Courtship and Curses (9 page)

Drat! She’d wanted to hear the rest of what Lord Woodbridge had been about to say. “Amélie or Aunt Molly might have had enough driving for one day,” she said. “We should certainly ask.”

Underwood twisted in his saddle to smile back at her. “I am sure your guardians can deny you nothing, dear Lady Sophie.”

“I am sure you haven’t any idea of that whatsoever, Mr. Underwood,” she returned, barely smiling in return. Could the man be any more oily and insinuating, not to mention obvious? No wonder he hadn’t been able to persuade an heiress to marry him yet.

“Well, let us find out. Halloo there! Halloo-oo-oo!” Parthenope called, waving her crop at the carriage most conspicuously. The barouche began to edge to one side of the carriageway, heading toward them.

Lord Woodbridge sighed. “Parthenope, this is not a hunting field. Is it necessary to make such a noise?”

“That man had best look out. Completely oblivious,” said Mr. Underwood disdainfully. “These fusty old fograms should keep to their firesides and out of Hyde Park if they can’t be bothered to watch where they’re going.”

Sophie looked up. A lone horseman, gray-haired and sober-looking, rode hunched in his saddle as if absorbed in his own thoughts a mere few yards from the barouche. He didn’t seem to notice that his course would rapidly lead him into collision with it.

“That’s no old fogram, you idiot.” Lord Woodbridge spurred his horse forward. “Hoy! Sir Walter!” he shouted, waving his hat.

Sophie urged her horse after him. There was something not quite right about the way this Sir Walter sat on his horse—something wrong, too, with the way his horse moved, as if it were completely unaware of its surroundings—

“Sir Walter!” Lord Woodbridge shouted again. But it was too late. The older man’s horse shied violently, as if it had just then noticed the carriage nearly upon it, then half wheeled around and reared, squealing in anger and fear, tossing its rider to the ground with an audible thud. Somebody screamed, and someone else shouted. The comte’s coachman cursed loudly as he tried to yank his horses’ heads aside to keep them from trampling the stunned man, and wrestled them to a standstill.

Lord Woodbridge was there an instant later and slid from his horse. He shoved his reins at Sophie and dropped to his knees in the sandy path next to the man, who lay crumpled on his side. Woodbridge didn’t try to move him, but loosened his cravat and felt for his wrist, calling his name.

“
Bon Dieu!
Poor man, is he breathing?” The carriage had wheeled around, and the comte was standing up in it, shading his eyes. “I did not even see … Samuel, what happened?”

“I’m sorry, sir—I didn’t see him neither—fust he wasn’t there and then he was, all suddenlike—” the coachman gabbled, setting the brake and jumping down to join the groom in soothing the horses, which stood in their harnesses, trembling and sweating.

“Do you know who it is? Is he—alive?” Aunt Molly said. Her voice quavered just a little. Amélie put a comforting arm about her shoulders.

“It’s Sir Walter, all right—Sir Walter Benning.” Lord Woodbridge bent over and listened near his mouth. “He’s breathing. I think he’s just been knocked unconscious, though he shouldn’t be moved until we know if he’s broken anything or not.” He raised his voice and shouted, “Someone, get a surgeon!”

The comte had climbed down from the carriage and stood next to him, gazing down at Sir Walter, hat in hand. “
Parbleu
,” he said softly. “Why did he not see us?”

“Good God,” Sophie breathed. She took off one of her gloves and held her bare hand outstretched before her as if feeling for raindrops … but it wasn’t rain she was feeling tingling against her palm. Once again there was a residue of magic hanging in the air, like a whiff of cooking odors long after dinner had been served and cleared away, just as there had been in the Whistons’ ballroom.

“Sophie?” Amélie had climbed down from the barouche and come to stand at her side. “
Ma chère
, what is it?”

Sophie gave herself a little shake. “N-nothing. I’m sorry to alarm you, Amélie.” She let her hand drop. “Lord Woodbridge, what can we do to help?”

“Underwood could stop gaping at us and go find a surgeon, for one thing,” he snapped, as Underwood and Parthenope reined in by them. Underwood grimaced, but obediently turned his horse and trotted through the gathering crowd toward Piccadilly.

