The Rogue Not Taken (3 page)

She pushed the thought away. She didn’t care if he approved her. She didn’t care what he thought of her. Or what the rest of his silly, vapid, horrible world thought of her. Honestly, if all of Society thought her
unfun
—she grimaced inwardly at the word—why should she care? He was a means to an end.

“I’ve had enough,” she said, returning to the situation at hand. She’d watched her father negotiate enough over her lifetime that she knew when it was time to speak frankly and get a deal done. “I assume you are leaving the party?”

The question caught Eversley by surprise. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Take me with you.”

He barked a single expression of shock. “Ah. No.”

“Why not?”

“So many reasons, poppet. Not the least of which is this—I’ve no intention of being saddled with one of the Soiled S’s.”

She stiffened at the moniker. Most people did not call them such to their faces. She supposed she should expect nothing less from this horrible man. “I do not intend to ensnare you, Lord Eversley. I assure you, even if I had
had
such an idea, this interaction”—she waved a hand back and forth between them—“would have cured me of such an affliction.” She took a deep breath. “I require
escape. Surely you understand that. As you seem to require the same.”

He focused on her. “What happened?”

She looked away, remembering the cold gaze of Society. Its wicked cut. “It is not important.”

His brows rose. “If you’re in the woods with me, love, I’d say it is quite important.”

“This is a strip of trees. Not ‘the woods.’”

“You’re very contrary for someone who needs me.”

“I don’t need you.”

“Then give me my boot and I’ll be on my way.”

She tightened her grip on the boot. “I need your carriage. That’s a different thing altogether.”

“My carriage is about to be otherwise engaged,” he said.

“I simply need conveyance home.”

“You’ve four sisters, a mother, and a father. Ride with them.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Pride.

Well, she certainly wasn’t going to tell him
that.

“You shall just have to trust me.”

“Again, the ladies of your family don’t exactly have reputations that engender trust.”

She did not pretend to misunderstand. “Oh, and you are the very portrait of respectability.”

He grinned. “I don’t trade on respectability, love.”

She was beginning to hate him.

She nodded. “Fine. You leave me no choice but to resort to extreme measures.” His brows rose. “Take me, or lose your boot.”

He watched her for a long moment, and she willed herself to remain still under his consideration. She attempted
to convince herself not to notice the beautiful green of his eyes; the long, straight line of his aristocratic nose; the handsome curve of his lips.

She should not be noticing his lips.

She swallowed at the thought, and his gaze flickered to the place where her throat betrayed the movement. His lips twitched. “Keep the boot.”

It took a moment for her to remember what it was they had been talking about.

Before she could think of a retort, he was through the trees and over the wall, headed for his carriage on one stockinged foot.

By the time she reached the wall, he was at the front of a large, smart-looking black carriage, fussing about with the horses. Sophie watched him for long moments, wishing he would step on something uncomfortable. It appeared he was rehitching all the horses, checking harnesses and straps, but that would be silly, as he no doubt had a stableful of servants to do just that.

Once he’d inspected each of the six horses, he entered the coach, and Sophie watched as a young, liveried outrider closed the door with a snap and ran ahead to help make way for the carriage to exit through the crush of conveyances.

She sighed.

The Marquess of Eversley had no idea of how lucky he was to be blessed with the freedom that came with funds and masculinity. She imagined he was already stretched across the seat of that luxurious carriage, the portrait of aristocratic idleness, considering a nap to recover from his exertion earlier in the afternoon.

Lazy and immovable.

She had no doubt that he’d already forgotten her. She didn’t imagine he spared much room for remembering
most people—there wasn’t much point, after all, with the constant stream of ladies in his life.

She doubted he even remembered his servants.

Her gaze flickered to the footman, not nearly old enough to be a footman. Likely more of a page. The boy stood on the edge of the stream of carriages, watching as drivers slowly returned to their seats and began to shift and move their charges to release the Eversley conveyance.

