All I Ever Needed (23 page)

It was true, after a fashion. From the outset she had had no influence on her cousin's manner of tending to the estate. He placed his trust in Mr. Piggins, who was no less inadequately skilled to his position of manager than Mr. Beadle had been before him. She had no one but herself to blame for Mr. Beadle, for she had hired him soon after her father had been confined to his bed. She knew she had been slow to understand what damage had been done by her poor choice and her own neglect of the estate's affairs. She also never offered the steady decline of her father as an excuse for her misjudgment and lack of attention. If the tenants understood that she was trying to make amends now, it was never mentioned aloud.

It was Sophie's opinion that her efforts thus far had been largely ineffective and the tenants were right to greet her overtures with reservations, if not outright suspicion. They were entitled to that stance until she could prove to them, and to herself, that she was not so impotent as she seemed.

To that end, when she returned to the manor she raided the larder for foodstuffs, the infirmary for medicines, and the linen cupboards for sheets and blankets. This was not done without the assistance of certain trusted house servants, including the housekeeper, cook, and first butler, for there were inventories to be kept and appropriate adjustments to be made. The fact that Mr. Piggins was a thief himself was both a hindrance and a boon to Sophie's plans. She had to be more clever than he was since he oversaw the household accounts, but it was also quite possible that Tremont would eventually find Piggins out and dismiss him for his spurious recordkeeping.

The items she collected were carefully carried off to the stable where they were stored in the tack room with the permission of the head groom. It was not only a measure of how much Tremont was disrespected and Mr. Piggins was despised that Sophie was able to enlist the aid of the servants. She had long ago been taken under their wing. Her upbringing had occurred as much belowstairs as above it. A succession of governesses and tutors had not been able to keep her out of the larder and lamp room and laundry. She was as familiar with the kitchen at Tremont Park as she was with the library, and she knew the location of the basil leaves and mint in the same way she knew where to find Blake's
Songs of Experience.

Sophie was returning to the house from the stable when Eastlyn confronted her on the same path. "Is Tremont not yet about?" she asked by way of greeting.

"He is still unwell," Eastlyn said. "And means to stay abed for the remainder of the day. That leaves me at sixes and sevens. I wonder if I might press you to accompany me on a tour of the Park?"

"Tremont is not unwell," she said. "Or at least not so unwell that he cannot be a more genial host. It is yet another attempt to make us companions."

"That also occurred to me, but I believe I can moderate this urge I have to seduce you. Can you say the same?"

Sophie stared at him for a long moment. "You are given to saying the most outrageous things."

He nodded, unrepentant. "Come. I should very much like to see this lake of yours."

Raising her eyes heavenward as though in prayer, Sophie turned and fell in step with him. She tucked several windblown strands of hair under her straw bonnet and refastened the blue satin ribbon. It was not possible to be angry with him, she decided, not in any real or lasting fashion. "Are your friends as even in their temperament as you?" She glanced at him sideways and saw that he appeared much struck by her question.

"Is that what you think? That I am of an even disposition?"

"Well, yes, of course."

Eastlyn grinned. "I shall have to tell West and the others. It will amuse them, I think, for they are of another opinion entirely."

"How can that be?"

"I suppose because their experience with me is decidedly different than your own. At Hambrick Hall I was given to venting my spleen." Eastlyn remembered how South and West had been moved to keep him from throttling Annette at the Helmsley affair. "They would say that not much has been changed since those days."

Sophie couldn't imagine. She knew she had put his tolerance to the test, but he had invariably been gentle, if unconventional, in his response to her. "What did you do?"

"I fought everyone. Everyone. All the time. I should have been expelled except for the influence my mother and father brought to bear." He chuckled at her suspiciousness. "If you are thinking that influence equaled money, then you are in the right of it. Quite a lot of money, actually, because I did inflict the occasional serious injury."

"Lord Northam?" she asked. "He has had his nose broken, I believe."

"I cannot take credit there. That was West."

They reached the stable, and Sophie asked for their horses to be made ready for them. In deference to her attire, she was forced to use a lady's saddle. While Eastlyn looked on, she made a point of apologizing to Apollo for the inconvenience of carrying her in such a manner.

"He would not mind so terribly," she told East, "if I were more skilled. It is a sad truth that I am not. I hope you are only in want of a tour, as you said, and not another race."

Eastlyn assured her that he was not eager to be soundly beaten again, and before she knew what he was about, he had his hands neatly fitted to her waist and was lifting her onto the back of her horse. She was very nearly insubstantial in his hold, so effortlessly was she lifted onto the saddle. East suspected it was not solely the presence of an interested pair of grooms that kept Sophie from taking him to task. It seemed to him that he caught her so completely off guard that she was without words at the ready. She looked eminently kissable in her surprise, and he was immediately sorry he had put her outside of the reach of his mouth.

She made it easy to forget all the reasons why kissing her was not a good idea.

They rode away from the stable in silence until Eastlyn broke it with his refusal to apologize. "I am not sorry, Sophie, so there is no point in entertaining thoughts that I will say I am."

Sophie looked over at him, amused. "I was not in expectation of an apology," she said. "Indeed, I should be insulted if you delivered one. I was enjoying the quiet of the Park, not withholding conversation."

Eastlyn marveled anew at her ability to put him so firmly in his place. He was very nearly insubstantial in
her
hands, he decided, and when that thought made him grin he had enough sense left to make himself appear abashed.

"Why did you fight?" Sophie asked, ignoring his smile and whatever foolish notion that had prompted it. "At Hambrick, I mean."

So they were back to that. Eastlyn wished that he had not mentioned Hambrick. He should not have been so quick to correct her impression that he was evenly tempered. He told her, "For all the usual reasons schoolboys fight, I suppose."

