As Luck Would Have It (7 page)

It had all been very exciting, of course, but it was time to get to work. She had the space of two dances to get into and out of Lord Calmaton’s study.

Sophie excused herself to visit the ladies’ retiring room. She’d gone twice earlier in the evening, peeking into rooms and poking behind paintings in the hope she might find a hidden safe, and cautiously testing the doors along the hallway. The fourth room on the right had been locked, and Sophie hoped that meant she’d found the study.

Pausing in a darkened recess, she pulled up her skirts and retrieved a long pick from the strap around her ankle. She would have to be quick. The room was located far enough down the hall for there to be little traffic, but she had no intention of drawing attention to herself by loitering.

It took her nearly a minute to open the door. She was usually much faster, but her hands were shaking badly, and the blood pounding in her ears made it difficult to hear the clicks and taps of the inner workings of the lock.

Finally she succeeded and was thrilled to find that she had chosen the correct room. Her eyes scanned the interior. It was too dark. She crossed over to the windows and pulled back the drapes, relieved to find the moon shining brightly on her face. She quickly opened the curtains on the remaining
windows. It was still too dark for her taste, but there was enough light to keep her fear in check and for her to see what she was about.

She started with the desk. The top was littered with papers; she couldn’t possibly read them all. She fumbled through the stacks, hoping something would catch her eye. She had an absurd vision of finding some triple-sealed envelope with the word SECRET written across the front, possibly in blood.

When her search turned up nothing more nefarious than a delivery notice for some expensive jewelry to a woman who was not the viscountess, Sophie moved behind the desk and began opening the drawers. The first three held supplies, a ledger, and more paperwork detailing the running of the estate. The fourth was locked. Swearing under her breath, Sophie pulled her pick back out and went to work. This was taking too much time. The waltz was already finished and the last song well under way.

With a whispered plea to her Maker she pried the drawer open and almost groaned at the sight of more letters, but caught herself before the sound reached her throat. The letters were in French, every last one of them. She rifled through the pile anxiously. They could be anything! For the first time, Sophie was sorry she had chosen to learn Mandarin and Hindi over the much more popular French. She grabbed one of the letters and looked over the meaningless words. What if they were from a relative, or a lover? Her eyes reached the bottom of the page and she blinked in surprise. It wasn’t signed. She looked back at the others still in the drawer. None of them were signed. Surely a loved one would sign the letters.

She pocketed the paper and then, digging through the remainder, found an envelope and took that too. She hoped they were worth something. At any rate, the music was winding down and in a few minutes people would begin streaming out of the ballroom. She was out of time.

She relocked the drawer and pulled the drapes shut once again, then paused at the door to listen for footsteps in the hall. Finding everything silent, she crept out of the study, locked the door behind her, and headed straight for the ladies’ retiring room.

Six

T
he next day promised, if nothing else, to be an exceedingly busy time for Sophie. She rose early out of habit, doing her best to ignore the fact that she had gone to bed a mere four hours earlier. She washed and dressed quickly and had just enough time for breakfast before a fabricated sightseeing trip to drop off the papers she had stolen from the viscount’s study. Then on to a final fitting with the
modiste
, tea with Mirabelle Browning and her friend Lady Kate Cole, and then home to prepare for Loudor’s dinner party.

Her business with the solicitor was more quickly accomplished than Sophie had anticipated. She had rather expected to be interrogated for any additional information, or perhaps given some insight as to the content of the letter she delivered. But the solicitor, a stocky middle-aged man with a large, round nose, had simply taken the plain brown parcel in which she had wrapped her stolen goods, and made some comment on the inadvisability of a young gentlewoman visiting business offices without a proper escort.

Sophie was hard-pressed not to laugh outright at that absurdity. She was being paid to spy, steal, and commit any number of behaviors that were inadvisable for a person of any gender or social standing. She opened her mouth to relate this, then thought better of it. His expression was one of earnest concern.
Apparently, he had no idea who she was, what she was doing, or what was in the parcel. She offered him a sweet smile and the assurance that she would take all necessary precautions on her way home.

