Page 17 of The Forbidden Lord (Lord Trilogy #2)
Chapter Seven
We are truly indefatigable in providing for the needs of the body, but we starve the soul.
— ELLEN WOOD, ENGLISH PLAYWRIGHT, WRITER, JOURNALIST, ABOUT OURSELVES
Ophelia settled her ample body on the settee across from Randolph’s chair, then slipped her aching foot out of her slipper and propped it on a horsehair footstool. She was certainly paying for so many hours on her feet last night. And now her brother was on the rampage. It was too much to be borne.
“Well?” Randolph groused. “Where is the blasted chit?”
“She’ll be down shortly, I’m sure.” Ophelia yawned. “You must give the girl time to sleep, or she won’t suit your purpose.”
“As if she suits my purpose now. I still have not heard what happened at the ball. Is that why you sent her right up to bed last night, even though I told her to report to me at once? Were you protecting her because you knew she had not discovered anything?”
“I sent her up to bed because she was dead on her feet.”
“After one trifling ball that ended barely after midnight?”
“No. After dancing lessons and a full day of shopping for accessories and then a ball during which she danced every dance.”
“At my expense, too.”
She rolled her eyes and leaned forward to rub her foot. “If you didn’t want to do this right, you should’ve told me. I would’ve dressed her in sackcloth and ashes and stuck her in a corner at every event.”
Randolph’s sole response was to scowl. He never had appreciated her particular sense of humor. “Well, the girl had best have something to report when she comes down. I shall not keep up this entertainment for her if she cannot produce anything.”
“Entertainment?” Ophelia’s bark of laughter sounded loud in the early morning quiet of the town house.
“She seems to consider it torture.” When Randolph looked at her with narrowed eyes, she added very deliberately, “I can’t imagine why, though.
If she didn’t want to come, all she had to do was say so. Am I right?”
He jerked his gaze from hers, his mouth puckering.
Time for a more direct approach. “What did you tell Emily to make her agree to your plan? Clearly, she finds this scheme distasteful. You should have seen her after the ball last night. She was skittish as a mouse in a cat’s paw.”
“Did she behave like that at the ball, too? That is not what we agreed upon, you know. I wanted her to—”
“Randolph! Silence your wagging tongue for a moment, will you?” He glowered at her, but thankfully kept quiet.
“You needn’t worry about Emily. During the ball, she was as bold and impudent as you could wish.
She had every man in the place eating out of her pretty hand and thinking her the most ‘original’ creature alive. ”
“Then why was she skittish?”
“Because she obviously found the experience taxing and intimidating.”
Ophelia was certain that Emily’s encounter with Blackmore had been partly responsible for the girl’s somber mood on the way home, though Randolph needn’t know that just yet. She’d prodded Emily to reveal what had happened between her and that rapscallion, but the girl had evaded her questions.
There was something going on there. Ophelia would stake her life on it. And that was trouble indeed. From what she’d heard, Blackmore would chew up a little thing like Emily and spit her out. Ophelia didn’t wish to see that, for she was growing very fond of the child.
“As for my original question,” she continued, refusing to let Randolph draw her away from her immediate concern, “why is she willing to help Sophie at the expense of her own integrity? What hold do you have over poor Emily?”
“Hold?!!” He puffed himself up like an adder.
“Hold, indeed. Her father owes his livelihood to me. That is all the hold I have over her.” Casting her a sidelong glance, he added, “Besides, I am sure you have already asked the girl that very question, since you like to stick your nose where it does not belong. What does she say?”
His question told her at once he was hiding something. “She won’t tell me anything, as I’m sure you know. Thanks to you, she doesn’t trust either of us.”
Looking relieved, he stood and limped to the fireplace. “Nonsense. She knows her duty, that’s all.”
Ophelia sighed. She ought to press the matter. But she’d learned long ago if she forced Randolph into a corner, he would risk the bite of the deadliest snake before he’d tell her anything. And Randolph already had quite enough venom coursing through his veins.
But she could work on the girl. Emily didn’t like lying, that much was clear. If only Ophelia could gain her trust …
As if conjured up by the thought, Emily herself entered, already dressed for the breakfast at Lady Astramont’s. With approval, Ophelia noted the girl’s choice of the rose corded cambric. Emily had a natural sense of style that made everything so much easier.
With a quick glance at Randolph, who was staring into the fire, Emily crossed to Ophelia and handed her a cheesecloth bag.
