Page 22 of My Devoted Viscount (Brazen Bluestockings #2)

Unable to come up with an alternative, Sophia turned for the door. “I suppose there is no danger to you from the smugglers during daylight hours. Perhaps when we meet on the beach with Miss Burrell this afternoon, the three of us can come up with something.”

* * *

At breakfast, Sophia spoke only when addressed.

Her attention was splintered between the shock of finding smuggled goods in the tunnel and all that it entailed, and listening and watching Mr. Huntley and Lord Fairfax.

She’d heard them sing before last night, but not with such power and range.

Selfish of her, given the danger Mildred could now be in, but Sophia really wanted time at the pianoforte with her composition.

She’d almost gone downstairs last night before bed.

Only the fact Ruby had already helped her prepare for bed had kept her in her chamber.

She wouldn’t risk being seen by either man in just her nightclothes.

Or in the case of Fairfax, seen in her nightclothes again .

Her cheeks heated at the memory of their very first meeting, in her dark bedchamber.

Did he ever think about it?

She forced the thought from her mind when Mrs. Digby had to clear her throat a second time to get Sophia’s attention in the library. In the widow’s memoir they were up to April 1775, garrisoned near the Charles River not far from the city of Boston, under the command of Major Pitcairn.

Mrs. Digby paused often as she read her journal entries from that month, her expression clouded. There were days in a row she hadn’t written at all and several more with just a few lines, too exhausted after helping care for those wounded at the battle of Lexington.

“I’m going to have a tray sent up to my room,” Mrs. Digby said when they would normally be going into the dining room together. “We will take this up again tomorrow morning. I am sure you can amuse yourself until then.”

“Are you feeling quite the thing?”

Mrs. Digby’s cheeks were paler than usual, and her shoulders drooped with the weight of what she had seen in the aftermath of battle.

She patted Sophia on the back. “Nothing a few hours in the arms of Morpheus cannot cure.” She was just about to reach for the door when it suddenly opened, and Lord Fairfax filled the frame.

“Am I correct in guessing you ladies are ready to take a break from your endeavors?”

Mrs. Digby straightened her spine. “You are.”

“Excellent!” Fairfax clapped his hands together twice.

“Matthew and I were reminiscing and realized it has been far too long since either of us have had one of Mrs. Renwick’s delicious pies.

We have determined we must remedy that right away.

Would you two like to join us? I have already taken the liberty of asking for the landau to be hitched. ”

“Dining in town, in the company of two handsome young men?” The weariness seemed to fall away from Mrs. Digby like shedding a cloak. “What an excellent idea. I will just ask for my wrap and bonnet. I wonder where Agnes has got to? She is equally fond of Mrs. Renwick’s pies.”

Mr. Huntley was waiting for them in the hall. “Aunt Agnes is painting some of the blooms by the water fountain. She said she would join us this evening.”

“The box of paints she ordered from London arrived this morning,” Fairfax added.

Mrs. Digby chuckled. “We won’t pry her away from her brushes for hours. Let’s go, boys!”

Within the quarter hour, Sophia sat next to Mrs. Digby in the open carriage, Mr. Huntley and Lord Fairfax across from them in the rearward-facing seats.

She tried to enjoy the journey as Bickford drove the carriage, to distract herself from the niggling worry that this excursion was going to make her late for meeting Theo and Mildred on the beach.

Oh, and not stare hungrily at Lord Fairfax.

On her first trip between Sidmouth and Hobart Grange, she had been too nervous about starting her new job to fully appreciate the stunning views.

The lane they followed twisted and turned to follow the coastline.

They passed through deep forest here, with colorful rhododendron blooms brightening the shadows, to open views of the Channel there, where the sudden breeze threatened to blow her bonnet to the next county.

Sophia had taught at Madame Zavrina’s Torquay Academy for Ladies for the past six years and often spent her time off walking along the beach.

Yet the sight of the Channel never failed to make her pulse race and bring a smile to her face.

Especially after two months of living with her cousin inland in Tiverton, where she hadn’t even seen seagulls.

Fairfax occasionally grabbed at his curly brimmed beaver hat to keep the breeze from making off with it, and made no attempt to keep his long, black hair from his eyes other than the occasional shake of his head.