The solicitor remained standing until Sophie left. Then with a chuckle, he resumed both his seat and the glass of brandy he had stashed in his bottom desk drawer upon her arrival.

He wiped the sides of the glass and licked his fingers with a little smack. Ahhh. Thank God for honest free traders, the ones who didn’t try their hands at weapons smuggling. Setting the glass aside, he picked up the brown parcel Sophie had left and eyed it with something akin to surprised suspicion.

“Well, well, well, Calmaton. Just what have we been up to?”

He read her note first, which made him smile. Then he took a close look at the contents, and laughed like a madman.

Sophie felt uncomfortable for all of five minutes. That was, give or take thirty seconds, all the time it took for Lady Kate and Mirabelle Browning to sit her down and ply her with copious amounts of tea, biscuits, and questions about her travels.

“Did Whit and Alex really rescue you on your first day in London?” Kate asked eagerly, leaning forward in her chair.

“They certainly were of assistance,” Sophie replied.

Kate was an exceptionally beautiful girl with pale blonde hair, light blue eyes, alabaster skin, and perfect, absolutely perfect, facial features. Truly, Sophie didn’t think she had ever met someone whose face and form so well matched the current standard of beauty. It would be unnerving if the girl were not so genuinely pleasant.

Kate sighed wistfully and her face took on a dreamy expression. “That’s so romantic.” Then she frowned. “Or it would be, if it weren’t Whit and Alex. Do you have any brothers, Sophie?”

“No, I’m afraid I’ve never had that pleasure,” she replied.

“The pleasure of it is debatable. They’re unbearably meddlesome creatures, but in this case, at least, their intervention was fortunate.”

“How odd, though,” Mirabelle commented, “that your driver chose such an unusual route, and then disappeared.”

At first glance Mirabelle was a mousy little thing, lacking the shining beauty of her friend. Her brown hair was pulled back tightly and secured in an unflattering knot at the back of her head. Her dress, made of a rather shabby gray material, did little for her complexion or figure. Her features were pleasant, adequate, and in all other ways unexceptional. Until she smiled. Mirabelle’s smile reached all the way up to light her chocolate eyes, which suddenly seemed quite large and brilliant.

“He must have thought to cut some time off the trip and then panicked when his scheme turned sour,” Kate offered quietly. She appeared lost in thought as she spoke, which probably explained why she missed setting her teacup on the table by at least twelve inches.

“Oh dear.” Kate picked up the fallen cup and looked ruefully at the wet stain on the carpet. “I do so hope that will come out.”

Mirabelle patted her shoulder kindly and poured Kate another cup of tea.

Sophie couldn’t help be surprised at the girl’s calm reaction to what many would consider a major social misstep.

“You’re quite all right, aren’t you?” Sophie asked. “You’re not burned?”

Kate shook her head. “Oh no, the carpet took the worst of it. I suppose I should have warned you earlier, but I’m dreadfully clumsy. It’s become something of a family joke, only it’s not particularly funny.”

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.”

Kate quirked a little smile. “I’m positively ungainly. There’s no accounting for it and nothing to be done. I’ve caused some perfectly awful mishaps.”

Sophie laughed softly. “I know a little something about mishaps,” she told the girls. And then with a little cajoling— a
very
little—Sophie spent the remainder of the afternoon entertaining her new friends with tales from some of her more outrageous adventures.

Sophie had never felt so uncomfortable in all her life.

Last night, her gown had drawn the appraising stares of men and the covetous glances of women, but none of her other new dresses were yet completed, and Sophie felt hopelessly provincial standing next to several elegant women in one of her more rustic pieces from home.

Perhaps she was being oversensitive. Probably, she was the only one paying attention to what she was wearing. No, she knew that wasn’t true. Alex had been staring at her quite openly all evening. She felt his eyes on her even when her back was turned. It made the hair stand up on the back of her neck and all the color rise to her cheeks.

Good Lord, a bad dress and a red face. Now all she needed was to say something in truly poor taste to make the evening complete.

“I say, Miss Everton, your dress this evening is quite unlike any I’ve seen here in town. Wherever did you have it made?” Lady Wellinghoff punctuated the question with a thin smile.

