Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine (15 page)

Lazarus moved slowly through the crowd, enjoying the bustle and smell. When he thought of all those rich pockets crammed together, unsuspecting and untended, he was reminded of his misspent youth. But he was a new man now, there to find livestock, not to use his light-fingered skills. Tuck had already picked out a fine-looking ram to add new blood to the flock and was now perusing a complacent line of cows. The old man had lost some of his inherent doom and gloom today, because he was in his element here at the sale, moving among his “kind,” with nary a dainty female in sight. His eyes gleamed like the sun through a damp, early morning fog, and he temporarily forgot his limping shuffle. Instead, he swayed along with relative ease on his bowed legs, hands in his pockets, the ever-present, dusty cap pushed back from his forehead.

He passed a long row of farm horses and came to a dappled grey standing apart and alone in the corner, gently cropping away at the grass. He stopped, and the animal raised its graceful neck to drop a curious muzzle over the top slat of the fence. Its solemn brown eyes blinked soulfully.

“That's a riding mount,” Tuck muttered depreciatingly, coming up behind him, “for a lady. Won't do ye no good.”

Lazarus petted its long muzzle and watched its ears prick up. “She might like a horse to ride. You told me she was a good horsewoman.”

The old man shook his head and propped his cap even farther back with one broad thumb. “That were a long time ago. Ain't seen her on a horse in years.” They both knew of whom they spoke, just as they both knew any caution of Tuck's would be treated with polite impatience then disregarded in as warm a manner as any well-meant advice was ever ignored.

Lazarus leapt over the fence and examined the horse, lifting its feet, running his hands down the tendons. The horse was a sturdy animal, but it had a beautifully arched neck and a certain refinement in the way it held itself. He knew good blood when he saw it.

“I thought we came 'ere for the farm beasts,” Tuck mumbled to no one in particular, arms resting on the fence. “That one won't earn its keep, will it?”

Lazarus straightened up, one hand resting on the grey's firm rump, the other stroking its neck. He could already picture Sophie on its back, riding around his paddock as he watched and admired.

A loud cry suddenly echoed around the field, causing everyone to turn and cease their conversations. A very large fellow elbowed his way through the crowd. His big, bald head shined in the sun's rays like a lighthouse beacon.

“Russ! Is it you? After all this time!” He had a round, ruddy face with a bulbous nose. His head and neck were as one, a thick column shooting up out of his dirty collar like a large thumb from the hole in a glove. The two hands he raised over the fence toward Lazarus were almost the same size as the head they moved to embrace, and they clutched the younger man's ears with clumsy fondness. “Don't tell me you've forgot your old friend?”

“Chivers! What are you doing here?”

“I should say the same to you, eh? This is a long way from where I last saw you.”

“'Tis good to see you, old friend. Come back with me.”

The giant declared he didn't want to get in the way and was only passing through, but Lazarus insisted. “It'll be a pleasant change to have one of my own about the place.”

Chivers looked over at the dappled grey and wanted to know whom it was for.

“My wife, Chivers. My
trouble
and
strife
as we'd say back home in the rookeries.” He grinned. “Not that she's agreed to it yet.”

***

Chivers filled the farmhouse kitchen with his great bulk. His presence overflowed the crooked walls, and his roaring laughter was surely heard for half a mile down the lane that evening. Tuck had gone up to bed, and the two old friends shared a bottle of brandy that rested now three-quarters empty on the table between them. It was six years since they'd last met. They'd fought together in the army and become close as brothers. Now, as Lazarus considered that broad, scant-toothed smile, he realized how much he'd missed the friendship. There was no need to pretend for Chivers. He would see through the sham, in any case. He was a solid, trustworthy, unchanging fellow, and he either liked you or he didn't. If the latter, you were very unlucky; if the former, you had a faithful friend for life.

“After all this time, to find you here in such a quiet little place,” Chivers exclaimed again, looking around by swiveling the top part of that head-and-neck apparatus. “You've a right cozy home here, Russ.”

Lazarus was aware of his good fortune, and even felt a little guilty about it. He sat up and reached for the brandy bottle. “'Tis harder than I thought, this being a gentleman.”

