Amelia Grey - [Rogues' Dynasty 06] (4 page)

He lifted his head, smiled as he took a step back, and said, “Did the kiss measure up to your dreams?”

Her breathing was unsteady, but she managed to say, “In all honesty, sir, I must say it far surpassed them.”

He smiled. “Reality is usually much better than a dream, isn’t it?”

She swallowed hard. “Heavens, yes. Thank you for giving me my first kiss.”

“Your first? Really?”

“Yes,” she answered, wondering why he seemed so surprised.

His eyes narrowed for a moment as if indicating he wondered if he should believe her.

“Not even a buss on the cheek from a distant cousin?”

She shook her head.

“Well then, perhaps I should give you another.”

She moistened her lips. “Perhaps you should.”

“Good evening.”

Sophia turned and looked down the corridor to see a tall, lanky gentleman with unusually big eyes walking toward them. Sophia had been introduced to Lord Waldo Rockcliffe earlier in the evening. Sir Randolph had made a point of telling her later that Lord Waldo was the younger brother of the
unwed
Duke of Rockcliffe, but that the duke was a man she could not encourage. The duke was known to cheat at cards and, according to Sir Randolph, that made His Grace an unacceptable match for her.

“Good evening, Miss Hart, Mr. Brentwood,” the man said.

Brentwood?

Sophia felt as if her heart slammed against her chest. She tried to hide her shock at hearing his name but wasn’t sure she had.

Could her handsome stranger be one of the Brentwood twins? The gentlemen who were connected to Sir Randolph by a long-ago secret love affair and slanderous gossip? The twins she’d heard about for years? He had a thin beard and much darker hair, so she hadn’t seen the resemblance to Sir Randolph that the scandal sheets had talked about. Now that she knew who he was, she could see a resemblance.

As Lord Waldo neared them, Mr. Brentwood whispered softly enough so only she could hear, “I think we can declare that Lord Waldo just introduced us, Miss Hart.”

Sophia searched his face. He gave no indication that hearing her name told him she was Sir Randolph’s ward. Surely that would have at least caused his eyebrows to go up in recognition.

She cleared her throat and just as softly answered, “I believe you are right, Mr. Brentwood, and we can thank the angels watching over us that he didn’t witness our kiss.”

“Indeed we can.”

Sophia searched her mind for things she’d heard about the Brentwood twins and their shipbuilding company while she’d lived with her father in Baltimore where he took treatments for his lungs. At the time, Sophia wasn’t old enough to attend the parties and balls, so she had never met either of the brothers, but she had read plenty.

She knew the twins had been very successful in their business strategy. To the public, it appeared that one twin was more aggressive and daring in his approach to business dealings than the other. But, according to what Sophia had gleaned from her father’s assessment of the brothers and from what she’d read, it was the more even-tempered twin, the one who was slow to act, who had been the success behind the business. Her father had considered Mr. Matson Brentwood a reasonable, approachable, and resourceful gentleman who efficiently and successfully made all the decisions.

The twins had only recently moved to London, and the stir they caused was still being felt. Even their older brother, who was a viscount, had caused a big scandal when he’d been caught in the park with a duke’s daughter late last year. Everything must have worked out for the viscount, because Sophia read not long ago that he and the lady had married.

Sophia continued to stare at Mr. Brentwood. So which twin did she have standing before her now: Mr. Matson or Mr. Iverson Brentwood?

“Lord Waldo,” Mr. Brentwood said coolly as the man stopped in front of them.

“Good evening again, Lord Waldo.” Sophia greeted the man only a little more friendly than Mr. Brentwood had.

“I hope I’m not interrupting a private tête-à-tête here in this darkened section of the corridor.”

“Not at all, Lord Waldo,” Mr. Brentwood said.

“Ah, wonderful. I’m glad I found you, Miss Hart. I was having a conversation with a couple of gents a few minutes ago, and we decided Sir Randolph was the only one who could answer a question for us and settle a bet we have going. Do you happen to know where he is?”

“I spoke to him not ten minutes ago,” she said. “I’m sorry, he’s already gone home.”

“Home, you say? Well, I won’t be getting the money on my wager tonight, it seems. Would you mind mentioning to him that I’m looking to ask him a question about the hot air balloon venture he was involved with a year or two ago?”

“Yes, of course,” Sophia said, knowing all about Sir Randolph’s failed attempt to garner investors to open a hot air balloon travel business, and his many other endeavors that never seemed to come to pass. “I won’t see him again tonight, but I’ll be happy to do that for you tomorrow morning.”

