Courtship and Curses (12 page)

“You are quite free to go and get one, sir,” Sophie said pleasantly.

“Oh, I shall in a moment. Not polite to abandon you here.”

“I assure you, I would survive.”

Mr. Underwood ignored her. “Lady Parthenope’s a lively chit, isn’t she?” he said meditatively, after a moment.

“That’s one way to describe her.”

“Tell me about her family. Brothers or sisters?” he asked.

“Four brothers, no sisters. She’s the eldest.”

“Ah.” There was a meditative look on his narrow face. “All younger brothers, then. None of them out yet? Away at school, I assume?”

“Of course.” She frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, idle curiosity.” Underwood shrugged. “Wasn’t familiar with the family except by hearsay. So how is she taking?”

“She’s the only daughter of the Duke of Revesby. How do you think good society regards her?”

“Oh, I’m sure the tabby cats at Almack’s have decided she’s quite acceptable.” He still had that thoughtful look on his face. “What I meant was, what about her? Has she formed any attachments yet? Lost her heart to some gallant? Have any attentive swains making a nuisance of themselves underfoot?”

The suspicion that had slowly been sprouting in her mind as he spoke burst into flower. “Only one.”

“Oh? Who is that?”

Sophie took a breath. “You. Keep away from my friend, Mr. Underwood.”

Underwood laughed lightly. “Good God! I’ve stood up for one dance with her. Does that constitute a threat on her virtue in your book? Ask her if my demeanor was at all exceptionable—or ask any of the twenty other people in the set with us.”

“I am very happy to hear that, sir. And I trust matters will stay that way.”

He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. “I have the distinct feeling that you do not like me, Lady Sophie. What have I ever done to deserve your aversion?”

What would he do if she told him what she had overheard him saying at the Whistons’ ball? “Nothing, yet,” she said. “But don’t think I am not keeping an eye on you. Ah, there is Parthenope. Pray excuse us.”

He did not protest this summary dismissal but bowed, one hand sardonically on his heart. “Cut to the quick, cruel lady,” he murmured, and turned away.

The rest of the evening was uneventful, and might even have been enjoyable, had Sophie paid any attention to it. But she had too much to think about, between her conversations with Lord Woodbridge and Mr. Underwood. At least the latter had been straightforward; she had warned him off Parthenope. Whether or not he took her warning … well, that remained to be seen. She would be watching him, however, and if he tried to make one improper move, she’d … she’d do
something
.

Her conversation with Lord Woodbridge, on the other hand, had been anything but straightforward. She was still thinking about it as they clattered home through a fine misty rain and after she’d taken off her beautiful green dress and lace-trimmed petticoats and left them to air on a chair before being folded away in her wardrobe.

What should she think about him? Did she want to give him a second chance, as he’d asked?

Why did he want one, anyway?

She unpinned her hair—finally grown in as thick as it had been before she’d fallen ill—and let it tumble over her shoulders and down her back. She unknotted and loosened the laces of her corset and wiggled out of it, then went to stand in front of her mirror. Her hair shone in the candlelight, and she turned her head slowly to watch the play of light along it, then smoothed her chemise over her figure with her hands. Her breasts were full but not overlarge, her waist slender; Mrs. James had nodded approvingly as she measured her for her new dresses.

Then, taking a deep breath, she lifted her chemise and stared at her legs. They both began well enough at the top, long and shapely … or at least the left one was. Somewhere just above the knee, the right one started to seem off, somehow … and then, in the calf, it became awkwardly shaped, wasted, twisting inward to a splay-toed, flattened foot. What if Lord Woodbridge were standing behind her, looking over her shoulder into the mirror? What would he see—the lovely young body or the misshapen leg?

She turned abruptly away from the mirror.

Chapter

8

Late
the following afternoon, Parthenope paid a call with her mother. She wore a large cloak rather than one of her more usual sleek pelisses and was walking with a rather peculiar hunched gait as Belton ushered them into the drawing room.

“Sophie! I’ve brought a surprise to show you,” she announced, heading toward the corner of the room that had become their spot. “Are you ready?”

Ah, that would explain the cloak and the hunch. “I don’t know. How surprising is it?” Sophie asked as she sat down.

“Silly. Do you think Mama would permit me to call with anything horrid?”

“No, probably not. Very well, what is it?”

