Seducing Mr. Heywood (14 page)

Sophia accepted the gracious compliment, and incredulously heard herself saying, “They must come to visit me again. We shall go through my wardrobe and play at dressing up. Do you think they would like that?”

Katherine stammered, “That would be extraordinarily kind of you!”

Sophia smiled. She liked this woman. “Not kind at all. We are neighbors, and we should endeavor to know each other better.” She patted Katherine’s hand as they arrived at the nursery door to greet the delighted young faces of Drusilla and Annabelle. Faces, Sophia noted, that were not at all spotty. Why had she ever thought so?

The meal was uneventful. The Ramsbothams set a good table, but Sophia began to appreciate the culinary artistry of Mrs. Mathew even more, in comparison. She was seated between the vicar and Lord Brent and was enjoying herself thoroughly. She purposely ignored both men throughout dinner, flirting outrageously with the gentleman seated across from her, an elderly knight whose property adjoined that of the Ramsbothams.

Sophia found Sir Peregrine Bartlett delightful and full of charm, while enjoying the inability of either Brent or Mr. Heywood to insert many words into the animated conversation. What made it more difficult was that she and Sir Peregrine conversed fluently in French, a language Charles barely knew and one that Brent only thought he knew; that gentleman’s French was execrable! Neither man could join in their lively conversation, and the frustrated looks on their faces were priceless. Was she terribly rude? Ah, but she was having such fun!

Charles surveyed the remarkable lady over the rim of his wineglass. Greek, Latin, and now French! Lady Sophia’s old governess had to have been a remarkable teacher—and Sophia an outstanding pupil—for the woman to be so well versed in languages ancient and modern. The gossips and rumormongers did not give her enough credit, that was certain, and Charles was beginning to realize it more and more. Someday he must ask her about that amazing woman, the governess who had mysteriously disappeared on the eve of Sophia’s first marriage.

The Earl of Dunhaven was not ill. He had feigned the headache to create an opportunity to visit the Cock and Bull in Roslyn Town, to scour the environs of that isolated inn for whatever scum, highwaymen, or robbers might be skulking about. A long-brewing plan was about to be hatched; he was determined to do away with Sophia’s children, the heirs to the Rowley fortune. With his grandsons removed, every bit of old George’s wealth would immediately be Sophia’s. From there, he would maneuver his daughter into a liaison with his easily manipulated protégé, Brent, and all the money would then flow directly into the earl’s coffers.

Dunhaven had scoffed at the nonsense the younger man had spewed several nights before, claiming that Sophia and the vicar of St. Mortrud’s had a
tendre
for each other.
Tendre
, indeed! The parson was after her wealth;
it was as simple as that. The earl knew that the priest was like any other man as regarded the widow’s fortune. Worse! Country parsons’ pockets were perpetually to let.

A casual word to the landlord, greased with a few coppers, brought two rough-looking specimens of rural manhood to the table. The landlord had asked no questions; noblemen’s foibles were none of his business. Safer that way. The earl appraised the men.

“I require some assistance,” he began, clarifying his needs to the scruffy duo, “for which I will pay well.” The earl found it distasteful to be in the same room with these ruffians, who reeked of the stableyard. He did not ask them to sit but rather kept them standing, attending carefully to his every low-pitched word.

The older of the two, a scarred man whose wild hair called out for the services of a barber, nodded. “A bit o’ highway robbery, milord?”

“Exactly…and a bit more,” Dunhaven answered, miming the cocking and firing of a pistol.

The younger fellow shuffled his feet, clearly uneasy, but the older man silenced any objections with a quelling glare. “Yes, milord, we gets ye.”

Dunhaven nodded. “Be sure that you do. I do not want this matter botched.” He threw a small leather bag at the ruffian, who caught it adroitly. “Make sure your firearms are primed and ready.” The earl rose to leave. “I will leave word with the landlord when I’ll return to give you further instructions. You will earn twice what is in there”—he indicated the money sack—“when this deed is brought to a satisfactory conclusion.”

“Ye can trust us, milord,” the older man averred.