Sophia glanced at Mr. Brentwood. His blue eyes had darkened intensely, as if a shadow had crept in front of them. The easy smile had left his lips, and a wrinkle had formed between his brows. She had a feeling he now knew exactly who she was.

“Are you related to Sir Randolph?” Mr. Brentwood asked in a low voice.

There was an uncomfortable edge to his voice that she hadn’t heard before, and tightness around his eyes. No doubt it was the mention of the man rumored to be his father that had changed his disposition. She knew finding out his name had surprised her.

“No,” she answered, thinking he must have just arrived at the ball when she saw him if he had not heard that she was Sir Randolph’s ward. “We’re not related by blood. He’s my guardian.”

“You look surprised by that, Mr. Brentwood,” Lord Waldo offered.

“Do I?” Mr. Brentwood said quietly, though his gaze never left Sophia’s face.

“I thought so, but perhaps not. As I’m sure you know, Miss Hart and Sir Randolph have been the whisper of the party all evening.”

Mr. Brentwood’s intense gaze focused on Lord Waldo. “You know what my brother and I think about gossip, don’t you?”

Lord Waldo cleared his throat and took a step back. “Yes, quite right. Well, thank you, Miss Hart. Mr. Brentwood.”

As Lord Waldo walked away, a shivery feeling stole over Sophia, and her heart raced. “Which twin are you?”

“Matson,” he said. “It’s too bad Lord Waldo took the challenge out of finding that out.”

“You and your brother are the twins who have caused Sir Randolph so much grief.”

His shoulders stiffened. His forehead creased, and his face drew into a frown. “What? Did you say we caused him grief? That’s the most laughable thing I’ve heard in weeks, Miss Hart. Just how did we do that?”

She swallowed uncomfortably. “You came back to London. He and your parents had worked out a plan to keep you and your brother in Baltimore so no one would ever know that you are his sons.”

Disbelief shone in his eyes. “He worked out a plan with my parents?”

Sophia realized she had started on a subject that was obviously very raw to Mr. Brentwood. “You didn’t know that?”

“Not that Sir Randolph was a party to the plans. My parents were already deceased when I learned of the affair. I’m wondering how you know more about my past than I do.”

“I’m sure I don’t, and I don’t think I should say anything more about this.”

“It’s too late to play the innocent, Miss Hart.”

She lifted her chin slightly. “I’m not playing anything. How could I have known that you didn’t know? Sir Randolph was my father’s best friend for many years. He told my father everything.”

“Everything? Are you telling me he told your father about his affair with my mother?”

“Well, I have no idea exactly how much he told Papa. I only know that he never wanted you to know what had happened between him and your mother, and… and…” She stopped and sighed in dismay.

“What?” he asked, stepping closer to her once again.

“That you resemble him, which I don’t think you do. I mean, not very much, anyway.”

“And why did Sir Randolph tell you this?”

“He didn’t tell me, and neither did my father. I accidentally overheard their conversation one night.”

“Accidentally?” His brow wrinkled into a frown. “Are you sure about that?”

“All right, it wasn’t accidentally,” she admitted. “When I was younger, I would often slip out of my bedchamber after the nurse went to sleep and sit outside my father’s book room. I enjoyed listening to him and his guests’ conversations. I’ve always been inquisitive, and my father never tried to rein in my penchant for wanting to learn and explore.”

“Perhaps he should have.”

“To his credit, he did try. When I was about nine or ten, I fell asleep outside his office, and he came out and found me. He wasn’t happy, I assure you, but he understood my innocent curiosity.”

“No, he indulged it. Tell me how innocent curiosity and deliberately listening to a private conversation go together, Miss Hart.”

She ignored his cynical-sounding question and continued with her thought. “I said it wrong earlier. I didn’t mean to imply that you and your brother had personally caused Sir Randolph grief. But I assure you, Mr. Brentwood, he was very distressed when that horrible parody came out in
The
Chronicle
.”

“Then try to imagine how my brother and I felt about our mother’s good name being smeared across the newsprint.”

A blush of heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks. “Yes, of course, you were upset and rightly so. As I said, I didn’t mean to imply that you were not. I spoke without thinking,” she admitted. “I’m sure you were made ill over the light it cast on her.”

“Even that puts it mildly, Miss Hart.”

“I know that Sir Randolph has searched all over town for the dreadful man who wrote that story, but he hasn’t found him yet. He intends to see to it that poet doesn’t write another word of that story.”

Soft feminine giggles sounded behind Sophia, and she turned to see two young ladies walking toward them.

