Lady Scandal Page 7

  She was fortunate she had remembered this farm. When the Earl had returned to England, he had told her he required a sojourn to help his recovery. She had accompanied him to a village not too far from this farm, but when they had arrived, he had disappeared for a whole morning.

  While she nervously awaited his return, the innkeeper’s wife had happily filled Sophia in on local gossip. She had told Sophia all about the farm, its rather eccentric owner, and the slightly mad people who worked the lands.

  The owner, Elizabeth, was a naturally white-haired woman with a heavy presence and an old-fashioned way of speaking. She had been raised a Quaker, or as she corrected, a member of the Society of Friends. She still observed the strictures, although she was, as she had put it, no longer in unity with her meeting.

  Sophia had felt terrible about the lies she had told the older woman—one, her name was Jane Donald, and two, she was on the run from a lecherous employer—but they had worked. Elizabeth had been happy to take in Sophia, just as she did many “unquiet souls,” provided Sophia respected her rules, including calling everyone by their first name and spending the days in quiet industry.

  At the time, Sophia had thought Elizabeth meant for her to do something like read to the more troubled residents, teach the younger women embroidery or song. But the only books in Elizabeth’s house were bibles, and residents indulged in nothing so frivolous as song or embroidery.

  Quiet, she learned, meant silent, and industry meant hard work.

  She stretched her arms over her head and rolled her neck from side to side. Every part of her was very much in use, despite being unattractively hidden.

  She sighed. Just looking down at the pot she had been scrubbing made the ache in her arm muscles throb. If she had known how difficult extracting duck skin attached to the bottom of a pot could be, she would have paid her scullery maid higher wages.

  She fended off an overwhelming sense of loss. How long would she have to remain in hiding? Would she ever see her beautiful home on the Thames again? She missed it. She missed beauty. She missed song. She missed her late night gambling parties with Thea and Lavinia.

  Heaven help her, she also missed him.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw him as he’d been the night of The Furies’ most recent soiree—the soiree where she and Randolph had played the game they had agreed would be their last, the soiree during which Lavinia had discovered her husband had been murdered.

  …the soiree, in short, when all hell had broken loose.

  …Sophia turned up the collar of her cloak against the late spring’s night air, crisp with hints of winter. The Furies thought it a lark to hold their gambling party out-of-doors, despite the questionable weather. But the upturned collar of her fur-lined cloak was not what caused the sudden warmth in her cheeks, any more than her blush was caused by the mischief of forcing the cream of London’s deep-pocketed rakes, dandies, and libertines out into the cold spring air.

  Randolph and she were evenly matched at four and four out of nine. Sophia swallowed through her tight-as-stays throat while sliding her fingers over her unturned card, wishing she could divine the numbers on which her future rested.

  She raised her gaze and locked eyes with her opponent.

  He leaned to the side and draped his elbow on the back of his chair, looking as if he hadn’t a care. Tonight, in perfect form, he had powdered his dried-wheat hair. White made his penetrating grey eyes positively abyssal. Slight creases in his skin whispered of pleasures past and held the promise of pleasures future.

  Most men had some measure of appeal, of course, but only one word captured her reaction to Lord Randolph—spellbound.

  She settled her nerves. While she did not believe in love, and she believed even less in vulnerability, she did not need to deny herself the luxury of Randolph’s fluid movement, nor the appreciation of his coat’s expert fit.

  Randolph was a rake through and through. A rogue and a libertine, just like the other men gathered around the table. Who but a rake would speak to a lady in such a shocking fashion? If she lost the bet and they had to marry, she knew exactly how to manage him, just as she had managed her first husband.

  “Turn the card, turn the card!” The usual chant gained intensity, and her heart thudded along with the rhythm.

  “Stalling, Lady Scandal?” Amusement danced behind Randolph’s eyes and something else she could not read—a mystery that left a thrill in her blood.

  “I am waiting for my Furies.”

