Lord Will & Her Grace (21 page)

"I've asked you here as I've something of
importance to say, my dear." Aunt Rutledge looked her most
formidable, half reclining on her dull blue velvet divan. "It has
come to my attention that an apology is in order."

That made Sophie sit up. Her aunt owning to
the necessity of an apology? Oh—perhaps she was requiring an
apology from Sophie. She slid back down. It was to be expected.
Lord Drummond had warned that a scandal of gargantuan proportions
would brew after yesterday's show. It triggered his second
impassioned plea for her hand during the ride back to Mayfair.

She had almost capitulated. Almost. In fact,
she would have if only he had, for one moment, had a certain
humorous gleam in his eye.

Oh, it was ridiculous. She was
ridiculous.

"Sophie," her aunt continued, "it has been
brought to my attention there was a duel, or rather a pair of
duels, fought yesterday, at least one of which was to defend your
honor. I must say, I'm not surprised given the outrageous nature of
your antics and the young, hot-blooded scallywags inhabiting town
these days. But I had warned you—"

"I realize it was my fault, Aunt," Sophie
said.

"I'm not in the habit of being interrupted,
miss," her aunt said, stony faced.

Silence and impending disinheritance loomed
large.

Mrs. Crosby cleared her throat.

"I'm getting to it, Gladys," her aunt said.
"Your impatience is insupportable. I don't know what has gotten
into you of late."

"Trying to change the subject are we?" Mrs.
Crosby said softly.

Aunt Rutledge blustered and Sophie had the
urge to giggle. One simply did not quarrel with Aunt Rutledge.

"As I was saying…" The grand dame actually
blushed and halted.

"Yes?" asked Mrs. Crosby.

"Well, I suppose I'll waste less time if I
just go directly to the heart of the matter. I've decided to leave
all of my considerable fortune to you when I die, Sophie, as it
seems improbable you'll attain the requirements for inheritance of
the Cornwallis dukedom by the date of the final disposition."

"What?" Sophie half rose from her chair.

"It's also in my power to grant you the title
to Villa Belza, according to the terms of my brother's will, as it
is unentailed property built during his lifetime. But the late duke
made it clear that if you did not marry a member of the
aristocracy, approved by me, the villa and a small stipend to
support you and the residence would be the only portion I could
bestow."

Dazed, Sophie sank back onto the
uncomfortable chair. "But, Aunt, I don't understand. I thought
you'd be furious and would disinherit me. Why haven't you ordered
me back to Wales?"

"My dear," the old lady said, her eyes
softening, "there have been some misunderstandings and I wish to
set everything to rights before I die."

"Why, you will outlive us all," Sophie said
and grinned at Mrs. Crosby.

Mrs. Crosby cleared her throat again.

"Oh, all right, Gladys. I know I'll not have
a moment's peace until I say what you've determined must be
said."

Mrs. Crosby smiled and nodded.

Her aunt sighed heavily and pleated her
plump, jewel-encrusted hands. "Lord Coddington's father called on
me this morning. It seems… well, it seems the young cub—"

"The bounder, don't you mean, Agnes?" Mrs.
Crosby interrupted.

"Quite right. The bounder made some
despicable comments about you and overstepped himself during the
masquerade. It's all the talk at the gentlemen's clubs, along with
the duels. It also seems he lost a small fortune while gaming at
cards. His father, with whom I have a—a longstanding
acquaintance"—and here the old lady paused in embarrassment—"felt
it his duty to inform me and to apologize for his son's behavior.
He promised a call from Lord Coddington who will make known to you
his apologies once he has recovered sufficiently. His father has
decided to send the boy to East India until… well, as he put it,
'until the sun cooks the ugliness from his soul.' "

Her aunt looked miserable.

"Don't despair, Aunt. I'm sure I deserved
whatever he said about me."

"No, I shan't be made to feel better. It was
I who tried to force the match, and I who failed to see that the
boy was not as he should have been. Not at all like… Well, it
doesn't matter now."

Mrs. Crosby picked up her embroidery bag and
fished for her needlework. Only the sounds of carriages driving
past the townhouse and a distant door being shut filled the
silence.

"Does this mean I may leave London?" Sophie
asked. "That I won't have to marry?"