Sophia took a step away from Mr. Brentwood and cleared her throat before they both greeted Miss Matilda Craftsman and Miss Jessica Slant. When the ladies stopped beside them, it was clear Miss Craftsman had eyes for no one but Mr. Brentwood. She was a lovely, petite young lady with dark brown eyes. Her skin was a beautiful olive shade and so flawless she looked more like a painting than a real person. She had just the kind of complexion Sophia had always wanted but, with her smattering of freckles, would never achieve. Miss Slant was lovely, too, with her gorgeous blonde hair and a smile that would turn any gentleman’s head.

A prick of envy washed over Sophia, but she quickly brushed it away. She had settled in her mind years ago that there was nothing to be done about her red hair, white skin, and freckles.

Miss Craftsman immediately turned the back of her shoulder toward Sophia and said to Mr. Brentwood, “I hope we didn’t interrupt a private conversation.”

“Not at all, Miss Craftsman. We were just getting to know each other. Isn’t that right, Miss Hart?”

“Yes,” Sophia said, keeping a smile on her face. “And we found we have many things in common, didn’t we, Mr. Brentwood?”

“More than we could imagine.”

“But now I must get back to my aunts,” Sophia said, making sure she made eye contact with the ladies before settling her attention on Mr. Brentwood again. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Brentwood. You will let me know if you hear anything about the lad we were discussing, won’t you?”

“You can depend on that, Miss Hart.”

“Good evening, Mr. Brentwood, Miss Craftsman, Miss Slant.”

Sophia turned and headed down the corridor. She heard Miss Craftsman ask about the lad she had mentioned, but she didn’t hear Mr. Brentwood’s response.

Sophia wondered how her apology to Mr. Brentwood ended up with them quarreling about Sir Randolph and the swirling rumor of the twins’ birth. She squeezed her hands into fists. Why couldn’t she have just been nice and batted her eyelashes at Mr. Brentwood the way Miss Craftsman and Miss Slant had?

But she knew the answer to that.

Man is only miserable so far as he thinks himself so.

—Jacopo Sannazaro

“Damnation,” Matson murmured under his breath after nicking his chin with his razor.

He leaned in closer to the mirror and splashed water on the cut. It was hell shaving every morning now that he’d grown the fine, half-inch line of beard along the edges of his chin and jaw, but he just couldn’t abide the thought of letting his valet shave him. Now that he was back in England, it was the gentlemanly thing to do, but Matson had lived in America too long to return to all of the rules and traditions of his birth land.

It took a steady hand, but with concentration he closely trimmed the blasted beard. He would keep the offending facial hair because it pleased him that he no longer looked exactly like his twin brother, and he was damned pleased he no longer resembled a much younger Sir Randolph Gibson.

Matson shook his head and sighed as he stared at himself in the mirror and asked, “Did you really kiss that man’s ward last night?”

He nodded to his reflection and added more soapy lather to his neck. That wasn’t his smartest move, but how was he to know who she was?

It irritated the devil out of him that Miss Sophia Hart knew there had been an affair between his mother and Sir Randolph. Most Londoners suspected it but had no way of knowing for sure. Sophia had heard the story from the man himself.

And
by
eavesdropping.

He couldn’t hold that against her, though he would like to. It was human nature to be curious, and most children deliberately listened to their parents’ conversations at some point during their childhood. If fate had been only a little kinder to him and allowed him to be the one who had overheard his parents discuss that bit of useful news, he’d be a much happier man today. He needed to see Sophia and find out what else she knew about his life that he didn’t know.

His stomach convulsed every time he thought about the lovely and intriguing Miss Hart being connected to Sir Randolph in any way. At the time, he thought a taste of her sweet lips on his would be worth the risk of getting caught, but not anymore. So why was he letting her get under his skin like a burr under a saddle blanket?

Because something about her appealed to him.

“Something?” he looked in the mirror and asked himself. “Everything,” he answered.

From the moment he saw her walking toward him, she radiated confidence, and he found that extremely attractive.

“Damn fate,” he whispered and dipped his blade into the bowl of foamy water.

Years ago his father had sent him and his brother to America, expecting them to make their home there and never return to claim the heritage they’d been born to. He and Iverson didn’t know why their father had insisted they start Brentwood’s Sea Coast Ship Building Company. In England it was unheard of for sons of a titled man to manage a business, but no one gave such a task a second thought in Baltimore. For most men in America, it was the way things were done. You made your own way in life, and you didn’t live a life of leisure because you had a generous allowance from your father’s entailed estates.

