Lady Sophia's Rescue (Traditional Regency Romance) (2 page)

More than once during the miserable trek Sophia had asked herself if she would have gone out Lord Finkel’s window had she known that she would have to brave so savage a storm. No sooner had they cleared Upton Manor than thunder began to rumble and prodigious amounts of rain started to pound down on them. Her merino cape was of little protection against the deluge. Indeed, not even the linen shift closest to her body remained dry. Her wet boots rubbed big, raw blisters on her feet. And she had never been so cold in her entire life. Despite all the physical discomforts, though, she thought she would rather be traipsing through a blizzard than be in Lord Finkel’s bed — beneath him.

Voices filled the livery stable, and the inn yard was crammed with conveyances. It was just her luck that on the night she fled Finkie’s bed the tiny village of Shelton had become a Mecca for aborted London-bound travelers. Before she and Dottie ever proceeded through the aged timber door of the Prickly Pig she knew there would not be an available room.

She only hoped they could find a dry spot to wait for the morning post chaise -- if the innkeeper did not toss out the pair of bedraggled women. She clutched Dottie’s bony forearm. “Remember, you are not to speak.” Then she threw open the door.

The blazing fire that warmed the room was a far more welcome sight than the forty or more persons — all men and all gaping at her — who crammed into the small chamber.

She flipped off the hood of her cape and held her head high as she regally strode to an aproned man who looked as if he could be the innkeeper. “My sister and I should like chambers,” she said.

Roars of laughter greeted her words. Her first thought was that everyone knew Dottie was not her sister, then she realized they could not possibly know such a thing. Therefore, they must be laughing at the improbability of her securing a room on such a night as this.

“I’m sorry, madam. We’re full up tonight,” the man said in a kindly voice. He no doubt took pity on the deranged woman who stood before him soaked from head to toe.

She sighed. “If you could just secure a dry corner for us to wait until the morning post chaise . . .”

The innkeeper shrugged. “I’m sorry, miss, but this taproom’s the only place.”

She favored him with a radiant smile. Since she had left the school room (long ago) she had discovered that a smile from Lady Sophia Devere was as treasured by men as a gift of shiny guineas. As she stood there smiling insipidly, her gaze flicked to the jagged tears in her costly cape and to the mud-encrusted boots. She ran a hand through her dark locks. It was rather like petting a wet duck. How perfectly UNappealing she must look! Even if she was flashing her best smile. Heaven help her if he took her for a doxie.

“I’ll see if I can find two more chairs,” he said, disappearing behind a swinging door.

She drew a sigh of relief that he’d not thought her a loose woman.

A moment later he returned with a spindleless chair in each hand. “I’ll sit you ladies in the corner and bring you some ’ot tea.”

“We would be ever so grateful,” Sophia said.

During the next hour as she sat there unable to talk to Dottie because of Dottie’s orders not to reply, Lady Sophia took the opportunity to observe the drunken men who surrounded them. They must be servants of the persons of quality who no doubt were fast asleep in comfortable beds upstairs. Though she was seven and twenty years of age and considered herself a woman of the world, Sophia had never before been in a room full of low-born men.

At the very instant she came to that realization, an exceedingly well dressed man came striding into the taproom, with an older, less elegantly dressed man tagging behind him. No doubt, his valet. He tossed off his dripping great coat, handed it to the man on his heels, and scanned the room, his gaze flitting past Sophia before he made eye contact with the innkeeper and began to address him.

The room was so noisy Sophia could not hear what the man said, but she could not seem to remove her gaze from him. Without the enormous coat, he was uncommonly handsome. Though he was a gentleman from his starchy cravat to the tip of his shiny Hessians (which, unlike Sophia’s boots, were NOT muddy), there was a ruggedness about him. She could see him striding the bow of a pirate ship with broadsword in hand, his golden hair waving in the breeze, his exceedingly wide shoulders straining against a creamy linen shirt. His skin glowed with a healthy summer-like tan despite that it was the dead of winter.

She watched as the innkeeper solemnly shook his head, and the handsome newcomer nodded. A moment later, still standing at the bar, he tossed down a bumper of ale.