She offered a single raised eyebrow as proof that she was not satisfied with his answer.

"Very well," Eastlyn said. "Sometimes it is a matter of defending one's honor, or that of a family member or a friend. There are slights, both real and imagined, that must be attended. There are accusations and rumors and sly games of the kind that boys like to get up to. At Hambrick there was also the Society of Bishops."

"The Society of Bishops?"

"A means of organizing cruelty."

Sophie glanced sideways at Eastlyn. He was staring straight ahead, and in profile he looked as if he were cut from stone. "Did you want to be a member of the Society?"

Eastlyn smiled a little then. "No. Never. They were adversaries from the first day."

"And your friends? Was it the same for them?"

"They weren't my friends until later. In the beginning we each made our stand alone." Eastlyn slowed Tempest to a walk as they reached the wood. The trees grew close together, and he judged they would have to proceed single file along the narrow path made by Sophie and Apollo's successive visits to the pond. He waited for Sophie to move ahead and permit her mount to lead the way.

"Then it was your mutual dislike of the Society that brought you and the others together?" she asked.

"No. Not at all." He regarded her with a slight frown between his eyebrows. "What is your interest in the Compass Club?" East saw his question did nothing to temper her curiosity, and he anticipated where she would go next. "It is the name we eventually gave ourselves. West's idea. Northam. Southerton. Eastlyn. You see how well it fit. We swore ourselves enemies of the Bishops. It was all dramatically accomplished."

"Blood oaths?"

"No, more's the pity. North had no stomach for bloodshed. South either, now that I think on it."

Sophie laughed. Eastlyn sounded so young just then that she could easily imagine him pressing his friends to open a vein to seal their alliance. She gave Apollo a kick and started him along the path. The air grew immediately cooler in the deep shade of the tall pines, and Sophie raised her shawl so that it covered her shoulders. The thick bed of pine needles under them dampened the sound of their horses' hooves, making conversation with Eastlyn easy to continue. "If it was not the Society that effectively brought you together," she asked, "was it the nature of your names? Though I confess, I do not understand about Mr. Marchman."

"It was not our names. There was not a title among us when West made his observation. It was his contention that we might all inherit one day if only enough people were to conveniently pass on before us." Eastlyn did not miss Sophie's perfect astonishment at this ghoulish revelation. For a moment he thought she would unseat herself. He shrugged a trifle sheepishly when her head swiveled around so that she might stare at him. "Boys must find something to talk about," he said by way of explanation. "It was all very innocent, you understand. West only meant to make a point. No one among us considered ways to bring the thing about. Well, perhaps West did contemplate murder, but he never acted toward that end. His father is still very much among the living, and there is a brother, a legitimate son of the duke, who will inherit first."

"Then Mr. Marchman is a bastard?"

"Yes, but he allowed us to be his friends anyway."

When Sophie turned away to regard the path, she was smiling at Eastlyn's easy defense of his friend and his friendship. She suspected it was always thus with them, that they would rally in the face of any threat. "Your lordship is fortunate, I think, to still have such friends as you made in your youth."

"East," he said. "I wish that you would call me East. And, yes, I am fortunate." As they broke through the trees, Eastlyn came abreast of Sophie. "Your friends have all scattered?"

"No," she said. "They still live at the Park."

Eastlyn did not immediately give chase when Sophie allowed Apollo to break into a hard gallop. Instead, he removed his polished beaver hat from his head and raked his thick hair with his fingers. He was sufficiently struck by what Sophie had revealed to him that he addressed his mount. "What do you make of that? She counts the servants as her friends." Eastlyn gave Tempest a smart smack on the rump with his hat and let the thoroughbred fly. Clods of rich earth were dislodged behind them as Tempest raced across the open field. They caught Sophie and Apollo some thirty yards before they reached the lake and passed them in time to skirt the water's edge.

Sophie dismounted without assistance and let Apollo wander away. Eastlyn stayed in his seat for a time, surveying the length and breadth of his surroundings from the vantage of this higher perch. The late afternoon sunshine glanced off the smooth surface of the lake, reflecting ribbons of gold and orange light across the top. A family of ducks, disturbed by the intrusion of horses and riders, wandered off into the high grass. Their departure rippled the water so that the mirrored light shifted and sparkled. In the distance the fields were laid out in a patchwork pattern so neatly defined they might have been the work of seamstresses rather than farm laborers. Behind them, Eastlyn noted, the stand of trees was not so tall as to entirely block the view of the manor's roof and uppermost turrets.

"I suppose Tremont can see us from the house," Eastlyn said, dropping to the ground beside Sophie. She had already removed her shoes and stockings and was raising her muslin gown to a modest level just below her knees. He dragged his eyes away from her small bare feet as she lowered them into the water. "Do you think he will trust his own eyes or make use of a spyglass?"

"Neither," Sophie said, kicking up a spray of water. "He will not rouse himself. It is Mr. Piggins that you should be looking for. That is Tremont's spy."

"Piggins? The estate manager, you mean? I believe I surprised him in the gallery after breakfast. A rather curious looking individual and unfortunately named, I think. Stooped shouldered and round of face. His nose even turns up in a most awkwardly familiar manner. It rather invites comparison to the animal, does it not?"

"That is very bad of you," she said, casting East a sideways glance. "He cannot help how he has grown into his name. I have no liking for the man, but it is his disposition I find offensive."

Eastlyn drew his legs toward him tailor fashion. "You are right, of course, though I have often observed that appearance is the thing by which we are first judged."

"I do not disagree, but we would be poor sorts of creatures if we made no further inquiries into the qualities that distinguish a person's character."