Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B) (41 page)

Three days having passed since he had commissioned a man to keep watch on the Crayford property, in the hopes of waylaying Sophie as soon as she emerged, her total non-appearance was more than enough to cause Marcus considerable disquiet. For it was now beginning to look as if the butler had spoken the truth when he had informed the Viscount that the governess was no longer in residence.

Whatever that might mean,
thought Marcus, almost out of his mind with despair as, pacing backwards and forwards across his study floor, he raked his fingers distractedly through his hair.
But if Sophie wasn’t at the Crayfords’, then where the devil was she? It was beyond thought that, having finally managed to track her down following her departure from the inn, he could have been so arrogantly reckless as to allow her to slip through his fingers once again and, this time—God forbid—possibly out of his life for ever!

Such a prospect was more than he could bear even to contemplate. As total misery washed over him, he sank wearily into a nearby armchair, dropping his head into his hands and letting out an anguished moan.
He just couldn’t lose her! He loved her, damn it—he loved her!

As the full implication of his unuttered words finally hit him, Marcus started back, his eyes widening in disbelief.
Where in God’s name had that thought sprung from?
he asked himself incredulously, but then, the more he pondered the matter, the more it began to dawn upon him that his almost total preoccupation with Sophie was considerably more complicated than the simple fact of just wanting to get her into his bed—which he did, of course. That went without saying. In fact, if
he were to be honest with himself, the sheer idea of making passionate love to her had ballooned into an all-encompassing desire more powerful than any he had ever experienced throughout the multi-faceted history of all his past
affaires.
But, alongside all of that, it seemed that, without his having been aware of it he had also acquired a deep, almost primitive urge to cherish and protect her and keep her safe from harm. All part and parcel of what one might reasonably expect from a man in love, he thought with a wry grimace, achingly aware that his constant cajoling of Sophie to become his mistress could hardly be regarded in a similar vein.
Small wonder that she had called him a cad.
It would be nothing short of a miracle if he ever managed to persuade her to forgive such reprehensible conduct, let alone agree to become his wife!

Filled with a sudden self-loathing, the Viscount began to take stock of the all too numerous misdemeanours of his recent history, and it gradually began to dawn on him that, at twenty-nine years of age, it was high time he put aside his juvenile resentment towards his father and started conducting himself in the manner that might be expected of one who had at least been born a gentleman—well past time, in fact, to wave an unregretted farewell to all the drunken carousing, gambling, casual assignations and other such excessive behaviour of the past six years and make a start on trying to repair the breach that had opened up between himself and the Earl.

All of a sudden it began to dawn on him that all he really needed to bring true meaning to his life was Sophie—with her at his side, who knew to what heights he might climb, what goals he might achieve? He pulled in a ragged breath, painfully conscious of the fact that,
before this highly appealing vision of an unparalleled future with Sophie at his side was likely to come to fruition, he had first to find her. Having wasted precious time sitting around kicking his heels, waiting for Giles to return from his errand in the north, in the hopes that his more diplomatically inclined brother might gain entry into the Crayford establishment in order to ascertain their governess’s whereabouts, Marcus was no longer of a mind to wait another second. Swearing that he would beard the lion’s den himself, and have the information out of the Crayfords’ supercilious manservant even if he died in the attempt, he rose to his feet and started for the door.

He had taken scarcely two steps across the room, however, before there came a tentative tap on the door—which then opened to reveal his butler, bearing a sealed letter on a silver tray.

‘An urgent communication from Major Wolfe, your lordship,’ intoned the man. ‘One of his fellows has just brought it round.’

Thank God! Giles must have finally returned from his abortive mission in the wilds of Yorkshire! Now things can really get moving!
was Marcus’s initial thought, as he stretched out his hand to relieve Danson of his missive. Breaking open the note’s seal, he hurriedly scanned the short and decidedly cryptic message therein.

Grillons. With all poss. speed. Giles.

Having long ago given up trying to fathom the convoluted workings of his brother’s mind, Marcus let out a sigh. Crucial though his own mission was, the simple brevity of Giles’s message seemed to indicate a more pressing urgency, causing the Viscount to feel
that he had little choice but to comply with the Major’s summons.