Parthenope’s eyes twinkled. “Close your eyes and put out your hand.”

“Parthenope—”

“Just do it! I promise you’ll like it.”

Sophie closed her eyes and held up one hand, holding her breath. It was true that the duchess wouldn’t let Parthenope do anything too outrageous, but still—

A slight weight settled on her hand, accompanied by a delicate, prickling grip on her forefinger. “Parthenope—”

“There! Open your eyes. Isn’t she darling—or he—we’re not quite sure which it is.”

Sophie opened her eyes and found that she was holding a bright green bird with a long tail and a most attractive reddish purple head. “Good heavens!” she exclaimed.

The bird looked at her, cocking its head slightly, then reached up one clawed foot to scratch near its yellow beak. “Turnip!” it announced.

“Oh, you naughty little girl. Why can’t you say anything other than that?” cooed Parthenope.

“
What
is
that
?” Aunt Isabel, who had arrived just in time to prevent Aunt Molly from driving out with the comte, gasped from the sofa.

“Don’t worry. It’s just Hester,” Parthenope explained. “Isn’t she the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Parthenope insisted on bringing her new pet to show Sophie,” the duchess said soothingly to Aunt Isabel. “Believe me, she’s quite tame and won’t make messes on the carpet—the bird, I mean.”

“Thank you for clarifying,” Sophie murmured. Parthenope put out her tongue at her.

Amélie’s laugh rang out. “
C’est une perruche!
” She smiled at Parthenope. “I saw many of these in India. But I am afraid that this is a monsieur, not a mademoiselle. The females have a head that is gray-blue, not this color of a plum.”

“Oh.” Parthenope looked crestfallen, then brightened. “But
he
doesn’t know that Hester is a girl’s name, does it, my precious little angel?” She screwed her face into a coaxing grimace.

“Turnip!” Hester announced again.

“Is that all it can say?” Sophie brought the parakeet closer to examine its handsome plumage.

Parthenope looked nettled. “No, of course not!”

“It also says ‘cabbage,’” her mother added helpfully.

“I suppose it could be worse,” Aunt Isabel said, faintly.

Parthenope’s eyes suddenly gleamed. “It could, couldn’t it?”

“Don’t get any clever ideas about new words to teach it, dear.” The duchess turned back to the aunts and Amélie.

Sophie brought her attention back to Hester and found that he seemed to be examining her in turn, tilting his head thoughtfully from side to side—or at least he looked thoughtful. Did birds have thoughts? “Don’t call me a turnip again,” she warned him.

He didn’t. Instead, he opened his mouth, bobbed his head as if in greeting, and said, “Good day, Mistress Witch.”

Sophie nearly dropped him, but Parthenope guffawed. “Ha! I think I’d prefer being called a turnip! What a beastly name to call my friend, you bad-mannered thing.”

Sophie held him out to Parthenope, her hand trembling. Had that been a coincidence, or had the bird actually meant what he said? And if so, how could he know? Birds were said to be particularly sensitive to magic, but she’d done so little of that lately that she wasn’t even sure she could call herself a witch. “He’s … um, charming. Where did you get him?”

Parthenope put the bird on her shoulder. Hester leaned over and began to nibble at her ear. “Wretched bird. You know that tickles. See? I told you he knows more than ‘turnip.’”

“Turnip,” Hester agreed, sidling down her arm onto her hand.

“Enough turnips,” Parthenope said firmly. “And I don’t know where he came from, at least, not officially. The butler found his cage on our steps this morning, with a tag addressed to me that said, ‘To the fair Amazon, whose beauteous head oft wears feathers of a similar hue.’ There was no signature.”

Sophie wrinkled her nose. “I think I’d rather secret admirers left me flowers.”

“Oh, you’ve no poetry in your soul!”

“And you do?”

Parthenope grinned. “No, not a particle. My guess is that it was Norris Underwood. Who else calls us Amazons? And my riding habit is the same color as Hester’s head, don’t you see?”

Sophie did see, and frowned. “And you’re keeping it—er, him?”

“Why should I not? I like him.”

“Whom? Hester or Mr. Underwood?”

“Well, really! Hester, of course, though Mr. Underwood can be an amusing companion.”

Sophie glanced over at the adults and pitched her voice low. “You do remember what Mr. Underwood is, don’t you?”