“Why, sir”—Dunhaven smiled, his lips curled in menace—“it is not a matter of trust, is it, now? If you are not here, I will hunt you both down and shoot you myself.” He brushed the dust from his trousers, a sneer fixed on his face.

Though his facial expression did not reveal his feelings, he was elated. The rough pair would not disappoint him; he had dealt with their kind before. Hired assassins were all greedy, and cowards, to boot. The deed was good as
done. He resisted an urge to rub his gloved hands in glee as he quit the tavern.

Lord Brent was determined to have a few private words with Lady Sophia. She’d ignored him in the carriage ride to the Ramsbothams, preferring to chat with her maid instead. That, and the earlier undignified scene outside her boudoir had given him the strong impression that she was uninterested in him. Or, was it simply her particular brand of teasing? The lady was a puzzle. Brent did not enjoy puzzles; he was a straightforward man.

“My lady,” he greeted Sophia in the morning room, where she was drinking a cup of tea. The remains of her breakfast, a hearty one, from all appearances, sat on the table in front of her.

Lady Sophia regarded him rather coolly, he thought, as she raised her eyes. Undaunted, he plunged ahead. “May I sit down?”

She gave a regal nod of her head and continued to sip her tea.

“I fear that we may have started off on the wrong foot, my lady,” Brent began, hesitant.

“Really, sir? And what foot is that, pray tell?” she drawled.

Brent was momentarily taken aback. “’Tis but a figure of speech, my lady—”

Lady Sophia placed her teacup very carefully on its saucer and pushed it away. She sat forward, elbows on table, hands under her chin, and looked him up and down. “I am not interested in figures of speech this morning, my lord. I have many duties I must perform before the day is done. If you have anything to say that you believe I should hear, pray continue. But please do not go on at length.”

“Is my presence so unwelcome, Lady Rowley?” he asked, his lips stiff.

Sophia rolled her eyes upward, toward the decorated plaster ceiling, and sighed. “Your presence, sir, is tolerated, but you and my father were not invited guests. I
do not believe I am under any obligation to entertain you or your figures of speech.”

How rude she was, Brent thought. She had the right of it, though. The Earl of Dunhaven was
persona non grata
to his daughter, and he, riding on the earl’s coat tails, must be equally so. “My lady, I regret this intrusion upon your privacy more than you could possibly imagine.”

She raised a dark blond eyebrow, an imperious gesture so like her father’s that it nearly discomposed him.

“As I have said before, I wish we had met in happier circumstances—”

“What leads you to think, sir, that I would have found that hypothetical meeting with you more pleasurable than this one has been?”

“My lady,” he raced ahead, recklessly, “I cannot believe you find me unattractive.”

Sophia sat for a moment as if stunned, then she threw her head back and laughed, long and hard.

Brent was humiliated. “My lady—”

She was gasping for breath; there were tears in her eyes. “Shush, my lord, shush,” she admonished him. “This is…too…much!”

Brent’s eyes narrowed. The lady was more than rude. A number of phrases he could employ to better describe her behavior ran through his mind, but he resisted the impulse to articulate them. He was a gentleman, after all. He stood, preparing to leave.

“Sit down, sir, sit down!” she ordered him.

Surprised at her commanding tone, he acquiesced. Though not used to taking a woman’s orders, it was a possibility he could learn to like it if the woman ordering him about were Lady Sophia.

She leaned forward, moving the plates before her to one side, and fixed him with a direct look. “Sir, my father has put you up to this, has he not? He has dangled me in front of you as a lascivious woman who must have a man, a desperate woman who cannot live without a lover, a pitiful widow only too eager to grant a virile companion access to her late husband’s fortune. That is so, is it not?”

Brent felt his face flame. “My lady, I find you very attractive—”

Sophia dismissed his comments with a wave of her hand. “Pshaw, Brent, everyone finds me attractive…and rich! You know nothing of me, nothing of who I am.”

Brent swallowed. “That is true, my lady, I know nothing of you, save your reputation—”

Sophia’s eyes hardened into blue stone and she regarded him with a flat glare. “My reputation always precedes me, sir, but it is not an accurate representation of my true self.”

