The Arrangement (7 page)

He reached for his glass of milk, having finished the cake, and drained it.

Good Lord, it had been a ghastly evening. The conversation had been pompous and insipid, the music less than distinguished. While he might happily have endured both if the Marches had been amiable people whom he had once liked, he felt no guilt about looking back on the evening with a shudder of distaste. If he had returned to the village today as plain Vincent Hunt, they would not have deigned to recognize his existence. Did a title make all the difference?

It was a rhetorical question.

It was time for bed.

He wondered how long it would be before his mother was informed of his whereabouts. He would wager that at least a dozen letters had been written and sent on their way today. Everyone would want the distinction of being the first to tell her.

T
here had been several assemblies since Sophia came to Barton Hall to live, but her uncle and aunt and cousin had not attended any of them. It would have been far beneath their dignity to make an appearance and to dance at the Foaming Tankard Inn even if attendance had been reserved to those with some claim to gentility. But village assemblies would not have been worth holding if they had not been open to anyone who cared to go. The thought of rubbing shoulders with a farm laborer or the butcher or the blacksmith was enough to give Aunt Martha the vapors, she had once declared.

Hence Sophia had never attended any of the assemblies either.

All that was about to change, though. For tonight’s assembly was in honor of Viscount Darleigh, and Sir Clarence and Aunt Martha had decided that somehow, by fair means or foul, Henrietta was going to become Viscountess Darleigh of Middlebury Park in Gloucestershire with twenty thousand pounds or so a year at her disposal. Since last evening Henrietta herself had done a complete about-face and now declared that the viscount was by far the most handsome, most genteel, most charming, most everything else that was wonderful of all the gentlemen she had ever met. He had certainly changed since the days when he had been “that horrid Vincent Hunt.”

“Tonight you must seize your chance in both hands, my love,” Aunt Martha said, “for we do not know how long Viscount Darleigh plans to stay at Covington House. He will not dance, of course. You must refuse to dance too, for of course there will be no one else there worth dancing with, and you must spend the time talking with him. If the weather holds—and it looks as if it is going to be a beautiful day—you must suggest a stroll in the outdoors. The assembly rooms are certain to be stuffy. And you must be sure to keep him outside long enough that people will remark upon it. And remark upon it they will, for as the guest of honor he will have everyone’s attention focused upon him. He will feel obliged to do the decent thing, you may be sure, and call upon Papa tomorrow morning, for everyone will expect it of him, and he surely values the good opinion of his former neighbors.”

“Your mother will plan a summer wedding,” Sir Clarence added, clasping the lapels of his coat with both hands and looking pleased with the world. “Perhaps in London with half the
ton
in attendance. Though almost everyone leaves town in the summer, I am sure they would return for such an illustrious event.”

Sophia was going to the assembly too. She had not been told she might go, and she had not asked. But the village assemblies were for everyone. No invitations were sent out. She was going to go even if she had to walk to the inn. In fact, that was what she would do anyway, for if Aunt Martha knew she intended to go, she might try to stop her. They could not stop her from going if she was already there, could they? And how could they even express annoyance afterward when everyone else would be there too? And it was not as if she was going to create a scene. She would be going strictly as an observer. She would find an obscure corner and fade into it. She was an expert at that.

She was going to go. Her heart thudded in her chest as soon as the decision had been made while she was sitting at the breakfast table, for she never went anywhere. Not to any social event, anyway. She had gone to London for the last two Seasons, for the simple reason that she could not very well have been left alone at Barton Hall. But she had not attended any of the parties or concerts or balls her aunt and Henrietta had gone to every day. How could she? Aunt Martha had said on the only occasion she had alluded to the fact. It was hard enough being the sister and niece of a gentleman who had been killed in a duel for cuckolding an earl, a shocking and humiliating event that had only been the final chapter in a less than illustrious career. They would
never
be able to hold up their heads if they were seen to be harboring his daughter, especially when she looked as she did.

Sophia had one dress that was marginally suitable for evening wear. It had been made for Henrietta when she was fourteen or fifteen and had been worn once, to her birthday party that year. It had not needed to be altered quite as much as the other hand-me-downs that had come Sophia’s way. It was a pink-and-cream striped muslin and still had some shape even after Sophia had shortened it and taken it in at the seams. It was not ravishingly pretty, and its design was no doubt woefully out of date, but this was no grand London ball that she was going to attend. It was a village assembly. There would surely be other women more plainly dressed than she, or at least
as
plainly.

She walked to the Foaming Tankard after the other three had left in the carriage, thankful that it was neither a cold nor a wet night. Nor windy. She felt rather excited.

She did not expect to dance, of course. Or to converse. Nobody knew her in Barton Coombs even after two years. She had never been introduced to anyone and had only ever received some genial nods after church on Sundays. But all she really wanted to do anyway was watch people interacting and having fun.

Oh, and—
admit it, Sophia!
—to see the beautiful Viscount Darleigh again. To worship from afar.

And to make sure, if she possibly could, that Henrietta, aided and abetted by her mama and papa, did not trap him into any compromising situation that would compel him as an honorable man into marrying her. She had never cared about the other gentlemen they had tried to ensnare in London. They had been perfectly capable of looking after themselves, she had always thought, and events had always proved her correct. But was Lord Darleigh as capable? If he was lured outside the inn, would he know if he was led away out of sight of other guests? And would he know that Sir Clarence and Lady March would make good and sure that everyone else noticed the length and impropriety of his absence with their daughter?

