Page 2 of My Devoted Viscount (Brazen Bluestockings #2)

Sidmouth, Devon, England

“Miss Walden?”

Sophia Walden searched the busy Sidmouth innyard for the speaker.

An elegant coach and four rattled past her and out of the innyard, the harnesses jingling.

Now visible on the far side of the yard, a driver stood next to a pair of chestnut geldings harnessed to a landau, the capes of his greatcoat flapping in the stiff breeze.

He called out her name again, his gaze traversing the yard.

“Over here,” she called, her shoulders relaxing in relief. She’d expected to walk to her final destination but hesitated at leaving her trunks behind here at the inn.

He strode over to her and tipped his hat. “With Mrs. Digby’s compliments,” he said, gesturing at the landau. “I’m Bickford.” He pointed at the two trunks stacked by her feet. “Do you have more?”

Sophia clutched the handle of her valise tighter. “Just these.”

Within moments he secured her luggage, helped her up, and they were rolling out of the innyard and down a tree-lined lane dappled in sunlight.

Mrs. Digby sending a driver for her was a thoughtful bonus.

After tipping the ostler who had helped with her trunks, Sophia was down to her last farthing and a handful of pennies.

Bickford kept the horses at a leisurely pace, giving Sophia the chance to revel in having the well-padded leather seat all to herself while she took in the lovely view and crisp, spring air.

After a pleasant drive, they turned onto a neatly tended gravel road leading up to a manor of warm red brick whose back garden appeared to drop off right into the sea.

The front door opened as they pulled up under the portico, the building blocking the wind to a subtle hush. A footman came out to collect her luggage while the butler remained on the steps. He bowed and ushered her into the foyer. “Mrs. Digby is expecting you in the library, Miss Walden.”

Taken aback that she was not offered a chance to freshen up before meeting her new employer, she followed the butler down the hall. When she saw her valise had been stacked on top of her trunks at the bottom of the stairs rather than sent up to a bedchamber, her stomach twisted in knots.

Had the widow changed her mind about hiring Sophia? Had she wasted two days in cramped mail coaches and rapidly dwindling funds to come here?

After the butler announced her at the library door, Sophia allowed herself only a glance out the bank of bay windows at the breathtaking view of the Channel beyond the rolling lawn, and focused on Mrs. Digby. They had exchanged two letters each but this was their first time meeting in person.

“I trust you had little trauma on your journey?” Mrs. Digby stroked the terrier on her lap, releasing little white hairs that fluttered down to decorate her emerald green gown.

She had excellent posture despite her casual position, seated in an upholstered armchair beside the fire, her stockinged feet propped on an ottoman, her shoes nearby.

The dog had lifted its head when Sophia entered, ears perked, eyes tracking her every movement.

“Nothing worth mentioning.” Jostled at the busy coaching inns.

Someone had pinched her bottom, twice. Squished in the rear-facing coach seat next to a bear of a man having a silent argument with his wife in the opposite seat.

Unable to converse with the vicar on her other side because he fell asleep even before the coach set in motion, his head lolling against her shoulder as he snored.

She hadn’t been invited to sit yet, so Sophia remained standing just inside the door.

Mrs. Digby’s bark of laughter took her by surprise.

“Not a delicate flower. Good.” She waved a weathered hand and gestured at a sofa facing the large windows.

“Come, sit. Tea will be here soon.” Only as Sophia bent to sit did she notice another woman dozing in the matching armchair on the other side of the fireplace, her chair turned away from the view out the window.

Deep in shadow, the only details Sophia could make out were the woman’s grey gown and a cloud of grey hair escaping from a bun on top of her head.

After a maid delivered the tea tray, Sophia and Mrs. Digby spent a few moments sorting out tea and biscuits. Sophia indulged in milk and two lumps of sugar. If she was going to be sent away, she was at least going to enjoy a good cup of tea first.

The other lady did not awaken.

“Before we proceed any further, there is something you need to know.” Mrs. Digby took a sip from her teacup and petted her dog again. It had lowered its head but still tracked Sophia’s every move.

Sophia braced herself for bad news. The job of helping the elderly widow before her, who did not seem all that elderly, was the only thing standing between her and abject poverty.

“Have you changed your mind about writing your memoir?” Worrying her nervousness would rattle the teacup and saucer, she set them back on the table and pressed her palms to her knees.

Mrs. Digby shook her head. “The death of my friend and neighbor, Lady Lyttleton, has made me confront my own mortality. Her passing was peaceful, in her sleep, so there’s that, but she was a year younger than I am.

I wish to put my affairs in order. That includes transcribing these journals into something my family can read after I’m gone.

” She tapped the stack of small leather-bound books on the table beside her.

“I followed my husband to every post the Army sent him, all over the world, for over twenty years. I have wisdom to impart. Things I want my relatives to know for generations to come.”

She stared out one of the library’s large bay windows at the waves rolling ashore beyond. Beneath the sounds of the crackling fire was the muffled roar of the sea, rising and falling as the tide surged inland.

Sophia bit back the urge to ask questions or impatiently gesture for Mrs. Digby to go on.

Her mouth watered at the sight of the untouched biscuits on her plate.

Last night’s meal had been a hunk of day-old bread, and she’d had nothing today but a cup of watered-down ale at the coaching inn this morning.

She gave what she hoped was an encouraging expression.

“An admirable goal, to be sure.” And the memoir was the reason she thought the widow had hired her, the reason Sophia had nearly bankrupted herself paying for coach fare here to this quaint seaside village.

“Your handwriting was elegant in your reply to my advertisement. Very legible.” Mrs. Digby scratched her dog behind the ears. “You seemed the most qualified for the work aspect of being here.”

Before Sophia had felt satisfied with her penmanship and mailed her application, she had wadded up a dozen sheets of ruined parchment and tossed them in the fire.

“But what I failed to screen for… Well, I do not know if you have the constitution to stay here long enough to accomplish the task.”

Constitution? “I assure you I have a hearty constitution. I have lived near the sea most of my life, so the dampness does not bother me in the least.” Inside her head she was screaming in panic, but she kept her tone calm. At least she hoped it sounded calm.

She did not have the funds for coach fare back to her cousin Claire’s home, where Claire’s odious husband demanded most of Sophia’s money for rent and food.

To get back there, she could walk for four days and carry her valise.

Sleep under hedgerows. But what would become of her two trunks still stacked in the entry hall?

They contained the remainder of her worldly possessions.

“Oh, I am confident you are as healthy as any woman your age should be.” Mrs. Digby stroked her hand along the dog’s back. “What I meant is that not everyone has the constitution to stay here, at Hobart Grange.”

Sophia couldn’t help a frown of confusion. “I don’t understand. Is there a problem with the house? I know storms often cause damage.” She’d sleep in the stables if the roof leaked. Help the cook prepare meals if they were understaffed. Dust and sweep rooms if they were short on maids.

“Oh, nothing like that.” Mrs. Digby airily waved her hand, brushing aside Sophia’s concerns. “The house is haunted.”