Sweet as the Devil (28 page)

Jamie sat braced against the outside carriage wall, one leg on the seat, the other on the floor, Sofia asleep in his arms. As the lighted facade of the house drew near, he bent his head and lightly kissed her forehead. “We’re here, darling.”

“So soon?” she drowsily murmured.

He smiled. He hadn’t dared move for the last two hours. “We made good time,” he politely said. “There was hardly any traffic on the roads.”

Slowly coming awake, Sofia stretched lazily. “You make a very comfortable bed in addition to all your other charming assets,” she murmured, smiling up at him. “I have a great deal to thank you for.”

“And I, you, darling. You please and delight me in countless ways.” The fact that he actually meant it he sensibly dismissed.

“I know I shouldn’t ask, but—”

“Don’t you always?” he noted with a grin.

She grinned back. “Then you won’t be surprised. Do you think we might stay here for a day or so? Surely we’re far enough off the beaten path for safety.”

“I’d rather we didn’t. Safety’s a relative term at the moment.”

She sighed. “I suppose I must be agreeable since you were so
very
agreeable to my desires. And so
very
many times.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” he silkily replied.

“Allow me to disagree.” Her voice was a low, sultry contralto. “In fact, I’ve become quite enamored of your, shall we say, virtuoso artistry.”

He laughed. “And I of your insatiable desire for cock.”

“Your
cock.”

“Better yet.” When he’d never aspired to exclusivity. Never even contemplated it. He glanced out the window as the carriage came to a stop. “Now mind your tongue,” he cautioned. “There’s nothing your parents can do to help us, so there’s no point in alarming them.” Lifting Sofia off his lap, he deposited her on the opposite seat with expeditious ease. “You’re sure now—your mother won’t find it odd that you’re accompanying me to my Scottish estate?”

Sofia grinned. “After one look at you, believe me, she’ll understand.”

“A servant’s about to open the door,” he warned, grateful not to have to respond. “Remember, the less your parents know, the better.”

The door was opened, Sofia cried, “Billy!” jumped out, and hugged the footman as Jamie stepped out behind her. Within moments they were literally welcomed with open arms by her parents, Amelia and Ben, and a great number of people who poured out of the house onto the drive. Sofia knew them all; Jamie didn’t even try to remember all their names since their visit would be brief. He planned on leaving early in the morning.

As Sofia had predicted, neither her mother nor anyone else took issue with the fact that they were traveling together, although an explanation
was
required for the size of their entourage. The fiction of a hunting and fishing holiday in the Highlands served to satisfy the curious. The horses were led off to the stables along with the carriages, and Sofia and her traveling companions were made comfortable in the great hall that served as drawing room, communal dining room, and gallery space.

One wall of the lofty timber-framed space was given over to a fireplace large enough to roast an ox. A long monastery table capable of seating forty fronted the hearth. An area adjacent to a lengthy window wall facing an inner courtyard displayed artworks in various stages of development, while the remainder of the commodious hall was occupied with an array of comfortable chairs and sofas distributed over an ancient oak floor covered with colorful Oriental rugs.

Several more bottles of wine were brought in and set out on the monastery table, Jamie’s men added a number of whiskey bottles, servants carried in additional platters of hearty fare for the male guests, delicacies for the ladies, and an evening of conviviality ensued.

Guards had been quietly posted outside. Jamie had spoken sotto voce to Douglas on the drive. Douglas in turn had indicated those men who’d take first watch with a nod or a look or a cryptic hand signal, and the chosen had drifted off into the darkness during the milling bustle of their welcome.

The next several hours were occupied in companionable drinking and conversation. The farmhouse hospitality was free and easy, the guests and lodgers mingling in friendly bonhomie, considerable liquor bridging the gap between artists and soldiers-cum-sportsmen with much merry laughter underscoring that rapport.

Chairs had been pulled up surrounding the sofa and chairs where Sofia, Jamie, Amelia, and Ben sat. Others found places on the floor or perched on chair arms or sofa backs in close enough proximity to join in the conversation—centered largely, once the polite courtesies had been exchanged, on the happenings in the art world: who was showing where, who was selling what, the particular projects various artists were engaged on, and the usual complaints about the lack of discriminating taste in those who styled themselves art critics.