  Where the devil were her fellow hostesses? Lavinia—Lady Vice—and Thea—Duchess Decadence—had flanked her every time she had turned the final card.

  “Lady Vice was called away,” one of the men said. “She ended her game with Bronward before a winner was declared.”

  That was odd. She frowned.

  “Looks like you will have to face your fate on your own.” Randolph leaned forward and spoke in whispered tones surprisingly clear beneath the racket. “Courage, sweetness. Surely you are not afraid of me.”

  “I have courage,” she said indignantly.

  She had lost a husband, survived the brutal murder of her father, and had taken in two ladies abandoned by society. She’d been siphoning men’s coin through exclusive gambling parties for years.

  Sophia was not afraid of him and she had more courage in her little finger then he had in the entirety of his lean-muscled, lascivious form. And should she lose, she had the benefit of the outrageously generous marriage contract he had already signed that awaited the scratch of her quill.

  Sophia flipped the card, eyes never leaving his.

  A cheer thundered, but for whom?

  One of the men clamped Lord Randolph on the back. “Beat again, old boy.”

  She exhaled, but, strangely, without relief, as she mirrored Randolph’s nonchalant pose. The fleeting pressure in her chest could not possibly be disappointment.

  “Indigo silk, I think. The color will bring out my eyes,” she said. “I will expect an obscenely large shipment within a fortnight.”

  A smile tugged his mouth’s edge. If he was vexed by the outcome or concerned with her extravagant demand, he did not show either.

  “As beautiful as you will be in a gown,” the word sounded lewd on his lips, “of soft and rippling indigo silk, how would you like to extend the wager? I propose one more game.”

  A thrill shot through her heart, leaving her tingling. And the honeybee buzz in her body battled with her common sense.

  She could make a higher demand—porcelain perhaps…or boatloads of the finest Portuguese port. And if she lost…

  Well, the scales on which she had first weighed the bet still balanced. If she lost, she would be consoled by the protection of his position and—her gaze settled on his mouth—the advantages of his bed.

  “I would expect higher stakes from you,” she said. “And I want my silk, regardless.”

  He tilted his head in a slight nod.

  The man who’d slapped Randolph’s back swayed forward. “And what is it you have that Lord Randolph wants with such determination, Lady Scandal?”

  Randolph’s eyes shot to the impertinent man. “Stakes are between the lady and myself.”

  “But—” the man started.

  Randolph’s expression turned dark, silencing the man. A fluttering sensation passed through her belly.

  Sophia thought to decline his offer. She had escaped.

  Then again, the promise of another game with Randolph would draw spectators. Spectators would spend the evening making their own bets on who would win—a portion of which would be collected by the hostesses. Either way, so long as the entertainment continued, Sophia, Lavinia, and Thea, would pad their already over-plump coffers.

  Certainly, it was a sound enough reason to extend the game—but not the real reason she acceded.

  She wanted, God help her, to be his wife.

  “If you seek another trouncing, my lord,” she smiled as he turned back to her, “who am I to deny you?”
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  His eyes glowed. “Excellent decision.”

  Sophia felt heat rise into her face as if the exchange had just happened. Within a few days of that agreement, Randolph had testified on Lavinia’s behalf, in order, she had thought, to save her friend from being charged with murder. That night, she and Randolph had commenced a private game, which she had lost.

  On purpose.

  She had been a foolish, foolish chit. A weak and foolish chit.

  She stomped over to the well, drew a bucket of water, and doused her face.

  Elizabeth looked up from laundering. “Art thou well?”

  Why did Elizabeth’s cheerful smile make her feel the combined guilt of every lie she had ever told? “Right as rain.”

  “Jane,” Elizabeth said, “keep thy mind on thy work.”

  “Yes, Elizabeth.”

  She returned to the troth, imagined Randolph as the pot, and resumed her scrubbing with renewed vigor.

  Although peace-within-industry was everywhere at Elizabeth’s farm—workers and residents intermingled and moved about with a remarkable calm, especially since the residents all had troubled pasts—peace was something Sophia doubted she could ever achieve.

