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He laughed, and the worry lines in his handsome, piratical face went away.
“What appalling choices you aristocrats have,” she said. “I almost begin to feel sorry for you. You can’t become a pugilist or a sword swallower in the circus—”
“The circus!”
“Or a buccaneer or a highwayman or a charioteer.”
“Indeed, it’s a deadly dull life sometimes, Miss Noirot, and my father doesn’t care for my ways of livening it up. He gave up on me long ago. I’m no paragon. But you know that.”
“You’re a paragon of a brother,” she said. “As to the rest, you’re simply the sort of man who chafes at rules. Your sister does, too. The trouble is, it’s nearly impossible for a lady to get away with breaking them.”
“It’s easier once she’s wed,” he said. “If Clara ends up married to that swine, I’ll encourage her to break them. I’ll offer suggestions.”
“It won’t come to that,” Sophy said.
“You’re so sure.”
“Utterly sure,” she lied.
At the moment, she had no idea what to do. All she knew was, everything depended on her doing it.
White Hart Inn, Guildford
That night
“I’ve had so much time to think, and I can’t think how to get out of it,” Lady Clara said.
Lord Longmore had sent his express message to London as soon as they’d arrived. He’d hired rooms, placing his sister in the one between his and Sophy’s. Davis had a cot in her mistress’s room, and a greatly surprised and gratified Fenwick had been given his own little room—the type of cupboardlike space usually allotted to a manservant—adjoining Longmore’s.
After washing off the dirt of travel, Longmore, Lady Clara, and Sophy had dined. Following that, Longmore had told the women to get a full night’s sleep, and had retired to his room.
But Lady Clara had invited Sophy to stop in her room first, to drink tea.
It wasn’t tea Sophy discovered on the tray, though. It was brandy, a clear sign that her ladyship was more rattled than she’d seemed at dinner.
The night was by no means cold, but she’d complained of feeling chilled to death, and ordered a fire. They sat before it, their chairs close together.
“If I were less of a catch,” she went on, “and if it hadn’t happened so publicly, with all those people seeing me half undressed, there would be an easier way out.”
“You weren’t half undressed,” Sophy said. “Your bodice was a little disarranged, that was all.”
“Not that it makes any difference,” Lady Clara said bitterly. “Ruined is ruined.”
“We’re going to un-ruin you,” Sophy said. “Don’t worry about it. Let me worry. All we need at present is a tale, in case anybody’s recognized you at any point on the journey.”
“That’s not very likely.”
“You truly believe that, don’t you?” Sophy said. “How you contrived to survive a journey to Portsmouth is beyond me.”
“It was more complicated than I thought, I’ll admit,” Clara said. “I’d no idea what things cost. But I knew we’d need money. I sent Davis to sell some of my dresses before we left London. She was the one who dealt with the innkeepers and such. We pretended she was my aunt. I kept in the background as much as possible.”
“You, in the background.” Sophy smiled. “That must have been a prodigious trick.”
“I wore my plainest clothes and one of Davis’s bonnets while we traveled.”
“But you weren’t so plain in Portsmouth,” Sophy said. “Someone there might have recognized you. I think we’ll say that Lord Longmore took you to Portsmouth to collect an old friend who was coming to the wedding.”
The amusement faded and her ladyship’s beautiful face set into the stubborn expression Sophy had seen before. “There isn’t going to be a wedding.”
“It’s what we’ll say,” Sophy said. Her insides churned. There could not be a wedding. But she still had no idea how to stop it. Shedding an unwanted fiancé was simple enough. But to do it in a way that restored Lady Clara’s good name? Was it even possible?
Meanwhile, time was running out for Maison Noirot.
Sophy bent over Lady Clara and set her hands on her shoulders. “Listen to me,” she said. She spoke firmly. Her expression was confident and reassuring. She could persuade anybody of anything, and she’d persuade this girl. “This is a tricky situation, as you’ve said. You’re the fly who’s stepped into the spider’s web. It’s a sticky one, and unsticking you with your reputation intact is going to be a delicate business.”
“It’s bad,” Lady Clara said. “I knew it was bad.”
“It is,” Sophy said. “But I’ve made you my mission, my only mission for the present. You need to be patient, though, and trust me.”
“I’ll try to be patient,” Lady Clara said. “But we have so little time.”
Sophy kept the confident and reassuring expression firmly in place while her heart sank. “How much time?” she said.
“Less than I’d thought.” Lady Clara explained what had happened on the Wednesday and Thursday before she’d run away.
“Before the Queen’s last Drawing Room of the Season,” Sophy repeated when the tale came to an end. She hoped she hadn’t heard correctly. She knew it was too much to hope.
The last Drawing Room was scheduled for the twenty-fourth of the month. Quarter Day. Doomsday.
“That’s why I bolted,” Clara said. “That was the last straw. I’d been counting on having months. Mother was so opposed, I was sure she’d put it off for as long as possible.”
It made no difference, Sophy told herself. The shop needed to recover lost business by Quarter Day, no matter what.
“More than a fortnight, then,” she said calmly. “Plenty of time.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
Lady Clara looked up at her, and the hope and trust in her eyes made Sophy want to cry.
“Leave it to me,” Sophy said.
Dammit, now what?
Sophy closed the door of Lady Clara’s room behind her and stood for a moment staring blankly at the wall opposite.
She’d helped hunt the girl down.
She was taking her
back to London.
Then what?
Only a little more than a fortnight—at most—to work a miracle.
If she failed . . .
“What ho!” a male voice called. “Look what’s turned up, lads.”
Sophy looked toward the sound of the voice.
Oh, perfect. It only wanted this. A quartet of drunken gentlemen. Worse, young drunken gentlemen, some of them still sporting spots.
“A miracle, an angel, most fetching,” another of them said. “An angel dropped down from heaven.”
“Whither, fair one?”
“Don’t mind him, madam. That one’s a clodpoll.” The last speaker made a drunken attempt at a bow.
Sophy treated them to one of the special Noirot curtseys, the kind that took actors and dancers years of practice to perfect, and the kind that took onlookers completely by surprise. It made an excellent distraction. While the boys were trying to decide what to make of it, she reached into the concealed pocket of her skirt and unpinned the hatpin she kept there for emergencies. With luck, she wouldn’t need to use it. The question was, Retreat to Lady Clara’s room or continue on to her own?
“A ballet dancer, by Jupiter,” one boy decided.
“Won’t you dance for us?” said another. He lurched toward her, and stumbled. He grabbed her for balance, making her stagger and drop the hatpin.
She pushed. He held on. “Yes, let’s dance,” he said, blowing alcoholic fumes over her face.
“Get off,” she said.
“That’s right, get off,” another one said. “She wants to dance with me.” He pulled her away from his friend.
She thrust an elbow into his gut. He only laughed, too drunk to feel it, and pulled her against him, grabbing her bottom.
She stumbled back and he pushed her against the wall. The smell of drink was making her sick.
“I saw her first,” one said.
“Wait your turn,” said the one on top of her. “First I get a kiss.”
He thrust his face at hers, lips puckered. She kicked him in the shin. He fell back, but someone else was there, grabbing her arm.
Panic welled, ice forming in her gut. They were merely boys, drunken boys, but there were too many of them. She had no weapon. She saw nothing in the corridor. Only an empty pair of boots, a long way away, awaiting cleaning.
