Chapter Two

 

 

 

The Duke moved away leaving Sophie feeling horridly exposed, despite the crowd. What if she saw someone she knew, someone who would tell Lavinia? Even as she thought it she spotted Lady Cussons, Lavinia’s bosom friend and confidante and doubtless the source of the gossip about the scandalous Duke of Weybourne. Dressed in the latest mode in a gown of white crepe striped with rose, her unbelievably blonde curls crowned with an Austrian cap of pink satin and lace, one could scarcely miss her. On an eighteen-year-old beauty the ensemble would have been eye-catching, on a matron of five and forty summers it evoked perfectly the phrase mutton dressed as lamb.

Fortunately Lady Cussons was deep in conversation with Dr Eustace, but Sophie knew that it would only be a matter of moments before she would become bored with him and turned in search of lighter company. It would be fatal for Lady Cussons to see her: she was a regular recipient of Lavinia’s complaints about her sister-in-law and was sure to know Sophie’s entire, shocking, history. She would have not the slightest hesitation in betraying this escapade to Lavinia and then even this small chance of freedom would be snatched away from her.

It seemed a heavy price to pay for having yielded to temptation and flirted with a stranger.

But Lady Cussons had not seen her yet and Hal Wyatt’s back was still turned: she could escape without him noticing and without drawing any attention to herself. Stealthily Sophie edged backwards towards the door and slipped through, back into the safe gloom of the orangery.

Her hat was where the Duke had set it down and she scooped it up and put it on her head as she hurried through the passage to the front hall. She checked before emerging to make sure the veil once again obscured her face, then stepped out on to the chequerboard floor of the hall.

A footman came forward. ‘May I be of assistance, madam?’

‘My pelisse, if you please.’

He helped her into it, then looked round. ‘Shall I call your maid, madam?’

‘No. She is outside waiting for me. In my carriage,’ Sophie added confidently. The well-used falsehood tripped off her tongue and, satisfied, the footman went to open the door for her.

There was a row of waiting vehicles at the kerbside and the man began to descend the steps to assist her. ‘No, please do not trouble. My own man is there, at the end.’ Sophie gestured airily at the last carriage in the line and the footman bowed and returned inside.

Once safely around the corner Sophie scanned Grosvenor Square for a hackney carriage, but could see none. It was an awkward time in the evening with many of the cabbies making their way to the theatres and opera to get a good position for the end of the performance. They would not be interested in picking up solitary women and besides, Grosvenor Square was the sort of highly fashionable address where residents kept their own carriages and passing trade was thin on the ground.

The lanterns outside the ranks of houses guttered in the wind, a breeze sharp enough to threaten a late frost but prevent it settling on the pavements. Sophie snuggled into her pelisse and set off towards Brook Street, watching her footing in the dark areas between the pools of light shed by the newly installed gas lamps. She walked, resigned to the chill, her mind warmed by thoughts of that encounter with the Duke.

She found her steps had slowed as she went, thinking of him. She laughed at herself and stepped out briskly again. Dukes were not for her, but if she never saw him again, which was highly likely, at least her memories of him would be clear enough to while away the lonely hours with daydreams.

Sophie slowed as she reached the corner with New Bond Street and there was the sound of hooves on the cobbles behind her. She stopped, half-turning in the hope it was a cab, but it was only a private carriage, its great-coated coachman on the box, two chilly footmen in livery standing up behind gripping the straps. One of them gave her an impertinent stare as he was carried past, which had the effect of reminding her just how unsuitably late it was to be walking the streets alone.

The very cold streets. She should have put on more sensible shoes, she thought, the stones striking chill through the thin leather soles as she hurried along.

Her breath was visible in the air by the time she gained Bruton Mews. The laughter of grooms drinking over a game of cards above one of the stables was the only sound beside the stamp and snort of horses as she slipped down the side entry which gave access to the rear gate of her brother’s Town house. The catch was stiff and for a dreadful moment Sophie thought it had been bolted on the inside, then it gave and she was through and into the tiny garden, her heart thumping.

Fanny, her maid, was knitting as she waited patiently in the kitchen beside the range. Cook, as always at this hour, was safely snoring in her rocking chair, helped by a generous measure of her master’s gin.