It took considerable courage to step inside the inn when she got there and ascend the stairs to the assembly rooms, from which a great deal of noise was spilling down to the ground floor and out onto the street. It sounded as if a merry jig was in progress and as if every inhabitant of the village and its neighborhood was trying to talk to every other inhabitant in a voice loud enough to be heard. And it sounded as if every listener—if there was anyone left to listen—was finding the conversation brilliantly funny and was showing appreciation by laughing uproariously.

Sophia almost turned about and scurried home.

But she reminded herself that she was not
really
a mouse. And that she was, in fact, a lady, and socially at least on a level with more than half the people here. She was not even sure she was naturally shy. She had never had the chance to find out.

She went on up.

She was confronted by the vicar almost as soon as she passed through the doorway. He beamed at her and extended his right hand.

“I do not have the pleasure of your acquaintance, ma’am,” he bellowed above the music and the conversation and the laughter. “But may I presume upon the fact that you have sat in a pew in my church every Sunday for a couple of years or so and listened most attentively to my sermons, which put all too many of my parishioners to sleep, alas? I am Parsons, as you must know. And you are—?”

Sophia set her hand within his. “Sophia Fry, sir.”

“Miss Fry.” He patted the back of her hand with his free one. “Let me have Mrs. Parsons pour you a glass of lemonade.”

And he led her past crowds of revelers to a table laden with food and drink. He introduced her to his wife, who nodded genially, tried to say something, and shrugged and widened her eyes and laughed when it became obvious that it was impossible to make herself heard.

Sophia took her glass and went to find a corner of the room to sit in. Well, that had been easier than expected, she thought, sinking gratefully onto a vacant chair. Her aunt was some distance away—there was no mistaking her nodding royal blue plumes—and was gazing at her in some astonishment. Sophia pretended not to notice her. Aunt Martha could not really send her home, could she? And she would be quite happy to be a mouse for the rest of the evening. Well, almost happy. Sometimes her capacity for self-deception disturbed her.

One couple pranced down between the lines, while the dancers who formed those lines clapped vigorously in time to the music. It all looked very jolly. Sophia found that one of her feet was tapping out the rhythm.

It was not easy to see Viscount Darleigh, but it was very obvious that he had arrived. There was a particularly dense crowd of people just to the left of the door, mostly ladies, all focused happily upon someone who was lost in their midst. Sir Clarence was one of the few gentlemen there, and both Aunt Martha and Henrietta were doing their share of fawning. Who else would they be fawning over than the viscount? And she was quite right. After Sophia had been watching for several minutes, the set of country dances came to an end, the dancers drifted off the floor, the dense cluster by the door opened as if it were yet another door, and Henrietta emerged triumphant, on the arm of Viscount Darleigh, whom she proceeded to maneuver in a promenade about the perimeter of the assembly room.

Henrietta was looking resplendent in another of her London ball gowns.

The dancing resumed, a set of more stately dances this time, and Henrietta and the viscount promenaded until their steps brought them to the door and they disappeared through it. Since everyone, with the possible exception of the dancers, had had their eyes riveted upon Viscount Darleigh since his arrival, and no one could fail to follow the progress of Henrietta’s shimmering ball gown, their exit was hardly discreet.

Sophia lifted one hand to her mouth and bit the knuckle of her forefinger. There must be a number of other people outside the inn. There had been when she arrived, and people had been coming and going ever since. As Aunt Martha had predicted, the assembly rooms were stuffy. There was nothing improper about their being out there. But between them, Aunt Martha and Sir Clarence on the inside and Henrietta on the outside would find a way of making it seem improper. There could be little doubt about that.

Sophia sat where she was and gnawed on her knuckle for ten minutes before doing anything. It was still not too, too long for a couple to be absent from the room. Except that everyone was almost openly watching for their reappearance, and Sir Clarence and Aunt Martha were talking to people they must have deigned worthy of their notice, and all turned to watch the doorway. They were undoubtedly fanning the flames of speculation.

Sophia got to her feet and slipped outside. As she went, she picked up a woolen shawl from the back of a chair. She had no idea whose it was and hoped the owner would not dash after her yelling
stop, thief,
or something equally alarming. It was unlikely, though. It was unlikely anyone had noticed her leave the room—or even noticed her
in
the room, for that matter.

There was no sign of Henrietta and Lord Darleigh among the small clusters of people standing outside. A few couples were strolling farther along the street, where they were in full view from the inn, but the two people she was looking for were not among them. Where would Henrietta have taken him to be more private, and therefore more indiscreet?

Fortunately, Sophia’s first guess was the right one. They were strolling along the back alley behind the buildings on the main street, walking on the grassy verge to avoid the deep ruts made by carts along the middle. She could hear Henrietta’s trilling laugh as she hurried up behind them, and the low voice of the viscount.

“Oh, Henrietta,” Sophia called as she drew close, “you forgot your shawl.”

The two of them turned, and even in the faint light of the moon and stars Sophia could see that Henrietta’s eyes were wide with shock and … fury. Viscount Darleigh’s eyebrows were raised.

“I forgot no such thing,” Henrietta said as Sophia held the shawl aloft and waved it in one hand. “And that is not even mine. Take it back to the inn immediately before its owner misses it.”

The viscount had cocked his head to one side.

“You are the lady from last evening,” he said. “The one who fetched Miss March’s music from upstairs. I am sorry—I do not know your name.”

“Sophia Fry,” she said.