Chivers drank and let out a burp that threatened to shake the stone walls of the cottage. “You mean to settle down at last?”

“That all depends on Miss Valentine.”

“She's the one, then? The angel you saw on that balcony once? The one you always talked of finding?”

He nodded.

“Tell me about her.”

He struggled to describe her, but it was a long time since he'd drunk like this and, with the brandy taking effect, he soon ran out of adjectives. “She's a fine filly,” he mumbled. “Thinks herself too grand for the likes o' me to ride, but I'll show her.” And he swallowed the brandy in one gulp, bolstering his own swagger.

The big fellow's face crumpled with teasing laughter. “Set your mind on it, eh? You always set yourself a high target.”

“You'll see why, Chivers…when you meet her.”

Chivers shook his massive head slowly. “I'll be gone tonight on my way. You won't want the likes o' me around.”

Lazarus protested with brandy-induced passion. “You can stay here as long as you like, Chivers. I've plenty of room. You can even have a bed of your own.” He stared at his boots and burped. “Besides…you're like family to me.”

They were silent, then, until Chivers said, “I'm glad you got out o' that prison hulk, Russ. Thought you'd be carried out in a box or dumped at sea.”

“I was.”

Chivers looked at the bottom of his empty cup and then lowered it as his friend's declaration slowly registered. He swayed in his chair, leaning over to place his heavy hand on the other man's shoulder. “Dead?”

“You see before you a ghost, Chivers. Ol'
Lazarus
raised from the dead at last.”

The big man's eyes were like saucers. The great expanse of his brow rippled in bewilderment.

“I lay with all the other corpses one morning when they lifted the hatches. There were always plenty of dead men. They tossed me overboard with the others. That's how I got out of that stinking place, head first and stone…cold”—he hiccupped—“dead.”

Chivers's face showed a slow glimmer of understanding. He pointed to his friend's chest. “The old wound? They thought it done you in, like they always said it would?” Then he laughed again, celebrating the victory as if it were his own. “Fooled the buggers, eh, Russ? Thought you were dead, did they?”

Lazarus sobered up briefly and put a finger to his lips. “So don't tell you saw me, or they'll”—he hiccupped again—“think you mad and send you to Bedlam.”

Chivers's laughter bounced around the walls. “Lazarus back from the dead. Well, you should never have been locked up in that place anyway.”

He looked down at his hands clenched around his knees. “A man died because of me, Chivers. Every debt has to be repaid.”

“But that drunken ass attacked you first—with a knife—and you had no weapon but your own hands. He would 'ave killed you right enough.”

He closed his bleary eyes, thinking back to the foggy night in a tavern when one of his fellow soldiers, upset over a game of cards, came at him with a knife. War with Napoleon was finally at an end then, and they were all celebrating but still on edge. The savagery of war was burned deep into their darkened souls, and the tavern that night had been a powder keg, too much wine the fuse that lit it.

He was arrested and tried for the death of the man who attacked him. He would have been hanged, but his sentence was changed to transportation. Then he was sent to one of the disease-ridden hulks anchored off the coast, where he waited for a seaworthy ship to carry him off to Botany Bay. A ship that never came. When he was mistakenly tossed overboard with the dead bodies, it was mostly sheer strength of stubborn will that carried him back to land in the grey light of a new day. Thus he was reborn.

For now, at least. Until the Devil came for his due.

“Others weren't so lucky,” he muttered as he stared down at the toes of his boots and thought of old man Kane, the fellow who'd looked out for him when he was a boy on the rough streets. Kane had died on the hulks, but before he was sentenced, the old man told his young friend where his “nest egg” of stolen loot was buried. He'd wanted him to have the use of it to start a new life. After his own escape, Lazarus retrieved the money and stuffed it into his boots. Not a day passed that he didn't think of his benefactor and hope he approved of the choices he'd made. In a way, he'd spent that money for both of them, given them both a new life.

“This is a long way from the rookeries and the battlefield,” Chivers observed sleepily. “A nice fire and a bed o' your own. We never imagined such things, did we?”

“No.”

“'Tis quiet here. Peaceful. You look a proper gent now.”

