Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B) (28 page)

Letting out a loud groan of dismay, he started after the carriage, though he was well aware that, with a team of frisky horses having been cooped up for two days at its head, his chances of catching up with the now swiftly moving vehicle were somewhat less than nil. After a fruitless dash of some fifty yards or so, he dragged to a gasping halt, his shoulders slumped in despair, and, disconsolately retracing his steps, he made his way back to the inn, hoping against hope that Mrs Webster could furnish him with the information he needed—information that had, for some inexplicable reason, suddenly become a most vital necessity!

‘I
still fail to understand why finding this blessed female is of such vital importance to you. Have you fallen in love with her, or what?’

‘Don’t talk rot!’

Strolling with his brother Giles down Oxford Street’s wide thoroughfare, Marcus let out a dismissive bark of laughter. Two weeks had passed since his return to the capital and he was still no further forward in his search. The tavern’s landlady having informed him that she knew very little about Sophie’s personal history, other than the fact that her father had been killed in action at Waterloo and that she had a younger brother who was away at school somewhere, Marcus had been reduced to enlisting his brother’s help. The Major, in his capacity of Chief Intelligence Officer at the Home Office, was equipped with the necessary seniority of rank to pull all sorts of strings that were unavailable to the Viscount himself. So far, however, it would seem that even Giles’s investigations had drawn a blank.

‘Well, as I’ve already told you, the only Flints that I’ve been able to get any leads on are a young rifleman from the ninety-forth and a Scottish Colour Sergeant, neither of whom were married with children. There was one other—for what it’s worth—but he was a highly decorated Lieutenant-Colonel, name of Pendleton-Flint. Can’t see that he would fit your—where in the hell are you off to now?’

Left standing speechless as he watched his brother tear across the road, dodging in and out of the heavy press of traffic and taking his life in his hands, Giles was set to wondering—and not for the first time during the past fourteen days—whether Marcus had suffered some sort of weird brainstorm when he had been benighted by that freak blizzard. That the Viscount had been acting rather oddly since that time would be something of an understatement, to say the least, especially in regard to the puzzling rekindling of his once close relationship with his brother Giles, from whose side Marcus had hardly strayed since his arrival back in town. No all-night drinking and gambling sessions, no mad escapades with those equally notorious associates of his and, somewhat more disturbing, not a single minute spent in the company of either of his rather comely mistresses! Instead, an apparently single-minded dedication applied to the task of uncovering the whereabouts of some mysterious governess—a task to which he had also managed to persuade Major Wolfe to devote not only his expertise but quite a significant portion of the manpower at his disposal, in addition.

With a groan of dismay, Giles heaved in a choking gasp of despair as he witnessed his brother narrowly managing to avoid being crushed under the wheels of
a heavily loaded brewer’s dray before leaping up on to the pavement opposite, where he skidded to a breathless halt in front of the rather drab-looking wench who was walking amongst the press of people there.

‘Mr Wolfe!’

Although her eyes had widened with delight at the unexpected pleasure of seeing Marcus again, Sophie’s cheeks immediately flushed scarlet as she realised how she had addressed him. ‘I do beg your pardon, my lord,’ she substituted hurriedly. ‘H-how nice to see you! H-how are you keeping? Well, I trust?’

The mere sight of him had reduced her to talking gibberish again, and she knew it. A fortnight of sleepless nights, tossing about on her hard, lumpy mattress, doing her best to put all thoughts of Marcus Wolfe out of her mind, had done little to improve her appearance. Her hair was, once again, encased in the dreaded lace cap, and both her nondescript bonnet and pelisse were as grey and as shabby as they had ever been. Since her shocked discovery that plain Mr Wolfe was—as indicated by the card that he had thrust into her hand at their parting—none other than Viscount Helstone, heir to the Bradfield earldom, and, according to what she had overheard of the servants’ chatter, more generally referred to as ‘Hellcat Helstone’ in the gossip columns of the popular press—she had alternated between thanking her lucky stars that their acquaintanceship had been cut short so precipitately and ruefully wondering how it might have developed had she been bold enough to accept his outrageous offer.

