Page 12 of Dukes for Dessert

David also withdrew his statement that he’d rush up to Town the next day. He did need to return to London at some point and seek a defense against Griffin. And while in London, if he happened to look up Lackwit Laurie and beat some sense into him …

Hmm, he could come up with a much better idea than simple violence. An idea that would destroy Devonport and make Sophie a golden and guiltless angel in the eyes of the world.

He’d need help for that sort of thing, he decided as interest burned through him. Good thing he was friends with such devious people …

David caught Pierson glaring at him and rearranged his face into innocent lines.

The only man in the world who could stop him was the vicar now regarding him in suspicion. Pierson knew far too much about David Fleming, and David would have to be careful of that.

Mr. Fleming cleared his throat. “Your uncle told me.”

Sophie nodded, but her face heated unbearably. “I know.”

They stood under a cold but sunny sky next to the furrow they’d begun digging yesterday. Uncle had moved off with his measuring equipment, notebook, stakes, and string, leaving them relatively alone.

“Listening at keyholes, were you?” Mr. Fleming asked in the light tone with which he said everything.

“I did not have to. Your expression when you regarded me this morning was enough.”

Mr. Fleming put his hands to his cheeks and moved them this way and that. “Must learn to have control over this face. But is it so bad that I know?”

Sophie kicked at a clod of earth. “The world has split into two camps—one believing I am the greatest trollop in creation and that I have gained my just deserts. The other camp pities me but secretly believes I have only myself to blame. For being a trollop, you see.”

“The entire world?” Mr. Fleming asked. “Including natives of Tasmania? The Chinese emperor? Trappers in the Canadian forests?”

Sophie didn’t laugh. “If they knew of the situation, I am certain they would choose a side.”

She studied the soil as she turned it with her boot, head down so she wouldn’t have to look at Mr. Fleming. As it was cold this morning, she’d donned a fur cap rather than a hat, so she had no brim to keep him at a distance.

“There is another camp,” Mr. Fleming said. “Those who believe your innocence.”

“A very small camp.” Sophie dared raise her head. His gray-blue eyes were fixed directly on her—most unnerving. “Uncle. And me. Even my parents, while they are kind, aren’t certain. My husband is so very convincing.”

“You forgot me,” Mr. Fleming said in a quiet voice. “I believe you.”

Sophie flushed, unable to meet his assessing gaze. “Why should you? You barely know me, except through Uncle.”

“He is one reason. His opinion counts for much. The other is that I know something of your husband, Lackwit Laurie, the Dunce of Devonport. Devonport will do anything to get what he wants, with a directness that’s alarming. Likely how he convinced you to marry him in the first place. I can’t imagine anyone actually falling in love with him.”

“I thought I had,” Sophie said, though she was amazed at herself now. Laurie had been attentive, flattering, even fawning, and Sophie, too often a wallflower, had fallen for him.

“He does have a certain oily charm, I suppose,” Mr. Fleming mused. “And women believe him handsome. But then, a few ladies think I’m handsome, so there is no accounting for taste.”

Sophie looked straight at him, her inhibition fleeting. He had the gift for making her relax her guard. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Mr. Fleming?”

His eyes widened. “Me? Good Lord, no. I am stating facts. Your unctuous husband has now charmed a rich widow into throwing in her lot with him. Hopefully someone will talk her out of it before it’s too late …” A smile spread across his face, lighting his eyes and driving out the shadows. “Hmm.”

“What are you thinking?” Sophie asked in alarm. “You look very much like a snake just now.”

“Damn my expressions. I can’t keep anything from you. I am thinking nothing, dear lady. Wheels simply spin in my head without my permission. You will be well rid of Devonport in any case. Good Lord, his name sounds like a piece of furniture. You might as well be Lady Writing Desk, or Sophie … let me see … Sofa.”

Sophie sucked in a breath and dropped her gaze again, frantically wishing the villa would reveal itself at her feet and swallow her.

“Oh, devil take it.” Mr. Fleming put gentle fingers under Sophie’s chin and raised her face to his. His eyes held anguish. “They do call you the last one. Bloody bastards—bloody ingrates. I did not know, I promise you. It’s only the wheels, you know … not in my control.”

“It is a natural association,” Sophie said faintly. “I cannot blame you for making it.”

“Yes, you can.” He slid his fingers away, leaving a chill where he’d touched her. “I always strive to be the cleverest man in the room. It is why I am a bachelor. Your uncle chooses that life, but I am alone because I’m an uncouth idiot. I loved a woman once. Only once. She crushed me like an eggshell.”