To keep from staring at the handsome man, she lifted the curtain to peer out the window. Her heart nearly exploded at what she saw. Two men whose Finkel livery showed beneath their gaping coats were handing their horses to an ostler. “Come, Dottie, quickly,” she commanded as she whipped out of her chair and strode to the bar to stand beside the Adonis. “I’ve been searching for you, sir,” she said boldly to the well dressed man.

He set down his drink and turned to regard her. She was careful to keep her back to the door while yanking Dottie’s arm so that she would do the same. Remembering her torn clothing, she prayed he would not mistake her for a trollop.

His very green eyes raked over her, and it was a moment before he replied. “Then you must be Isadore.”

It was several seconds before she found her voice. “Indeed I am, and this is my elder sister, Dorothea, who is a mute.”

She prayed Isadore was NOT a trollop.

Chapter 2

Though the two ladies did not resemble each other at all, William could more easily have believed the mute to be mother rather than sister to Isadore, whom he judged to be five and twenty years of age. At first he had not noticed the younger woman’s beauty behind the ragged clothing and disheveled hair. It wasn’t until she stood before him, speaking in her cultured voice, that he really looked at her and discovered the lovely face peeking out from the soggy mass of dark hair. His penetrating gaze took in her creamy skin, teeth that were as even and white as a blanket of snow, and huge chocolate eyes that were fringed with long, dark lashes. The woman was remarkably pretty.

For two weeks now he had been expecting to cross paths with the lovely Isadore but never imagined they would meet on a frigid night in a village far removed from London, a village whose name he could not even recall. Yet the moment he realized how startlingly beautiful this woman was, he was certain he had finally met Isadore.

Then he doubted himself. How could she possibly have known he’d be forced to stop in this wretched village because of a tumultuous rain storm? Of course, were it not raining, he would likely have needed to change horses here. She must have known this. She might even have been following him.

He was in a quandary as to what to expect now. Surely she did not have the bullion with her. And surely her frail looking sister was unaware of Isadore’s dealings with smugglers. He would have to wait until she brought up the delicate subject.

“Would that I could offer you ladies a private parlor, but that is impossible tonight,” he said.

“As we have already discovered, sir,” Isadore answered.

“There just might be a way . . .” he began. “If you ladies will pardon me. . .” He bent to whisper in his valet’s ear, and the man departed. A moment later, Thompson returned, smiling.

“If you ladies would be so kind as to come with us,” William said, striding toward his servant. “I believe my man has been able to
persuade
the inn’s proprietor to part with his private chambers for a few hours.”

“We’ll need to fetch our valises,” Isadore said, giving him a pleading look with those large, sultry eyes of hers.

William nodded at Thompson.

“Allow me to retrieve them, ladies,” the valet said.

Turning her face only slightly, Isadore directed him to the corner where two valises reposed in a wet puddle. “You are ever so kind,” she told Thompson.

A man would go to great lengths to warrant such praise. William could not tear his gaze from the lovely lady, especially since she had turned her head so stiffly. Was there something wrong with her? At least there was nothing wrong with her mind. This woman certainly had learned how and when to use her not-insignificant beauty to get exactly what she wanted from men. Is that how she had acquired the bullion?

As they strolled into the rooms located behind the kitchen, the innkeeper apologized profusely for the untidiness of his private chambers which consisted of a small, firelit parlor and an adjoining bedchamber.

“It is of no significance,” William said, eying the cluttered table tops and the rumpled bed in the next room. “I merely wished to provide a private, dry place for my . . . sisters, to change into dry attire, and perhaps get a bit of sleep. Clean linens are all that’s required.”

While a plump woman made the bed, he directed his attention to Isadore. “Do you have everything you will need?”

Her gaze flicked to the saturated valises. “I fear all our clothing is damp, but I shall be very glad to be out of these clothes and am ever so grateful to you.”

“Then I will leave you ladies now,” he said, “but I’ll return in half an hour to see if I can be of any further service.”

Those long lashes of hers dipped seductively. “You’ve been enormously helpful.”

