Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B) (30 page)

Somewhat perplexed, he sat down again and studied
her, a frown forming on his brow as he registered her apprehension.

‘What is it, my dear?’ he said, leaning forward. ‘It is perfectly safe to alight, I promise you. I saw no signs of curtains twitching or anything of that nature.’

Suddenly straightening herself, Sophie seemed to flare into life. ‘My cap!’ she ordered him. ‘You have it in your pocket. Please give it back to me!’

Still mystified, the Viscount shrugged, drew out the requested article and handed it to her, watching in growing confusion as she hastily dragged off her bonnet before proceeding to stuff the abundant coils of her hair back into their former confinement. Glancing down at her bonnet, prior to replacing it, she caught sight of the tiny bunch of violets that Marcus had tucked into the ribbon just an hour or so earlier. She hesitated, a soft sigh escaping her lips, but then without further ado plucked them from their place, did likewise with those in the buttonhole of her pelisse. She stuffed the now badly crushed blossoms into her pocket and, leaning forward again, reached for the door handle.

But Marcus, his face clearing now that he had at last begun to fathom out what was troubling her, was ahead of her.
Now, this I can do something about,
he thought in satisfaction as, thrusting open the door, he leapt nimbly out on to the pavement and held out his hand, giving Sophie no opportunity to do other than accept his proffered assistance.

Having heard the carriage, the young Crayford had turned to see who might be visiting his home at such an unusual hour for calling. His expression, when he witnessed his younger siblings’ governess being handed out of a vehicle and escorted up the steps by one of
the Town’s most notorious rakes, was something to behold.

‘L-Lord Helstone?’ he stammered in disbelief, half paralysed with nerves as, tugging at his cravat, he made the Viscount an exaggerated leg.

‘Ah, Mr Crayford, I believe,’ drawled Marcus, eyeing the youngster gravely. ‘I have been wanting to have a word with you, if you could spare me a few moments of your time?’

That such an out-and-out Corinthian was even prepared to stop and pass the time of day with him, let alone engage him in any sort of conversation, was almost too much for Crayford to comprehend.

‘You wish to have words with me?’ he squeaked, the hue of his cheeks glowing even more brightly than the strawberry-pink brocade of his waistcoat.

‘If you would be so good as to open the door for Miss Flint?’

Without sparing Sophie even the briefest of glances, Crayford at once sprang to attention, applying the knocker with such vigour that its strident clanging reverberated halfway down the street.

Whilst it was perfectly clear to both Sophie and the Viscount that the elderly manservant who opened the door was decidedly unimpressed with his young master’s peremptory use of the knocker, Crayford was too far up in the boughs to notice the man’s barely disguised expression of contempt.

‘Ah, Hawkins, there you are,’ babbled the youngster, almost pushing an unresisting Sophie through the entrance, before turning to Marcus and asking eagerly, ‘Would you care to come into the library, my lord? My father has a halfway decent sherry I can offer you.’

‘Thank you, but no,’ replied Marcus, pausing only to
flash an encouraging smile at the somewhat distracted Sophie, as the manservant offered him a courteous bow before finally closing the door. ‘What I have to say to you won’t take long.’

Then, reaching out, he grasped hold of Crayford’s neckcloth and pulled the startled youngster towards him, his tone unmistakably menacing as he murmured, ‘If I should hear that you have dared to lay a finger on so much as a single hair of Miss Flint’s head ever again, I will make it my business to have both you and your father barred from every club in Town. Do I make myself clear?’

Satisfied that the youngster’s petrified gurgle was intended to signal some sort of assent, the Viscount nodded and released his hold.

‘Very well—now, here is my card,’ he continued, almost conversationally, and he took out his card case and extracted the pasteboard rectangle that held his noble details. ‘You may inform your mother that I have called, and will be doing so again at some time in the very near future.’

From what he had been able to gather from Sophie’s occasional references to her employer, the Viscount was reasonably certain that the parsimonious Mrs Crayford would turn out to be a social climber of the very worst sort. He had little doubt that within hours news of his visit would be circulating like wildfire amongst her cronies. Dissolute reprobate though he was considered to be, as the wealthy heir apparent to a long-established earldom he could hardly help being aware that there were few members of the
Ton
who would not give their eye teeth to have him grace their functions with his presence.

