Courtship and Curses (8 page)

“What?” The smile on Parthenope’s face vanished.

“It seems his mother knew my mother and told him to be kind to her old friend’s crippled daughter. That’s what he was trying to do last night at Lady Whiston’s when you—er—”

“When I lumbered in on your conversation,” Penelope finished for her. “Hmmph. He’s usually a lot more diplomatic than that. I would have thought that he wouldn’t say, ‘I’m here to be kind to you’; he’d just …
do
it. There’s a reason he wants to find a position in the diplomatic corps—he’s
good
at being tactful and politic. So why be such a blunderbuss all of a sudden?”

“He claimed to be concerned that he’d hurt poor fragile me.” Sophie shrugged. “I’m about as fragile as an old boot. Being crippled is not for the feeble—my leg may be too short and weak, but the rest of me has had to make up for it.”

“I’d not thought of it that way, but you’re right, aren’t you?”

“Not everyone thinks so. My Aunt Isabel disapproves of my not behaving like a drooping blossom about to fall off its stem.”

“What a dreadful way to want someone to behave.” Parthenope looked thoughtful. “May I ask—can … that is, do you ride?”

Sophie hesitated, then told herself not to be touchy. Even many noncrippled ladies did not care for riding, after all. But on a horse’s back was one place she didn’t limp. “You should see my new riding habit. Aunt Isabel disapproves of it, too.”

“I’ll bet it’s just splendid, then. Have you been riding in Hyde Park yet? It’s quite the place to see and be seen. I say, let’s ride there tomorrow. ’Tis a pity it’s not last year, when the czar and the king of Prussia and half of the continent were here, but that doesn’t mean London is quite empty. Do say you will!”

“Monsieur le Comte de Carmouche-Ponthieux,” Belton intoned from the doorway.

“Oh, he came!” breathed Sophie. She hadn’t even heard the door knocker, engrossed as she had been in talking with Parthenope.

“Goodness!” Parthenope murmured. “Who is that?”

The comte had entered and was bowing elegantly, though his eyes had gone straight to Aunt Molly. What a mercy Aunt Isabel wasn’t here!

“It’s a terribly romantic story,” Sophie murmured back. “He’s the Lost Love of my aunt’s youth, come back from France after more than twenty years.”

“Really?” Parthenope watched as the comte seated himself next to Aunt Molly on the sofa. “He’s not already married and the proud papa of twelve back over there, is he?”

“Oh!” Why hadn’t she thought of that possibility before? “I hope not! If he isn’t, I am determined to see that they get the chance they didn’t have twenty-whatever years ago.”

“Playing matchmaker, are you?” Parthenope grinned. “That sounds like fun. May I join you?”

Sophie hesitated, then smiled back. “Please do!”

Chapter

5

At twenty-five
minutes past four the next afternoon, Sophie and Parthenope on horseback, along with an elegant little barouche containing the Comte de Carmouche-Ponthieux, Aunt Molly, and Amélie, clopped through the gate at Piccadilly into Hyde Park and toward Rotten Row, the roadway that ran along the southern side of the park. It was before the magic hour of five, when the fashionable portion of London thronged the park to take the air, see, and be seen. But Sophie observed that there were already a number in carriages and on horseback as well as elegantly dressed strollers enjoying the pale afternoon sunshine shimmering down from a pearly sky.

Sophie had been delighted when the comte arrived at the house to take Aunt Molly and Amélie driving. Though it might have been preferable for him to take just Aunt Molly, she couldn’t help liking him for including Amélie as well. This would do to begin with.

“It’s perfect! We shall cut quite the figure together!” Parthenope had nearly shrieked when she saw Sophie’s sapphire blue velvet riding habit. Hers was very similar, though in a reddish purple the color of a plum. Both were dashingly military, with frog fastenings and epaulettes and tall ostrich-plumed hats much like the shakos worn by soldiers. “Though I saw a lady two days ago with a habit rather like ours, but she’d gone and had gold braid put on it, so it looked like she’d pilfered it from an officer somewhere.
Too
much.” She shuddered delicately.

“Lady Parthenope is a young woman of taste, I can see,” observed the comte, with a twinkle in his eye. But Sophie had noticed that even when he smiled there was a sadness about his expression that made her feel sorry for him. Was it from being disappointed in his youth?

“Would you tell my Macky that? She hates half my new dresses and would much rather I was still in pinafores, I think.” Parthenope looked disgusted.

