‘Here’s the additional information you requested as well: innkeepers and way-station holders in the district, and what I could find on meeting places, debating societies and reformist connections.’
‘Excellent. Tell me, do you go out into society much, Mr Huxley?’
The boy blinked again, startled. ‘No, sir.’
‘It’s time you started, then. How many years have you, three score?’
‘Just eight and twenty, sir, but I fail to see how this relates to the project you hired me for.’
‘I’ve got a new project in mind. Got a niece coming out this Season. I could use a good man like you to squire her about a bit, ask her to dance, take her for a drive now and then.’
‘I hadn’t really thought to …’
‘Nonsense. The girl’s a beauty, educated; she’s just new to town and doesn’t know many people in society. You can’t stay a bachelor for ever, sir. I thought to give you first crack at her.’
‘You do me an honour, sir, but I have given no thought to taking a wife at present.’
‘Oh, well.’ Cranbourne shrugged. ‘The chit’s got no money, unfortunately, but I’d be disposed to look kindly upon her husband. To be his patron, perhaps.’ He gazed shrewdly at the young man. ‘I belong to a committee of importance or two, you see, and I had thought to propose a few more mapping expeditions. Who knows what might come of it? A project encompassing the entire island, perhaps.’
Mr Huxley blinked once more. ‘Perhaps if I just met her, sir.’
Chapter Six
The day of the proposed expedition to Sevenoaks dawned bright, with a slight crispness in the air that boded well for comfortable temperatures later. The company gathered early in Bruton Street and quickly separated into travelling groups. Lady Dayle elected to ride with Emily, her husband and their little boy in the closed carriage. Jack enticed Sophie into his showy cabriolet. Two more carriages, carrying servants, the baby’s nurse, and the picnic, stood waiting. And Charles? He stood on the steps, suppressing a sigh as his own smart curricle rounded the corner, heading back to the mews.
‘I don’t mean to be a bother, Lord Dayle,’ Miss Ashford assured him again, ‘but a journey of several hours in that contraption? And all the way back, too? I’m not sure Mama would approve.’ She gave him an arch look. Charles had the impression that it was meant to be flirtatious.
Charles smiled at her. ‘I would gladly give up the chance to drive my bays in exchange for the pleasure of your company, Miss Ashford. We are very glad you could join us today.’
She thanked him with pretty words, but her eyes did not meet his. In fact, Miss Ashford was directing a look of displeasure somewhere else entirely.
It was a man who drew her attention, a battered-looking man in a ragged regimental coat. He walked slowly towards the group, until he was a few feet from Jack’s rig. There he stopped, snatched his hat from his head and spoke in urgent tones too low for Charles to hear.
‘I’m sure I feel all the pity that is due someone like that, and the compassion for which my own gender is known,’ Miss Ashford said in an equally low voice, ‘but I cannot think Mayfair a suitable place for him to wander. Should you do something, my lord?’
‘I am confident that Jack will handle the matter appropriately,’ Charles answered. And, indeed, he saw his brother reach for his purse. He was stalled by Sophie, who leaned down to speak with the grizzled veteran. Clearly startled to be so addressed, the soldier answered her. Sophie continued to speak—indeed, it looked as if she were questioning the man closely. Soon she reached into her reticule, pulled out a scrap of paper and scribbled something on it.
The open barouche arrived just then, and Charles, busy handing Miss Ashford in, missed the end of the strange encounter. He gave the order for the party to set off, and noticed as they drove past the unfortunate man that he clutched the paper tight in his hand and stared after the departing Sophie with a look of dazed surprise.
Charles could not know what she had said to the man, but he recognised that vacant look. It was an expression commonly seen in Sophie’s vicinity. He’d worn it himself more times than he could count.
She was a force of nature, his Sophie, and he suspected that her power, like her beauty, had only grown with her. Just look what had happened at Lady Edgeware’s ball. A few minutes alone with her and he had forgotten his role. Forgotten his debt. Let down his guard and laughed like he hadn’t since Phillip had died.
She fascinated him, yet he was terrified of her. She knew him too well. So easily she had discovered the chinks in his armour. He could never let her look inside. She might discover that there was nothing left underneath.
They would be friends, he had told her, though they both felt that spark, that potential for more. It was that instantaneous jolt he felt in her presence, perhaps, that sizzling reminder that a man did indeed exist under the viscount’s shell, that frightened him most of all.
Because she was still Sophie. Still outrageous, outspoken and slightly out of step with the rest of the world. They were qualities he had always enjoyed in her—now they were the very reason he must avoid her.
He had already lived life his own way, for his own pleasure, ignoring the strictures of society, and what had it got him? Only a hellish reputation at first, but too quickly followed by a dead brother, a dead father, a lifetime of remorse and a title that he hadn’t ever wanted.
He’d never coveted the viscountcy, but he was saddled with it now, and it came with an enormous debt to repay. It was clear that, if he ever meant to pay that debt, sacrifices were required, the first and greatest of which was his freedom.
He knew now that his theory was sound. Society was quick to judge, but easier to manipulate. They had fussed and worried over his past like a dog with a bone, but all he had needed to distract them was a bigger prize: his bachelorhood.
A few dances with the right debs, a compliment here, a witty rejoinder there; all he’d had to do was show a proper interest in making one of their darlings his viscountess, and suddenly his wickedness became youthful high spirits, his transgressions were forgiven, and invitations began piling up again.
His political prospects had improved as well. He’d been approached at Lady Edgeware’s ball by Sir Harold Luskison, an influential member of the Board of Trade. The gentleman had stuck to polite conversation at first, but eventually he had given Charles a friendly slap on the back and approved his attention to Miss Ashford.
‘I know you’ve been down a rough road recently,’ Sir Harold had said. ‘Avery’s nonsense is easy to ignore, but together with the character assassination in the papers? It becomes more difficult.’
Charles had started to speak, but the man had stopped him. ‘I know I’m not the only one who has noticed that all of those published escapades are shades of a murky past.’ He had flashed Charles a conspiratorial grin, ‘Do you know I myself was caught up in one of your pranks, once?’
Charles groaned, but Sir Harold appeared lost in fond remembrance. ‘It was that contretemps you got up to at the Lady’s Slipper. Do you recall it?’
Recall it? How could he forget? The tavern in the Strand was the scene of the most notorious brawl he and his cronies had ever got mixed up in. The owner had been in a fury and had had Charles and his friends thrown into the street. He’d even threatened to send the bill for repairs to Charles’s father.
Sir Harold was still grinning. ‘You make a fine rum punch, lad. Not too proud to say I sampled a cup myself.’
Charles rubbed his brow and hid his eyes. The very next night, he had set up camp outside the pub, with a small cauldron fitted out like a woman’s shoe,