Her reticule grew heavy in her hand, its weight the result of the money inside.
Never leave the house without enough blunt to win you a fight.
Her father’s words had been drilled into the minds of all the Talbot sisters—not that aristocratic ladies often found themselves requiring assistance to escape fisticuffs.

But Sophie was no fool, and she knew that the interaction with Society she’d just had was the closest thing to a fight she was likely to ever experience. She had no doubt that her father would deem the funds in her reticule well spent on escape.

Decision made, she approached the footman.

“Excuse me, sir?”

The servant turned, surprised, no doubt, to find a young lady at his elbow, holding a gentleman’s boot. He bowed quickly. “M-my lady?”

He was as young as he’d looked. Younger than she was. Sophie sent a quick prayer of thanks to her maker. “How long before the carriage is free to leave?” she asked in a tone that she hoped was all casualness.

He seemed grateful for a question he could answer. “No more than a quarter of an hour, my lady.”

She had to work quickly, then. “And tell me, do you work for the marquess?”

He nodded, his gaze flickering to the boot in her hands. “Today.”

She shoved the boot behind her back, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. “Not for long?”

The boy shook his head. “I am headed to a new position. In the North Country.”

A shadow crossed his face—sadness, perhaps. Regret? She grasped at it, an idea forming before she could consider it from all angles. “But you wish to stay in London?”

He seemed to realize then that he absolutely should not be speaking with an aristocratic lady. He lowered his head. “I am pleased to serve the marquess however he requires, my lady.”

She nodded quickly. Underservants were shuttled from one holding to another with unfortunate regularity. She had no doubt that Eversley had never thought twice about the fact that his employees might not wish to be moved about at his whim. He did not seem the type to think of others at all.

And so it was that Sophie felt no guilt whatsoever when she put her plan in motion. “I wonder, though, if you might be willing to serve an earl?”

His wide gaze snapped to hers. “My lady?”

“My father is the Earl of Wight.”

The young man blinked.

“Here. In London.”

The boy seemed confused by the offer and, if she was honest, Sophie was not surprised. It was not every day, she imagined, that pages received employment opportunities at garden parties.

She pressed on. “He began his life in the coalfields. Like his father and his father’s father before him. He’s not an ordinary aristocrat.” Still nothing. Sophie spoke frankly. “He pays servants very well. He’ll pay you double what the marquess pays.” She paused. Increased the offer. “More.”

The boy tilted his head.

“And you can stay in London,” Sophie added.

His brow knit. “Why me?”

She smiled. “What is your name?”

“Matthew, my lady.”

“Well, Matthew, someone’s lucky star should shine today, don’t you think?”

The boy remained skeptical, but she could tell he was considering the offer when he looked over her shoulder to the Marquess of Eversley’s carriage and said, “Double, you say?”

She nodded.

“I’ve ’eard the servants’ quarters at Wight Manor are the nicest in London,” he said, and Sophie knew she had him.

She leaned in. “You can see for yourself. Tonight.”

He narrowed his gaze.

“You come round this afternoon, after the party disbands. Ask to speak to Mr. Grimes—my father’s secretary. Tell him I sent you. I shall vouch for you when you arrive.” She reached into her reticule and extracted a piece of paper and a pencil, and scribbled the direction of her family’s home in Mayfair and a quick note to ensure him entry to the house. She reached back into her purse and pulled out two coins. Handing the coins and the letter to the boy, she added, “That’s two crowns.”

The boy gaped at her. “That’s a month’s worth of blunt!”

She ignored the crass reference to the money. After all, she’d been banking on such crassness. “And my father will pay you more than that. I promise.”

His lips pressed flat together.

“You don’t believe me,” she said.

“I’m to believe a girl?”

She ignored the insult in the words, instead meeting his gaze. “How much would it take for you to believe me?”

His brows knit together and he said, more question than statement, “A quid?”