At first, he and Iverson had felt as if their father had placed them in exile. Even though they had been given the money to start the company, it hadn’t been easy to accomplish anything in the new country. Because of continued tensions between the Americans and the British Crown, Iverson and Matson did their best to hide their aristocratic British roots. But they were Englishmen through and through, and over time, the new country couldn’t compete with their homeland. Their parents had died, and the twins had gotten older. Moving their business to London seemed to be the right thing to do, since it was past time they settled down and started looking to make a match.

Only after they had decided to come back did their older brother tell them the truth behind the reason they had been sent to America in the first place. When they grew up looking exactly like Sir Randolph Gibson, their mother had been forced to admit to an affair with the man. Matson’s parents’ hope was that the twins would stay in the new land and never return to learn of their mother’s betrayal of their father.

Matson hadn’t believed the story himself until he saw Sir Randolph for the first time last autumn. Hence the recent closely trimmed facial hair that took an enormous amount of time in the mornings. He didn’t actually like the attempt at hiding his looks, but he would do anything to help Londoners forget that he was Sir Randolph’s by-blow.

After rinsing the last traces of soap from his neck and face, Matson picked up a cloth to dry his skin. He was examining his handiwork in the mirror when he remembered Miss Hart telling him that Sir Randolph had been grieved by the parody that had been written about the three of them. How gullible did she think he was? He wadded the towel and threw it on top of his shaving chest.

Matson had to hand it to her. That young lady had more nerve and audacity than was common in most young ladies, which was another reason for him to completely dismiss her from his mind as he had Mrs. Delaney all those years ago.

Now if he could just do that, Matson would be fine. So far, he hadn’t been able to. Both times he’d seen Sophia, Matson had the same eager sensations gnawing at him as he’d had when he’d first seen Mrs. Delaney.

He’d met the married woman at the first party he attended in Baltimore. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. When she spoke to him, his twenty-year-old heart fell in love with her. He always sought her out for a dance or to talk to her at every event he attended. He now knew she must have suspected his feelings for her, but she never hinted that she did. Her husband wasn’t as gentle with Matson’s young feelings. Mr. Delaney wasn’t long-winded about it. He simply walked up to Matson one evening and said, “Brentwood, stay away from my wife.” It wasn’t a subtle hint, and Matson had no problem getting the message.

Matson blew out a laugh and rocked back on his heels. The color of Mrs. Delaney’s and Sophia’s hair and eyes weren’t the only thing they had in common. They were both off limits to his primal desires and tender affections.

Matson finished dressing and hurried down the stairs. He’d already alerted his cook that he wouldn’t be taking breakfast, and for Buford to have his carriage brought around, but things seldom went off as easily as he planned. With his hat, gloves, and coat in his hands, he opened the front door and saw the bulky Mr. Littlebury ambling up the footpath.

His hope of getting to his brother’s house this morning to give him the news of Miss Hart’s arrival before he read about it in the gossip sheets was fading fast. Matson needed to hear what Mr. Littlebury had to say.

“Ah, Mr. Brentwood, looks as if you were just going out. So glad I caught you.”

Matson stepped back inside and held the door for his courier to enter. He laid his coat, hat, and gloves on the side table and said, “Yes, Mr. Littlebury, come in. I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I hope you have good news today.”

The short, hunch-shouldered man stepped into the vestibule and took off his hat. “Good news? I’m afraid not.”

“That’s not what I wanted to hear,” Matson said, unable to keep irritation out of his voice.

A wrinkle formed on the man’s brow. “I know, sir, but I couldn’t find the Duke of Windergreen. Believe me, I did my best. He wasn’t at his estate, which I went to first. I was told he would be at the Duke of Rockcliffe’s home, but by the time I arrived there, he had already departed. And, of course, they wouldn’t tell me if he had left for London or some other destination. I arrived back in Town late last night, and first thing this morning I was at his door in Mayfair, asking if he’d returned. I was told he was not in residence. I thought it best to come back and receive further instruction from you.”

Why
is
the
man
nowhere
to
be
found?

If Matson didn’t know better, he’d think the Duke of Windergreen was hiding from them. But Matson couldn’t take his frustration out on Mr. Littlebury. Obviously the man was doing all he could.

Matson and Iverson had had a hell of a time securing warehouse space for their shipbuilding company when they arrived in London late last summer. When they first tried to rent space near the docks, their oldest brother, Brent, was in deep trouble with the powerful Duke of Windergreen. The duke had let it be known throughout London that he didn’t want the brothers finding space to lease.

The twins thought they had outfoxed the duke when they found a company that was willing to go against His Grace’s dictate not to lease to them. It was a couple of months later when they discovered they were the ones who had been outwitted. The company they were leasing from was owned by Sir Randolph Gibson. He was the last man on earth they wanted to be indebted to for space.