“China,” Sophie replied. There was no point in lying, and she didn’t really feel like being polite to Lady Wellinghoff. The woman had insulted Mrs. Summers within minutes of arrival, commenting under her breath about the evils of overly familiar employees.

“Do you mean it? Oh, but how silly of me, of course you do. You’ve only just come to London, haven’t you? I’d forgotten. Well, the silk is lovely, dear. Tell us, how does our fair city compare to some of the more exotic locales of your experience?”

Sophie swallowed nervously. She had never been a shrinking violet, but then she had rarely been subjected to such unnerving stares. The least unpleasant of the guests were the
rather serious Colonel and Mrs. Peabody. Mr. and Mrs. Jarles were officious snobs. The Earl and Countess of Wellinghoff clearly also considered themselves superior to those of the assembly, but their disdain was of a more subtle, though no less cutting, variety. Viscount Barrows was already too drunk to be insulting; his viscountess too dim-witted to know how. Alex’s presence set her nerves on edge, and her cousin, she had recently decided, was simply an ass.

She gave the group what she hoped was a patronizing smile and said, “You must understand that cultures vary so greatly from one continent to the next, and even from country to country and city to city, that I cannot possibly compare one civilization with another in any qualitative sense, but I will say that London has been all that I expected.” She topped off her speech with a shrug that hinted at indifference.

“But surely after having spent some time in England, you cannot continue to regard your previous residences as truly civilized,” Lady Barrows whispered dramatically, as if Sophie had uttered the most shocking statement heard this last century.

Her husband just hiccupped.

“Oh, but they are,” Sophie insisted. “They—”

“But they’re heathens!” Mrs. Jarles cut in.

“True, but—”

“Some of their practices are most barbaric,” Lady Wellinghoff told the group with relish. “I have heard that in China, young women have their feet bound to keep them from growing and it makes it quite impossible for them to move more than the tiniest step at a time.”

Sophie nodded. “I agree, it’s a distasteful practice, but we British are slaves to our own fashions. I dare say none of us look overly comfortable to night in our respective bindings and tight cravats.”

Sophie’s statement was met with muted gasps from the women, while several of the gentlemen cleared their throats uncomfortably. Apparently, the mention of women’s undergarments
was not an acceptable topic of conversation at a formal dinner party. Belatedly, Sophie entertained the thought that perhaps that was why they were referred to as “unmentionables.”

Only Alex and Mrs. Summers appeared not to be shocked. He was grinning at her with unabashed amusement while she looked disgruntled but resigned.

Sophie was spared having to break the awkward silence by Mrs. Summers’ tactful change of subject. “I understand, Mrs. Peabody, you have done some extensive traveling yourself.”

“A lifetime of following the drum,” Mrs. Peabody replied to the group in general. “I’ve had the opportunity to see much more of this world than most young ladies.”

“Have you been to the Americas?” Sophie inquired, with genuine interest.

“I have,” Mrs. Peabody replied. “I lived for several years in both Boston and Philadelphia as a small child. We left some five years before that unfortunate revolution.”

“
Hmph
, and good riddance to that godless country, I say,” Mr. Jarles snorted.

Lord Barrows hiccupped and raised his glass in salute.

Sophie fought the urge to roll her eyes.

Mrs. Peabody calmly raised one eyebrow. “I presume by the strength of your opinion, Mr. Jarles, that you’ve traveled to that country yourself?”

Sophie was surprised to hear the hint of mockery in Mrs. Peabody’s voice. She had expected Mrs. Peabody to be of the same mind as the nasty Mr. Jarles.

“One doesn’t need to visit to know it’s populated with traitors and savages,” Mr. Jarles said.

“History is written by the victors,” Mrs. Peabody replied. “And according to history there are no traitors in America, only brave patriots willing to fight for what they believed in, or at the very worse, rebels who opposed a tyrannical monarch.”

“That’s treason, Mrs. Peabody.”

She appeared unmoved. “One can only commit treason against one’s own country,” she retorted calmly.