Page 27 of An Arranged Marriage with a Mad Marquess (Marriage Mart Scandals #3)

“We are there to watch the Duke of Atherley carefully.”

Sophia repeated Grace’s instructions with a quiet, measured voice, as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. The ball, to be held at Grace’s aunt’s residence, was fast approaching, and she took a moment to study the effect of her attire before turning toward the door.

Her gown was deliberately plain; a long muslin ballgown in creamy white decorated with a modest floral pattern and featuring the fashionable Empire waist. Sophia wore no hair-adornments in her honey-blonde curls and no jewellery. Her grey eyes held her own reflected gaze steadily, their expression keen and assessing as she studied her appearance.

Her own squarish face looked back at her; her neat features and pale skin shown to good advantage by the simple hairstyle and the patterned dress. She was a young lady of average height with ringleted curls and a piercing grey stare, which, with her neat chin and short nose, lent her a pretty, quizzical look.

Despite her father’s status as a baron—Baron Alwood—her choice of gown and hairstyle was restrained and simple, but not so that it might convey fashionable elegance. It was chosen to be ordinary and nondescript because that was how Sophia wanted it to be. She was not there to stand out. She was there to investigate the Duke of Atherley. Nobody would suspect someone who looked so easy to overlook. Nobody would even notice her hovering at the edge of their group, taking in everything they said. It was her disguise.

She reached for her shawl—plain white without a pattern—and draped it around her shoulders, then walked swiftly out of the room. Grace—Sophia’s best friend—would be at the evening’s ball with more information and instructions as to their investigation.

“Daughter! The carriage is waiting,” her father greeted her briskly in the entranceway as she walked lightly down the stairs of their London townhouse. Sophia nodded.

“I apologise for my tardiness, Papa.” Her gaze moved to her toes.

“Think nothing of it. We must hurry. We shall be late,” he murmured, barely glancing at her or at her outfit. He walked swiftly down the stairs to the street, pausing only to take Sophia’s hand and help her up into the coach before swinging in and slamming the door shut. The coachman lifted the reins, and they headed through the Kensington streets towards Lady Whitmore’s home.

“It is dashed warm in here,” Papa complained as their coach rattled down the street.

“Yes, it is,” Sophia murmured, allowing her shawl to slide down her shoulders in the hot coach. Her dress had puffed sleeves that reached the middle of her upper arms, and she was glad for that. It was a warm evening in late springtime. Papa wore a blue velvet tailcoat and a high-necked shirt, and she was sure that he must be sweltering.

She dismissed the thought as the coach rattled on. She and Papa sat in silence. They had fallen into a pattern of barely speaking to one another in the years since Mama passed away. It was not through any sort of mutual dislike—Sophia had respect for her father, though she often felt as though she barely knew him, and she was also certain that he did not dislike her. It was simply because Mama had been the thread that tied them together and without her, they were both too quiet and too uncertain to breach the gap.

Sophia’s heart twisted as she thought of her mother. Mama had passed away nine years ago, when Sophia was sixteen and had just made her come-out into London society, attending the Season there. It had been a terrible shock, a blow that had rendered her speechless, unable even to think or feel for weeks. A memory from her first Season raced into her thoughts unexpectedly.

“...she’s so dull,” a young baron was drawling to a friend as she stood in an alcove, clearly unseen by the two.

“Miss Rutland? Yes. Barely a word out of her,” his friend replied, a mocking expression on his face.

“She’ll be a wallflower, mark my words.”

The words had twisted Sophia’s heart. She had left the ballroom, tears in her eyes. Afterwards, at home, where the hurt had tormented her—the first feeling she had in weeks since her mother had passed away—she had come to a conclusion.

She would be a wallflower. But not the way they thought.

She would choose to be a wallflower, because being one placed her in an ideal position to spy.

Just as she had once overheard their idle chatter without their slightest awareness of her presence, she would now use her own seemingly unremarkable, dull character as a guise—an innocuous mask behind which she could listen in on the gossip of the ton. The world of the ton was not, after all, a pleasant or congenial place. Beneath its glittering surface lay corruption and exploitation, festering in every corner. Schemes and unscrupulous bargains were struck under the very noses of the unsuspecting. And Sophia, ever watchful, would be the one to uncover it all. She would expose the hidden secrets and the dark deeds in an anonymous scandal sheet that she planned to publish.

