Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (51 page)

Hopefully, a few days in quieter, more familiar surroundings, even without the helpful presence of the captain to spur Ned on, would advance her cause.

The carriage checked and turned. Sophie looked out and saw two imposing gateposts just ahead. Then the scrunch of gravel announced they had entered the drive. The house lay ahead, screened by ancient beeches. When they emerged in the forecourt, Sophie saw a long, two-storey building in a hotchpotch of styles sprawling before them. One thing was instantly apparent: housing a party of forty would not stretch the accommodations of Little Bickmanstead. Indeed, losing a party of forty in the rambling old mansion looked a very likely possibility.

Drops of rain began spotting the grey stone slabs of the porch as they hurried inside. A fleeting glance over her shoulder revealed a bank of black clouds racing in from the east. The other members of the family had elected to ride from town, Horatio keeping a watchful eye on his brood. Minton and the other higher servants had followed close behind, the luggage with them. The forecourt became a scene of frenzied activity as they all hurried to dismount and stable the horses and unpack the baggage before the storm hit.

The family gathered in the hall, looking about with interest. The rectangular hall was dark, wood panelling and old tapestries combining to bolster the gloom. An ancient butler had admitted them; an even more ancient housekeeper came forward, a lamp in her hand.

As the woman bobbed a curtsy before her, Lucilla put out a hand to the table in the centre of the room. “Oh, dear.”

One glance at her deathly pale face was enough to send them all into a panic.

“My dear?” Horatio hurried to her side.

“Mama?” came from a number of throats.

“Mummy, you look sick,” came from Hermione, gazing upwards as she held her mother's hand.

Lucilla closed her eyes. “I'm dreadfully afraid,” she began, her words very faint.

“Don't say anything,” Horatio advised. “Here, lean on me—we'll have you to bed in a trice.”

The old housekeeper, eyes wide, beckoned them up the stairs. “I've readied all the rooms as instructed.”

Minton was already sorting through the bags. Sending Clarissa ahead with Mimms and the housekeeper, Sophie came to her aunt's other side. Together, she and Horatio supported a rapidly wilting Lucilla up the stairs and along a dim and drafty corridor to a large chamber. Mimms was in charge there; the bed was turned down, the housekeeper dispatched for a warming pan. A fire was cracking into life in the grate.

They quickly helped Lucilla to bed, laying her back on the soft pillows and tucking the covers about her. Once installed, she regained a little colour. She opened her eyes and regarded them ruefully. And sniffed. “This is terrible. I've organized it all—there are twenty-seven people on their way here. They'll all arrive before dinner. And if the rain persists, they'll need to be entertained for the next two days.”

“Don't worry about anything,” Horatio said, patting her hand. But even he was frowning as the ordeal before them became clear.

“But you haven't a hostess.” Lucilla put her handkerchief to her nose, cutting off what sounded like a tearful wail. She blinked rapidly.

Sophie straightened her shoulders. “I'm sure I can manage, with Uncle Horatio and Great Aunt Evangeline behind me. It's not as if you were not in the house—I can check any details with you. And it's not as if there were no chaperons. You told me yourself you've invited a number of matrons.”

Lucilla's woeful expression lightened. Her frown turned pensive. “I suppose…” For a moment, all was silent. Then, “Yes,” she finally announced, and nodded. “It just might work. But,” she said, raising rueful eyes to Sophie's face, “I'm awfully afraid, my dear, that it will be no simple matter.”

Relieved to have averted immediate catastrophe, for if Lucilla broke down, that would certainly follow, Sophie smiled with totally false confidence. “You'll see, we'll contrive.”

Those words seemed to have become a catchphrase of her Season, Sophie mused as, an hour later, she sat in the front parlour, off the entrance hall, the guest list in her hand.

After assuring themselves that Lucilla was settled and resigned to her bed, she and Clarissa and Horatio had gone to pay their respects to Aunt Evangeline. It had been years since Sophie had met her ageing relative; the years had not been kind to Aunt Evangeline. She was still ambulatory, but her wits were slowly deserting her. Still, she recognized Horatio, even though she was apparently ineradicably convinced that Clarissa was Lucilla and Sophie her dead mother, Maria. They had given up trying to correct the misapprehension, concentrating instead on explaining their current predicament. Whether or not they had succeeded was moot, but at least Aunt Evangeline had given them a free hand to order things as they wished.