“Try as I might, I simply cannot picture you in a pinafore,” Sophie said to her.

“Oh, good. That makes me feel better.”

“Unless it was quite grubby and had at least two fresh tears in it.”

Parthenope laughed. “How did you know? Come on, let’s canter.”

Sophie glanced back at the carriage. Aunt Molly and Amélie sat side by side, facing the comte. It would have been better if Aunt could have sat next to the comte, but that would not have been proper. She and he were chatting happily, which was wonderful. Aunt Molly had always been a little vague, a little in her own world, but today she was obviously very present. Sophie hoped that Amélie would not be bored and caught her eye. Amélie smiled and gave her a slight nod. Reassured, Sophie touched her horse on the flank with her crop and then cantered after Parthenope.

They had slowed after a few minutes—the increasing traffic made only short bursts of speed feasible—when Parthenope’s face lit into a grin that was decidedly mischievous. “I say, could that be…? Why, Cousin Peregrine! What a pleasant surprise!”

Peregrine! Sophie nearly groaned aloud as a rider a short distance ahead of them reined in his horse and turned. Why, of all people, did they have to meet Lord Woodbridge today?

Parthenope, however, had already trotted up to him, so there was no avoiding him. She made herself look at him and nod slightly—drat it, why did he have to be so good-looking in that dark blue coat, his hair tousled as he removed his hat? Cutting him dead would not be a polite thing to do in front of his cousin, much as she would like to.

“But … you’re riding!” she heard him say as she drew in beside Parthenope. “I’d assumed—”

“That Lady Sophie could not ride, my lord?” she finished for him. “Lady Sophie can most certainly ride. She’s ridden her entire life, and being lame hasn’t altered that.”

He flushed, and she saw his eyes turn toward Parthenope with an expression part pleading and part angry. Hmm. They hadn’t arranged this meeting, had they? But why? Parthenope knew quite well what a bad impression her cousin had made. She glanced over at her new friend and saw that Parthenope looked exasperated as well as amused. Yes, very suspicious.

“Of course we’re riding, dear Cousin Clunch,” she said. “How else could we show off our habits? Aren’t we dashing? I think we cut quite a figure here this afternoon.”

Lord Woodbridge seemed to have somewhat regained his composure. “You quite outshine anyone else here,” he said, and Sophie realized that he was looking directly at her.

“Let’s ride,” she said, and encouraged her horse forward. No need for anyone to see the telltale warmth surely flushing her cheeks.

To her discomfort, he managed somehow to maneuver himself into riding between her and Parthenope. She sat stiff and tall in her sidesaddle and did not move her gaze from between her horse’s ears.

“I think we should do this every day, don’t you, Sophie?” Parthenope said. “It’s hard being shut up inside so much, here in London. I say, Perry—who is that young man there? On the bench on the far side of that tree, reading—in the green coat. See him?”

Peregrine looked in the direction she’d indicated. “Who? Oh, that’s Leland—James Leland, I mean. Very pleasant fellow, when he pulls his nose out of a book long enough to talk to you. He gets his share of ribbing for it at Boodle’s, but never takes the least offense. From Hampshire, if I recall—old family. He’ll come into a viscountcy eventually. Why do you ask?”

“Oh…” Parthenope paused to flick a fly off her horse’s neck. “Just wondering. Anyway, Perry, it’s lovely to see you here. Do you ride often?”

“As often as I can,” he replied promptly.

“Perfect! You can be our escort, then—”

“Escort?” Sophie could hear the frown in his voice. “You can’t mean you’re here alone without even a groom—? Parthenope, this is London, not—”

“Oh, pooh. Sophie’s aunt and her friends are here too. We’re not total madcaps,” Parthenope said. “At least, I don’t think we’re madcaps, though it might be fun to—”

“Madcaps? Where? I adore madcaps. Bring ’em on!” a cheerful male voice called from behind them. “Oh, good day, Woodbridge. I thought it might be you selfishly claiming the attention of two such fair ladies.”

Sophie suppressed an exclamation. She knew that voice, had heard it only a day or two ago, from behind a statue at the Whistons’ ball, discussing her fortune and whether it would be worth making a try for it … and her.

“Underwood,” Lord Woodbridge acknowledged shortly. He didn’t seem particularly pleased.

The man pulled up next to her and swept his curly-brimmed beaver hat off his fair hair. He was handsome in a narrow-faced, foxlike way, and she guessed that he smiled a great deal—at least with his mouth. His green eyes, on the other hand, were cold and very alert as they swept over her.