Mrs Crayford having held her personally responsible for Lydia’s severe cold on their belated return to the
capital, the quality of her life in the Lennox Gardens residence had continued to deteriorate and, since there had been no snow in or around the centre of London at the time, her employer had refused to concede that the weather could have been so bad as to prevent their return at the pre-arranged time. This had not been helped by her daughter’s input that ‘There really didn’t seem to be that much snow about, as far as I could recall’—an unsurprising evaluation of the situation, given that the girl had spent the whole of the two days in bed, being waited on by her luckless companion.

Added to which, the young Arthur Crayford, his objective having been made only too clear on any number of previous occasions, had recently taken to waylaying Sophie in some deserted part of the house or other and pressing his lubricious attentions on her—a rather taxing situation that was beginning to cause her real concern.

Marcus, gazing down at her pale drawn face, could not help observing that she seemed to have lost weight since their last meeting, and as the possibility that she might be being deprived of food invaded his mind he found himself beset by a hot flood of rage.

‘I’m fine,’ he said, in reply to her garbled question. ‘How about you?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ came her automatic response, which might have caused the Viscount to laugh out loud, had his attention not been drawn to the dark shadows under her eyes.

By this time Giles had managed to cross the road and was standing to one side, waiting for his brother to introduce him to the waif-like creature in the shabby attire.
At his discreet cough, Marcus flushed, as he belatedly remembered his manners.

‘My brother—Major Wolfe,’ he said, not taking his eyes from Sophie’s stricken face as he waved a careless hand in Giles’s direction. ‘This lady is my Miss Flint, Giles.’

‘Good God!’

Marcus’s use of the possessive pronoun, followed so swiftly by his brother’s explosive epithet of astonishment, brought yet another rosy flush to Sophie’s cheeks, but on this occasion it was a flush of indignation. Raising her chin, she stared pointedly at Giles, favouring him with an example of one of the chilling glances that generally had the effect of putting even the most recalcitrant of her charges firmly in their place.

It worked, rendering the Major duly admonished.

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ he stuttered as, casting a furious glare at Marcus and registering the unrepentant gleam of amusement in his brother’s eyes, he collected himself sufficiently to execute an elegant bow.

Before Sophie was able to respond to the Major’s gallant gesture, however, she felt herself being shunted forward as someone barged into her from behind, throwing her completely off balance. Letting out a cry of dismay, she would certainly have fallen to the ground had not Marcus, uttering an angry curse, thrown out his hands to grab at her and pulled her quickly towards him. For an instant the sudden surge of joy that cascaded through her at finding herself wrapped in the Viscount’s arms once more wiped all vestige of sense from Sophie’s mind, filling her entire being with a wholly primitive need to return the unexpected embrace. Almost of their own volition her hands reached up, and might well have attained their goal had she not suddenly become aware
of the fact that her small beaded reticule, which normally dangled by its chain at her wrist, was no longer in its accustomed place.

Groaning in exasperation, she hauled herself away from Marcus, crying, ‘Oh, not again! My purse—it has been stolen!’

Pushing the bewildered Viscount to one side, she quickly took stock of the crowds milling all about them. Then, with an angry cry, she pointed to the raggedy barefoot youth she had spotted fleeing towards a nearby side alley. ‘There!’ she cried. ‘See? That little devil has it in his hand!’

‘Leave it to me!’ responded Giles, and, taking off with all speed, he made after the fingersmith, leaving his brother to comfort the now highly irate Sophie.

‘You had better come and sit down,’ he urged, catching hold of her hand and directing her towards a nearby tea shop. ‘You are shaking all over.’

Once inside, he signalled to a waiter and ordered tea. ‘Best thing for shock,’ he said, casting a concerned eye over Sophie’s white-set features. ‘Or so I have been told.’

‘I’m not suffering from shock,’ she retorted, through clenched teeth. ‘What kind of a weak-kneed creature do you think I am? I’m just so utterly furious!’

‘I can see that you must be,’ sympathised the Viscount. ‘I’m just glad that you weren’t hurt. These young sneak thieves are getting more audacious by the day.’

Still frowning, Sophie did not reply.