It was an enormous amount, but Sophie understood the power of money and the things it could buy—trust included—better than most. She reached back into her purse and extracted the rest of the money she carried. She didn’t hesitate in paying the boy, knowing she would replenish her stash the moment she returned home.

The boy’s hand curled around the coins tightly, and Sophie knew she’d won. “There is only one other thing,” she said slowly, a little twinge of guilt threading through her.

Her father’s newest and most loyal servant did not hesitate. “Anything you require, my lady.”

“Anything?” she asked, unable to keep the hope from her tone.

He nodded. “Anything.”

She took a deep breath, knowing that once she put this plan into motion, it would be impossible to turn back. Knowing, too, that if she were caught, she would be flatly ruined.

She looked behind her, Liverpool House rising like the gates of hell above the trees. Frustration and sadness and anger warred within her as she remembered the gardens. The party. The greenhouse. Her pig of a brother-in-law. The way all of London rallied in his support. Against her. The way they shunned her. Shamed her.

She had to leave this place. Now. Before they realized how much that shaming stung.

And there was only one way to do it.

She turned back to Matthew. “I require your livery.”

I
t took longer than it should have for Sophie to realize that the carriage was not headed for Mayfair.

Had she realized this prior to clandestinely squeezing into Matthew’s livery and tucking her hair up under his cap, she might have had the presence of mind to turn back. She most certainly would have taken the calculated risk to sit up on the block next to the coachman instead of refusing his invitation.

Unfortunately, she did not realize it—despite the coachman’s raised brows and skeptical “Suit yourself”—instead taking her place as an outrider at the back of the coach, standing tall on the back step of the coach, clinging tightly, and quite happily, to its handles.

Nor did she realize it when the coach reached the end of the long drive of Liverpool House and turned left instead of right.

Nor did she realize it when the passing landscape became more pastoral. Instead, she took several deep breaths of what her father would call “fine fettled air,” and felt—for the first time since she and her sisters had been packed up and transported to London—rather free.

And decidedly
fun
.

Take that, odious Royal Rogue.

Thinking of the unknowing Marquess of Eversley, inside the very carriage upon which she stowed away, she laughed. So much for his thinking she wouldn’t get that for which she’d asked. She almost regretted that he wouldn’t know it when she leapt from the carriage and sallied home.

She’d pay good money to see his smug expression turned to shock.

She chuckled to herself, watching blue sky and green farmland pass, dotted with flocks of sheep, copses of trees, and bales of hay. And gloried in the fact that she had escaped without the aid or the attention of the aristocracy. She could never tell anyone this story, sadly. Within moments of her return to the Talbot house on Berkeley Square, she would have to dispose of Matthew’s exceedingly helpful—if ill-fitting—clothing and concoct a new tale of her return. And swear her father’s new young footman to secrecy.

But for now, until the rooftops of London appeared in the distance and reminded her that the afternoon—and her public and no doubt long-term shaming—were inescapable, she would enjoy her triumph.

And she did enjoy it, cheeks aching from the pull of her grin, until she became aware of other aches, in her legs and arms.

At first, she ignored them. She was strong enough to manage for the few miles back to Mayfair. The streets of London would require stops and starts and slow going, and all she had to do was keep her head down and hold fast, and she’d be home within the hour.

And then her feet started in, still in their silken slippers, as Matthew’s boots had been too small for her
always-too-long “flippers,” as her father referred to them, refusing to accept the fact that the comparison to water creatures was not at all complimentary.

Silk slippers, it turned out, were not made for outriding.

Nor, it turned out, was Sophie.

Indeed, within half an hour, she was having a difficult time of it, her hands now aching as well, under the too-tight grip she had on the back of the carriage. She hadn’t expected her role as outrider to be quite so taxing.

She gritted her teeth, reminding herself that there were more difficult situations than this one in the world. Men had built bridges. Families had fled to the Colonies. She was daughter to a coal miner. Granddaughter to one.

Sophie Talbot could hang on to a carriage for the two miles it took to get home.