Nevertheless, the prospect of having to keep a weather eye out for an old dear who, so the housekeeper had gently informed them, was full of curiosity and prone to wandering the corridors at all hours draped in shawls that dragged their fringes on the floor, was hardly comforting.

A sound came from outside. Sophie lifted her head, listening intently. The wind was rising, whistling about the eaves. Rain fell steadily, driving in gusts against the windows, masking other sounds. Then came the unmistakable jingle of harness. Sophie rose. The first of her aunt's guests had arrived. Girding her loins, she tugged the bell-pull and went out into the hall.

From the very first, it was bedlam. The Billinghams—Mrs. Billingham and both of her daughters—were the first to arrive. By the time they had descended from their carriage and negotiated the steps, their carriage dresses were soaked to the knees.

“Oh, how dreadful! Mama, I'm
dripping!
” The younger Miss Billingham looked positively shocked.

Mrs. Billingham, if anything even damper than her daughters, was not disposed to give comfort. “Indeed, Lucy, I don't know what you're complaining about. We're all wet—and now here's a to-do with Mrs. Webb ill. I'm not at all sure we shouldn't turn round and return to town.”

“Oh no, Mama—you couldn't be so cruel!” The plaintive wail emanated from the elder Miss Billingham.

“Indeed, Mrs. Billingham, there's really no need.” Smoothly, Sophie cut in, clinging to her usual calm. “Everything's organized and I'm sure my aunt would not wish you to withdraw purely on account of her indisposition.”

Mrs. Billingham humphed. “Well, I suppose with your uncle present and myself and the other ladies, there's really no impropriety.”

“I seriously doubt my aunt would ever countenance any,” Sophie replied, her smile a trifle strained.

“We'll stay at least until the morning.” Mrs. Billingham cast a darkling glance out of the open door. “Perhaps by then the weather will have eased. I'll make a decision then.”

With that declaration, Mrs. Billingham allowed herself to be shown to her chamber.

Hard on the Billinghams' heels came Lord Ainsley. His lordship had unwisely driven out in his curricle, and he was soaked to the skin. He tried hard to smile, but his chattering teeth made it difficult.

Sophie was horrified, visions of guests catching their deaths whirling through her mind. Issuing orders left and right—for hot baths and mustard to ward off chills, for the staff to make sure all the fires were blazing—she turned from the sight of Lord Ainsley's back disappearing up the stairs to behold a bedraggled Lord Annerby on the doorstep.

And so it went, on through the afternoon, while outside a preternatural darkness descended.

Belle Chessington and her equally cheery mother were amongst the last to arrive.

“What a perfectly appalling afternoon,” Mrs. Chessington remarked as she came forward with a smile, hand outstretched.

Sophie heaved an inward sigh of relief. The Marquess of Huntly, another who had unwisely opted to drive himself, was dripping all over the hall flags. Her little speech now well rehearsed, Sophie quickly made Lucilla's indisposition known, then smoothed away their exclamations with assurances of their welcome. Horatio had retreated to the main parlour to play host to those gentlemen who had already descended, looking for something to warm themselves while they waited for the dinner gong.

The Chessingtons and the marquess took the news in their stride. They were about to head upstairs when a tremendous sneeze had them all turning to the door.

Mr. Somercote stood on the threshold, a pitiful sight with water running in great rivers from his coattails.

“My dear sir!” Belle Chessington swept back along the hall to drag the poor gentleman in.

His place in the doorway was immediately filled by Miss Ellis and her mother, closely followed by Mr. Marston, Lord Swindon and Lord Thurstow. Of them all, only Mr. Marston, clad in a heavy, old-fashioned travelling cloak, was less than drenched. Sophie left the marquess; she tugged the bell-pull twice, vigorously, then hurried forward to help the others out of their soaked coats.