Parthenope rolled her eyes. “Do you take me for an utter flat? No, leave my ear alone, Hester! How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Then accepting his gifts hardly seems like the proper course—”

“But I don’t know it’s from him, do I?” Sophie’s expression must have affected her, for she leaned forward and patted her arm. “Believe me, Sophie, I have Mr. Underwood quite in hand. Nothing bad, or even terribly
interesting
, will happen. I promise.”

“Hmmph. Has your cousin made Hester’s acquaintance yet?”

Parthenope looked annoyed. “Since Hester just arrived, no. And he doesn’t need to, either.”

“Meaning you don’t want him to know about Mr. Underwood’s gift.”

“Turnip,” Hester commented.

“My thought precisely,” Parthenope declared. “So, shall we ride tomorrow afternoon?”

Sophie let her get away with changing the subject. “I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Why?”

Sophie looked at Aunt Isabel talking with great animation to the duchess. “Because I’ve decided the best way to let Aunt Molly have a chance to see her comte is to keep Aunt Isabel busy myself. I’ve asked her to take me out to make calls tomorrow, and I can’t promise we’ll be back in time to go riding.”

“You,” said Parthenope, shaking her head, “are a saint. Or maybe just addled. I’m not quite sure which.”

“Well, it was all I could think of,” Sophie answered irritably. “If you have any better ideas, do let me know them.”

“Tur—” Hester began, but Parthenope stood up quickly and drew her cloak back over him.

“Quite enough of that, young man,” she said. “Or my friend may wring your little purple neck.”

*   *   *

Aunt Isabel was in a rare good mood when she picked up Sophie the next afternoon for their first round of calls—in such a good mood, in fact, that she didn’t even ask what Aunt Molly was doing. Which was just as well, as at that moment Aunt Molly was happily on her way to Richmond with the comte for the afternoon. The look of utter satisfaction on her face below her modish new parasol as they’d clattered down the street had been of some consolation to Sophie.

“I am very glad you’re taking a proper interest in society,” Aunt Isabel said as they in turn drove down the street. “It is just what one does in our position, and I think it particularly important for you, my dear, to show the world that you really are quite an ordinary young lady, despite your affliction.”

Why, thank you for that charming compliment, Aunt
, she thought a little sourly. But to some degree, Sophie had to admit that Aunt Isabel was right. If it were more widely seen that she was prettily behaved, could speak intelligently on a range of topics, and did not drool or twitch, perhaps the gossip and stories that she was feeble-minded or simple would die out.

Aunt Isabel was surveying her through her quizzing glass. “Your dress is … acceptable,” she said after a moment. “Did you choose it?”

Sophie knew that ‘acceptable’ was Aunt Isabelish code for admiring something excessively but not wanting to admit it and kept her face straight as she replied, “Thank you, Aunt. Amélie did, with a word or two from Mrs. James.”

“Hmmph.”

“You look very nice too, Aunt,” she said, after a moment’s reflection. Aunt Isabel usually did dress very well and would in fact be a handsome woman, if only there weren’t that perpetual frown between her brows and downturn to the corners of her mouth.

To Sophie’s relief, their first stops were just to leave cards and not go in. But after that, Aunt Isabel decreed that they must go into Lady West’s house. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad; at least Sophie had already made her acquaintance at the Whistons’ ball.

There were already two carriages in front of the house. Aunt Isabel peered at the crests on their doors. “Lady Whitbury and the Countess of Parrington,” she said. “They came out more or less when I did. The countess has a son.…” She looked at Sophie speculatively, then shook her head.

Lady West seemed pleased enough to see them. “London air would appear to agree with you,” she said to Sophie with a smile after she made introductions and waved her to a seat on a sofa with two older ladies—the Ladies Whitbury and Parrington whom Aunt Isabel had mentioned, though Sophie hadn’t quite caught which was which. They gave her a thorough examination—one (Sophie thought it might be Lady Parrington) peered through an enormous quizzing glass—then proceeded to ignore her and resumed conversing in low voices.

Sophie began to count inside her head. Calls were supposed to last fifteen to twenty-five minutes, unless one was visiting a particular friend. She supposed she ought to try to make conversation with her sofa mates, but neither seemed inclined to acknowledge her continued presence, much less talk.