The carriage increased its speed, as though the universe itself had heard her words and desired to underscore her idiocy. She looked down and considered leaping to the ground and walking the rest of the way. Watching the road tear past, she unconsidered it.

She’d wished to leave a garden party, not the earth.

“Oh, bollocks.”

Sophie. Language.
She heard her mother’s admonition in the minuscule part of her brain that was not currently panicking, but she had no doubt that if there was ever a time for cursing, it was this one—dressed as a servant, clinging to a carriage, certain she was going to die.

And then the coach passed a mail coach laden with people, a small child hanging off the top of it, grinning down at her.

That’s when Sophie realized that, wherever this carriage and the man inside were headed, it was not London.

“Oh, bollocks,” she repeated. Louder.

The child waved.

Sophie did not dare release her grip to return the gesture. Instead, she tightened her hold, pressed her forehead to the cool wood of the carriage, and chanted her litany.

“Bollocksbollocksbollocks,” she said.

As though punishing her for her crassness, a wheel hit a rut in the road, and the vehicle bounced, jarring her spine and nearly tossing her from the back of the coach. She cried out in fear and desperation. Clinging tightly, the ache in her hands sharp now.

There was only one option. She had to get off this carriage. Immediately. It was only two or three miles to the Talbot home. She could walk if she exited this ridiculous situation immediately.

The coachmen called back, “I told you to sit with me!”

Sophie closed her eyes. “When do we stop?”

She waited long seconds for the terrifying reply. “It’s good weather, so I’d say we’ll make it in three hours. Maybe four!”

She groaned, the sound coming on a word far worse than
bollocks
. Leaping from the carriage was suddenly an entirely viable possibility.

“I suppose you’re changing your mind about riding on the block?” called the coachman.

Of course she was changing her mind. She never should have gone through with such a terrible plan. If she hadn’t vowed to run from the silly garden party, she’d be home now. And not here—minutes away from falling to her death.

“Shall I stop so you can join me?”

She barely heard the part of the question that came after the word
stop
.

Dear God. Yes. Please stop.

“Yes, please!”

The carriage began to slow, and relief flooded her, re
placing everything else, making her forget her panic and pain for a fleeting moment. A very fleeting moment.

“I thought it odd, that you would want to ride on the back of the coach all afternoon.”

Well, the coachman could have said as much. Then they wouldn’t be in this predicament. As Sophie wouldn’t have set foot on the coach if she had known that there was even a hint of possibility that the Marquess of Eversley wasn’t headed to Mayfair. But she was not about to waste time dwelling on her mistake, when she could be spending time rectifying it. She released her grip, shoulders straight and head high, taking a deep breath, preparing to descend from the carriage and announce that Matthew was not joining them for the ride to wherever they were headed. And neither was she.

Freedom was a wonderful thing.

She was half looking forward to the marquess’s shock when he discovered that she’d stowed away. He could do with a surprise now and then to offset his arrogant existence, and she was thrilled to be able to give it to him.

Right up until her legs gave way and she collapsed to the ground in an ungraceful, inglorious heap.

“Bollocks.” It was becoming her very favorite word.

The coachman’s eyes widened from high above, and she couldn’t blame him, as she felt certain that outriders had one, single responsibility—to refrain from falling off the carriage.

“On your feet, you clumsy git,” the coachman called, no doubt thinking he sounded charmingly teasing. “I haven’t all day to wait for you!”

Gone was her triumph.

Gone was her freedom.

She pushed up onto her hands and knees, muscles aching after the strain of hanging on to the carriage along
the bumpy roads. She stood slowly, keeping her back to the carriage as she straightened her spine and rolled her shoulders back. “I’m afraid you shall have to wait,” she said, “as I require an audience with the marquess.”

There was a beat as the words settled with the driver, along with a fair amount of shock, no doubt, that a footman would deign to demand to speak with his master.