  There was no peace for the child of The Ruthless. And certainly, no peace for a woman so thoroughly controlled by her needs, she’d fallen victim to a spy. Just as she always suspected, she had succumbed to her need for touch. Why had she not been satisfied with the home she had created? With the Furies, she’d been happy for the first time in her life.

  She dropped both pot and scouring stone. Maddeningly, her eyes filled.

  Elizabeth set down the potato she had been peeling and walked to Sophia’s side.

  “I observe,” Elizabeth said, “the testimony of quietness. But, I sense thee wishes to speak.”

  Sophia sniffled, straightened her spine, and shook her head. “I do not need to speak.”

  She resumed scrubbing. But instead of going away, Elizabeth remained quietly watching. Something in the woman’s serene, sympathetic gaze tapped at a door in Sophia’s heart that she kept solidly locked. The wetness filling her eyes spilled out onto her cheeks.

  Elizabeth took the pot from Sophia’s hands and set it down. “Shall we walk?”

  Sophia nodded, and then allowed Elizabeth to lead her from the house. They wandered toward a nearby wood on an ancient lane. Elizabeth said nothing, but her presence was like a balm. As Sophia walked, her breath became easier, her footsteps more sure.

  At the edge of the wood, they stopped. Not far away, a scattered few of Elizabeth’s sheep grazed. One lifted his head and bayed.

  “Jane,” Elizabeth began, “Thou art troubled by thy past.”

  And future. “I am no more troubled than your other guests.”

  Elizabeth looked off toward the farm. From here, the tidy group of buildings formed a picturesque aspect. A cheerful bit of smoke twirled up from the house’s chimney.

  “Art thou wed?” she asked.

  Sophia paused, uneasiness heavy in her heart. If Elizabeth had believed her story—that she was a maid, running from a lecherous employer, she would not have asked such a question.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “My husband hast gone to his rest.” The faraway look in Elizabeth’s eyes was laced with pain.

  “I am a widow as well,” Sophia could admit that much. It was her current husband of which she did not wish to speak. “Will you marry again?”

  “The Light alone leadeth,” Elizabeth answered. She settled her even gaze on Sophia. “Hast thee sought guidance through thy troubles?”

  Elizabeth was not speaking of earthly assistance, she knew. She’d been told of Elizabeth’s belief in a heavenly force outside of one’s self, a light one could follow with proper discernment.

  “No,” she said. “I know nothing of your light.”

  Even the word light felt unfamiliar. The Earl had moved, quite literally, in shadow—sleeping through the morning and conducting his affairs within the cloak of night. Since his death, she had unwittingly adopted his habit. The Furies had entertained in darkness and, without reason to see or be seen by those who kept more refined society, had eschewed the day.

  “Hast thou,” Elizabeth hesitated, “a mother?”

  Sophia shook her head no. “My mother died many years ago.” Made frail by the constant threat of Baneham’s volcanic rage as well as his rare bursts of possessive ardor. “As did the Ea—I mean my father.”

  “Surely you have friends.”

  The Furies. She swallowed. “I am,” she said, “not able to return.”

  “I, too,” Elizabeth said quietly, “am cast from my community.”

  She looked back into the Quaker’s kindly eyes. “Why are you no longer with yours?”

  Elizabeth’s smiled with sadness. “I married out of unity. A break with tradition my family couldst neither understand nor accept. But, I sought my heart’s truth.” She looked back to the farmhouse. “The main house my husband and I built together. The cottage beyond is older.”

  Sophia frowned. When she had married Randolph, she had anticipated his bed but had no expectation of a true joining. She had seen marital unions produce homes and love, but such things were for other people—people whose fortunes were not soaked in blood, treachery, and deception.

  Longing induced a singular ache, and that ache wound through Sophia like a fast-growing vine. Suddenly, her cavalier treatment of marriage seemed as shameful as Randolph’s deception.

