think that Sophie has known from the beginning, that she knows now,
oui
?”

Bramwell rubbed a hand across his mouth. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I, Desiree? But I did think it, if only for a moment. This was your plan, yours and Lorrie’s. Not Sophie’s. Please, go on. Finish it.”

Desiree gave a small, delighted chuckle. “Ah, yes. A miracle. I am looking into the face of real love. For you were not angry when you thought—for just that moment that you thought it—that Sophie may have been in on our little scheme. You were crushed, brokenhearted. There is yet hope for this sad old world, if true love between a man and a woman is still possible,
oui
?”

She stood up, poured both of them another glass of wine, and began pacing the same small carpet Bramwell had trod moments earlier. “Let me see. How did it grow from there? Oh, yes, I remember. I was to get Sophie to London. But how,
monseigneur
? How was I to get her there? And not just in London, but smack into the middle of Society, into your orbit. Better yet, under your roof?”

Bramwell was beginning to understand. It was either the wine, or he was waking up, becoming more and more himself again. “You had the letter from my father,” he said. “Which, I do believe, means your considerable talents extend to that of forgery?”

Desiree pointed straight at him. “Now,
that
,
monseigneur
, Sophie does know. I could not keep it from her. Not when that fool of a solicitor insisted upon spending the night, then wandering out of my chamber the next morning still tucking his shirt into his breeches.” She shrugged, winking in delight. “I am still quite good,
monseigneur
, and the solicitor, he was happy to do anything I asked. Signature, seals, anything! And that was that,” she said with a snap of her fingers. “You had no choice but to take Sophie in, as your father had promised, and you,
monseigneur
, are an honorable man,
oui
?”

Bramwell rose and replenished his glass yet another time, eyeing the level in the bottle as he sat down once more. “So Lorrie did see Sophie for the first time after she was installed here in Portland Square. That’s obvious enough, for even Lorrie isn’t that good an actor. He was genuinely bowled over by her, which serves him right, now that I think about it. The wager, the paper listing the wager, however, was all planned out beforehand, as a part of the scheme you and Lorrie hatched between you.”

He eyed the maid curiously. “And
you
picked up that paper, not Giuseppe. The monkey only was told to give it to Sophie, so as to stir the waters more, make us more aware of each other. Am I correct?”

“You’re very, very good,
monseigneur
,” Desiree told him, giggling. She was now on her third small glass of wine, and the bottle was empty. “But I had more of a plan that just those silly wagers of the baron’s. I instructed Sophie to tell you immediately that she was irresistible, and that you should not fall in love with her. She was sure I had done this so as to have you take her in dislike, make her safe from your advances, if you should have thought to make her your mistress, but—”

“But you really did it so that I’d be sure to be interested,” Bramwell finished for her. Desiree, he believed, would have made an admirable general—and an even better tactician.

“
Oui
. I thought to hasten matters. Gentlemen are sure to come forward the moment one tells them to please, please, back away. But no one can dislike Sophie. She is totally lovable,
oui
? She couldn’t know how she had immediately become attractive to you. She has learned my tricks,
monseigneur
, but she has not yet learned them all. And still, even last night, when she came to me with her face glowing with love for you, I continued to warn her away.”

Bramwell drained his glass. “You’re holding out for marriage,” he said flatly, realizing that he had somehow come to find himself in the unique position of possibly having to apply to his beloved’s maid for permission to marry. This entire scene was ludicrous. Laughable. And he hadn’t enjoyed an interview this much in years. “Once Sophie, that is, all unknowing of what she is doing, neatly removes the single obstacle remaining in our path.”

“Not the only obstacle,
monseigneur
,” Desiree told him, suddenly serious as she crossed to the small chest beside the bed and opened the top drawer. “My only fear of bringing Sophie to London was in having her within the same orbit as the uncles. Society miss or duke’s wife, they may not want her here. Because of these,” she ended, holding up what looked to be about a half dozen slim, leather-bound journals. “I’ve been waiting for the correct time to show them to you.”

Bramwell was suddenly quite sober. “Those belonged to Constance, I’ll assume,” he said quietly, watching as Desiree held the journals between her hands, preparing to replace them in the drawer.

“
Oui
,” Desiree said absently, reaching into the drawer, running her hand over its interior. “They are very dear to Sophie, much as I pleaded with her to burn them, burn them all. Constance wrote down everything, you see. She had a separate journal for each of the uncles, along with much gossip of a more silly nature. And that,
monseigneur
, is what worries me. The gentlemen, they must all know of the journals,
oui
? Constance was always fond of saying she had no secrets from the world.”

“If they do indeed know about the journals, and remember their existence, I imagine the uncles are feeling much the same way now about their own secrets,” Bramwell said, frowning. “There are what—about a half dozen of them?”

“
Oui
,
monseigneur
, six. Constance did not begin her journals until Sophie was, oh, seven or eight years of age, I suppose. One man is dead, the uncle of your friend, Sir Wallace Merritt. From the pages of her mother’s journal, Sophie learned how to make Sir Wallace happy. She saw it as providential,
oui
? Another is in Scotland, and of no worry to me. There is, of course, your father. And the three uncles. Six men, six journals.”

Bramwell watched as Desiree dropped to her knees and pulled the drawer clear of the chest, frantically looking into the cavity. “But there are only five now. One is not stuck in here,” she said, her voice rising in alarm as she looked to Bramwell. “I had hoped. But, oh,
monseigneur
, it is not here. Which one is missing?”