Mentally reviewing the guest list, she thought most had now arrived.

Mr. Marston moved to intercept her, unwrapping his cloak as he came. He was frowning. “What's this, Miss Winterton? Where is your aunt?”

His question, uttered in a stern and reproving tone, silenced all other conversation. The latest arrivals glanced about, noting Lucilla's absence. Suppressing a curse, Sophie launched into her explanation. Mr. Marston did not, however, allow her to get to her reassurances. He cut across her smooth delivery to announce, “A sad mischance indeed. Well—there's nothing for it—we'll all have to return to town. Can't possibly impose on the family with your aunt so gravely ill. And, of course, there are the proprieties to consider.”

For an instant, silence held sway. The others all looked to Sophie.

With an effort, Sophie kept her smile in place. “I assure you, Mr. Marston, that my aunt has nothing more than a cold. She would be most unhappy if such a trifling indisposition were to cause the cancellation of this party. And with my great-aunt, my uncle and Mrs. Chessington and the other matrons all present, I really don't think the proprieties are in any danger of being breached. Now,” she went on, smiling around at the others, “if you would like to retire to your chambers and get dry—”

“You'll pardon me, Miss Winterton, but I must insist that you fetch your uncle. I cannot be easy in my mind over this most peculiar suggestion that the party proceed as planned.” Supercilious as ever, Phillip Marston drew himself up. “I really must insist that Mr. Webb be consulted at once. It is hardly a minor matter.”

An utterly stunned silence ensued.

It was broken by a stupendous thunderclap—then the night outside lit up. The blaze in the forecourt threw the shadow of a man deep into the hall.

As the brilliance beyond the door died, Sophie, along with everyone else, blinked at the newcomer.

“As usual, Marston, you're mistaken,” Jack drawled as he strolled forward. “Mrs. Webb's indisposition undoubtedly is, as Miss Winterton has assured us, entirely minor. Our kind hostess will hardly thank you for making an issue of it.”

A most peculiar
frisson
frizzled its way along Sophie's nerves. She could not drag her gaze from the tall figure advancing across the floor towards her. The long folds of his many-caped greatcoat were damp, but it was clear he, alone amongst the gentlemen invited, had been wise enough to come in a closed carriage. Beneath the greatcoat, his dark coat and breeches were dry and, as usual, immaculate.

With his usual grace, he bowed over her hand. “Good evening, Miss Winterton. I trust I see you well?”

Sophie's mind froze. She had convinced herself he wouldn't come, that she would never see him again. Instead, here he was, arriving like some god from the darkness outside, sweeping difficulties like Mr. Marston aside. But his expression was impassive; his eyes, as they touched her face, held no particular warmth. Sophie's heart contracted painfully.

Glancing about, Jack bestowed a charming smile on the other, much damper, guests. “But pray don't let me detain you from giving succour to these poor unfortunates.” His smile robbed the term of any offence.

Gently, he squeezed Sophie's hand.

Sophie dragged in a sharp breath. She retrieved her hand and pinned a regal smile to her lips. “If you and Mr. Marston don't mind, I shall see these others to their rooms.”

Still smiling, Jack politely inclined his head; Phillip Marston hesitated, frowning, then nodded curtly.

Determinedly calm, Sophie moved forward to deal with the last of her aunt's guests. As she did so, Ned slipped in through the door. He grinned at her. “Shall I shut it? Jack was sure we'd be last.”

Sophie smiled and nodded. “Please.” As she helped Minton ease Lord Thurstow from his sodden coat, she wondered whether Jack Lester had purposely arrived last for greatest effect—or whether his lateness was a reflection of reluctance.

The heavy door clanged shut on the wild night; to Sophie, it's resounding thud sounded like the knell of an inescapable doom.

S
HE BARELY HAD TIME
to scramble into an evening gown and brush out her curls before the dinner gong sounded, echoing hollowly through the long corridors. The meal had already been put back twice to accommodate the travellers and their recuperation.

With a last distracted glance at her mirror, Sophie hurried out. The corridor was dark and gloomy, the ubiquitous wood panelling deepening the shadows cast by the candles in the wall sconces. Feet flying over the worn carpet, Sophie turned a corner only to find a cordon, formed by two determined figures, across her path.