With the crowd essentially composed of bohemian artists, eventually the inevitable question was breathlessly posed to Jamie by an inebriated young woman: how had he met their darling Sofia?

“You tell them, darling,” he said with a smile, diverting the question to Sofia; he was unsure what she wished them to know.

Sofia’s answer was a neutral, edited version. “I met Jamie at Countess Minton’s. I was painting her portrait, he was visiting, and we found we both liked . . .” She impudently paused and, catching his eye, gave him her sweetest smile.

“Art,” he smoothly interposed, thinking he’d like to wring her neck. “We both liked art. My mother was an artist, you see. Quite a good one,” he shamelessly prevaricated.

“Portraits, wasn’t it?” Sofia blandly noted.

“Watercolor landscapes, darling. You don’t listen,” Jamie replied, equally blandly. “I even showed you one.”

“Sorry, dear. Perhaps I had too much to drink.”

“I believe you did.”

It was impossible to shake him, she disgruntledly thought. The man was nerveless.

“As I recall,” Jamie went on in silken tones, “our impromptu trip to Scotland was based in part on your avid wish to taste my prized estate whiskey.” He surveyed the attentive throng, most of whom were waiting for Sofia to pitch into him for his slur. “A more than compelling reason from my point of view,” he added with a smile for the assembly. “And I did coax you as well, didn’t I, dear?” he acknowledged, turning a much more personal smile on Sofia, whose chair flanked his.

She held his gaze for a lingering moment, not sure whether she should be angry or not, but certain of one thing at least. She was thoroughly enchanted by this chameleonlike man who was never disconcerted or embarrassed, always calm—or
almost
always, she pleasantly thought, recalling the violence of his passions. “Indeed you did. You can be
most
persuasive,” she purred.

“In what way?” a female voice jocularly inquired. “Details, details, darling.”

“Hush, Cynthia. You’re drunk.”

“Well so are you.”

“And so are many of us,” a male voice interposed. “But not so drunk as to completely forget our manners.”

“Here, here,” a tipsy guest agreed. “Now pass the bottle.”

As glasses were refilled, the conversation turned to less personal topics, and before long, several guests were spontaneously inspired to perform. Some sang: music hall tunes, opera arias, original music of every stamp. Others recited poetry, from classic or original works. A diatribe or two was delivered on the question of women’s rights or the state of contemporary politics, and a beautiful young man expounded in the most flattering way on Ruskin’s worldview.

It was an impressive array of talent.

Such a cultured environment had nurtured and fashioned the expectations, judgment, and unbridled individualism of the woman at his side, Jamie reflected. It explained her indifference to the aristocratic world where titles often distinguished only mediocrity. It explained as well, he more luridly thought, her creative imagination; she had a true genius for sexual play.

Not a thought he could reasonably pursue with so many eyes on him.

He refocused his attention on the pretty woman performing the latest music hall ditty instead. But he kept one eye on the clock. He wanted to leave as soon as dawn broke, because, by now, there were men in England looking for them.

As midnight approached, Ben and Amelia’s friends began wandering off to bed amidst talk of rising early to paint—morning light of particular freshness and purity, apparently. Jamie’s men made no mention of retiring, although they politely withdrew to the monastery table after the other guests departed.

Douglas knew that Sofia hadn’t yet had the opportunity to speak privately with her mother.

Sofia’s parents occupied a small sofa upholstered in Titian red linen. Jamie and Sofia sat opposite them in comfortable club chairs of buff leather.

Amelia Eastleigh was still a recognized beauty at fortytwo, slight and fair like her daughter, slender and supple in a Grecian-style gown of Nile green charmeuse. Ben bore a striking resemblance to a Viking of old—blond, tall, sturdy as a tree, the elder of the pair by a dozen years, Jamie guessed. He was clearly patrician despite his casual dress, a kind of quiet dignity distinguishing his manner; a younger son no doubt with money but no title.

“Ben, pour more whiskey for Lord Blackwood.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Jamie said, his drink largely untouched. “It’s getting late.” He directed a glance ripe with significance at Sofia. “We do have to leave early, dear.”