“This is for your foot,” she said in a low voice. “Mix these herbs with hot water. They make an excellent soak for sore feet.”
Ophelia took the bag with a smile. “Thank you, my dear. It’s very kind of you to make it up for me.”
Randolph whirled around. “What? What are you two about?”
Quickly Ophelia hid the cheesecloth bag in her skirts. For some reason Randolph didn’t approve of Emily’s ministrations, although anyone could see the girl had a talent for physic. “She’s saying good morning, you fool. What do you think?”
“It’s about time you showed up,” he growled at Emily. “Kept me waiting all night, you did. Sit down. I want a full account of the ball.”
Emily settled carefully on the edge of a chair to keep from mussing her gown. “How much has Lady Dundee told you?”
“Nothing at all, blast her. Who danced with you? Did anyone ask for Sophie?”
“Let me see. I danced with Mr. Pollock, Lord St. Clair, Lord Wilkins, Lord Radcliffe, Lord Blakely, and Mr. Wallace.”
How odd that she didn’t mention Blackmore, Ophelia thought. Hadn’t she danced with the earl, too? Ophelia wasn’t entirely certain.
“All expressed their condolences for Sophie’s illness,” Emily went on, “but only Lord St. Clair and Mr. Pollock seemed overly interested. Both of them asked repeatedly when Sophie would be attending social events again. And as you know, Lord St. Clair called on her yesterday.”
“Yes, I know. And I do find it curious. St. Clair is something of a mystery. I heard he was estranged from his father for some secret reason no one will discuss. Indeed, he left England for several years, and no one knows why. He only returned last year. But I’ve heard dreadful stories of what he did on the continent. ”
And of course Randolph believed every word. His own son had run off to the continent, so he was suspicious of any other young man who’d done the same.
Randolph began to pace, stabbing his cane into the Aubusson carpet every few steps.
“Anyway, he and I had a chat once, and I told him rumor had it he was not fit to marry any young woman. I let him know I would not countenance any union between him and my daughter. You know what the impudent scoundrel had the audacity to say? That Sophie was the only person whose opinion he cared about.” He snorted.
“As if a girl of that age knows what she wants. A pretty lad—that is all a girl of eighteen looks for.”
“That’s not true,” Emily retorted. “I think your daughter has more sense than to choose a man simply because he has nice features.”
Ophelia wasn’t so sure herself, but said nothing on that score. She didn’t know her niece that well. “We set a trap for St. Clair,” Ophelia told Randolph. “We told him we’d be at the breakfast and that Sophie would be here alone. If he comes here—”
“If he comes here,” Randolph put in, “I shall be on the lookout. We will see how he acts and if he goes snooping about the house without permission. That would certainly tell us he was the one.”
“Do try to control yourself,” Ophelia said.
“We mustn’t scare away the prey or show our hand prematurely.
If word of what happened to Sophie leaks out because you approach some man too soon, it’ll ruin her chances in the future.
St. Clair may behave quite innocently, in which case you mustn’t approach him. ”
“I think I can be trusted to show caution.” Randolph halted his pacing, then peered through his lorgnette at Emily. “What about Pollock?”
“I’m not sure. He seemed only moderately interested.”
“Pollock has a fortune, but is merely a mister,” Randolph said. “He knows I would never accept the suit of any man with rank less than a viscount. Sophie deserves the best.”
Sophie deserved to be paddled for putting them to all this trouble. Yet sometimes Ophelia sympathized with the girl. Having Randolph for a father couldn’t have been easy.
“What if one of these men really cared for her?” Emily ventured. “What if Sophie were in love with one of them?”
“Trust me, love makes no difference,” Randolph said. “It soon vanishes, and then, if you have chosen the wrong partner, you find yourself unhappily yoked with someone who causes you only shame.”
Heavens, Randolph was alluding to his own disastrous marriage!
Apparently fancying himself in love, he’d married a girl much beneath him who’d turned out to be a vulgar and outspoken little twit prone to embarrassing him with great frequency.
She’d given him a son who’d been a constant disappointment.
But she’d had the decency, in Randolph’s words, to die giving birth to Sophie, thus sparing Randolph a lifetime of mortification.
Unfortunately, with no one else around to garner Randolph’s attention when his heir ran off, Sophie had become the center of his domain, the only one he could control. It was killing him to have her out from under his thumb, which was why he was going to all this trouble.