“Brave lad. Don’t dawdle!” Parthenope called after him. “Oh, good. Someone’s gone and gotten the poor man’s horse before it bolted to Kensington. I was about to go after it myself—”

“Here. Hold them for me.” Sophie leaned over to hand her reins and Lord Woodbridge’s to Parthenope. “Lord Woodbridge, oblige me by helping me down, please.” She unhooked her right leg from the crook of the sidesaddle, kicked the stirrup from her left foot, gathered the trailing length of her skirt over her arm, and held out her hands to him.

“What?” He looked up at her.

Amélie knelt gracefully beside him. “Go help Sophie. I shall see if I may help the poor man here.” She waved a tiny silver vinaigrette under Sir Walter’s nose, murmuring, “
Allez, m’sieur. Tout va bien
.”

“Oh, I wonder if there’s any borage or lavender about? They’re just the thing for a swoon, though it’s a bit early for them to be in bloom.” Aunt Molly too had climbed down to join the increasing crowd, though she still looked pale. The comte hurried to take her arm. “Pennyroyal too … d’ye think pennyroyal grows in Hyde Park?”

Lord Woodbridge hesitated, then rose and came to Sophie. Ignoring her hands, he caught her about her waist and swung her down from her horse.

“Thank you,” she said, and limped over to where a tall boy stood holding Sir Walter’s horse. The animal’s sides were sweaty and heaving, as if it had just finished a race, and its eyes showed white around the edges.

“Had he run far?” she asked the youth.

“No, ma’am—just a few yards away, then stood twitching and trembling, like he’d been cornered by a lion. I don’t think he’s hurt, but…” The boy craned to look around her. “Is the old man dead?”

“Of course not. Don’t worry. Ssh, my friend—nothing to fear.” Sophie bent to give the horse’s legs a cursory look, in case it had been lamed, then reached up to touch the horse’s cheek with her ungloved hand. Yes, there it was, even stronger—the remains of a strangely misty, elusive, mirrorlike spell. Someone, somehow, had put an enchantment on this animal, and she wondered if Sir Walter, too, had fallen under it as well. An illusion spell, maybe, or a twisted sort of concealing spell: Both horse and rider had seemed unaware of anything around them, as if surrounded by a fog. But who could have placed such a spell, and why?

“Now, Sophie, what are you fussing about with that horse?” Aunt Molly called. “Leave him be, or he’ll eat those feathers in your hat. I had a horse once that always ate feathers,” she said to the comte. “The chickens went quite in terror of him … or was it a donkey? Not that went in terror of the horse, I mean—those were definitely the chickens, though I believe the turkey cock also took exception to him.”

“Yes, Aunt Molly,” Sophie said dutifully, and let her hands fall just as Sir Walter let out a groan.

“My head,” he said fretfully, lifting a hand to it and struggling to rise. “Where…?”

“What’s this, good sir?” A man finished pushing his way through the crowd and came to crouch beside Sir Walter. “Easy, now. You’ve taken a bit of a fall. Let me have a look at you. Did your horse manage to find the only rabbit hole in Rotten Row to step in?” Norris Underwood had evidently returned with a surgeon.

Mr. Underwood himself followed a few seconds later. “I am quite unused,” he announced, “to performing errands of mercy. They unsettle my digestion shockingly.”

“A little fasting now and again never hurt anyone,” Lord Woodbridge replied. “Be so good as to fetch a hackney, won’t you? Sir Walter will need one.”

“Oh,
non
, monsieur,” the comte said. “He shall be taken home in my barouche with the surgeon, if he is agreeable. It is the least I can do for the poor man. I shall obtain a hackney for myself and Lady Mary and Madame Carswell.”

“Ah,
c’est bon
,” Amélie said, climbing to her feet. Lord Woodbridge hurried to help her. “And if you, monsieur”—she smiled prettily at Underwood—“would be so kind as to follow Monsieur le Comte’s carriage and lead Sir Walter’s horse home, we shall do
à merveille
.” She hesitated, then turned her large blue eyes up to Lord Woodbridge and blinked. “Monsieur—if it would not be too great a favor to ask—would you accompany Sophie and your cousin back to Monsieur le Marquis’s house?”

Lord Woodbridge said promptly, “It would not be the least trouble, madam. Underwood?”

Mr. Underwood mumbled something under his breath about being outmaneuvered by a damned female Napoléon, but bowed his assent. Within a few minutes, Sir Walter and the surgeon had been established in the barouche and were steering a careful path toward the gate, followed by a glum-looking Underwood leading Sir Walter’s horse. The comte offered an arm each to Aunt Molly and Amélie and prepared to stroll back to Piccadilly Gate. Just before she turned, Amélie caught Sophie’s eye and winked.