  “I hope,” Elizabeth said, “thee will find peace and guidance here,” Elizabeth paused, looking troubled. “But I am led to say thee cannot run from thy trials.”

  Sophia frowned. She most certainly could. She had to leave, to preserve her life. She had to leave, to gain protection from a threat that could be coming from any quarter. She had no other choice.

  Or did she?

  “Shall we return?” Elizabeth asked.

  “If you mean to my scrubbing,” Sophia said, “then yes.”

  She wanted to scrub—no, she needed to scrub. Only work could alleviate her heavy heart.

  As they drew closer to the house, Sophia recognized the form of a young woman weeding in the kitchen garden—Anna. Even in this place, gossip spread like fire through a hay-filled barn. The girl did not sleep in the long, dormered room with the rest of the women. She stayed with Elizabeth. Even so, her late night screams could be heard every night.

  “Good morning, Anna,” Elizabeth called.

  The girl smiled and waved.

  As they got to the kitchen, Elizabeth turned. “Thee hast heard, I am sure, Anna’s nighttime terrors. The more she works in the day, the less she is troubled.”

  “Are you saying the work is meant to bring me peace?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth replied.

  She returned to her pot, pondering the equation. Could peace-in-industry provide her with a much-needed reprieve from her worries? She hefted the scrubbing stone.

  If Anna could find peace-in-industry, the least Sophia could do was make a sincere attempt. Peace was a preferable alternative to warding off the past’s insistent haunting.

  She set to scrubbing. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. She stopped worrying about the eventual cleanliness of the pot and instead found a rhythm. Progress, infinitesimally small, but reassuringly constant.

  Late that night, when she slipped onto her simple cot, she did not lie awake as she had the last fortnight, staring at the ceiling and longing for her fine lawn nightrail. Nor did she listen with envy to the untroubled breaths of the other women who shared the room.

  Instead, she noticed how the moon painted a silvery glow across the wood furniture and marveled at the beauty that cost not a penny. She savored the ache in her upper arms. The ache told her she had been useful. She inhaled with a sense of deep satisfaction and she promptly fell into slumber.

  Not even Anna’s midnight sobbing caused her to wake.

  …

  Earl Baneham’s Rules for Winning />
  “Ask the right questions.”

  For a fortnight, the inn where Randolph had lost Sophia had become his makeshift headquarters…and his hell.

  While receiving regular reports on the hunt for Helena and Eustace from a group headed by Sullivan, one of the men Kasai had imprisoned with Eustace and Harrison, Randolph had sent men in every direction in search of Sophia. The final man had just reported back, and the news had not been pleasant.

  He shoved the chair he had been holding. “I will not accept this.”

  “You may accept,” said the messenger, whose sincerity—and unlined face—revealed he was new to this game, “or you may not accept. Either choice will not change the truth: I have searched every town within twenty miles. There has been no sign of someone matching the description of your wife, nor of the missing agent, nor the translator. There have been no travelers out of the ordinary.”

  Randolph slammed his fist against the table. Two full weeks with nothing to show for his effort.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “I said I was not to be disturbed,” Randolph roared. The door squealed open. He turned and froze in startled surprise.

  “Harrison!”

  Harrison’s gaze slid between Randolph and the young man who he’d been questioning. “Things are going well, I see.”

  “Wait in the taproom,” Randolph instructed his man, this time with more control.

  For all his bravado, the boy did not need to be told twice. He left, letting the door slam shut behind him.

  “I am here to help,” Harrison said.

  “You,” Randolph said, “told me you would not join my investigation.”

  “That was before you went and involved my lady.”

  Pfft. “I did not involve Lady Vaile.”

  “You told her Kasai’s agent had been seen in England and Eustace is alive. She is half-mad with worry for Sophia, and the duchess is nearly out of her mind for information on Eustace. For some reason, neither of them trusts you.” He smiled. “Lavinia sent me to set things right.”

  Meddling women. “You suggested I enlist the duchess to watch over the duke until we find Lord Eustace.”