“You are more than I expected, to be sure. Your father did lead me to believe that you would not be averse to my attentions.”

“He was incorrect, sir,” Sophia interrupted him.

Brent leaned back in his chair. He regarded Sophia with a speculative look, his hands dropping to his lap. “So you are in love with the vicar, then.”

Sophia stared. He had rendered her speechless.
I am right
, Brent thought.
Alas, the vicar has captured her heart. Ah, well, bad luck.
It was truly time to depart, then, to leave Rowley Hall, with or without the Earl of Dunhaven. Brent had had enough of that crude fellow. He hoped that Sophia could deal with her father before he did her some harm; he was suddenly concerned for her well-being.

“Well, my lady, it has been a pleasure meeting you. I will depart before nightfall.” He rose, sketched a bow and turned to leave her.

“Brent—” she stopped him with her next words. “Do not go…yet.”

She had been rude, and the young nobleman did not deserve it. Her father had put him up to his suit. The earl was negotiating her fourth marriage.
Bloody hell!
Not if she had anything to say about it, and she did. She was no longer a frightened fifteen-year-old virgin, nor the hardened sixteen-year-old bride. She had lost the protection of her third husband, George Rowley, who,
she realized too late, had been a saint. He alone had saved her from her father, who was back in her life only because George was now absent from it. He thought he could bully her into another marriage, a marriage in which he stood to gain financially, as he had from all those before this.

No, not this time!

But she should not take out her anger on this young man, who did not know her history and surely could not truly know her father or what he was capable of doing.

It was time that he knew the truth about Tom Eliot, the Earl of Dunhaven.

“My Lord Brent,” Sophia began, “I apologize if I have seemed rude. I was never so as a child—my governess saw to it that I had fine, polite manners—but I was early put into the company of men who were coarse and wicked, when I was still a young girl, and it has sadly affected me.”

Closing her eyes (Lord, she was weary!), she continued. “My father met my first husband, a vile cur named Rushton, in a brothel. He lost great sums to him playing Hazard and other games of chance. He married me off to that brute to discharge his debts, and for a large settlement. My Lord Rushton was fond of deflowering virgins, you see, and I was the kind of pure innocent he favored.”

Sophia opened her eyes; Brent looked pale. He was a kind man, she realized; but he had fallen into bad company. She would not burden him with recounting the brutality of her wedding night, when Rushton had repeatedly raped her. She had fought him each time and had borne the bruises for weeks. The new Lady Rushton never went to balls, routs, the theatre, or dinner parties, as her purpling bruises would have caused comment. When Rushton had tired of her, she was no longer the young girl from Kent who thought the world a lovely place. In the place of that girl was a creature hardened by abuse, beaten, wary of men. It was a wonder she’d survived.

“My lady, please,” Brent interrupted her, “do not pain
yourself any further by speaking of these things. I suspected—” Brent bit his lower lip. “I suspected you had been used badly by your father.”

“My father uses badly anyone who gives him a chance to do so. He has no loyalties, no heart, caring only for himself and his pleasures.”
And he tried to make me in his image
, Sophia realized with a jolt. She had become his creature, a heartless jade.

“I am beginning to put my life together, sir, the rest of my life. Rusticating in Yorkshire, though I was loath to believe it at first, has made me see what my life has been and how it must change, if I am to survive.”

Brent’s concern seemed evident in his sympathetic brown eyes. “I admire your bravery, my lady. Truly, I do. I wish you well.” He held out his hands to his hostess. “But do be careful. I fear your father plans some mischief. I worry for you, and for your boys. If I can be of any assistance—”

Sophia pushed back her chair and stood facing him. “What do you mean, sir? What has that villain told you?” Her heart beating a loud staccato in her chest, she grasped Brent’s hands and held them tight.

The door to the morning room opened to admit the Earl of Dunhaven, who looked pleased. He smiled broadly at them, rubbing his hands in delight. “Do not let me interrupt you.” He turned to the sideboard and began to help himself to breakfast, humming a popular bawdy air.