All I Ever Needed (17 page)

The summer days were shortening now, and September would soon be upon them. Sophie judged there would be few opportunities to sit so comfortably outside while she wrote in her journal. She sat back in the wrought-iron chair and drew her knees up so she could rest her book against them. Sunlight filtered through the umbrella spread of the nearby chestnut tree and dappled the pages. She read what she had written before the interruption of food and drink and found it to be in need of only small revisions.

She tapped the end of the quill against her lips while she considered the wisdom of describing Tremont's blustering at breakfast only that morning. To those looking on, which included only her and the footmen, the earl had begun the meal in an agreeable state. He had been presented with yesterday's
Gazette
along with his eggs and tomatoes and expressed none of his usual complaints about the news being as stale as the air in the smoking room. He folded the paper neatly into quarters and read while he ate, largely without comment. If there was an occasional grunt, it generally brought a footman to the table to replenish his coffee or offer bacon from the sideboard.

For her part, Sophie had been glad of the quiet. She was most comfortable not drawing attention to herself and would have been content to take her meal in her bedchamber if the earl had not insisted on company. He rarely engaged her in conversation, so Sophie came to understand very quickly that his insistence was about exercising his will over hers and not because he was seeking her opinion.

The fact, then, that the earl had slapped the paper hard enough on the edge of the table to make it shudder had caused Sophie
and
the footmen to come to attention. Tremont actually came out of his seat. "The bounder!"

Sophie stared at him.

"Jackanapes! We had an agreement!"

There was twisting just below the region of Sophie's heart. She placed the flat of her hand against her mouth as she hiccuped.

Tremont rolled the
Gazette
into a tube and shook it at her. "You will be pleased, I'll wager, for I know you had little liking for him."

Sophie tried not to appear or sound hopeful. "What has happened, my lord?"

"You may very well ask. I would not be at all surprised if it was a scheme concocted between you." The earl rounded the table and tossed the
Gazette
on top of Sophie's plate. "Read for yourself. He has made a fool of me, and if I discover you conspired with him, I will see you turned out of this house."

Sophie carefully lifted the paper and shook bits of egg and tomato seeds from the underside before she attempted to open it.

"And do not think you will be able to apply to my son for help. Harold will not take you in after this further example of your perfidy."

Having no idea in what manner she might have betrayed either of her cousins, Sophie wisely remained silent. She skimmed the paper for the item that had caught Tremont's eye and pushed him dangerously close to apoplexy.

"There!" He poked the offending column with his fingertip when she was slow to discover it. "There! Read what the whoreson has done!"

Sophie read. She read it twice, in fact, just to be certain there was no mistaking the matter. Tremont hovered near her shoulder, his hot breath coming in small gusts as he followed along with her study.

The whoreson, Sophie discovered, had married, and he had done so only two days past. The timing was particularly interesting because the jackanapes had made his vows a mere three days after Sophie had finally agreed to make him a most happy man.

In retrospect, it seemed clear to Sophie that Tremont had been made a good deal happier by her promise to marry than either she or the bounder had been.

Yes, she decided, dipping her pen into the pot of ink. She would put it to paper in just that way.

Chapter 5

Annette Sawyer picked her way carefully through the crush inside Lord Helmsley's salon. She had spied Eastlyn's entrance some thirty minutes earlier but had carefully bided her time. It would never do to seem purposeful in her approach. If Eastlyn did not remark on it, certainly his friends would. They were all with him this evening—or he was with them—one was never sure of the distinction, or if there even was one.

Northam had arrived first, accompanied by his bride of only a few months. They looked well enough together, though the new countess had a regrettable limp that was noticeable in every observation except when she was engaged in a waltz. Mr. Marchman had been announced soon after Northam and his lady, and while he seemed perfectly at his ease in conversation with those around him, Annette knew from her association with Eastlyn that he hid his discomfiture well. Mr. Marchman—she never referred to him as West as Eastlyn and the others were wont to do—kept to the room's periphery as though escape were never far from his mind. Viscount Southerton entered with Lady Powell on his arm. Like Annette, the lady was a widow who enjoyed a certain amount of freedom in her personal life as a consequence of that status. Similarities between the two of them could not be stretched much beyond that point. Lady Powell's husband had been a respected member of the peerage who had left her quite well off, while her own husband had been a captain in the regiments and left her with a pension so small she would have starved soon after his passing if not for the sympathies of the men he had commanded.

Southerton did not linger at Lady Powell's side, Annette observed, but released her to a clutch of guests gathered near the salon's open entrance to the garden. She was immediately in animated conversation with the Baron and Baroness of Battenburn and did not appear to notice the viscount's defection, though Annette could scarcely believe this was the case. It was far more likely that the lady did not want to lay overt claim to Southerton, as that would surely cause him to bolt for parts unknown. Annette applauded the strategy, for it was one she often employed with a restive male. When a man did not know the bent of his own mind, someone must take him in hand. The thing required some subtlety, of course, and sure knowledge of the man's particular Achilles heel, but it could be accomplished. Annette's current status as a war widow with a narrow entree into society was directly attributable to her success at leading men about by their... noses.