‘Have my curricle brought round immediately, Danson,’ he ordered as, reaching to one side, he quickly retrieved his hat and gloves from the chair on which he had impatiently tossed them upon his earlier return from a fruitless consultation with his agent in Lennox Gardens.

Upon stepping into the foyer of the Albemarle Street hotel, the Viscount was greeted by Giles who, holding up his hand to silence his brother’s questions, proceeded to hustle the thoroughly mystified Marcus up the stairs and through the door of one of the hotel’s premier suites where, seated on an armchair by the fireside, the Viscount perceived an elderly female, elegantly clad in a most expensive looking and extremely well-cut gown of lavender coloured silk.

At her visitors’ entry the lady rose gracefully to her feet and, holding out her hands, walked forward to greet the two men.

Executing a respectful bow in the lady’s direction, Giles said, ‘May I present my brother, Viscount Helstone, ma’am?’ And to Marcus, ‘Allow me to introduce you to Miss Catherine Pendleton—Sophie’s great-aunt.’

F
rom her vantage point at the head of the elegant curving staircase that led down into the Whitcombes’ sumptuously appointed ballroom, Sophie anxiously scanned the faces of the guests thronging below, doing her best to persuade herself that there was no real likelihood of Lord Helstone being among their number. Nevertheless, having only just learned this very afternoon that her hosts, the Earl and Countess of Whitcombe, numbered his lordship’s parents among their many acquaintances, along with the further information that his family seat was situated barely ten miles distant from Whitcombe Abbey, she could not help but be aware of the fact that the chances of running into the Viscount at so prestigious a function were not entirely beyond the realms of possibility.

Given that scarcely a single day had gone by since her departure from the Crayfords’ without the vivid image of Helstone’s angry features forcing itself into the forefront of her mind, causing her to have to relive once
again the heated exchange of their final parting, it was difficult for her to suppose that he would be prepared even to exchange polite greetings with her—far more likely that he would simply cut her dead, she thought despondently. But then, with a wan smile and brief shake of her head, she was obliged to dismiss such a foolish notion as being totally unworthy of consideration, well aware that, despite his unfortunate shortcomings in certain matters, Helstone would never stoop to such unworthy behaviour. Added to which, she reminded herself, now that her circumstances had undergone such a drastic change there was always the possibility that he might even begin to regard her in an entirely different light …

‘Come along now, my dear—that posse of handsome
beaux
you’ve acquired look to be growing impatient.’

Shaken out of her pensive reverie, Sophie turned to observe Frederick Egremont approaching. Her lips curved in welcome as he joined her, for she had made a firm friend of Elizabeth’s genial father during the short time she had been with the family—so much so that it had been Mr Egremont to whom she had gone for advice after receiving the extraordinary missive from her mother telling her of the visit from her late father’s aunt—a Miss Catherine Pendleton, apparently—who had come bearing the news that Sophie’s brother, having inherited their great-grandfather’s title, along with a not inconsiderable fortune, was now in a position to designate himself
Sir
Roger, landed baronet!

Sophie, on the verge of packing her bags and returning to her mother’s side, had been dissuaded from doing so by Mr Egremont who, having perused the letter rather more thoroughly than she in her breathless excitement had done, had directed her attention to the hastily
scribbled post script on its rear, which exhorted Sophie to remain where she was for the present, since both her mother and brother were about to set out for Harrogate, with their recently acquired relative, in order that they might be on hand to deal with the various legalities that had arisen as a result of Roger’s unexpected elevation.

Although she was, naturally, thoroughly delighted to hear of her brother’s good fortune, Sophie could not help feeling just a little piqued that Mrs Pendleton-Flint had elected to make such a momentous journey without her daughter’s support. Even the discovery of the very generous banker’s draft attached to the letter had failed to lift her spirits entirely, until both Elizabeth and Mrs Egremont had taken her gently to one side to point out to her that—since she had been unreasonably stubborn in her refusal to accept even one of the many gifts that both families had done their very best to press upon her—the timely arrival of such largesse would go a long way towards affording her the independence to deal with her own oft bemoaned lack of suitable finery.