Society hostesses were known to go to extraordinary
lengths in their endeavours to secure his attendance at their balls and soirees, and not merely for the fact of his undoubtedly compelling charm, for he was, after all, an extremely eligible bachelor. This being so, he judged that it was fairly safe to assume that not a single member of the Crayford family would be likely to take issue with Sophie if they received the impression that their humble governess was someone he held in high regard.

His lips twisting in distaste as he recalled the damage that he had already done to that otherwise gratifyingly blossoming friendship, he passed his card to the still quivering stripling on the doorstep, inclined his head briefly, and sauntered casually down the steps before climbing into the still waiting hackney carriage.

H
aving managed to reach her attic bedroom without further intervention, Sophie, wanting nothing more than to throw herself onto her bed and sob her eyes out, thrust open the door and stepped inside—only to be met by the heartstopping sight of every single one of her precious possessions strewn in haphazard fashion across the bare floorboards, with the now empty drawers of her chest tossed into a careless heap in the room’s far corner.

Collapsing onto the bed and staring at the jumbled mess with disbelieving eyes, she began to suppose that she must be living in some sort of ghastly nightmare. As though having been relieved of both of her purses, her one comb, two handkerchiefs and the bulk of her hard-earned savings in the space of twenty-four hours were not enough to endure, this must surely be regarded as the crowning touch to one of the most disagreeable days she had had the misfortune of experiencing for quite some time.

Even what had started out to be a joyful reunion with
Marcus Wolfe—or Viscount Helstone of Bradfield, as it had transpired—had ended in disastrous disappointment, when the libertine that he clearly was had finally chosen to revert to his true colours.

Angrily brushing away the gathering tears, Sophie dropped to her knees to make a start on returning her possessions to some sort of order.
I should have listened more carefully to what the servants were saying about him,
she chastised herself.
It’s all very well making grandiose statements about paying no attention to gossip and arriving at one’s own conclusions about people, but, really, with all that information at my fingertips, I must have been mad to allow myself be played on his line like the veriest gudgeon!

Yet those rapturous sensations that had all but overcome her resolve the moment his lips had touched hers had been akin to a sort of madness, she was forced to admit to herself. Another few moments and who knew where such careless passion might have led? Thank heavens that timely vision of her mother had prevented her from forgetting herself entirely.

At the thought of her mother, a sudden frisson of alarm ran through Sophie, and, her hands shaking with panic, she began a feverish search through the heaps of articles that the disrespectful Henry—it
had
to be that beastly little devil, Sophie was almost certain, for no one else but the eight-year-old mischief-maker would think to harass her in such a petty manner—had tossed so carelessly about the room.

When at last her eyes lit upon the sleeveless flannel spencer that her mother had insisted on tucking into her travelling-box ‘in case the weather turns cold’, Sophie grabbed at the garment and ran her fingers hurriedly along its lower hem where, with a sob of relief, she
discovered that the two crowns she had slid into the jacket’s hem for safe-keeping were still there. She tossed up a prayer of thanksgiving for her mother’s sensible teachings during the family’s years with the military that, should the possibility of sudden evacuation ever occur—which it had frequently done—such a hidden source of money might serve to save their lives. Ever since those days, it had been Sophie’s habit to tuck all of her loose change into the hem of the never-likely-to-be-worn flannel jacket. As it happened, the ten shillings that she had put aside from her quarterly salary of three pounds was intended to bolster up the meagre pension awarded to her mother by the War Office, in recognition of the late Lieutenant-Colonel’s services to his country. On glancing up from her position on the floor, however, Sophie chanced to see the splendidly wrapped package that lay on her bed, and she realised, to her sorrow, that she would be obliged to ask her mother to make do with only five shillings on this occasion, since paying Helstone back his three shillings and sixpence had now become more a point of honour than a matter of principle.

Getting to her feet, she sat down on the bed and began to unravel the string that surrounded the parcel, ruefully recalling the vibrant joy she had felt at simply being in the Viscount’s company. Was it possible that one could love someone and yet dislike them in almost equal measure at one and the same time? she wondered, as she unwrapped the package, only to find as the wrapping paper fell from her fingers that the book that now lay on her knees was not the tattered version that Mr Broomfield had offered to her in his bookshop but an almost pristine edition of the same work!