She just had to remain unseen.

“Here we are,” Papa murmured, bringing Sophia’s thoughts back to the present. She shook herself, clearing her head, and shrugged her shawl back over her shoulders.

“Thank you, Papa,” she said demurely as he helped her down. The stone pavement was cold under her thin-soled satin dancing shoes. She walked up the steps towards Lady Whitmore’s manor. The sky was the soft blue of twilight. Pine torches burned to light the way for the coaches, but it was still light enough to see. Sophia gazed up at Lady Whitmore’s elegant townhouse and her heart lifted with excitement.

Grace—the co-author of their scandal sheet, called “Lady Whispers”—would be there, and they had a mission to accomplish.

Her heart lifted in delight as she spotted her friend straight away. Grace was in the entranceway of the townhouse, standing with her aunt, Lady Whitmore, to welcome their guests. Lady Whitmore—a countess, with grey hair drawn back into an elaborate chignon and intelligent blue eyes—regarded Sophia thoughtfully.

“Good evening, Miss Rutland,” she greeted her warmly. “Welcome to our ball.”

“Good evening, Lady Whitmore,” Sophia greeted her. “Thank you for the kind invitation.”

“Of course, dear. Of course. I would not have it any other way. My dear niece would not either.” She smiled fondly at her niece. Grace grinned back.

“Indeed, Aunt,” she said warmly. “Good evening, Sophia,” she added, turning to her friend with her brown eyes sparkling merrily. “I am truly delighted to see you.”

“Thank you, Grace,” Sophia murmured.

She gazed into her friend’s bright brown eyes, feeling an immediate sense of warmth and affection. Grace’s auburn hair was pulled back into a chignon; the locks so thick and long that it was less of a chignon and more of a big round bun. She wore a cream-coloured silk gown. Her dark eyes and slim face radiated gentleness and intelligence. She was taller than Sophia and slimmer, and she, too, had done her best to cultivate a nondescript, withdrawn character in society, though Sophia privately wondered how anyone believed it. Grace was the liveliest of characters, her big laugh and clever observations were one of the things that had drawn both Sophia and Lady Whitmore to her, and that had made Lady Whitmore choose Grace as her companion. They were both astute, clever women.

“I will see you in the ballroom,” Sophia murmured as she stepped down the stairs, politeness requiring that she move along so that the guests behind them could enter too.

“Of course. At the refreshments table,” Grace replied with a grin.

Sophia drifted down the stairs beside her father.

Papa walked with her into the ballroom, which was already crowded, the bright light of the chandeliers overhead falling on dark tailcoats and pale dresses, and the high vaulted ceiling making it at least slightly cooler than it might have been. But even such a spacious room grew stifling when filled with so many guests, and Sophia found herself longing to retreat to the cool solace of the terrace.

“Not yet,” she reminded herself quietly as she drifted across the room towards the refreshments table. Before she allowed herself to seek any refuge, there was still much to observe.

She reached the back of the ballroom and positioned herself there. People were chatting nearby, and she began to listen to them, pretending to study a pulled thread in her shawl.

“...and she debuted into society just last week!” a woman with greying brown hair in a rich brown velvet dress was saying.

“I know. Lady Charlotte is exemplary. A fine lady. Pity about her brother. He’s a strange one,” a tall man with chestnut brown hair commented. He had a thin face and a hard gaze and something about him repelled Sophia, even as she meandered closer to listen.

Lady Charlotte, she thought consideringly. That was the name of the sister of the Duke of Atherley. There were rumours of some corrupt business that his late father, the former Duke, had been involved in; unscrupulous deals that had somehow been involved in his death. It was for that reason that she and Grace had decided to investigate the Duke of Atherley. There was something interesting there, some dark secret. Some story of unimaginable corruption right at the heart of the ton . And they wanted to find it out.

I wonder who that is, and why he thinks the Duke of Atherly is strange, Sophia thought, studying the man with the reddish hair. He was, she guessed, at least twenty years her senior. He should have been handsome, with a firm jaw and a well-formed profile. But something in his expression, mayhap the hard, set line of his mouth, was repellent and something about his careless, offhand manner suggested to her that he was an uncaring man. If he found the duke “strange”, she had to find out more. She leaned closer.