You
look
a
proper
gent
now.
Those words echoed around his foggy head. Apparently he didn't look a proper gent in Sophie Valentine's eyes. She'd kept her word about the reading and writing lessons, but she'd also kept a discreet distance. Most of the time. Once in a while she put her hand over his fingers to guide his chalk or his quill, and Lazarus lived for those moments, as if they were all he had to keep his heart pumping. It was a sorry state of affairs to be so in need of her slightest touch.

The determination to win her over burned inside, a rush torch never extinguished, but still he couldn't read her thoughts, and that bothered him like a splinter in his thumb. He caught an occasional glimpse of the true Sophie under that prim act, but she had developed the skill of closing herself off. She enjoyed her secrets. Damnable, vexing wench.

“Stay with me, Chivers. Help me on the farm. There's plenty to do with the harvest, and I could make good use of a fellow with your strength. I'll pay you from my share of the harvest yield.”

The fellow considered, frowning. “I should move on. Not good at staying in one place.”

“Neither was I. But I grew accustomed to it.”

So Chivers stayed. He wouldn't commit to a lengthy sojourn, but for now, he'd help his old friend in the fields.

Lazarus was grateful for the extra pair of hands, and he enjoyed the chance to chatter with a friend after so many months of living among strangers. There was no fear with Chivers, no doubt, no suspicion, and no struggle. They knew each other well, all the good points and all the faults—and they didn't judge each other. It was a blessed sort of freedom to have the big man's easy company. Lazarus retreated slightly into old ways and manners, setting aside the awkward trials of being a “gent.”

The villagers didn't know what to make of this development. One stranger was bad enough, but two—one of them being such a monstrous sight—was too much to be absorbed. Over the next few days, Sophie heard all the gossip and saw how Henry fed upon his neighbors' doubts, dourly warning them the village would soon be overrun with similar types.

“Where one crook comes, others soon follow,” he solemnly predicted. “This village has seen the last of peace and tranquility. Now we're a destination for villains of every shape and size. He will gather his compatriots around him and spread his wickedness like a blight across our pleasant countryside. You see…it has already begun.”

There were rumors of drunken revelry at Souls Dryft, and Mrs. Flick claimed to have seen Chivers bathing in the stream by the mill. While it might be shocking enough to know the fellow bathed at all, this was not what caused her to run screaming back to the village. Rather it was the surprise of stumbling upon his supine, hairy form, sunning itself among the bull rushes without a stitch of clothing. She never quite recovered from it and, ever after, avoided long grass, exclaiming it gave her the vapors. Even her husband—God rest his soul—had had the decency never to reveal his nakedness within her sight, she exclaimed.

It was James's idea to attend the Morecroft assembly rooms. Sophie did not want to go, but when Aunt Finn gladly offered to come along as chaperone, Sophie couldn't disappoint the lady.

“I do so love to watch the young people enjoying themselves,” Finn cried. “I promise I shall be very good and not flirt with any young man, no matter how handsome or how much he reminds me of my dear captain.”

“Very well, Aunt. But no gin. Leave the flask at home.”

Finn blinked her pale golden lashes. “Goodness, Sophie, do you think I can go nowhere without it?”

James dutifully arrived at the appointed hour, having borrowed his grandmama's barouche to drive them there in grand style. After helping each lady up into the carriage, he took a swift, critical appraisal of their attire. Sophie saw it but excused him. She knew he couldn't help himself. He would, no doubt, be disappointed, but although her muslin frock with the primrose sprigs had seen better days, it was her best. She'd dressed her hair in a simple knot and wore a pair of small amber earrings. She had no other embellishments, and when his narrowed blue eyes focused momentarily on those tiny amber chips, her heart wilted under his disapproval.

“These were a gift from my father, James.”

“Oh.” He smiled quickly. “How…quaint.”

As for Aunt Finn's appearance, it was not the sort of thing one could take in all at once. Her gown was black gauze over bronze silk, very low cut to show an astonishingly pert bosom of which a woman half her age would be proud. Around her throat she wore a black velvet choker decorated with amber stones. But one's eyes went almost immediately from her bosom to her head, atop which she carried a silk, turban-like affair that tilted precariously for a foot and a half above her pale curls. At some point, it might have been fashionable, Sophie thought, making excuses for her beloved aunt—or perhaps she was merely ahead of the trend. Finn was not the sort to care either way. She wore what she liked, whatever caught her eye and her fancy. Poor James eyed that turban with suspicion but dared not speak a word against it.