She stared down at the book, a mixture of wild fury
and disbelief coursing through her veins. It seemed that the duplicitous Helstone had hoodwinked her yet again, in the certain knowledge that she did not have the resources to fulfil so great a debt! For one awestruck moment she was not certain whether she wanted to laugh hysterically or scream her anger to the four walls.

In the event, a sharp tap at her door prevented her from venting her aggravation in either fashion, and as one of the maids poked her head around the door with the message that the mistress required her presence downstairs on the instant, Sophie could only suppose that the day’s misfortunes had not yet reached their pinnacle. Evidently, it would seem, Arthur Crayford had informed his mother of her arrival in a hackney carriage in the company of one of the Town’s most notorious rakes. Instant dismissal was clearly on the cards yet again, she thought, as she made her way down to the drawing room to confront her employer, dismally conscious of the fact that this threat dropped from Mrs Crayford’s lips with monotonous regularity, wherever and whenever things failed to go exactly as she had planned them.

To her surprise, however, Mrs Crayford stood up and moved forward to greet her on her entry into the room, saying, ‘My dear Miss Flint! How nice to see you looking so well. You enjoyed your afternoon off, I trust?’

Considerably taken aback at her employer’s over-effusive welcome, Sophie glanced suspiciously at the young Mr Crayford who, skulking nervously behind his parent, seemed reluctant to meet her gaze.

‘Do sit down, my dear. I have just rung for tea.’

Motioning her to the chair nearest to her own, Mrs Crayford reseated herself and regarded Sophie with what
the startled governess surmised was meant to be a look of affection.

‘Arthur tells me that you came home in the company of Viscount Helstone,’ she then gushed, before leaning across and tapping Sophie playfully on the knee with her fan. ‘You really should have mentioned that you were acquainted with the gentleman, you naughty girl! What must he think of us for having failed to invite him to the various soirees and musical evenings that we have given during these past few weeks? Clearly we must see to it that such a grievous omission is rectified without delay—is that not so, dear child?’

Still finding herself to be in a state of shocked disbelief, Sophie was unable to summon up a suitable reply. Not that one was necessary, it appeared, since Mrs Crayford then proceeded to outline some of her ill-thought-out schemes for entertaining the Viscount during the coming months, barely stopping to take a breath as she set off on a wild flight of fancy that included such things as ice sculptures, chocolate fountains and the like.

Sliding her glance across to where Arthur Crayford was sitting, nervously fingering his cravat and staring back at her in an apprehensive manner, Sophie was struck with the oddest impression that he was expecting her to leap up and attack him at any minute.

Suddenly the reason for all this ingratiating obsequiousness became horrifyingly apparent. Having marked her agitation when she had caught sight of the young man on the doorstep, Helstone had obviously drawn his own conclusions as to her uneasiness and, as soon as the front door had closed, must have set about intimidating Crayford in some way or another—which would explain the youngster’s conspicuously edgy demeanour. And, whilst Sophie was decidedly annoyed at finding herself
presented with yet another example of the Viscount’s high-handed interference in her life, she could not help but experience a warm ripple of pleasure at the thought of him having gone to such trouble on her behalf.

Mrs Crayford’s wildly extravagant plans, on the other hand, were another matter entirely, and Sophie knew that she had to find some way of putting a stop to them before they got out of hand. The mere thought of Helstone being invited to come and go as he pleased—as seemed to be her employer’s heartfelt ambition—was enough to send her senses skittering in all directions. Even worse, it now appeared, when she had surfaced sufficiently to take in yet more of Mrs Crayford’s revised plans for the Season, that she herself was to be included in all this jollification!

‘But I do not have a suitable wardrobe to wear on such occasions,’ she interjected in dismay, the minute Mrs Crayford at last paused to draw breath.

‘Not to worry, my dear,’ declared her employer, waving a dismissive hand. ‘Lydia has more gowns than she can possibly wear—she shall loan you some of hers. You are of a size, I believe. The child can scarcely object, after all,’ she went on, her eyes glowing in anticipation. ‘With so noble a patron, the possibilities for her are endless!’

Biting at the inside of her lip in an effort not to burst out laughing at the thought of so infamous a rake as Helstone being persuaded to sponsor the Crayford’s seventeen-year-old daughter into Society, Sophie was obliged to concentrate her attention on the slightly faded patterning of the room’s Aubusson rug.