The one she counted as her most disappointing failure was the last to be admitted to the salon. Annette thought she had glimpsed his carriage earlier, but when he didn't arrive in a timely manner she assumed she had been mistaken. She was no longer certain that was the case as Lord Helmsley reappeared moments after. Annette immediately suspected an intrigue. Her understanding of what Eastlyn did for the government was limited by his irritating discretion, but Annette counted herself astute enough to know when something was afoot. While Eastlyn gave nothing away as to the nature of his meeting with their host, Helmsley had a certain tightness about his mouth that had not been in evidence earlier. Some might suspect he had just been snookered at cards, but Annette knew that was unlikely. She would make a point to discover more, she decided, for it was this sort of knowledge that would serve her when her fair appearance no longer could.

It was not with this in mind that she made her way to Eastlyn. She had no expectations of learning anything from him. If he could not be made to talk about his political schemes in the aftermath of lovemaking, he could not be induced to give anything over now. If she was going to learn something of import, it would have to come from Helmsley, and how that might be accomplished would require some planning. Of more significance to her now was taking advantage of this opportunity to remind Eastlyn of what he had allowed to leave his bed.

The presence of Northam's wife at this affair made the timing of Annette's approach a delicate matter. She could not expect an introduction to the countess from North. Among the very few strategic blunders she had made in the course of campaigning for protection, the earl was perhaps the most egregious example. When she had sensed that Eastlyn was distancing himself from her, months before he knew it himself, she had gone to Northam with a proposition of her own. He had been flatly disapproving as only the truly priggish could be, and Annette had too late seen her error in believing that he had expressed an interest in her. She had made an enemy there, not precisely because she had sought him out, but because she had still been attached to Eastlyn when she'd done so. It was not her boldness that made him think ill of her. It was the betrayal of his friend that he could not forgive.

Annette was certain Eastlyn knew naught of it else he would have put an immediate end to their arrangement. Northam's own code meant that he would never inform East directly of what she had done, but this did not mean she could acquit the earl of sabotage. She knew firsthand that it was possible to communicate a dislike for someone without ever once stating it in plain terms, and she came to understand that North was as skilled a player in that arena as she.

Waiting for Lady Northam to be asked to dance tried Annette's patience. It meant exchanging more inane pleasantries than she wished with Lady Macquey-Howell while her husband hovered nearby. Lady Macquey-Howell was in the middle of an interminable discourse on the merits of the new play at Drury Lane when Annette spied North's wife being escorted away by the fastidiously turned out Baron Battenburn. Annette quickly fashioned a plausible excuse for herself and inserted it when Lady Macquey-Howell paused for breath.

"H.M.S. sighted off your port stern," Southerton informed East.

The marquess did not look over his left shoulder. "How is that again?"

"Her Mistress Sawyer."

Eastlyn winced, though North and Mr. Marchman did not know whether it was because of Mrs. Sawyer's approach or South's impoverished humor. "You are certain she means to come here?" he asked.

"I, um, yes, I do believe—" South stopped midsentence and inclined his head as his gaze moved past Eastlyn. "Why, it is Mrs. Sawyer come to grace us with her singular beauty, and how fine she is looking this evening. May I say that emerald is a particularly flattering color?" He stepped forward to take her gloved hand and raise it to his lips. "Will you take a turn with me in the dance?"

Annette did not betray her annoyance. Now that she was here, she would not be so easily removed from Eastlyn's side. "Perhaps another time," she said pleasantly. "Although I believe Lady Powell would welcome your attentions."

Southerton's eyes darted to where Grace Powell was deep in conversation with the baroness. It did not appear that his presence was missed in the least. "She is satisfied, I believe, to exchange the latest
on dit
with her friend."

"As you are with yours, no doubt."

"Precisely."

Annette smiled coolly at Northam, then Mr. Marchman, and felt herself flushing slightly when Eastlyn still did not turn in her direction and address her. A cut direct from him would do serious harm to her reputation. The ton knew she no longer enjoyed his protection, but that signified nothing in its own right. Arrangements of the sort she had had with him were changed all the time, and often as not the partings were amicable and did not arouse comment. Such had been the case when she broke it off with Eastlyn, though it was not accomplished without some attention on her part. East was, after all, a marquess, and the fact that she was immediately set up by a peer with a lesser title and a fraction of the wealth seemed to fly in the face of how things should be done. But for Eastlyn's innate decency, it might have looked for all the world as if she had been the one sent packing. He had allowed her to keep her pride intact by letting it be known that she had left him. It was perfectly true, of course, but that had never influenced rumor before and would not have done so now without his help. He had also perpetuated the notion of his own heartbreak by not taking another mistress.

Annette had never made a misstep by depending on East's good manners. She fought off her inclination to panic that this was not the case now.

Eastlyn turned slowly and made a polite bow. "Mrs. Sawyer."

"M'lord." She lowered her eyelashes in faint acknowledgment of his greeting and felt her breathing ease. "You have scarce been in attendance at any functions this month past. I have come to inquire as to the state of your health."

"I am well, thank you." There was an awkward pause as he steeled himself to return the amenity. "And you?"

"I enjoy very good health," she said. "It is the daily ride in the park, I think, that helps. It is my opinion that taking a turn in the fresh air promotes one's constitution."