‘There you are, Miss, I thought you said you were going to be back by ten, and it is near eleven now,’ Fanny scolded in a whisper, flapping her hands in front of her to urge Sophie towards the stairs. ‘Oh, look how cold you are, shivering like that. Come along upstairs, I put a warm brick in the bed an hour since. Do you want a cup of nice hot milk, Miss?’

‘Yes please, Fanny, and some bread and butter – and a slice of cold meat if there is one. I am famished.’

‘Well, if you will go out without your dinner, Miss, I don’t know what else you expect. Cook made a nice apple pie this evening and there’s most of it left. I’ll cut you a slice of that.’

In her chamber the fire blazed. Sophie kicked off her shoes, pulled up her skirts and rested her chilled feet on the fender as the warmth penetrated her stockings. Her fingers and toes tingled with returning heat, and she suspected that the tip of her nose was pink, but the rest of her glowed warm with the memory of the night’s encounter. ‘Hal Wyatt, Duke of Weybourne...’ She let the name run off her tongue, then jumped and bit the end painfully as Fanny bustled in with a tray.

‘Sorry, Miss, what did you say? Now get your feet off that fender and put your slippers on or you’ll get chilblains for certain. I’ll just put this down on this table beside you and you eat up.’

Sophie smiled as she watched the small plump figure bustling around checking the warmth of the bed, shaking out Sophie’s nightgown and hanging it over a chair-back to warm near the fire. Despite behaving as though she was at least forty-five, and fussing over her mistress like a mother hen at every turn, Fanny Meadows was no older than Sophie. They had been together for the last four years, ever since Sophie had been sent home to her brother’s country estate in Hertfordshire in disgrace. To become a lady’s maid, even to one under a cloud, was beyond the wildest dreams of a country girl from Tewin and she modelled herself on every visiting abigail who had ever snubbed her in her days as a tweeny.

Full of apple pie Sophie sat with her hands cupped around the cup of warm milk and gazed into the fire, which was gradually burning down into embers. But instead of the scents of wood smoke, cinnamon and apple she smelled loam, orange blossom and just the hint of a spicy male cologne. Hal Wyatt’s blue eyes, full of laughter… his voice, earnestly asking Dr Eustace about the fungus…

‘Miss?’

‘I’m sorry, Fanny, I was miles away. Yes, I am going to come to bed now.’

‘You look happy,’ Fanny observed as she dropped the nightgown over Sophie’s head. ‘Was it a nice talk? It’s good that you are getting some fun at last. Not that you didn’t have fun in the country at Bright’s Hill,’ she said, chattering on when Sophie said nothing to stop her. ‘But it wasn’t the sort of thing that a young lady of quality should be doing, now was it? Riding by yourself – and riding astride at that – learning to fish and even persuading the gamekeeper to teach you to shoot.’ She drew breath as Sophie climbed into bed. ‘Such a pity Lady Haydon still won’t let you enjoy yourself at parties. It’s been six months that we’ve been back.’

Sophie wrinkled her nose. ‘I know. I thought my disgrace had finally been forgiven and forgotten. I thought I could begin my come-out again. I should have known better. But there’s no point in crying over spilt milk, Fanny.’

But, despite her brave words, it did hurt. A mere day in the company of Lavinia Haydon had swiftly disabused Sophie of any thought that her behaviour four years ago when she was seventeen had been put in the past. The scandalous escapade that had ended with Sophie being banished to Bright’s Hill was still vivid in everyone’s memory, her sister-in-law informed her.

Of course ladies of Quality had to be careful of their reputations but it wasn’t as though George hadn’t arrived in time, Sophie thought resentfully.

Lavinia made it very plain that she was in London under sufferance. She was most fortunate to be allowed back, she was told, and Sophie could show her gratitude for this indulgence by putting herself at Lavinia’s disposal.

Despite the passage of half a year, neither of them was happy with the result. Sophie was constantly in disgrace for behaving in an unladylike manner, saying what she thought and leading her nieces into scrapes by encouraging them to think for themselves. Lavinia was disapproving and Sophie chafed under the constant surveillance, the endless reminders of just how unsatisfactory and unworthy she was.