‘Did you lose a great deal?’ he then asked, recalling the pitifully small cache of coins that she had had with her at the inn.

She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. ‘Do I really look as if I’m worth robbing?’ she demanded, hurriedly
blinking back the angry tears that threatened. ‘Three shillings and sixpence and my last good handkerchief, if you really must know. All the rest went with my other purse yesterday morning.’

‘You’re not telling me that the same thing happened to you yesterday, too?’ exclaimed Marcus, with a shocked expression.

Sophie gave him a weary nod. ‘While I was taking my charges for their afternoon walk in the square gardens—I would have gone after the little devil, but of course I was unable to leave the children.’

‘What truly damnable luck. You won’t allow me to reimburse you, I dare say?’

She stared across at him, exasperation plain on her face. ‘Certainly not! I thought I had made my position perfectly clear in that respect at our last meeting.’

‘Well, yes, you did rather,’ replied Marcus, his lips curving slightly as he lifted his fingers and patted the cheek she had slapped. ‘This, however, is a somewhat different matter. I wouldn’t care to think of you going without, for the sake of a few shillings on my part.’

Sophie shook her head. ‘I shan’t go without,’ she assured him. ‘It was money I had set aside for a book—an atlas I am in need of—I was on my way to the bookshop to enquire after it when we met.’

Leaning closer, he stretched out his hand and laid it on hers. ‘Then at least let me purchase the book for you,’ he said eagerly. ‘Surely you must agree that it would be quite unexceptional for you to accept so mundane a gift from a friend?’

At his touch, Sophie’s heart-rate shot up by several notches and, raising her teacup to her lips in order to hide her confusion, it was all she could do to prevent her hand from shaking. ‘Thank you, my lord, but that
really isn’t necessary, I promise you,’ she eventually managed and then, having struggled to get her emotions under control, added, ‘In any event, I need to have words with the bookseller. I still have not received the book he promised to find for me, yet he has sent me the most ridiculous bill of sale. It’s just fortunate that I was carrying it in my coat pocket; otherwise I would have lost that, too.’

A wide grin crept over Marcus’s face. ‘Well, I’ve often heard of bills being referred to as irritating, but “ridiculous”? That’s certainly a new one on me!’

‘Well, this one
is
ridiculous, I assure you,’ retorted Sophie and, dipping her fingers into the pocket of her pelisse, she withdrew a folded sheet of paper and spread it out on the table in front of him. ‘As you will see for yourself, if you care to examine it.’

At first, as far as the Viscount could see, the document looked like any other bill of sale, until he realised that, although it had ‘Miss S. Flint’ and—to his secret delight—Sophie’s full Lennox Gardens address written clearly on the reverse of the sheet, the bill itself was, in fact, invoiced to a Mr Matthew Nyne.

‘A simple misdirection, I’d say.’ He smiled, handing it back to her.

‘Yes, that’s what I thought, at first,’ she said, staring down at the missive. ‘If it weren’t for the fact that the arithmetic is quite bizarre. Look more closely, my lord, if you would.’

Although he was finding Sophie’s continual use of his title somewhat jarring, Marcus thought it best to refrain from commenting on the matter. Reaching for the proffered document, he proceeded to give it his full attention.

‘Good grief!’ he exclaimed eventually. ‘Your bookseller clearly needs a few lessons in accountancy! Here! Take a look at this, Giles!’

This last was to his brother who, having failed in his pursuit of the guttersnipe who had made off with Sophie’s reticule, had just this moment peered into the tearooms, in search of the missing pair.

‘Tea! Good—oh!’ he said, eyeing the teapot with satisfaction as he joined them. Then, catching sight of the piece of paper in Marcus’s hand, he queried, ‘What’s to do? Not got behind in settling up your debts, have you, bro?’

After giving the Major’s ankle a swift but harmless kick under the table, Marcus grinned and shoved the bill under his brother’s nose while Sophie busied herself with the tea things. ‘What do you make of that, then?’ he asked.

Giles cast a cursory glance over the figures, and his
expression was at first quite indifferent. Then, stiffening, he shot a quick sideways look at Sophie and said quietly, ‘May I ask how you came by this document, Miss Flint?’