Now that Matson’s older brother had married the duke’s daughter, the twins were certain His Grace would recant his edict and give the word they could lease space from another company and get out from under Sir Randolph.

If they could
find
the duke!

One of Mr. Littlebury’s eyes twitched nervously. “I’m sorry for failing you, sir.”

“It’s not the news I wanted to hear, but it’s not your fault the man is on the move. Keep checking on him each day and, the minute you hear the duke is back in London, find me or my brother.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

A few minutes later, Matson strode past his brother’s valet and into Iverson’s house. If Iverson said he didn’t want to be disturbed, that meant something was afoot. Wallace rushed past Matson and down the corridor ahead of him, insisting that Matson stop. Matson kept going. None of the three brothers had ever stood on ceremony with one another, much to the chagrin of all their staff.

Wallace was trying to announce Matson when he walked through the doorway of his brother’s book room and said, “What’s this trying to keep your brother out? Wallace was giving me such a hard time about seeing you, I was beginning to believe you had a woman in here with you.”

Iverson turned from the window where he stood and grunted a laugh. “That would definitely be a reason to keep you out.”

“But I see you have something almost as powerful as a woman. Wine when it’s hardly half past nine.”

“Oh,” Iverson said, and walked over to his desk and put the glass down.

That didn’t sound good. “What’s the matter?” Matson asked, even though he was fairly certain he knew the problem was Miss Catalina Crisp. Iverson had been in a stew about the lady ever since they’d met.

When Iverson remained thoughtful and silent for longer than he should have, Matson added, “Did you empty your pockets at the card table last night?” He asked this to give his brother an out.

“I came close,” Iverson said.

Matson knew Iverson too well. A card game was not the reason he had a glass in his hand so early in the day. But he also knew he wouldn’t get any information about the lady who’d stolen Iverson’s heart.

“Now that you are here, make yourself comfortable, and tell me what you’ve heard from our courier.”

Matson took one of the upholstered chairs, and his brother lowered himself into the chair behind his desk. Their warehouse problem wasn’t the reason he’d come over, so Matson said, “I can make that quick. I just spoke to the man. Apparently the duke is not at his estate, nor is he at any other place where Mr. Littlebury was told the duke might be. Unfortunately, it was as if the courier had been sent on one fool’s errand after another.”

“That’s not good news, Brother.”

“No, that’s why Mr. Littlebury came back here for further instructions. He was told the duke would be in London in time for the first party of the Season. The docking fees and all other monies are paid on our ships, so we have a little time to wait for him to return to London and hopefully get us out from under Sir Randolph.”

“Then we’re in good shape for now.”

“Yes, on that count, but I have more news I’m guessing you haven’t heard, since you didn’t mention it the moment I walked in.”

“What?”

“Don’t look so cheerless. This might not be bad news.”

“In that case, I’m all ears. What is it?” Iverson asked.

“Sir Randolph Gibson has just become a father again.”

“What!” Iverson jumped from his chair, knocking it backward with a loud bang.

Matson rose too. “Well, not a father in the true sense of the word.”

“Spill it out, Matson. Tell me what you know about this.”

“Sir Randolph arrived at a party last night escorting Miss Sophia Hart. She is the daughter of an old friend of his who died last year. Sir Randolph is now her legal guardian and charged with the task of seeing her properly wed.”

Iverson relaxed and looked a little more intrigued by the news. “You saw her?”

“Yes,” Matson said, averting his eyes from Iverson’s. He liked the idea of being the one to break the news to Iverson, but he didn’t want his brother reading too much into what he was saying. It was best no one knew just how fast Miss Hart had set his heart to racing.

“She’s lovely?” Iverson asked.

“Mmm. She’s fair,” Matson answered, knowing the moment he uttered the lie that Iverson would know he wasn’t speaking the truth. Being twins, they had always had a special bond, and often it was as if one knew what the other was thinking. It had always been difficult to hide anything from each other.

“Really? Just fair, you say?” Iverson asked, encouraging Matson to say more.

“Yes,” Matson confirmed. “The good news is her arrival in London now assures us that we are old gossip. London finally has someone new to talk about. Everyone flocked around her as if she were a queen who had invited their full attention.”

“And had she?”

“What?”

“Invited attention?”

“She’s Sir Randolph’s ward. How could she not? No doubt she will be all the rage now, and I for one am happy to turn that unappealing position over to her.”

“So you were introduced to her?” Iverson asked.