Sophie, who had been growing increasingly conscious of the shabby state of the three simple muslin gowns that she had brought with her, but had been firmly polite in her refusal to take advantage of Elizabeth’s very generous offers to supplement her meagre wardrobe, had very soon been brought to see the wisdom of her new friends’ advice. As a result, she had very soon found herself—following a hastily arranged visit from the local modiste, along with the inevitable measuring and pinning sessions—the thoroughly overwhelmed owner of a whole new set of such gowns and accessories that, in her previous existence, would have been totally beyond anything she could ever have imagined.

No sooner had it been confirmed that Elizabeth was
well enough to receive visitors than, exactly as Mrs Egremont had predicted, the invitations had started to roll in with increasing regularity, culminating in a hectic whirl of non-stop activity, in which Sophie had found herself very much a part. Morning visits, afternoon picnics, routs, soirees and musical evenings, not to mention two full dress balls, had filled almost every hour of the two weeks that had passed since her arrival at Egremont Hall—all of which ought to have left her with no time to dwell upon the rift between Helstone and herself. And yet with each day that passed, and despite all outward appearances to the contrary, the ache in her heart had deepened and the painful memory of their final meeting had grown more and more turbulent. But she had skipped through the measures of the various dances with apparent cheerful abandon, favouring each of her newly acquired admirers with the same bright-eyed smile, and neither they nor her hosts had ever been led to suspect the true depth of her inner despair.

The welcoming smile that she now bestowed upon Elizabeth’s father as she greeted him, however, was entirely genuine as, tucking her hand into his arm, she allowed him to escort her down the stairs into the Whitcombes’ crowded ballroom.

‘One or two of them are inclined to be a little overpowering,’ she confided, referring to his earlier remark concerning the growing number of dashing young blades who constantly vied for her attention. ‘Lord Bentley keeps sending me the most ridiculous poems—likening the colour of my eyes to a blue jug that stands on his mother’s washstand!’

Letting out a loud guffaw of laughter, Egremont patted her hand. ‘You should be grateful that the young buffoon didn’t choose to use the slopbucket as an analogy!’

‘Oh, I am, believe me,’ she said, chuckling softly as the two of them made their way across the room to join the group presently paying court to the radiant new Viscountess Bingham. ‘Especially as he also mentioned that my hair colour put him in mind of a well-polished hessian boot!’

Marcus, who in the normal way would never have even contemplated putting in an appearance at an event such as the Whitcombes’ annual ball, had found himself—owing to a sudden indisposition on his father’s part, coupled with the fact that his brother Giles was heavily engaged in tracking down yet another group of subversives in the capital—called upon to escort his mother to the affair.

Ever since that fateful day when Giles had ushered him into Catherine Pendleton’s suite at Grillons’ hotel the Viscount had been battling with a depression so entrenched that he frequently found it difficult to drag himself out of bed in the mornings. From the moment that the elderly lady had started on her tale the realisation that his cause was lost had hammered itself into his brain. His dismay at learning that his brother had actually managed to make contact with one of Sophie’s relatives had been such that his mind had barely managed to register all but the barest details of the explanatory tale that Miss Pendleton had so painstakingly unfolded.

It had transpired that Sophie’s father, Jonathan Pendleton-Flint—the baby son of the ill-fated Joseph Flint of Marcus’s father’s memory—having been raised in the bosom of his dead mother’s family had, at the age of twenty-two, formed what his somewhat autocratic grandfather, Sir Jacob, had termed ‘an undesirable association’ with the local schoolmaster’s pretty daughter,
Amelia Dwyer. Having recently inherited the not inconsiderable fortune left to him by his late father, Jonathan had chosen to defy the old man’s instructions to curtail the friendship and had instead gone off to marry the young woman, who was, in time, to become mother to both Sophie and Roger. The young Pendleton-Flint, in pursuit of a long-held ambition, had purchased himself a commission in a dragoon regiment that had then been garrisoned in the nearby town of York, thereby beginning a distinguished career which, by virtue of his continuously outstanding courage in the face of the enemy, had seen him awarded various battlefield honours and ultimately achieving the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel—at which point his highly successful military career had reached its untimely end during the last decisive battle of the long drawn-out war against the Emperor Napoleon.

Despite her father having disowned his grandson, and forbidden his daughter Catherine to communicate with him, it seemed that Miss Pendleton, who had been Jonathan’s primary carer throughout his childhood, had by dint of various underhand subterfuges managed to keep in touch with her nephew during the early part of his career. But as the years had progressed, with the Pendleton-Flints constantly on the move across the continents, contact between Jonathan and his aunt had gradually petered out, and it had been several years since Catherine had heard anything from her nephew.