“There. I’ve caught you, haven’t I? Don’t be greedy, now, old man. Won’t you present me and let me take on some of the delightful burden of entertaining these charming young Amazons?” He leaned toward her till his knee nearly brushed her leg. She suppressed an urge to spook his horse and enchant it to toss its rider into the Serpentine, but that would not be kind to the poor animal. Besides, considering the state of her magic, she doubted she could do it. “I don’t know that I’ve seen a handsomer turnout this spring, ma’am,” he continued. “The Duke of Wellington will be wanting you for aides-de-camp if he sees you, which means I shall have to buy myself a commission so as not to be completely shut out.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Lord Woodbridge said under his breath. No, definitely not glad to see him.

Parthenope made a tsking noise as she leaned forward to smile at the man. “How ungenerous of you, sir! Is it only our ‘handsome turnout’ that you are so struck by, or ourselves?”

“Why, yourselves, of course, but it would not be gracious to say so until I know whom I am addressing.” The man raised an eyebrow at her, then leaned toward Sophie again. “Not that I don’t know who you are at least, Lady S. How could I not remember such loveliness? But the niceties must be observed, mustn’t they?”

Lord Woodbridge sounded reluctant as he spoke. “Parthenope, Lady Sophie, may I present Mr. Norris Underwood? Underwood, my cousin Lady Parthenope Hardcastle and Lady Sophie Rosier.”

Mr. Underwood shot him an amused glance before somehow managing to bow while still seated in his saddle. “Enchanted and enraptured, mesdemoiselles,” he declaimed, one hand on his heart. “Are you a Hardcastle of Revesby, Lady Parthenope? Woodbridge, I didn’t know you possessed such illustrious connections.”

“He doesn’t like to admit we’re related. Do you, Perry? Now, what have you heard about my family, Mr. Underwood? No one ever tells me the
good
stories, and I am persuaded you must know at least a few.” She gave Underwood a coyly provocative look from under her lashes before spurring her horse slightly ahead. He grinned and followed suit, which left Sophie riding beside Lord Woodbridge.

Well, she supposed it was better than riding with the horrid Mr. Underwood. And Lord Woodbridge certainly seemed to share her opinion of him. After a few minutes of silence, she asked him, “Will you tell me something, sir?”

“I—what is it?” he replied, sounding cautious.

“Is Mr. Underwood as big a scoundrel as I suspect he might be?”

He was startled into a laugh, which he tried to turn into a cough, then gave up. “Perhaps bigger. How could you tell?”

“Oh … the shocking manners do rather give him away. Is he a rake?”

He hesitated. “Worse. He’s a fortune hunter of the first water.”

Ah, that made sense. “Why is he so in need of a fortune?”

Lord Woodbridge chuckled mirthlessly. “I don’t know how he’s lasted this long without having to flee his creditors. He’s heir to his uncle’s baronetcy, but that’s worth less than the ink it would take to write it out—Sir Cyrus is just as devoted a gamester.”

“Oh—gambling.” She wrinkled her nose. What a dull way to be profligate. “May I ask why, then, you are allowing your cousin to associate with such a known rascal?”

“Do you think I have much say over what Parthenope does?” he demanded. “Anyway, Parthenope is no headstrong fool. If Underwood should become bothersome, I expect she’ll know how to put him in his place.”

“I see.” But some devil would not let her tongue be still. “Is that why you are riding with me? Because you did not think poor Lady Sophie would be capable of putting the bothersome Mr. Underwood in his place?”

He stared straight ahead. “You may think what you like. However, whether you choose to believe it or not, I am riding with you because I
want
to, and Underwood be damned. And whether you choose to believe it or not, I don’t pity you.”

“No?” She raised her eyebrows. This was starting to get interesting.

“No. In fact, I—”

“Oh, look!” Parthenope called over her shoulder. “There are your aunt and Madame Carswell and the comte, Sophie. Shall we ask them if we might perhaps ride a little longer?”

“Of course you wish to ride longer!” cried Underwood. “Why, we’ve barely had an instant here together. And you certainly cannot wish to deprive the gathered citizenry of the sight of your charming selves. I shall so enjoy the glowerings of envy cast upon me as I ride at your side.”

Parthenope laughed. “You are quite absurd, sir. And I doubt anyone riding in Hyde Park right now would appreciate being called ‘citizens.’”