Jeremy frowned, threatening sulky. “We can come down to dinner, can't we, Sophie?”

Sophie blinked.

“It's not as if we'd cause any ruckus,” George assured her.

“It's
boring
here, Sophie. Having dinner with Amy and the twins—well, it's just not fair.” Jeremy's jaw jutted pugnaciously.

“It's not as if we're children.” George fixed his blue eyes on her face and dared her to contradict him.

Sophie swallowed a groan. With all the trials of the afternoon, and those yet to come, she had precious little patience left to deal with the boys' prickly pride. But she loved them too well to fob them off. Draping an arm about each, she gave them a quick hug. “Yes, I know, loves—but, you see, we're a bit rushed this evening, and although the party's informal, I don't really think it's quite the same as when we're at Webb Park.”

They both turned accusing eyes on her. “I don't see why not,” Jeremy stated.

“Ah—but if you don't get an early night, you won't be up in time to go shooting tomorrow.”

Sophie jumped. The deep, drawling voice brought goose-bumps to her skin. But both boys turned eagerly as Jack strolled out from the shadows.

“Shooting?”

“You mean you'll take us?”

Jack raised a brow. “I don't see why not. I was discussing the outing with your father earlier. If the rain eases, we should have tolerable sport.” Jack's blue gaze flicked to Sophie, then returned to the boys' glowing faces. “But you'd have to get an early night—and that, I fear, means dining in the nursery. Of course, if that's beneath you…”

“Oh, no,” Jeremy assured him. “Not if we're to go shooting tomorrow.”

George tugged his brother's sleeve. “Come on. We'd better let Jack and Sophie get to dinner and go find ours before the twins scoff all the buns.”

Restored to good humour, the boys hurried off.

Sophie breathed a sigh of relief, then glanced up at Jack. “Thank you, Mr. Lester.”

For a moment, Jack's gaze rested on her face, his expression impassive. Then he inclined his head. “Think nothing of it, my dear. Shall we?”

He gestured towards the stairs. With a nod, Sophie started forward. As they strolled the short distance in silence, she was excruciatingly aware of him, large and strong beside her, her skirts occasionally brushing his boots. He made no move to offer her his arm.

They descended the stairs and turned towards the drawing-room. Minton was hovering in the hall. “Could I have a word with you, miss?”

Sophie's heart sank. “Yes, of course.” With a half smile for Jack, she glided across the tiles. “What is it?”

“It's the footmen, miss. That's to say—there aren't any.” Looking supremely apologetic, Minton continued, “The old lady apparently didn't see the need and Mrs. Webb didn't imagine we'd need more. Even with old Smithers—that's the old lady's butler—there'll only be two of us and that'll make service very slow. Naughton—Mr. Webb's man—said as he'd help, but still…”

Minton didn't need to spell it out; Sophie wondered what next the evening had in store. Where on earth could she find footmen to wait at table at a minute's notice “I don't suppose the coachman…”

Minton looked his answer. “I'd rather have the maids. But you know how it'll look, miss, having women wait at table.”

She did indeed. Sophie's shoulders slumped.

“If I could make a suggestion?”

Sophie turned as Jack strolled forward. He glanced at her, his expression merely polite. “I couldn't help overhearing. I suggest,” he said, addressing Minton. “That you ask my man, Pinkerton, to assist. Huntly's man, too, will be well-trained, and Ainsley's and Annerby's. The rest I can't vouch for, but Pinkerton will know.”

Minton's worried expression cleared. “Just the ticket, sir. I'll do that.” He bobbed to Sophie. “All under control, miss, never fear.” And with that, Minton hurried off.

Sophie knew a moment of blessed relief, superceded by the knowledge that more hurdles doubtless awaited her. She glanced up at Jack. “I have to thank you again, Mr. Lester. I would never have thought of such a solution; I only hope it serves.” The last was uttered softly, a slight frown playing about her brows.