Unfortunately, Sir Jacob had not received the report of his grandson’s demise until he himself had also been on his deathbed. In fact, it was the opinion of his elderly daughter that it had been the unexpected shock of this harrowing news that had finally pushed the old man over the edge.

Having been made aware that her nephew had fathered a family, Catherine had then made every effort to trace the whereabouts of the remaining Pendleton-Flints, but it had not been until Major Wolfe had finally tracked her down that her quest was to succeed at last. Contacting Sophie’s mother had then proved to be surprisingly simple, once Catherine had provided the two men with the name of Roger’s school in Dulwich since—as might have been expected, had they but been aware of it—it turned out to be the selfsame one at which his father had been educated.

Forced to consider the fact that whatever reason he might once have had for finding Sophie could now be of no consequence to anyone but himself, and unable to confront the prospect of any tentative overture on his part being dismissed out of hand, Marcus had elected not to accompany the Major and Miss Pendleton on their visit to Dulwich. Subsequently, upon being advised that the Pendleton-Flints had left for the North Ridings, along with their newly acquired relative, Marcus had naturally assumed that Sophie must be travelling with her family. Having finally been forced to face up to the fact that she had gone out of his life for ever, he had shut himself up in his library and proceeded to drink himself into a life-threatening stupor in a vain attempt to expunge all thoughts of her from his mind.

The consequent hangover he had suffered as a result of this massive over-indulgence had caused him to review, yet again, the pointless emptiness of his chosen lifestyle, and no sooner had he judged himself fit enough to travel than he had called for his curricle, his thoughts agog with newly formed aspirations of making peace with his father, relieving him of the greater part of his
burdensome duties and generally fulfilling all the Earl’s earlier expectations of the heir to his vast estate.

These ambitions, as Marcus was soon to find out, were more easily imagined than achieved, since Bradfield was inclined to view his recalcitrant son’s unexpected reformation with a good deal of suspicion—particularly after the Viscount had been forced to admit that the promised engagement of which he had spoken had hit something of a snag and would not now take place.

Nevertheless, and in spite of these unfortunate drawbacks to his somewhat high-flown intentions, the Viscount had managed to buckle down and stick to his guns, and for the past week or so the better part of his days had been filled with the perusal of account books and stock sheets, visits to tenants to discuss property repairs, renovations and so on, along with the overseeing of various planting and breeding programmes with which the estate was involved. All of which, he had been somewhat surprised to discover, had turned out to be rather more satisfying ways of spending one’s days than he had formerly supposed.

Not so the nights, however, which had continued to present him with an entirely different problem, and one that persisted in proving utterly unsolvable, no matter how hard he endeavoured to resolve it. Whilst he had no reason to suppose that locating Sophie would involve him in any great difficulty, he was still left with the highly unpalatable fact that he had, on more than one occasion, attempted to persuade the former governess into becoming his mistress. How could he now seek her out and profess his undying love and devotion after having shown her so little respect in the past? Now that Sophie was protected by the wealth and security of her brother’s fortune and title, any unexpected keenness on
his part to renew their former acquaintanceship must only be regarded with her deepest mistrust, and would surely damn him for ever in her eyes—always supposing that Sophie even chose to receive him, which, after that last violent interchange between the two of them, Marcus was inclined to believe there was every reason to doubt.

And so, night after night, the never-ending search for some sort of answer to this vexing dilemma continued to govern the Viscount’s thoughts, playing havoc with his sleep patterns until, as the first shrill cock-crow pierced the dawn of each new day, he would force himself reluctantly from his bed, do his best to banish his growing wretchedness to the back of his mind, and make every effort to occupy the whole of his attention with whatever mundane task his father had chosen to test him.

‘… and you must come and say hello to John’s wife—you may recall having met her at the Egremonts’, when she was just a girl.’

With a sudden blink, Marcus jerked himself back to reality.
Pay attention, man!
he chided himself impatiently, hurriedly stifling the yawn that threatened, and hoping against hope that his mother was of a mind to limit her attendance at this function to the very barest minimum that civil courtesy might demand.