Scandal (15 page)

“Naturally, my experience of Town is different from yours. When you do go out, you will not find the same city as I.”

She frowned at him, but it was a good-natured frown. “London Bridge won't fall just because I've decided to pay a call.” She put her nose in the air and looked aggrieved. “Will the Thames alter course merely because Mrs. Evans gazes upon its waters?”

“London Bridge and the Thames are on the periphery of my life in Town.” He leaned toward her and caught the scent of orange water. “I do not find them entertaining. No doubt you will be at least a little diverted by Bond Street and Ackermans, both of which I avoid like the plague. You'd be sipping chocolate and wondering if anyone would invite you to walk Rotten Row while I—I am a man, and I move in different circles.”

Her eyes settled on him. “What is so urgent, Banallt, that Vedaelin and my brother must be called to Whitehall? Is it the war? Has it started?”

“Not yet.”

She sighed. “Forgive my asking. I oughtn't pry.”

“No fear, Sophie. I shan't tell you what I am not free to divulge.”

“I didn't think you would.”

He'd hurt her feelings. “Sophie.”

When they arrived at Henrietta Street they listened to the coachman climb down from the box, boots clomping, breath huffing, neither of them knowing what to say to break their long silence. Sophie turned her head to the street. A moment longer for one of the grooms to see the horses were settled. Their gazes met, and this time, their silence was not so comfortable.

As Banallt waited for the step to rattle down and the door to open, he understood with a quick and inexplicable intuition that the attraction between them was mutual. He'd always known she found him handsome, but an ocean lay between a woman thinking a man was handsome and thinking she'd go to bed with him. The ocean between him and Sophie had just gotten smaller.

“Banallt,” she said.

His heart leaped. “Yes?”

She leaned toward him, hands clasped on her lap. “Is there no hope for my brother and Miss Llewellyn?” How like her to get right to the point. “If 'tis true they love each other, can we not set aside our differences? Or are you determined to marry her yourself?”

“Are they in love?” he asked. The door opened with a roar of rain on the umbrella held by one of his footmen. The poor man was getting drenched, but he had his pistols tucked safely out of the way. Banallt put on his hat and stepped out. He dipped his head to avoid being hit by the umbrella and helped her down. When he felt her hand on his, he steadied himself.

“I'm told John is very much in love with her,” she said.

“I've not forbidden her.” He smiled. “I wouldn't dare. I'm not a fool who doesn't understand the allure of the forbidden.”

She squeezed his hand. “John must feel he can't declare himself for her. Not with you and I at loggerheads. Please, let's not keep them apart.”

“It's her father who ought to worry you.” He took the umbrella from the footman and headed toward number 26. “My cousin has some absurd notions about whom Fidelia should marry.”

“Has he?”

“You know what they are.”

“And?”

“I've not made up my mind.” On that subject, he refused to say more. Fidelia did not interest him, but as he watched Sophie, he thought, why not? If Sophie married Vedaelin or some other more worthy man, and if Fidelia was amenable, there were more reasons than not to marry her, chief among them the consolidation of family holdings. At the door, he bowed, and she disappeared into the house he'd been forbidden to enter.

Thirteen

Number 2 Charlotte Row, London,
MARCH 20, 1815

 

 

 

AT ELEVEN O‘CLOCK, SOPHIE HAD A NOTE FROM JOHN to meet him at number 2 Charlotte Row rather than wait for him to pick her up for their luncheon engagement with Vedaelin. She arrived at half past twelve, having walked from Henrietta Street with her maid, Flora. Flora went around to the back while Sophie knocked on the door of the town house, which was painted a glossy, cheerful yellow.

King answered the door, and Sophie stared stupidly at him, wondering if she'd come to the wrong place. “Mrs. Evans,” the butler said. “Do come in.”

“It's you, King.”

“That it is, ma'am.” He opened the door wider, and Sophie went in. The town house was charming. The walls were a pale green, the furniture light and long-legged. “Your brother is upstairs with the rest of that roguish crowd.” He took her coat and her umbrella.