She was not allowed out by herself, even with Fanny as escort: always she found herself in attendance on her sister-in-law or with Charlotte or Grace Haydon and whoever was chaperoning them. One day she had flared, ‘Am I never to be allowed any freedom? What do you think I am going to do if you allow me to go to the circulating library with a footman in attendance? Run off with him?’

‘Well, you did so before,’ Lavinia had retorted. ‘Although at least it was not with a servant – you showed that much discretion at least.’ She had shuddered theatrically at the memory of the Great Disgrace, as she always referred to it to her husband. In front of their daughters it was never spoken of at all, they were aware only that their young aunt had committed one of the numerous sins that their mother was always warning them would be the downfall of their hopes.

‘The talk?’ Sophie returned to the present and Fanny’s question with an effort. ‘No, it was quite awful.’ She very nearly added, ‘But I met a rake in the orangery,’ and, warmed by that thought, she put her head on the pillow and slept like a log.

 

Next morning at breakfast Sophie could feel her sister-in-law eying her critically over the tea urn. She wished sometimes she understood why Lavinia disliked her, at other times she found she simply could not care.

Lavinia Haydon justified the clothing she considered suitable for Sophie as instilling modesty, decorum and a sense of humility: in other words her garments were plain, untrimmed and befitting her role as unpaid companion. Today she was dressed in dull green so there should be nothing to criticise.

The fact that there wasn’t seemed to do little for Lady Haydon’s temper. Instead she snapped at her younger daughter. ‘Sit up straight, Grace, your posture is quite slovenly and I declare you have butter on your sleeve. Do not think yourself too old to spend an hour in the nursery with the backboard.’

‘Sorry, Mama,’ Grace murmured meekly, dabbing at the stain with her napkin. ‘What are we doing today?’

‘You are attending your deportment class, your sister is going to her music lesson and Sophie will be accompanying me this morning. I wish to visit Dickens and Smith to match those silk patterns for the drawing-room curtains. Then this afternoon Sophie may come with me to Lady Cussons’s At Home.’

‘Oh, Mama.’ Charlotte had an unfortunate tendency to whine. ‘Why can’t we go shopping with you too? I promise I will practise my sonata this afternoon instead.’

‘Please, Mama,’ Grace wheedled. ‘You did say that we might have new gloves and stockings for the dress-party on Friday.’

‘I could take them to buy their gloves and stockings while you are choosing the silks, Lavinia,’ Sophie offered, earning glowing glances of gratitude from both girls. Bless them, they’ve such sweet faces when they aren’t sulking.

Lavinia put down her coffee cup with some emphasis. ‘Certainly not. I have no intention of upsetting my plans and I require you, Sophie, to assist me with my purchases at the silk warehouse. Monsieur LeBoeuf is engaged for eleven this morning and a lady does not change arrangements at a whim. Charlotte, Grace, go and get ready.’

To Sophie’s despair they chorused docilely, ‘Yes, Mama,’ and with a curtsy to their mother, filed out of the room.

‘As I have so frequently to remind you, Sophie,’ Lavinia snapped, ‘it is not your place to teach my daughters to question their parents’ authority. I have often had occasion to remark to Sir George that your own upbringing must have been scandalously indulgent. Nothing else can explain your subsequent behaviour.’

The memory of her own mother and her laughing, loving, approach to bringing up her daughter flashed into Sophie’s mind and she almost snapped back at her sister-in-law. But Lavinia’s sallow cheeks were stained by two spots of high colour and long experience had taught Sophie the consequences of not holding her tongue. Sometimes she disregarded them, but today she felt too restless to risk being left at home.

‘I am sorry, Lavinia.’ She kept her eyes cast down so that her sister-in-law did not see the spark of rebellion in them. ‘What time do you wish me to be ready?’

‘Eleven o’clock, and do not forget to bring those silk samples.’

Sophie stopped in the drawing room to pick up the strips of shimmering fabric that were draped over the newly upholstered chairs. One of them was a deep cobalt blue, just the colour of the Duke of Weybourne’s eyes. Sophie stood for a moment running her finger over it and remembering the warmth of his gaze, then with a little shake she picked them up and hurried back into the hall. Dreams were all very well, but reality was quite another thing and the best that reality held today was Lady Cussons’s At Home.