When he and Thompson returned thirty minutes later, he momentarily thought he’d come to the wrong room. Not only had it been miraculously tidied, but all the furnishings had been rearranged. Seating surfaces that had once faced the fireplace were now turned away from it, presumably to shield their occupants’ vision away from the assortment of feminine garments that hung on racks strewn before the fire.

Isadore herself looked vastly different. Her mahogany colored hair--now completely dry--was arranged in a stylish Grecian sweep, and she had donned a sapphire gown that, while wrinkled and damp, was of very fine quality. And she freely moved her person and her head, dispelling his earlier suspicion that something was wrong with her.

MacIver’s description did not do the woman justice. She was stunning.

In half an hour she had transformed from a shadowy figure of dubious repute into something of a well-born lady. Not, of course, that Isadore could precisely be a lady. Ladies did not secure gold bullion from smugglers.

She was more of an enigma than ever. Her gown and hairstyle indicated that she moved in fashionable circles, yet she had obviously taken charge of housekeeping and hair-arranging chores that were normally executed by a maid. Beauty notwithstanding, Isadore was resourceful, tidy, not without modesty, and was somewhat well bred. So why in the devil was she brokering gold bullion?

Even if she had mastered the use of sultry glances and purring voice to get what she wanted from men, William could not dislike her. “Should you ladies care for something to eat? Or drink?” he asked.

“We’re fine,” Isadore said. “Please, sir, come in and sit upon the sofa.”

“Only for a moment. You ladies need to try to get some sleep before daylight.” He and Thompson crossed the wooden floor and dropped onto sofa cushions that were flattened by many years of use. The sisters might be “fine” now, but he would wager this had been a difficult night for them. “Have you ladies been in Shelton long?” He had finally learned the name of this village whose only reason for existence had to be to provide food, drink, and fresh horses for northern-bound travelers.

“An hour or so before you,” Isadore said with a shrug. “We met with a bit of misfortune.”

Good lord! Had highwaymen stolen the bullion? His brows lowered. “What kind of misfortune?”

Her lashes whisked against her cheeks. “We were forced to walk here after . . .”

Dear god, highwaymen
had
taken the bullion!

“. . . after the gentleman we were riding with tried to take certain liberties.”

Dorothea’s eyes rounded, and she nodded in confirmation.

A lovely woman like Isadore had likely spent many a year fighting off men’s advances. He pitied the sister whose misfortunes were even more cruel when contrasted with her fortunate sibling. “Then you must allow me to escort you ladies to your destination,” he said.

Isadore bestowed a lovely smile upon him. “That would be exceedingly kind of you.”

“Your destination is?” he asked.

“The same place as yours, I believe.”

“London?”

She nodded.

William’s gaze circled the gathering. “I should like to present my valet to you ladies. Thompson is a devilishly handy man to have about.”

Thompson did not meet the ladies’ gazes when he answered. “You mustn’t believe everything Mr. Birmingham says.”

“You’re much too modest,” Isadore told the valet. “You were most resourceful in procuring our rooms.” Then she gave William a knowing smile.

He wished like the devil she wouldn’t smile like that at him. Made it difficult to remember what he was going to say. And there were several matters he had wished to bring up. He cleared his throat. “I feel deuced awkward calling you ladies by your Christian names.”

Isadore gave him a blank stare.

“You are possessed of a surname?” he asked.

She favored him with a fetching smile. “Of course.”

Well?
It was too much to hope that her intelligence matched her considerable beauty. “Your surname is?”

“It’s a frightfully silly name, if you must know,” she finally said, flicking her gaze to her mute sister, who nodded.

He eyed them with skepticism. “I can’t believe anything about you ladies could be silly.”

“We’re Doors.”

His brows lowered over suddenly narrowed eyes.
Imbeciles more likely.

“Dorothea Door and Isadore Door. You see, I told you our names are silly.”

Their parents were either mentally deficient or possessed of a wicked sense of humor, but a gentleman could hardly give voice to such suspicions. He racked his brain for something complimentary to say. “There’s a certain . . . alliteration about the names.”

“Indeed there is. Our brother is Dorian.”