“Does Lord Banallt stay here?” she asked as she followed King upstairs.

“He keeps rooms here when Hightower isn't convenient.” He paused to look over his shoulder at her. He was three steps above her, and Sophie had to look a very long way up. “This isn't his bachelor quarters, if that's why you're frowning like that.” He sniffed. “I'd not let you in if that were the case, Mrs. Evans.”

“Thank you for that.”

“You're welcome.”

King went to a parlor door from which a great deal of male conversation could be heard. He rapped his knuckles on the side of the door. In the ensuing silence, he announced her then stepped aside to let her into the parlor.

With trepidation at the thought of seeing Banallt again, Sophie went inside to confront a chaotic scene. The air stank of stale smoke, old wine, and cold coffee. Quite plainly, the gentlemen had been up all night, and furthermore, they were shocked to see her. The gentlemen who'd been sitting stood while others hurried to put on their coats. Vedaelin was seated—standing now—at a table with Banallt behind him. Banallt had been leaning over to study the papers strewn over the tabletop. A chart of the sea around France was tacked on the wall behind them.

Mr. Tallboys was here, too, as was John in a corner with a mountain of documents. She nodded at Mr. Tallboys, but no more than that. Banallt's gaze she avoided. She recognized several cabinet ministers, too. Papers, maps, and charts were everywhere, with any item at hand moved to hold down the sheets or flatten a map. A man she didn't recognize darted her a glance and began quickly turning over papers.

“Sophie,” John said. He'd jumped up and was now scrubbing his fingers through his hair. “You're here.”

She bent a knee. “It is past noon,” she told him.

Nobody said anything.

“John,” she said into that awful quiet. The back of her neck burned. “I'd never have come but for your note.”

He had the grace to look abashed. “Two hours ago we thought we'd be done by now. We're not.”

Vedaelin waved a hand. He did not, however, come from behind the desk. More of them were engaged in turning over or covering up the papers. “Nevertheless, Mrs. Evans, it is delightful to see you.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Sophie put her hands on her hips and surveyed the room. “I'll tell King to bring luncheon here. And order some tea, I think. When I come back, you'll have decided between the lot of you whether I may be of any assistance.” She looked around. “John will confirm I have a very neat hand. If you have correspondence or other documents to be copied I should be more than happy to do so.” Banallt put a hand over his mouth as if to cover a cough. She suspected not, however. “I also excel in organization. You may, however, wish to tell me that I am not needed.” She let her gaze scan the room with its stacks of papers. “But I don't advise it.”

She went downstairs, found King, and gave him her instructions. When she returned, John handed her a stack of papers and a portable writing desk and asked, rather sheepishly, if she minded copying them out. In another room. She didn't. She discovered a small parlor farther down the hallway that seemed a suitable and agreeable place to work. King found her a short while later to bring her tea and a plate of bread and cold meat. “Thank you,” she said.

She ate some of the ham and cheese and went back to work. The documents were deadly dull. Soporifically dull. She suspected John had deliberately selected the most inane pages he could find. For a while, she amused herself by imagining she was locked in the topmost tower of a castle, forced to labor for a wicked uncle who wished to steal her secret inheritance. That worked swimmingly for a time.

The sound of the door being thrown open startled her into sitting upright. The table at which she sat was not in a direct line to the door, which was why Banallt did not see her when he strode in. In nearly one motion, he pulled off his coat and threw himself on the sofa to lie on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. She got a glimpse of narrow hips and a flat belly. Whatever else Banallt was, he was a splendid animal. He heaved a sigh and raised his inside leg, letting his knee fall against the sofa back. His other foot stayed on the floor.

She cleared her throat to let him know he was not alone.

“Blast,” he said. He snatched his coat off the floor and hastily shrugged it on. “Is that you, Sophie?” he said, buttoning his coat as he faced her.