She would not stare at how the sun made it gleam, or think about how she wanted to run her fingers through the undoubtedly silky strands.

The road curved closer to the beach. With no trees to block the wind, Mr. Huntley’s hat suddenly blew off. Lord Fairfax was quick to catch it and hand it back. With a shrug, both gentlemen removed their hats and held them on their laps for the rest of the short trip.

Soon the four of them were being ushered into the public dining room of the Sidmouth Inn.

They had arrived in the side yard, as the front courtyard was dotted with tables and chairs reserved for guests enjoying the view of the Channel.

Just a stone’s throw away, steps led down to the beach, a sandy oasis where the ground gently dipped down to the waves before rising again in the hills on either side, rocks littering the shore. Were there caves over there, too?

Unlike the coaching inn where Sophia had arrived, this was apparently a favorite dining spot of locals.

Ivy nearly covered the warm brick walls.

Heavy oak timbers around the door and window frames bespoke centuries of use.

Mrs. Digby stopped to greet friends at one table, as did Fairfax and Huntley at another.

Not wanting to intrude on their private conversations, Sophia sought out an empty table.

There, near the corner. Next to the window that afforded a lovely view of the sea, yet out of the way of the breeze that blew in every time someone opened the front door.

She got as far as pulling out a chair when a serving maid rushed over.

“So sorry, Miss, but you cannot sit there.” She pointed to the table beside it, which still had the remains of the previous guest’s meal. “I will have this one cleaned for you faster than the cat can lick her ear.”

“Is this one reserved for someone?”

“Something like that.” Lord Fairfax’s deep rumble of a voice was so close she felt his warm breath tickle the fine hairs on her nape. “That table has been reserved for the same person for one hundred and seventy-three years.”

She raised her eyebrows. Surely he was jesting.

Fairfax pulled a chair out for her and she sat down, and he took the seat around the table corner from her.

“It’s true, Miss.” From the other side of the table, the serving maid stacked the dirty dishes in one hand. “Sidney Godolphin wrote his best poems right at this very spot.” She jabbed one index finger on the other table, then continued wiping up with a damp cloth.

“Local history says he was wounded in battle and carried to the front steps of the inn, where he died from his wounds. He comes back to visit from time to time. My uncle has seen him.” The serving maid tucked the rag back in her apron pocket.

“One stormy night my uncle was sitting where you are, playing cribbage with his friend. They started arguing over scoring points when they suddenly noticed a gent with a big white feather in his hat, scribbling away at this table. While they was staring at him and trying to figure out who he was, he gathered up his papers and walked past them, straight through that wall.” She pointed to the brick wall behind Sophia.

The solid brick wall, with no doors or windows.

She hurried off to the kitchen just as Mr. Huntley pulled out a chair for Mrs. Digby and they sat down.

“Acquainting Miss Walden with our local lore?” Mrs. Digby said.

“I wrote an essay about Sidney Godolphin after my first visit here,” Mr. Huntley said. “My literature don was quite impressed.”

“He was impressed that you finally wrote about someone other than a composer,” Fairfax said.

“Music lyrics are literature.”

Fairfax opened his mouth, no doubt to continue this age-old debate between them, when the serving girl returned to take their orders.

When it came Sophia’s turn, she looked at Mrs. Digby. “You’re most familiar with this establishment. What do you recommend?”

Mrs. Digby suggested the same meat pie she had ordered for herself.

The serving girl soon brought out tankards of ale, and while they waited for their food, they chatted more about the poet who haunted the inn as well as other local specters.

He and the Gray Lady were far from the only ghosts in town; it seemed every building more than a hundred years old had a spirit that visited now and then.

What surprised Sophia was that no one seemed surprised. Ghosts popping in and out were just part of the scenery, no more remarkable or cause for comment than storms or a statue in the town center square. “Everyone accepts ghosts as being real? Even Mr. Middlebrook, the vicar?”

“He speaks about spirits every Sunday in his sermons.” Mrs. Digby smiled over the rim of her tankard.

“In the context of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Fairfax said, lowering his chin and looking at his aunt sideways.

Mrs. Digby shrugged, her eyes twinkling with a suppressed smile.

The serving girl brought their food, and they were all quiet for several minutes as they dug into their meal.

Sophia almost moaned in delight. No inn she had ever dined at had food this tasty.