The monthly assemblies were held above the Red Lion in the High Street, in a long, echoing room with a dais at one end for the musicians and frail gilt chairs set about the edges for those who didn't dance. One large chandelier shook and swayed from the ceiling when the dancing became particularly rowdy, and there were more candles in iron sconces, casting a soft light on warm, merry faces. It was all much as Sophie remembered it from her youth, and when the music vibrated through the boards under her slippers, she felt that old spark of excitement.

It was crowded on that summer evening. Their arrival might have gone unnoticed if not for Aunt Finn's extraordinary hat. James tried to act as if she were not with them, and Sophie wanted to laugh, glad her scar, for once, was not the first thing people pointed at.

But her amusement was quelled almost immediately when she saw Lazarus Kane at the far end of the narrow room, dancing with Sarah Dawkins. He'd not mentioned any plans to attend the assembly rooms. She quickly chided herself for expecting him to tell her all his comings and goings. She was only his tutor. It was none of her business where he went or with whom he danced. The flighty, distractible young man was free to do as he wished.

She tightened her hold on James's sleeve as they moved through the crowd, and he looked down at her, smiling, his hand on her fingers. But a lump came up in her throat, and when he asked her to dance, she could only nod. He steered her into the line of dancers, and she kept her gaze on the floor, counting steps in her mind and moving through the motions. James was an accomplished dancer. He deftly masked any mistakes she made without ever losing his smile. She was intensely thankful for his skill and hoped no one noticed how he got her through the two dances. Once the set was over, she returned quickly to Aunt Finn, who handed her a glass of wine.

“My dear, did you see Mr. Kane is here, dancing with Sarah Dawkins?”

“No.” Such a wicked liar she was.

“Over there…Oh, now he's dancing with that dreadful creature Amy Dawkins. What sin can he have committed to be so punished by both sisters?”

“Plenty, I'm sure,” she muttered, determined not to look in their direction.

James squared his shoulders. “They must let anyone in these days.”

He'd seen Lazarus only once, from a distance, but the man was not the sort one might mistake for anyone else. He simply exuded energy and an easy, carefree charm. Every woman in the room was trying to catch his eye. Sophie felt their seething, squirming desire, hidden even behind wildly fluttering fans.

“Standards truly have gone downhill,” James mumbled sourly. At first she thought he was still complaining about Kane, but when she looked up, he was staring across the room at a young woman in an apricot gown. A riot of dark, mahogany curls bounced around her pretty face as she danced exuberantly with her partner.

Sophie cried out in surprise, “Ellie!” She had not known her friend would be there tonight. “I thought she was still in London.”

“Apparently not.” James sniffed. “I daresay they threw her out. Probably offended royalty again.”

“She did not write to tell me she was coming into the country.”

“It would not occur to her to warn anyone. She is a thoughtless, careless, unguarded girl. Why you ever formed a friendship with her I'll never know. She can be only a bad influence.”

Sophie chuckled. “Yes, James. Isn't she wonderful?”

He glared down at her.

“I wish I could be as brave,” Sophie explained. “I must confess I've lived vicariously through her exploits over the last ten years, since I've had none of my own. Her letters are tremendously entertaining. If one can overlook the atrocious spelling.”

A smartly dressed gentleman with graying temples and a rather distinguished mien now approached their little group and addressed Aunt Finn with a low bow.

“Finnola Valentine. However many years has it been?” His lips were quite thin and firm when he first arrived before them, but now, as he rose from his bow, they seemed unable to maintain that solemnity, and parted in a tentative smile.

“
Fitzherbert
Derwinter
,” she exclaimed, one hand going to her velvet choker. “Can it be? I hardly recognized you.”

“You're just the way I remember.” His eyes crinkled up at the corners. “Perfection cannot be improved upon, of course.”

Finn laughed at that, her monstrous hat tilting further askew. “And what brings you back to Morecroft after all these years? We were never quite grand enough for you, surely?”