“Yes, Banallt.”

He winced. “Forgive me, I did not know you were in here.”

“Why would you?” She cocked her head. “You look tired,” she said.

“Yes.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “What an evening—night.” He glanced at the window through which one could see sunlight. “Day.”

“Have you been to sleep at all yet?”

“No.”

She frowned and said, “I didn't intend to interrupt your meeting.”

“You didn't.” He stayed on his feet. The door gaped open because he'd not closed it when he came in. From where she stood she could see the opposite wall of the hallway and a portion of a portrait and its gilt frame.

“All the same, I felt quite the fool.”

“Vedaelin admitted that you and Mercer had a positive engagement.” His jaw was dark with stubble. “Thank you for sending food to us. None of us realized how the hours had gotten away from us. We were famished.”

“All of you looked in need of sustenance.”

He rubbed his chin. “What about you? Have you had anything to eat or drink?”

She pointed to her plate. “King brought something.” Banallt's eyes glinted at the remaining food, and she smiled. “Help yourself if you care to. I couldn't eat another bite.”

“I could.” He walked to the table and set about making himself a sandwich.

Silence gaped between them. Sophie gathered her nerve and spoke. “I want to thank you,” she said.

He turned, a thin slice of beef in hand. “For what?”

“For speaking so sternly to me at Cavendish Square. You were right to scold me.” He nodded as he eyed his sandwich. “Do sit, Banallt. Eat.”

He did. Sophie retreated to the sofa because the distance felt safer. “Tallboys had a great deal to say about you,” he said after he'd swallowed a large bite. “You've made quite an impression on him.”

“How well do you know Mr. Tallboys?” she asked. She clasped her hands on her lap.

“Tallboys?” His mouth twitched, and then the twitch became a smile. “You'll be pleased to learn I've not known him long. Only since I came back from Paris.”

She returned his smile. “I don't disapprove of everyone who knew you, Banallt.”

“Nevertheless.”

“You do relieve my mind,” Sophie said.

He laughed at the same time she did, and when they were done and both of them were smiling, she said, “Banallt, we are all right now, aren't we? As much as we can be, I mean.”

His gaze settled on her. “Yes,” he said at last. He wasn't telling her the truth, she thought, yet she was more than willing to accept this from him. “We are.”

“I've missed you,” she said. “Missed talking to you.”

“As have I.”

“I'm glad to be friends with you.”

“It seemed like auld lang syne when I saw you here.” He waved a hand at the desk. “Bent over and scribbling away. I even wondered for a moment what story you were writing.”

She tugged on a fold of her skirt. “This time the material is dry as dust. I ought to write in a kidnapping just to liven things up.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why?”

“Why?” she said as Banallt took a bite of his sandwich. “Because I do not find a list of supplies sent to Falmouth remotely fascinating. A shortcoming of mine, I expect. You know how easily bored I am.”

He tilted his head. “I mean why did you ask me about Tallboys?”

She didn't answer right away. His black hair gleamed and set off his eyes. And though he was perhaps no longer perfectly put together, his clothing was exquisite. He wore a black coat and a cream waistcoat embroidered with tiny black florets. His neckcloth was disheveled. Before her eyes, his sandwich was consumed. She watched him drink her tea. “That can't still be hot,” she said.

“No.” He took another swallow and put down the cup. “You take too much sugar.”

“You don't take enough.”

“I could eat another of those,” he said, looking at her empty plate. He tugged on his cravat and managed to make an uneven loop on one side.

“For pity's sake.” Sophie went to him. “Let me fix this, my lord.” She unfastened his cravat and stepped back in order to refold the material with at least a halfway decent crease. “Your valet does not use enough starch,” she told him as she laid it over the back of his neck and brought the ends to the front.

“He's no King,” Banallt sighed.

“Why did you let him leave you as valet?” She crossed the ends, taking care to keep her edges as crisp as she could. Banallt lifted his chin.