Wouldn’t he be surprised when he realized that the Marquess of Eversley was not her master after all. And that she was not his footman.

She felt a slight twinge of remorse when she considered that the coachman would have to retrace their path to London once she revealed herself—his body was no doubt protesting their travels as much as hers was.

“Are you mad?” he asked, all incredulity.

She looked up at him. “Not at all.” She approached the carriage and banged on the door. “Open, my lord.”

There was no movement from inside the vehicle. The door remained firmly shut.

“You are mad!” the coachman announced.

“I swear to you, I am not,” she said. “Eversley!” she called, ignoring the twinge of pain that came as she rapped smartly on the great black coach. He was probably asleep, as one would expect from a lazy aristocrat. “Open this door!”

He was going to be furious when he saw her, but she did not care. Indeed, Sophie had a keen, unyielding desire to teach the outrageous, unbearable aristocrat a lesson. She was certain that no one had ever done such a thing—no one had ever crossed the Marquess of Eversley, known in private conversations as King. As though he weren’t pompous enough, he assumed the highest title in Britain as his name.

And all of London simply accepted it. They called him
by the ridiculous moniker. Or the other one—the Royal Rogue—as though it were a compliment and not complete blasphemy.

And she’d been exiled for telling the truth about a duke.

Anger flared, threaded with something else—something she did not enjoy and which she would not name.

Sophie scowled at the carriage, as though it were the manifestation of the man inside. Of the world that created him, empty and aristocratic, imperious and infuriating.

As though nothing ever defied him.

Until now. Until her.

“He’s not in there.”

She looked up to the coachman. “What did you say?”

He was exasperated—that much was clear—becoming less and less forgiving of her perceived madness. “The marquess isn’t inside and the ride has addled you. Get up on the block. We’re miles from anywhere, and you’re wasting the daylight, you mad git.”

She looked to the door, refusing to believe the words. “What do you mean, he isn’t inside?”

The coachman stared down at her, unamused. “He. Ain’t. Inside. Which part of it is confusing?”

“I saw him get in!”

The driver spoke as though she was a child. “We’re to meet him there.”

She blinked. “Where?”

Exasperation won the day, and the driver turned back to the road with a sigh. “I told them not to saddle me with a boy I didn’t know. Suit yourself. I haven’t the time to wait for your senses to return from wherever they’ve run off.”

With a flick of his wrists, the horses were moving, along with the carriage.

Leaving her stranded on the road.

Alone.

To be set upon by whomever happened by.

Bollocks.

She cried out, “No! Wait!”

The carriage stopped, barely long enough for her to scramble up onto the driver’s block before it moved again.

For a moment, she considered telling the coachman everything. Revealing herself. Throwing herself at his mercy and hoping that he would take her home.

Home.
A vision flashed, lush green land that ran for miles, hills and dales and wild northern sunsets. Not London. Certainly not Mayfair, where the only thing lush were the silk skirts she was forced to wear every day, in case someone came for tea.

And her father had enough money that someone always came for tea.

London wasn’t home. It never had been—not for a decade. Not in all the time that she’d lived in that perfect Mayfair town house that her mother and sisters adored, as though they didn’t miss the past. As though they’d hated the life they’d lived all those years ago. As though they would forget it if they needed to. As though they had forgotten it.

Tears came, surprising and unbidden, and she blinked them away, blaming the summer wind and the speed of the carriage.

She was alone on the driving block of a carriage, dressed as a footman, headed God knew where.

And somehow, it was the thought of returning to London that made her sad.

So she stayed quiet, knowing it was mad, willing the coachman not to notice her, listening to the sound of the wheels and the horses’ hooves as the coach moved north.

Hours later, when the sun had set, it had become clear
that Sophie was out of her element. She’d thought that wearing a footman’s livery, masquerading as a boy, and riding on the outside of a coach would be the most difficult parts of the charade, only to realize that those bits were, in fact, nothing in comparison to the arrival at the posting inn.