 

When they arrived Lady Cussons’s salon was filled with a flock of fashionably dressed ladies sipping and nibbling at the refreshments and exchanging tittle-tattle.

Sophie, ignored at her sister-in-law’s side as ever, had ample leisure to observe that Lavinia had finally penetrated a set that reflected her social ambitions to a nicety. For a granddaughter of a wealthy Hertfordshire maltster to have married a baronet was a major triumph, but Lavinia had soon discovered that it required more than her married respectability – and the not inconsiderable wealth she had brought to the union – to be received in the very best circles.

Sophie sighed faintly, but it was loud enough to reach Lavinia’s ears. She shot Sophie a sharp glance of reproof so she stood up and wandered across the room to where a quiet window seat caught the sunlight. From there she could hear Lady Cussons holding forth on the trials she had endured securing what she had wanted from the various craftsmen involved in her latest redecoration scheme. The result was strongly French but with the addition of Egyptian features and, Sophie reflected, they did not sit happily together.

But Lady Cussons had the money, if not the taste, for such schemes, and she supposed spending it in this way gave her pleasure. Her sister-in-law was praising it. Toadying again, Sophie thought uncharitably.

‘Such an original and striking scheme, dear Lady Cussons. Only someone of your taste and knowledge of fashion could have achieved it.’

‘May I join you?’ Sophie looked up as a young matron, whose dashing chip straw hat she had been admiring earlier, came to her side. ‘I do not believe we have met before. I am Mrs Lovell. Venetia.’

‘Please, do sit down,’ Sophie said warmly. She moved her skirts aside to allow the other woman to sit beside her in the window. ‘The sunshine is very pleasant, is it not? Oh, I am sorry, I should have said, I am Sophie Haydon.’

‘Thank you, Miss Haydon. Indeed, the warmth is very welcome, one feels the spring has finally arrived. Please excuse my ignorance, but are you Lady Haydon’s daughter?’

Sophie picked up the slight incredulity in the other woman’s tone and she bit her lip to stop the smile. ‘No, Lavinia is my sister-in-law – my older half-brother’s wife. She has two daughters and the elder is making her come-out this year.’

Mrs Lovell gestured to a footman who brought them both more tea. ‘How is it that we have not met before? You must have been out for a year or two, surely, Miss Haydon?’

Sophie felt the heat in her cheeks and wished, for the thousandth time that she could control her blushes. She looked away and said in a stilted voice, ‘I came out three Seasons ago but I did not take. I have been living in the country on my brother’s estate until a few months ago. Now I am my sister-in-law’s companion.’

‘You are sure to be a success this time around,’ Mrs Lovell said with a smile. ‘How do you amuse yourself in Town? Surely Lady Haydon does not keep you chained to her side?’

‘Oh, I accompany Lavinia, of course, and shop for her. And she and my brother permit me to join Lady Newnham’s reading circle. And sometimes I attend lectures.’

‘Do you think they would have any objection to you coming to my Literary Group? We meet every Thursday evening at my house.’

This elegant, amusing young woman wanted her company? Sophie tried not to stammer. ‘How delightful, yes, I would like to very much. If Lavinia will allow,’ she added doubtfully.

‘We will go and ask her now.’ Mrs Lovell stood and offered Sophie a hand. ‘Come along.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘See, she is enjoying herself, and nothing makes dragons more amenable than a little pleasure.’

Sophie was still choking on a giggle as they arrived beside Lady Cussons and Lavinia who began to frown at Sophie’s intrusion, then saw who she was with and immediately rearranged her expression into one of amiability. She might not move in the same circles, but she clearly knew who Mrs Lovell was and seemed impressed.

‘Lady Haydon, I have been trying to persuade Miss Haydon to join my Literary Group, but she is reluctant to agree without your blessing. Do please say yes, or I will be bereft. It is, I need hardly say, solely for ladies and I am most careful about what is selected for study.’

‘Why, silly girl, of course I could not deny you such a treat,’ Lavinia said with mock severity. ‘So condescending of Mrs Lovell, so very kind. How could I possibly refuse?’

The clock struck the hour and, as if summoned by the chimes, the butler appeared at the door. ‘The Duke of Weybourne, my lady,’ he announced, to Sophie’s complete horror.