‘So, that’s settled then,’ declared her employer, in a satisfied tone, as she rose to her feet. ‘I shall write to his lordship at once and invite him to take dinner with
us on Tuesday next—that will give Mrs Hawkins ample time to have all the glass and silverware polished to perfection.’

‘Oh, no! I fear that won’t do at all,’ cried Sophie, clutching at straws. ‘I believe his lordship mentioned that he would be out of town all next week—possibly longer,’ she added, in desperation.

‘Hmm.’ Pausing in her tracks, Mrs Crayford swung round to frown at her son. ‘Did you not tell me that the Viscount said that it was his intention to call upon us shortly?’

‘Very near future, was what he said,’ gabbled the youngster, standing up and clutching at the back of his chair for support. ‘Took that to mean in the next day or so—but I couldn’t swear—’

‘Never mind,’ interrupted his mother, turning back to face Sophie. ‘You will just have to ascertain his lordship’s movements for the coming weeks, so that I can plan my functions accordingly. I shouldn’t care to find myself going to a host of trouble for nothing—we have to be sure of the dates that he will be available. You must write him a note straight away and I will have Fisher take it across.’

‘Oh, but I couldn’t possibly,’ began Sophie, her eyes widening in dismay. How was she supposed to explain that the Viscount was merely a passing acquaintance when he had, it would seem, chosen to give Crayford the impression that he and she were close friends of a long standing. Telling the truth would merely serve to blacken her own character to such an extent that she really would be in danger of losing her position, and then where would she be? Realising that, unless some miracle should occur to prevent the inevitable revelation, there was nothing for it but to appear to go along with Mrs
Crayford’s plans, she gave her employer a resigned nod of acquiescence and, at that lady’s continued insistence, took her place at the escritoire, desperately wondering how best she might pen such a note.

Having divested himself of his jacket, waistcoat and boots, Marcus had taken up residence in one of the two leather fireside chairs that straddled the fireplace in the library of his Grosvenor Square mansion. His brother Giles, in similar garb, lounged wearily back in the other.

‘Bit of luck you running into that Flint female this afternoon,’ observed the Major, as he took a hefty swig of the brandy that his brother had just poured him. ‘Finally managed to get one of my chaps to decipher these damned coded messages that have been causing us such difficulty these past couple of weeks.’

‘Some devilment afoot somewhere, then?’ enquired Marcus lazily, his brain more intent on conjuring up sweet visions of kissing Sophie than paying a great deal of attention to his brother’s words.

‘Another plot to assassinate old Hookey, by the looks of it,’ returned Giles complacently. ‘Must be at the least the sixth this year, by my reckoning.’

‘Does it bother his grace—this new-found antagonism towards him after all that adulation of last year?’

‘He says not.’ The Major laughed, leaning forward to top up his glass from the brandy decanter positioned on the table between the two of them. ‘Noticed that he’s made a start on having railings erected round Apsley House, though—had a couple of rocks heaved through one of his windows the other day, apparently.’

‘Teach him to stop mouthing off about the country’s need for greater mechanisation. The last thing we want
now is more riots, what with the number of unemployed men piling into the capital.’

‘Good God, Marcus!’ exclaimed his brother in astonishment. ‘Don’t tell me you’re developing a social conscience at long last—the old man will never believe it when I tell him!’

‘Then don’t,’ returned Marcus shortly, before taking another pensive swig of his drink. ‘How is the old devil, by the way? Still cursing the day I was born, I imagine?’

‘Not to my knowledge. As a matter of fact, he’s not been too good this last week or so—ever since you rode off into that blizzard he’s been surprisingly quiet on the subject of your descent into dissolution. You really ought to go down and make your peace with him, you know.’

Marcus nodded. ‘Yes, I shall—as soon as—’

Stopping abruptly, he coloured and swiftly changed the subject. ‘This code business, then—how did Miss Flint’s bill of sale help solve the puzzle?’

‘Pretty clever, really,’ said Giles, leaning forward. ‘We’d already intercepted a similar invoice to a Mr Luke Fower, and hadn’t been able to make a great deal of sense out of it, but as soon as we got hold of the one addressed to Mr Matthew Nyne it all began to fall into place.’

‘I’m not sure I follow your line of reasoning.’

‘Quite simple. One of my newer chaps—part-time lay preacher, as it happens—finally twigged the connection. Luke Fower and Matthew Nyne! Get it?’