Not a glimmer of expression showed on Jack's face as, looking down, he studied hers. “Don't worry. Such arrangements are not uncommon—no one will remark on it.”

From beneath her lashes, Sophie glanced up. “Thank you,” she murmured, a tentative smile touching her lips.

Jack's hand closed about the knob of the drawing-room door. “After you, Miss Winterton.”

Sophie entered to find most of the company already assembled. She moved among the guests, seeing that all had everything they needed. Most had recovered from their soaking and regained their spirits. Only Mrs. Billingham and Mrs. Ellis, a delicate lady, had elected to take trays in their rooms. Clarissa was surrounded by her usual little band, Ned included. Her cousin had drawn the other younger ladies into the charmed circle; the sound of shy laughter now ran as a counterpoint to more sober conversations. Her uncle, together with the more mature gentlemen, was deep in discussion of the sport to be found in the vicinity.

Great-Aunt Evangeline provided an unexpected distraction. She had come down to examine the guests who had invaded her home. Blithely calling Sophie “Maria” and Clarissa “Lucilla,” she happily chatted with the ladies, her remarkable shawls threatening to trip her at every step.

When Minton announced dinner, the old lady squeezed Sophie's arm. “I'll take mine in my room, dear. Now remember, Maria—you're in charge. Keep an eye on Lucilla, won't you?” With a motherly pat, Great-Aunt Evangeline retired.

Dinner, as it transpired, posed no further problems. As one course was smoothly followed by the next, Sophie gradually relaxed. She had led the way into the dining-room on the Marquess of Huntly's arm. He was now seated on her right with Lord Ainsley on her left. A hum of good-natured conversation hovered over the table; everyone was reasonably well acquainted and, so it seemed, determined to enjoy themselves. Further down the board, Belle Chessington had taken on the challenge posed by Mr. Somercote; she was bending his ear unmercifully. Sophie smiled and let her gaze travel on, to where Clarissa and Ned, together with Lord Swindon and Mr. Marley, were deep in discussion of some passingly serious subject. Beyond them, Jack Lester was devoting himself primarily to Mrs. Chessington. Sophie had seen him offer that lady his arm in the drawing-room even as she herself had placed her hand on the Marquess's sleeve.

Rousing herself from her thoughts, Sophie conjured a smile and beamed at the marquess. “Do you intend to make one of the shooting party tomorrow, my lord?”

Once the covers were removed, Sophie led the ladies back to the drawing-room. The gentlemen were disposed to linger over their port, yet there was still an hour before the tea trolley was due when they strolled back into the room.

As ladies and gentlemen merged, then fractured into the inevitable smaller groups, Sophie wondered how to keep them amused. She hadn't had time to organize any of the fashionable little games that were so much a part of country-house parties. She was cudgelling her brains for inspiration when Ned stopped by her chair.

“We thought we might try charades, Sophie. Jack mentioned it was all the thing for the younger crowd.”

Relieved, Sophie smiled. “By all means; that's an excellent idea.”

She watched as Ned and Clarissa rounded up the younger members of the party and cleared an area of the large room. Many of the matrons seemed disposed to look on indulgently. Rising, Sophie glanced about—and found her uncle approaching.

Horatio beamed and took her hand. “You're doing magnificently, my dear.” He squeezed her fingers, then released them. “Lester's taken Huntly, Ainsley and Annerby off to try their luck at billiards. I'll just go and have a word with Marston.” Horatio glanced about the drawing-room. “The rest I fear I'll have to leave to you—but I'm sure you can manage.”

With Mr. Marston off her hands, Sophie was sure of it, too. Belle Chessington seemed reluctant to let Mr. Somercote escape, which left only Mr. Chartwell, Miss Billingham and a few relaxed matrons for her to take under her wing. Sophie smiled. “Indeed, Uncle, it seems we've contrived amazingly well.”

“Indeed.” Horatio grinned. “Your aunt will be delighted.”

 

T
O
S
OPHIE'S RELIEF
, the rain cleared overnight. The morning was damp and dismal, but sufficiently clement to allow the shooting party to proceed. By the time the ladies descended to the breakfast parlour, the gentlemen had taken themselves off. Even Mr. Marston had seized the opportunity to stretch his legs.