Dorian Door? Poor fellow
. Exceedingly wicked of the parents. Will stood. “We will leave you ladies. Hopefully, you can get a few hours of rest before we push off in the morning.”

Isadore rose. “It’s beastly unfair that we shall lie upon a cozy bed while you gentleman are forced to remain in the taproom.”

“Don’t spare another thought on us. I slept an inordinate amount at my sister’s in the north,” William said, “and am happy to engage in some camaraderie with other men.”

* * *

As exhausted as she had been the previous night/morning, Sophia awakened as the first light of dawn streamed through the window. How odd it seemed to be lying next to her maid. Though she had seen Dottie nearly every day of her life, treating her as an equal was a novel experience. Sophia shifted her weight to the elbow closest to Dottie, looked down at the still-sleeping woman, and nudged her.

Dottie bolted up. “Dear me! ’Tis daylight. We must be getting dressed for the day.” Not accustomed to lying about in the mornings, the maid tossed off the covers, strode straight to the chimney, and began to stoke the fire. After it was going she carefully dislodged their clothing from the drying racks. “A pity ye can’t wear this black silk no more. ’Twas that wretched yew tree that ruined yer gown.” She gathered up Sophia’s shift, stays, and stockings and brought them to her mistress.

“Don’t fuss over me,” Sophia said. “You need to get yourself dressed. I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.”

Dottie snorted. “I hope the ’andsome man don’t think I’m too high in the instep.”

“I doubt Mr. Birmingham has given you a thought,” Sophia said, instantly ashamed of herself for her wicked snobbishness.

“Not that one! Mr. Thompson.”

Mr. Thompson? Oh, yes, Sophia realized. The valet. This unplanned journey of hers was giving a fresh skew to her lifetime of disinterest in servants. She not only treated her maid like a family member, but she had also shared a room with a gentleman’s valet. Were she pressed to do so, though, Sophia did not believe she could actually recognize Thompson were she to see him on a street.

How could anyone notice the elder man when his master was so exceedingly handsome?

She wiggled from beneath the covers, dangled her feet over the side of the bed, and began to don her woolen stockings. Visions of Mr. Birmingham clouded her thinking. Thank goodness she had finally learned his name. She had begun to despair that his valet would never address his master by his given name. If she--or that blasted Isadore--had some connection to the man, she really ought to know his name. And it would help to know the man’s connection to Isadore.

Who in the devil was Isadore? Were she a doxy, he would have shared the bedchamber. The very thought of lying naked beside Mr. Birmingham’s ruggedly muscled body made her throb in places that were prudently ignored during waking hours.

Finkie had certainly never been able to tap into them.

Why was it she had never met Mr. Birmingham before? He was a gentleman, and judging from the obviously hefty bribe he’d offered the innkeeper, Mr. Birmingham not only was possessed of very deep pockets, but was also used to getting whatever he wanted.

She tried to remember if she had ever known of an exceedingly wealthy Mr. Birmingham and suddenly realized she
had
. Nicholas Birmingham, who had won Lady Fiona Hollingsworth’s hand in marriage. It was said the Birmingham Cits were the wealthiest family in England. But this man could not belong to that family. Nicholas Birmingham, who was sinfully handsome himself, looked nothing like this Mr. Birmingham. Nicholas was quite tall, quite lean, and quite dark. This Mr. Birmingham’s height was only average. He was NOT lean. And he was not dark. Except for the tan.

“Ye can’t believe how ’ard it is not to be able to talk,” Dottie said. She had retired to a corner of the room to change into one of Sophia’s old dresses. It was really rather fortuitous that they were the same size, given the fact they shared no other resemblance besides their height, which was perfectly average. Where Sophia was generously curved, Dottie was as straight as a poker.

Sophia tossed a glance her way. “I’m very proud of you. I know it cannot be easy.”

“Can mute people laugh?”

“I don’t believe so. Why?”

“I almost burst out laughing when ye said we was the Doors.”

Sophia shook her head remorsefully. “It was the best I could come up with. I’m not especially good at thinking on my feet, so to speak.”