“My wife is visiting family nearby, and I'm here tonight escorting my daughters. There”—he pointed with bob of his head—“you see them, I fear, making exhibits of themselves. They share their mother's love for dancing. Once they heard about this place, they could not be dissuaded against coming, despite my best efforts.”

Sophie turned to watch the two young, golden-haired Misses Derwinter enjoying themselves with gusto.

“And how have you been, Finnola?” he asked. “No husband here tonight?”

“Good Lord, no!” Her shoulders heaved dramatically. “I have managed to survive this long without that particular menace.”

“Well,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head. “I tried, but you wouldn't have
me
.”

“Not strictly true, Derwinter.” She chuckled. “It wasn't you—it was the institution of marriage I had no fancy for.”

“Pity. I would gladly have made an honest woman of you.”

“Alas, I was destined for infamy.” Then she added thoughtfully, “What fun we might have had if you weren't such a pious stuffed goose.”

The man laughed softly and shook his head again.

Finn seemed suddenly aware of her niece watching this exchange with great curiosity, so she drew her forward for an introduction. “This is my Sophie.”

He bowed again.

“My brother Jeremiah's daughter,” Finn clarified. “And, Sophie, this is Fitzherbert Derwinter of Derbyshire.” She tossed a coy grin at the tall fellow. “He won't dance, so don't waste your time waiting for him to ask. I learned that lesson.”

The introduction then moved on to James, but Sophie, glancing across the room, was watching Kane surrounded by adoring females of all shapes and sizes, and she began to wish she had the courage to walk up to him tonight. Would he notice her presence among all the other, prettier faces? Another cup of wine or two, and she just might forget propriety. She might become as bold and carefree as her aunt or Ellie, and tell him exactly what she needed, what she wanted.

The current dance ended, and a few seconds later, Ellie Vyne ran across the room to embrace her warmly. “My dear Sophie, how well you look!”

James took a step back, as if he thought the young Miss Vyne might somehow get stains on his clothes.

“Why did you not write to tell me you were coming?” Sophie exclaimed.

Ellie shrugged, her eyes shining with merriment. “I only just decided, on the spur of the moment. My little sisters are being too bratty for words, and Papa is trying to marry me off again. London is dull, dull, dull, full of fussy, old pudding-faces who look down their fat noses at me.” She demonstrated, holding a pretend lorgnette up to one bright eye. “And I realized how much I missed my aunt and all my friends here.”

Sophie knew Ellie had recently called off her seventh engagement. That was most likely the reason for her sudden flight to the country. Ellie had no fancy to be married or to ever do what was expected of a young lady. It was a great frustration to her stepfather, Admiral Vyne, and whenever she was in his bad books, she sought refuge with her aunt Cawley.

“I can stay only a few weeks. The Duke of Ardleigh has invited me to go to Brighton with a small party next month, and I think I might. He is an amusing old fellow and very naughty. Papa will disapprove of my having no chaperone, but I very much doubt he'll pry himself away from his brandy to come after me.”

“But, Ellie—”

“I know it's not entirely proper, but then what is? After a certain point, a woman can't get into much worse trouble.” She laughed gaily at her own misfortunes. “We may as well be dead now, if we can't have any fun. I'll just go and expire quietly in a corner, so as not to cause anyone to fret about me, shall I?”

Behind her, Sophie heard James make a small, tight sigh of disgust.

“Hartley,” Ellie exclaimed, suddenly noticing him there. “You're still hanging about the place then.”

Sophie cringed.

“Disappointed, Vyne? Sorry your spells and curses failed to put me in my grave?”

Ellie looked him up and down. “You're taller than I remember. And didn't you used to be fat and spotty?”

“Certainly not.”

She cocked her head and batted her long dark lashes. “I must be thinking of someone else.”

“I'm sure,” he muttered and glowered down at her. “Your acquaintances were always vast and indiscriminate.”

“I suppose it was some other arrogant, imperious bugger, then. Amazing how many there are about.”

James mumbled something under his breath and stalked off. Ellie quickly linked her arm under Sophie's, demanding to know all her news.

For once, Sophie had a great deal to tell.