Page 30 of Pride of Honor
The third comrade, Marine Captain George Neville, had already pulled several of the drawings to his side of the table and was going over them with a magnifying glass.
“Good God, Neville. What are you looking for already? I haven’t even explained the situation.” Arnaud shook his head and reached across the table to take Neville’s hand in a strong handshake.
“The main areas we need to worry about are the entrances and exits to and from the ballroom. Of course, we’ll also need a guest list and accounting of servants to determine the threats from within.” Neville pointed to the first-floor diagram. “We’ll also need to know about any deliveries from tradesmen in the days leading up to the ball.”
“And then the hardest part of this whole battle plan,” Arnaud said.
“Which would be?” Bourne interrupted.
“The dowager marchioness. Lady Howick wants to meet all of you, to decide for herself if you’re the ‘right men’ for the task.” Dr. MacCloud filled in.
“What kind of men is she looking for?” Bourne asked, a challenge in his voice.
“The ‘right men,’ and please don’t ask her for an explanation.” Arnaud shook his head. “I need all the help I can get to protect Miss Brancelli. Don’t make a mull of these battle plans by asking too many questions and getting yourselves heaved out of the house before the night of the ball arrives.”
The usually serious Neville gave Cullen a slow wink before asking Arnaud, “And just why are we so worried about this particular young woman?”
“First of all, she’s an innocent who has to find a husband during the Season so she can come into her inheritance. Secondly, some bastards are trying to destroy her for unknown reasons. And thirdly, if you swabs ever want to see the shores of England again after our next tour of duty, you will not question me on this venture. You have to trust me.” Arnaud sat down heavily onto his chair and took a long drink of the wine Artemis had poured.
Neville turned to Cullen and said in a tone of wonder, “He’s smitten. Never seen the like out of our captain.”
Cullen, who’d been caught mid-swallow, nodded and returned the wink.
“If you sods have all had enough fun at my expense, could we move on to assignments?” Arnaud tried to take their teasing in stride, but he couldn’t stop the flush creeping up his neck to his face. “This is my plan. I’ll be in the ballroom at all times near Miss Brancelli, one of you should be in the garden, one between the kitchen and the ballroom posing as a servant, and Cullen has been drafted by Lady Howick as an extra bachelor for the dances.
“Lady Howick’s nephew, Teddy, will surely attend. I do not for one minute trust that man. He’s made no secret he’s interested in Sophie’s inheritance, and he’s as trustworthy as a fox after the best layers in a henhouse.”
When Arnaud finished explaining his ideas, he realized his men were giving each other odd looks.
“Sophie?” Cullen asked. “Since when have you become that familiar with Miss Brancelli, the ‘innocent?’”
“Looks like the captain has a woman,” Bourne said, and gave Arnaud a look daring him to deny his feelings.
Arnaud glared at his lieutenant and leaned forward, hands on his knees to hide the heat of embarrassment creeping onto his face.
Chapter Eleven
Sophie gatheredup her green sprigged muslin morning dress and propped her stocking-clad feet on the cushioned window seat in the Howicks’ family drawing room.
The weather had finally warmed, and the sun had managed to appear more days than not. A finch warbled his heart out in the top branches of the tree outside the sitting room window. She silently wished him well in his search for a mate and frowned at the prospect of her own rituals due to begin in two weeks with a ball at Howick House. At least she’d be in a friendly setting for her first foray into theton.
She stared at the last poem in her latest collection, an unfinished ode to clouds in her composition book. In spite of her best efforts of concentration, the squiggles of her handwriting faded in and out of focus. She sat up suddenly, causing the room to spin and tossed her writing materials to the floor.
“What now?” Lydia marked her place with a slip of ribbon in her latest novel from Minerva Press and leaned forward on the settee.
“I should give up trying to write poetry. No one will ever read what I write, much less publish my verses.”
“Maybe you’re trying too hard.” Lydia shrugged. “Perhaps you should write one of these.” She stood and tossed her latest daring read to Sophie.
“What? A wicked romance? That would be the final arrow in my back. No one would consider marrying me after a pudding-headed antic like that.”
“Listen to me,” Lydia interrupted. “Your father was a successful poet, but your grandmother was a much more successful writer ofnovels. Why not you?”
“Because…” Sophie searched for the right words, but couldn’t come up with a reason Lydia wouldn’t attack.
“Grand told me your grandmother wrote a lot of books under an assumed name. And…” Lydia waggled her eyebrows. “She made pots of money.”
“But I’m not my grandmother.” Sophie stood and handed the novel back to Lydia.