The ladies were content to stroll the gardens. Sophie went up to check on the twins and Amy. She eventually ran them to earth in the attics; their nurse, who had been with the Webbs for many years, had had the bright idea of turning them loose in such relatively safe surrounds. The trio were engaged in constructing a castle, later to be stormed. Great-Aunt Evangeline was with them. Sophie left them to it and went to look in on her aunt. She found Lucilla sleeping, which of itself spoke volumes. Mimms confirmed that her aunt's indisposition had eased, but she was still very weak.

The gentlemen returned in time for luncheon, an informal meal at which their prowess with their guns was discussed and admired, the ladies smiling good-naturedly at claims of prizes flushed from coverts or taken on the wing.

Listening to the genial chatter, Sophie spared a thought for Lucilla's expertise. Her aunt had selected her guests with a knowing hand; they had melded into a comfortable party despite the presence of such difficult elements as Mr. Marston and Mr. Somercote.

But by the end of the meal, the rain had returned, gusting in from the east in leaden sheets. By unvoiced consensus, the gentlemen retired to the library or billiard room, while the ladies took possession of the morning-room and parlour, to chat in little groups ensconced in the comfortable armchairs or wander in the adjoining conservatory.

With everyone settled, Sophie went to the kitchens to confer with Cook. Belowstairs, she stumbled on an army, the depleted ranks of Aunt Evangeline's aged servitors swelled beyond imagining by the maids, coachmen and valets of the guests, as well as the doyens of the Webb household. But all seemed to be cheery, the bulk of the men gathered about the huge fire in the kitchen. Minton, beaming, assured her all was well.

Climbing back up the stairs, her chores completed, Sophie decided she could justifiably seize a moment for herself. The conservatory had proved a most amazing discovery; it was huge and packed with ferns and flowering creepers, many of kinds Sophie had not before seen. She had had time for no more than a glimpse; now, she pushed open the glass door and slipped into the first avenue, half an hour of peace before her.

As the greenery surrounded her, Sophie closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The humid scent of rich earth and green leaves, of growing things, tinged with the faint perfume of exotic flowers, filled her senses. A smile hovered on her lips.

“There you are, Miss Winterton.”

Sophie's eyes flew open; her smile vanished. Swallowing a most unladylike curse, she swung round to see Mr. Marston advancing purposefully upon her. As usual, he was frowning.

“Really, Miss Winterton, I cannot tell you how very displeased I am to find you here.”

Sophie blinked; one of her brows rose haughtily. “Indeed, sir?”

“As you should
know,
Miss Winterton.” Mr. Marston came to a halt before her, giving Sophie an excellent view of his grim expression. “I do not see how your uncle can reconcile this with his conscience. I knew from the first that continuing with this affair was unwise in the extreme. Unconscionable folly.”

Sophie straightened her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I fear, sir, that I cannot allow you to malign my uncle, who, as everyone knows, takes exceptional care of me. In truth, I cannot follow your reasoning at all.”

Mr. Marston appeared to have difficulty restraining himself. “What I mean, Miss Winterton,” he finally replied, his tones glacially condemnatory, “is that I am
shocked
to find you—a young lady whom I consider of sound and elevated mind and a naturally genteel manner—here.” He paused to gesture about them. “Quite alone, unattended, where any gentleman might come upon you.”

Sophie hung onto her patience. “Mr. Marston, may I point out that I am in my great-aunt's house, within easy call not only of servants but many others whom I consider friends? Is it not all the same thing as if I had chosen to walk the pavements of Covent Garden unattended?”

Mr. Marston's grey eyes narrowed; his lips were set in a thin line. “You are mistaken, Miss Winterton. No lady can afford to play fast and loose with her reputation by courting—”

“Really, Marston. No need to bore Miss Winterton to tears by reciting the Young Ladies' Catechism. They all have to learn it by heart before being admitted to Almack's, you know.” Jack strolled forward, green leaves brushing his shoulders. His expression was easy and open, but Sophie saw a glint of something harder in his eyes.