“Are you studying the curtains, Miss Rutland?” a voice said beside her. Sophia whipped round, then grinned.

“Grace!” she giggled, seeing her friend’s big smile. “Yes, in a manner of speaking,” she replied enigmatically.

Grace chuckled. “Did you find a good vase?” she asked. She inclined her head towards the man with the reddish hair. In the course of their investigations, they often found themselves in places where they could not risk being overheard. Their identities as the authors of their scandal sheet had to remain secret because their job of exposing corrupt nobles was far from well-received. There were those who, had they known the source, would not hesitate to see them silenced. To maintain their safety, they had devised a code of sorts. In their coded language, a “vase” referred to a source of information.

Sophia nodded. “Mayhap,” she said lightly. “I shall need to see what it contains.”

“Mm.” Grace inclined her head. “As you should.”

Together, they moved through the ballroom, their steps measured and unobtrusive as they followed the man at a distance. He eventually made his way to the refreshments table, where he accepted a glass that appeared to contain spirits, lingering there as he engaged in loud conversation with another man, whose breath suggested he had indulged a little too freely.

Sophia wanted to get closer, to hear what they were saying, so she stepped forward but, before she could, Grace rested a hand on her arm, inclining her head towards the door.

“There. Now that is a vase that I think might be worth pursuing.”

Sophia frowned. Grace’s cheeks were faintly pink as she spoke, and that was something that never happened. Grace never blushed. She was able to hide almost all her expressions behind the neutral, considering facade that her own father—a Cambridge professor of Mathematics—had perfected. Sophia’s eyes drifted across to the man.

He was tall, with dark brown hair and a noble bearing. He was, Sophia noticed, dressed in a military uniform. Her gaze sought out the lapels of the uniform, trying to identify the rank and regiment they indicated, but he was too far away across the room. Her gaze moved to Grace, and she grinned to see that her friend was staring at the man, that soft, pinkish flush still visible in her cheeks.

“Who is he?” Sophia asked.

“He is James Wentworth, Baron Shipton.” She paused. “He is a Captain in the Hussars.”

“Oh?” Sophia’s brow lifted. “And what makes him so interesting?” she asked. Grace grinned, then quickly masked her expression, though the amusement was still evident.

“He is the Duke of Atherley’s cousin and confidant,” she replied mechanically. Her expression was shuttered, neutral. Sophia felt guilty for teasing her friend. “And, well...he is quite striking,” Grace added, the grin bursting forth again.

“ Grace !” Sophia giggled in delight. In that moment, they were not merely two determined investigators unearthing the hidden sins of the ton, but also two friends enjoying the fleeting joys of a ball. Grace chuckled.

“He is. Quite striking.” She allowed her gaze to follow the baron across the room and Sophia smiled to herself.

I wonder what it is like, she thought distantly and a little sadly, to feel that way. To find a man striking, as Grace puts it. She had truly never met a man who made her feel the same evident interest that Grace had felt in the baron. Her father had, thankfully, not forced her to pursue any suitors over the intervening seven years—not that any had presented themselves—and she had never really contemplated, until that moment, what it might be like to feel excited to get to know someone.

She shook herself, annoyed that she had let her thoughts wander so far from the topic at hand. Grace was watching the door, clearly focused on their mission. She needed to focus too.

“Where did the...” she began, about to ask where the baron had gone, and to suggest that Grace follow him, but before she could find the words, Grace lifted her hand, gesturing her to silence.

“His Grace, the Duke of Atherley,” the butler was announcing from the top step where he announced the guests, “and his sister, Lady Charlotte.”

A murmur ran around the room. Sophia tried to hear what was being said, but her gaze was on the duke, and she watched him, distracted by his fine bearing.

He was not a tall man—no more than average height—but his upright posture and measured walk held the eye, making him seem taller than he actually was. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and his profile was well-formed and elegant. He wore a dark grey tailcoat and charcoal knee-breeches, a high-collared shirt tied with a simple cravat around his long neck. He was too far away for her to see any details, like the colour of his eyes, but his dignified bearing was striking.