It was as good or better than Mrs. Bickford’s cooking.

The pastry was flaky, the meat tender and juicy, and the vegetables were still recognizable.

Most importantly, she managed not to dribble any gravy on her dress.

Doing so while Fairfax included her in the conversation would have been beyond mortifying.

The ale was as delicious as the food, with a fruity overtone she had never noticed before, and found utterly delightful.

“They brew it here themselves,” Lord Fairfax said, after he swallowed the last of his tankard and gestured toward the kitchen for a refill.

Mr. Huntley nodded enthusiastically. “The first time I ever got drunk was when we snuck in—ouch!” He glared at Fairfax as he lowered one hand below the table, apparently rubbing where Fairfax had kicked him.

Mrs. Digby snapped her eyebrows together. “Boys!” she quietly hissed. She took another sip of the ale in question. “That information does not ever need to get as far as your father. Either of them.”

Sophia could not help smiling. Of course Mrs. Digby knew whatever her nephew and his friend had got up to, undoubtedly when they were visiting on holiday from university. Or perhaps even Eton.

Fairfax stayed behind to settle their bill with the innkeeper. The rest of them strolled out to the courtyard, enjoying the sunshine while awaiting their carriage. Sophia studied the orchestrated chaos of horses and carriages and people going to and fro.

The young man who seemed to be directing the chaos looked like a younger version of the innkeeper she had glimpsed in the kitchen. Both were imposing, large men, one with a full head of gray hair, while the son’s hair was still dark brown.

“Get the lead out of yer arse,” he shouted at a young groom who was slowly leading a horse to the stables. The gentleman who had just dismounted hurried into the inn without a backward glance.

“Aye, sir,” the groom replied, doubling his pace.

“Good for nothing, useless piece of shite,” the supervisor grumbled as he went to help unhitch a carriage where the groom was struggling with a buckle.

“I see Clyde is as cheerful as ever,” Fairfax said, coming up behind them.

“I am hopeful his disposition will improve when he is the man in charge,” Mrs. Digby quietly said.

“I just chatted with Mr. Renwick. Does not sound like he plans to retire anytime soon.”

Mrs. Digby clucked her tongue, and climbed into the carriage when Bickford pulled up beside them.

The ride back to Hobart Grange was unremarkable though no less pleasant than the drive to town had been.

As Sophia handed off her cloak and bonnet to the butler, she could not help surreptitiously checking her pocket watch.

Theo and Mildred might still be down on the beach, but it mattered not if she needed to immediately go into the library and resume work with Mrs. Digby.

“Thank you for a most pleasant outing.” Mrs. Digby tugged on Fairfax’s shoulder so she could kiss his cheek.

“You as well,” she said, her glance taking in Mr. Huntley and Sophia.

As she put her foot on the bottom riser, she looked back at Sophia.

“I am still going to have that lie-down. I will see you at supper.”

Fairfax and Huntley took their leave and headed down the hallway, their conversation concerning the billiards table and an uncollected wager.

Deciding to skip her bonnet, Sophia retrieved her cloak and hurried out the back door and down the path to the beach.

Her heart pounding, she sped toward Theo’s excavation site at the bottom of the bluff, walking so fast she was practically running.

“Oh, thank goodness you are still here,” she said when she saw Theo and Mildred.

“We were beginning to think you were not going to join us today.” Theo stood, frowning. “Is everything all right?”

Sophia bent over, hands on her knees, as she caught her breath. “I have just returned from dining at the Sidmouth Inn with Mrs. Digby, Lord Fairfax—”

“And Mr. Huntley?” Mildred clasped her hands together over her heart.

Sophia nodded, still breathing hard.

Mildred practically swooned. “What was he wearing? Which knot did he use to tie his cravat? Did the wind muss his hair? His gorgeous, wavy, auburn hair?” As she spoke the last, she mimicked running her hands through her hair.

“A dark blue velvet coat and tan breeches, I do not know the name of it, and yes.”

“I can just picture him.” Mildred sighed and turned in a circle, her arms and skirts flaring out.

“No need to picture him,” Theo quietly said, stepping aside so her back was to the path Sophia had just taken. “Here he comes.”

“What?” Sophia straightened so abruptly her back cracked. Mildred squeaked.