Sofia smiled at her mother. “I’m being prodded.” But she didn’t immediately broach the subject for which she’d come. Instead she said, “It was so wonderful to see everyone again. Avery is gloriously funny as usual, and Henrietta missed her calling. She should be on the stage. Not to mention Georgie. Her description of Bertie in pursuit was hilarious. And Janie—I’ve never seen her sing so well, in fact . . .” Her voice trailed off. She carefully placed her wineglass on a small table, then turned to her parents. “I’m afraid there’s no tactful or delicate way to say what I have to say.”

“Really, dear, you’ve been nervous all night.” Her mother’s smile was benevolent. “Go on, darling. You know you can tell us anything.”

“I met someone you once knew, Mother.”

Amelia and Ben exchanged quick glances, and Ben reached out to take Amelia’s small hand.

They know
, Jamie thought.
They’ve been waiting years for this moment.

“Whom did you meet, dear?” Amelia’s voice was controlled with some effort, her fair skin slightly flushed.

“Prince Ernst.”

Amelia stifled a small gasp.

Ben put his arm around Amelia’s shoulder, drew her close, and bending low, whispered something in her ear. When he raised his head, he met Sofia’s gaze with a calm directness. “We were hoping to avoid this. Incorrectly, perhaps, but I assure you, not out of any animus.”

Sofia looked from one to the other. “Would you
ever
have told me?”

“No,” Amelia blurted out before Ben could speak. “I didn’t see the point.” She smiled up at Ben before turning back to Sofia. “We argued about it, but I always insisted the decision was mine and no one else’s.”

Incomprehension numbed Sofia’s mind for a flashing moment, quickly replaced by a flood of muddled emotions: chagrin, regret, reproach—a sense of injustice prevalent.

“I didn’t want the scandal to touch you,” her mother softly said, interrupting Sofia’s tumultuous thoughts. “I didn’t want my misdeeds to become yours.”

“But you were married,” Sofia said. “Surely that’s not scandalous.”

Amelia gently sighed. “It wasn’t that simple. I wasn’t sure of anything after Ernst disappeared. For all I knew I could have been the object of a grand hoax and nothing more than a fleeting amusement. When word of Ernst’s marriage appeared in the London papers, I didn’t know what to believe.”

“Your father was from a much different world, Sofie,” Ben submitted, his voice subdued. “Nobles of his rank don’t play by the same rules as ordinary people—or more aptly, by any rules.”

Sofia smiled ruefully. “Having met him, I have to agree.” “It wasn’t as though your mother could openly dispute his marriage to the Princess of Bohemia. Or rather that she wished to under the circumstances,” he finished, directing a loving glance at Amelia.

“I understand,” Sofia said, realizing how her mother must have felt at the time, abandoned, bewildered, perhaps lovesick as well. “It must have been very difficult, Mama.” Her emotions were still in turmoil, though, for she faced the consequences of that long-ago passion. “The reason I stopped by was not only to let you know that I’d met Prince Ernst,” Sofia said, exchanging a quick glance with Jamie, “but also to tell you why he came and sought me out.” She went on to explain in a severely edited account the reason the prince had come to London looking for her, explaining only that Rupert’s death had prompted his search. “So,” she finished, “I was face-to-face for the first time with a man who called himself my father.”

“I’m so sorry, darling. It must have been a shock.” Her mother’s voice was contrite. “But I was never quite sure what to say to you even if I’d chosen to tell you; it all happened so long ago it hardly seemed real anymore.” Amelia gazed at her daughter with affection. “Although I never regretted for a second that you were born of that whirlwind affaire. But in all honesty, dear, I always felt that Ernst’s world wouldn’t be to your liking. I hope I wasn’t wrong.”

“No, you weren’t,” Sofia assured her. “Nor would Ernst have welcomed me had I confronted him . . . until now,” she realistically added. “I did tell him rather clearly that I wasn’t interested in becoming a princess. Much as I sympathize with the loss of his son, I told him that I have a comfortable life of my own.” Sofia nervously scanned the room at the sudden reminder of the monster who’d murdered Rupert, and her voice quivered slightly as she continued. “The truth is, however, I’m not quite sure . . . what to do. Without an heir, Ernst’s principality reverts to the crown.”