“He will go and greet his aunt,” Grace murmured, clearly a step ahead and working hard to follow their target. “I will go over there to listen.” She inclined her head, indicating an older woman in a dark blue velvet dress near the door. “Mayhap you could go and listen over there?” Grace gestured towards where the duke’s handsome cousin was standing at the refreshments table. Sophia shook her head, grinning.

“No, cousin,” she said swiftly. “You go there. I will observe the Duke and his aunt.”

“Sophia...” Grace began, her brown eyes widening, a big grin lifting her lips even as she protested. Sophia grinned.

“I would much rather do this part,” Sophia insisted. “You’d best hurry, the Duke’s cousin is just there,” she added, and swiftly turned away before Grace could protest. She was smiling to herself as she walked across the room towards the duke and his sister.

The duke and his sister were, indeed, greeting the older woman in the dark blue dress whose white hair was styled in a simple, yet stylish chignon. They were standing near a convenient alcove and Sophia drifted over to it, positioning herself just beside it. From that vantage point, she was no more than two or three yards away, and the view was perfect. Hearing, however, proved more difficult—there was a large crowd, and even if someone stood nearby, their words would be scarcely audible. But with time, she could ease closer. They had all evening.

The older woman, their aunt, was smiling warmly at the Duke and his sister. Lady Charlotte was speaking with her aunt, a big smile on her pretty face. She was, Sophia guessed, at least seven years younger than herself, about eighteen, since she had made her debut just a week before. She had a lively, heart-shaped face and wore a white silk dress, the sleeves delicate gauzy puffs, her rich dark-brown hair decorated with pearl-tipped pins. She had a bright, wide smile and her brown eyes sparkled with happiness.

She seems such an innocent, lovely young lady, Sophia thought sadly. It seemed almost impossible to believe that such an apparently sweet person could come from a family of corrupt, exploitative people. As she watched, Lady Charlotte stepped back a little swiftly, almost stepping into a chair. The duke leaned forward protectively, resting a hand on Lady Charlotte’s arm.

He does not seem that terrible, either, Sophia thought lightly. The gesture was brotherly and gentle. His green-eyed gaze was full of care and tenderness as he gazed at his sister. Yet, Sophia reminded herself crossly, appearances could be deceptive. She watched him more closely, doing her best to be critical.

“...and we should host the annual ball next month,” a woman in an expensive-looking brown velvet gown said, almost walking into Sophia and blocking her view of the duke and his sister. Sophia blinked in surprise. The woman did not apologise, but shot Sophia a hard look, as though it was her own fault for being in the way, and strode past, chatting away to a man who Sophia abruptly recognised as the red-haired man with the unpleasant stare. She paused, briefly, wondering if she should listen to them instead.

No , she told herself firmly. Grace had sent her to listen to the Duke and his sister—or, rather, she had volunteered herself for that service—and she could not allow herself to be distracted.

She turned to where the Duke and his sister had been. Their aunt was still there, but she was chatting to a lord and lady and the Duke had disappeared.

Sophia winced, feeling annoyed. She had let them get out of her sight. She looked around and caught sight of Grace, who was across the room near a wall where some paintings hung. A brief glance showed the baron, standing beside Grace. Sophia grinned to herself.

I hope Grace is enjoying this investigation, she thought wryly. She scanned the room with her gaze and spotted the Duke’s firm posture and dark head of hair near the refreshments table.

“Excuse me,” she murmured politely, drifting through the crowd. She had to reach the duke and his sister and listen, and the refreshments table was a perfect spot since there was no reason not to linger there and they would be a mere foot away from her. She hurried her pace, stepping lightly around guests, footmen and chairs, heading towards the refreshments table.

She was almost there, and her gaze narrowed. She had lost sight of them. Lady Charlotte’s white dress stood out among the dark-dressed male guests, but many young ladies were wearing white, and it made her hard to spot. She stared over at the table, sure that they were there, that she was just missing them. She had to hurry.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, startled, as she collided—rather solidly—with an obstacle that, she was quite certain, had not been in her path but a moment ago.

She gasped again as her gaze drifted upwards, and she quickly realised, first, that the obstacle was, in fact, a person— a male, and one with a remarkably broad, muscled back—and second, that she recognised him.

The Duke of Atherley was staring down at her, his green eyes cold and unreadable.