"Well, yes. Although you'll have to choose a
companion to live with you after your cousin marries." Her aunt
glanced at Mrs. Crosby. "I would prefer you find happiness in a
marriage, my dear, although I shan't force the issue. Perhaps
you'll choose to wait a year until this latest piece of madness is
replaced by a new
on-dit
. What we need to turn the
ton's
attention is a little kidnapping…"

Sophie almost choked.

Her aunt cleared her throat and began again.
"Perhaps not. But I hope you'll reconsider the idea of an eventual
marriage. Perhaps you have someone in mind—"

"No."

"Lord Drummond? Or perhaps the Marquis
Dalrymple, the Duke of Isleton or even, Mr. Hornsby?"

At the mention of each name, Sophie shook her
head.

"I'd thought as much, hence my decision," her
aunt said. "I want to see you happy again, my dear. It's the least
I can do."

Sophie looked down at her hands before
meeting her aunt's contemplative gaze again.

"I never approved of the family's decision to
ostracize your father over his marriage. You know—he was my
favorite. And Lord knows I admired his courage in going against our
parent's wishes. I only wish I'd had the same.… Ah, well, never
mind "

Sophie couldn't get her mind and mouth to
function.

"I tell you this because I don't want you to
make a mistake that will affect your happiness forever. Don't deny
your heart, Sophie." Her aunt looked at her shrewdly. "I understand
Lord William was your ardent defender."

At Lord Will's name she regained her tongue.
"That man is a greater scoundrel than Lord Coddington."

"I hadn't known Lord Will was in town," her
aunt continued. "You couldn't have found a more elusive catch. His
father, the Marquis of Granville, holds one of the oldest and most
respected titles in England. He was quite the social arbitrator in
my day, a stickler of the first order. The marquis's strange
disappearance cast a pall over his family's name to be sure. The
elder son has grown rather wild, I hear. I know little about the
younger."

"The older brother's indiscretions couldn't
possibly surpass those attached to Lord Will's name." Sophie
paused. "I wouldn't have him if he were… Well, suffice it to say I
became acquainted with the man in Burnham-by-the-Sea and hope never
be forced into his presence again."

"Thou protest too much, my dear," her aunt
said with a wicked gleam in her watery eyes.

Sophie forced herself to smile.

"I'm sorry I never met your mother, Sophie.
If she possessed half your fortitude and beauty, I understand now
your father's willingness to exile himself from the rest of
us."

Sophie tried to lighten the mood in the room
with a change of subject. "Well, it seems we've a happy event to
plan, one my mother would have enjoyed. Shall we retreat to Villa
Belza to prepare for Mari's wedding? And through your generosity,
Aunt Rutledge, I'll live not five miles from my cousin for the rest
of my life. I couldn't have envisioned a more contented future for
myself or for Mari. We shall be everything happy, always. And the
best part of all is that I can stop this odious search for a
tonnish
husband and revert to my true nature."

It would be heavenly to drop her
mask—although maybe not quite so simple to slip back into the skin
of the sweet, gullible girl she had been. No, she felt rather
half-dead to the world truth be told. She glanced down at the
impressive display of her bosom. Karine had spent the better part
of a half hour corseting, powdering and displaying it in all its
ample femininity. How wonderful it would be to go back to
loose-fitting dresses with fichus. The ladies and gentlemen of
London had seen their fill of Cornwallis flesh and would see no
more. She pulled the ends of her shawl about her shoulders.

MY dear
Lady Jacqueline
,

I hope you will excuse the extreme
impertinence of my letter. It is with the utmost urgency that I beg
your assistance. I write in the hopes that our most fortuitous
meeting—briefly at the masquerade ball one month ago—might prove
fruitful for possibly both of us.

I find myself languishing in a backwater bay
area filled with gnats, beetles and bats of inspiring proportions.
My lady insists on ruining my delicate complexion and hers by
insisting on long jaunts in the most inclement weather imaginable,
all for the
joy
of delivering baskets of food to
unfortunates and observing
nature
—yes, nature. Hedgehogs,
sheep and nest-building birds in the shrubbery are her chief
preoccupation during these interminable days when she is not
strolling—or rather marching—along the seashore. Yesterday, she
began teaching the village school children geography and actually
suggested I start teaching the little demons French! The final
straw (as you English like to say) occurred this very afternoon
when she insisted I attend her on a fishing expedition, which
resulted in
mal de mer
for me. Well! This is when I decided
to risk writing to you.