Bramwell waited as Desiree opened one journal after the other, quickly scanning the first page, then throwing it onto the bed. “Lord Buxley’s,” she said at last, looking up at him, her expression one of near panic. “Of all of them, why one of the London uncles.
Mon dieu, monseigneur
! What are we to do? Lord Buxley’s journal is gone!”

Bramwell sat very still for a long time, then slowly got to his feet. “As Giuseppe can’t read—he can’t, can he?—I believe I will make a small visit to my aunt’s chambers,” he said finally. “If I find the journal there, one question will remain, a question I must ask my aunt.”

“What would that question be,
monseigneur
?”

His smile was tight, and not at all amused. “Well, Desiree, I’ll tell you. As my aunt is an inveterate lover of gossip, I must first assume that Sophie told her about the existence of these journals, not realizing the temptation she had unwittingly put in the dear, light-fingered old lady’s way. I’m willing to make that leap in logic, as I believe you might have already done. Which begs the question, dear woman—did my aunt just now borrow the one, or has she been treating the journals as a sort of lending library for some time now, then going out into Society, fully armed with her newly discovered knowledge?”

“
Mon Dieu
!” Desiree breathed out, collapsing her rump onto the floor. “The
oncles
won’t like this,
oui
?”

“Exactly,” Bramwell said, already on his way out of the room.

A chapter of accidents.

 – Earl of Chesterfield

Chapter Twelve

S
ophie lingered at a table of books that concerned gardening, field drainage, and the proper composition of compost, pretending an interest as she kept one eye trained on the doorway. What was taking Sir Wallace so long? Honestly, give the man one simple assignment...

The afternoon had gone wonderfully well, thanks to Bobbit’s discreet inquiries at a local pub frequented by house servants that had led to a list of several promising lodgings to be inspected. In fact, Sophie and Sir Wallace had quickly located very likely the most ideal bachelor quarters in all of Mayfair, the entire project taking less than two hours. A Mr. Forester, late of Hampshire and now in an extreme rush to return there after a brief, expensive sojourn to London’s raciest gaming hells, had been more than delighted to turn his furnished accommodations over to Sir Wallace, and to include his small staff as well in the bargain.

Which had left more than enough time for a visit to Hatchard’s, and a bit of matchmaking. Again thanks to Bobbit’s network of talkative house servants, Sophie already knew that Lord Charles Anston and his four daughters would be there at precisely three o’clock—just another reason his lordship would be so right for Miss Waverley, being such a punctual, dependable, responsible sort of fellow.

Sir Wallace, as per Sophie’s earlier arrangement, would leave Sophie safely browsing at Hatchard’s while he drove over to escort Miss Waverley to meet with her, another arrangement the well-prepared Sophie had already made. Once Bramwell’s betrothed was present, Sophie would bring Lord Anston and Miss Waverley together. Sir Wallace would then, keeping strictly to the script Sophie had furnished for him, remember a most pressing engagement elsewhere and beg Lord Anston to be so kind as to see to getting the ladies home.

It was a brilliant plan. Simple. Direct. But with no room for error. The timing had to be perfect.

And Sir Wallace was late. A good twenty minutes late as a matter of fact. And Lord Anston was showing signs of being ready to gather up his daughters and depart.

But, then, Sophie told herself, he hadn’t as yet seen her here, had he?

Giving her curls a toss, and pinning a bright smile to her face, she stepped out from behind the table and headed straight for the eldest Anston daughter, brushing a shoulder against her as she moved past, then quickly stopping to offer her apologies for being so clumsy.

“My goodness, what a beauty you are!” Sophie then exclaimed as the two bent to retrieve the small pile of books that had fallen from the girl’s arms, to scatter on the floor. “You have the look of Lord Anston about you, don’t you? Those lovely blue eyes, that small cleft in your chin. Oh, goodness, yes, the resemblance is remarkable! I’m Sophie, by the way. Sophie Winstead. Your papa was kind enough as to call on me the other day, in Portland Square. I’m staying there with the duke of Selbourne’s aunt, in case you are wondering if it is permissible to speak with me, and Lady Gwendolyn makes me absolutely acceptable, yes? Is your papa here, then? I just arrived, and have not seen him. He is such a doting papa, isn’t he, so proud of his beautiful daughters. Now I see why. If anything, he has not said enough about your beauty. You’ll have a Season soon, yes?”

Shock, flattery, a tumble of breathless words, a few smiles that held nothing but artless female talk—all of these combined to gain the immediate confidence of Miss Sarah Anston. Within moments she had dragged Sophie over to where her obviously bored father stood bracing up one of the many bookcases that littered Hatchard’s nearly from floor to high ceiling. At Sophie’s sunny greeting, he snapped to attention at once.

All four Anston daughters were soon gathered up and introduced, and Sophie gushed over and flattered each of them in their turn. They were lovely girls, really, and very well behaved, very eager to talk. By the time Sir Wallace finally showed himself, fairly dragging Miss Isadora Waverley along with him through the aisles, Sophie was able to introduce them all to each other, telling Miss Waverley about Sarah’s love of reading, Ruth Ann’s wish to witness the new King’s Coronation, Lucy’s adoration of her puppy, Fluff, and little Mary’s tumble from a beech tree just before their trip to London, which explained why her left arm was strapped up in a sling.

“You may not know this, girls,” she told them, lowering her voice just a trifle, as if imparting knowledge that definitely would impress them, “but Miss Waverley here is an
expert
on the London Season. I cannot tell you how much she has helped me, a silly country miss with more hair than wit, how many pitfalls she has saved me from in only the short time I have been in Mayfair. Lord Anston?” she then asked, looking at him directly. “Don’t you agree? Miss Waverley is absolutely the most
perfect
person one could ever think to have about when one is launching a Season, yes?”