“Well,” said Parthenope, watching the departures as the crowd dispersed. “Poor old thing, I hope he won’t suffer any lasting damage. Let’s go. I feel an almost overwhelming need for a sustaining cup of tea and some even more sustaining gossip, and I shan’t get either of them here.”

Lord Woodbridge fell in beside Sophie again as they rode out of the park gates back into Piccadilly. “Was the horse all right?” he asked her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The horse. Sir Walter’s horse. You seemed concerned about it.”

Drat, he’d noticed. “Oh, did I?” She tried to look confused. “That is … it’s fine.”

They clattered down the cobbles of South Audley Street to Lansell House. Lord Woodbridge gestured to a boy lounging on the steps of the house to take his horse, and dismounted to help Sophie and his cousin from their horses. As he lifted her down, Sophie said, “You seemed to know Sir Walter. Who exactly is he?”

He looked down at her in surprise. “Don’t you know?”

“Should I?”

“I might have thought so. He works with your father in Whitehall in the War Office.”

Chapter

6

Over
the next few days, Sophie could not stop thinking about the incident with Sir Walter in the park. Two accidents … or were they? It looked suspiciously like someone was using magic to try to cause harm and make it look accidental, but who could be doing such a thing? Might there actually be a lady or gentleman in society who was also a witch or wizard with grudges to repay, or could it be a disgruntled servant or tradesman?

But that didn’t make sense either. Why would anyone want to hurt men as harmless as Papa and Lord Palmerston or Sir Walter? All three seemed to be upright, honorable men, as far as she could discern … which admittedly wasn’t far, as she had little access to society gossip. But she could vouch for Papa’s character, anyway.… Oh, it made her head hurt, trying to puzzle it out. But ignoring it was not possible, either. If someone truly wanted to hurt Papa or any of the others, he or she might try again.

One other thing bothered her—the fact that all three were associated with the War Office. Was it merely a coincidence, or something else?

Lord Woodbridge hadn’t seemed particularly concerned. After he’d told her yesterday as they were dismounting after their ride in the park, she’d taken a deep breath and said, “Lord Woodbridge, may I ask what might sound like an odd question?”

He smiled. “I am sure there will be nothing odd about it.”

“I only hope you
will
laugh at me. Does it strike you as—well—odd that three members of the War Office have been in near-fatal accidents in a very short period of time?”

“Good heavens!” Parthenope slid from her saddle without assistance and handed her reins to the link boy who’d been lounging on the steps. “I hadn’t thought about that!”

“What do you mean?” Lord Woodbridge asked.

Sophie gave him a quick glance. “My father and Lord Palmerston, then that poor Sir Walter, recently have all been in accidents that could have proven disastrous. They are also all ranking officials in the War Office—indeed, Lord Palmerston is Secretary at War. Do you think that is a coincidence?”

He smiled indulgently. “I do think it a coincidence, Lady Sophie. Sir Walter isn’t even really a member anymore—he retired last autumn and is just back to help out in the present emergency.”

She sighed. “I expect that you’re right. It just seemed—”

“Odd,” he’d finished for her, still smiling.

And odd she still thought it. Would he have dismissed the idea so quickly if he knew what she knew—about the surreptitious use of magic to cause the accidents? If only there were someone she could talk to about it! Mama would surely have been able to pinpoint the source of the spells at once, or at least have been better able to determine their intent. They could have worked together and made sure Papa stayed safe … but it was no use dwelling on that, or she’d make herself even more unhappy. If only there were someone—Amélie, perhaps. Or Parthenope.

It was novel to suddenly have a best friend, but Parthenope seemed determined that they would be bosom companions. Sophie could not help wondering why: It couldn’t be her social position, because as a duke’s daughter Parthenope held the higher rank, and her family was at least as wealthy as Sophie’s. Perhaps it was their both being eldest daughters without sisters, or sharing a love of riding, or … or maybe it wasn’t worth trying to understand why. Maybe it was just better to accept that Parthenope was her friend, and be grateful.

She wasn’t the only member of the family with a new friend, though it didn’t seem quite correct to call the Comte de Carmouche-Ponthieux a “new” friend. He called the day after the Sir Walter incident to report that the surgeon who had seen to him was sure that after a day or two of rest, he would be quite well again.

“Well, that is good news,” Aunt Molly said. “Though I had thought about sending him a posset. Do you think I ought to, Augus—I mean, Comte?”