Would you know of any lady who might be in
search of a ladies' maid? In meeting you, I was sure I had found a
fellow devotee of the importance of all things fashionable and I
hoped you might help me secure a new position. That the lady
resides in London is, of course, a prerequisite. That she
circulates in the uppermost realms of society is the second
requirement. That she appreciates the artistry with which I
practice my God-given talents is the next to last. The final
requirement is that the blunt—or rather remuneration—for my genius
is excellent.

I have promised myself I would stay in Miss
Somerset's employ until Miss Owens' marriage, but not another
moment.

I understand Lord William has been invited to
the wedding. It is my fondest hope you will spare me a few moments
of your precious time for another rendezvous or two. I recall your
gratitude during the ball when I attended to your needs,… and you
attended to my own—quite divinely I might add.

Your devoted servant,

Karine Marcher

My dear Miss Marcher,

I do apologize for the delay in my reply.
Your most interesting letter missed me at several stops on Lord
Will's and my journey northward to the horrid juncture of an
earlier scene of unpleasantness. Our current residence, in a little
hamlet in Yorkshire, is nothing to Burnham-by-the-Sea, which
appears a veritable Brighton or Biarritz compared to this desert of
humanity. I despair at ever laying eyes on the exquisite delights
of town again. My dear, dare I say, I find myself in the same
unappealing little boat alongside you with little anticipation of
finding happiness again?

I fear neither of us will ever have the
opportunity to explore our own private Garden of Eden again unless
we lend a helping hand to our dear, dear frien—or rather,
employers.

But I have the pleasure of reassuring you
that Lord William will attend Mr. Mornington's nuptials. From
there, it is my hope that we will return to London. And who knows,
my dear, there is always the chance he will encourage Miss Somerset
to do likewise. He does seem to be suffering from a most peculiar
sort of
tendre
for your mistress.

I am willing to let this little tidbit fall
from my quill, for your eyes only, to repay my little debt of
gratitude. Perhaps you could use it to your benefit (and mine) by
softening up your employer to Lord Will's person prior to our
arrival. I have come to the conclusion I will suffer from my lord's
infernal ability to get into scrapes with the (sometimes, I will
grudgingly allow) fairer sex for the rest of my life unless I
maneuver a love match to keep him preoccupied until he is a
doddering, mush-eating fellow. The man is simply unable to mimic me
when conducting his affairs discreetly anymore. It is a crying
shame. Bachelorhood has lost one of its brightest charmers.

But I must reveal no more, for discretion is
the better part of a valet's service.

Until next month, Mademoiselle Karine,
adieu
.

Jack Farquhar, erstwhile Lady Jacqueline
Barclay

It was almost three o'clock, the time Charles
Mornington was to bring a large group of houseguests for an
afternoon ride to Brean Down. Surveying Villa Belza's sunny sitting
room and the magnificent prospect of the simple, stark side gardens
and the ocean in the distance, Sophie found an unexpected moment of
solitude.

The two weeks prior to Mari's wedding had
proved more trying than Sophie could have anticipated. She had
thought the sight of so many former friends and her late mother's
relatives from Porthcall would be wonderful. Villa Belza was filled
to the rafters with Mari's wedding guests.

For everyone, there were sights to be
explored, large dinner parties to attend, singing and dancing at
every opportunity, picnics and horse riding and walks on the
shoreline.

The Welsh, after all, knew how to have a good
time, albeit a noisy good time.

What Sophie hadn't realized was that time and
unshared experiences could drive a wedge between close friends and
family. She felt like a lamb weaned from its mother and the whole
herd after the cleaning, bathing and sheering process. Sophie felt
uncomfortable in her skin, not raised with the peers of the realm
yet unable to recapture the simple life of her past. She felt her
eyes fill with tears at these bittersweet reflections. Sophie
realized she had become closer to her irascible yet loving aunt
more so than to anyone else.