Page 12 of The Scandal of the Season (Fairfax Sisters #2)
Chapter Twelve
PRESSED DUCK AND CALAIS
Several choppy hours later
I t was just as Sophie was considering whether she shouldn’t have just jumped yacht and swum to shore after all, that a knock came at the door.
‘The guvnor trusts yer enjoying a quiet crossin’ and sends ’is regrets that he won’t be able to join you for supper,’ Horace announced in a voice of deep sufferance. ‘He also wants you to know that we will reach Calais in less than an ‘our, and r’spectfully requests you stay in your cabin ’til such time that he’s arranged accommodation.’
There was a poignant pause while Sophie inched open her door to find Horace bearing a supper tray and deeply suspicious expression.
‘The guvnor asked me to ask—’ he started again.
‘Oh Horace!’ Sophie exclaimed in exasperation, before he turned any more purple with the pressure of recalling his instructions. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier if I speak to Lord Rotherby directly? He’s in the cabin opposite, isn’t he?’ She scowled. ‘And what, in the name of King George, is that?’ she asked, nodding at the brown heap on the supper tray.
‘Pressed duck, miss,’ Horace replied defensively. ‘The guvnor’s chef doesn’t like to compr’mise when’e travels. Though the kitch’n is a bit small,’ he conceded in a mollified tone.
‘That may be,’ Sophie replied, gathering her skirts and walking briskly towards the cabin door. ‘But I do generally like to be able to identify what I am eating. Now, if you will just take me to his lordship…?’
‘I can’t, miss. He’s restin’ and specific’lly asked?—’
Sophie pushed her chin into the air in the manner of one well past caring, before rapping on the opposite cabin door twice.
‘Thunder an’ turf, don’t just stand there dawdling!’ came Lord Rotherby’s exasperated response. ‘Get in here, man!’
Then she threw a glance back at Horace, who appeared to be quite frozen in horror, before opening the door.
‘Much as I appreciate the efforts of your chef,’ she began, unprepared for the sight of Lord Rotherby reclining in a deep armchair, and without a stitch on his toned upper half, ‘I hardly think pressed duck the right food for a fever.’
She swallowed, never more aware that he was the most carelessly handsome man she’d ever set eyes upon, as well as one of the most intractable. She waited as he stared back, his hair ruffled wildly, before an intense scowl settled upon his face.
‘I don’t give a tinker’s damn about the fever!’ he threw back irritably. ‘Bag of moonshine! And who made you my nursemaid? Send in Horace and a bottle of Burgundy this instant, or I’ll have you thrown overboard for being a meddlesome tabby!’
Sophie took a hard look at his lordship’s flushed face and the tiny beads of sweat that had settled along his hairline, before pursing her lips in a way her sisters would have recognised as a distinct warning sign.
‘Neither I nor Horace will do any such thing!’ she replied firmly. ‘It’s as plain as a pikestaff you have the fever, and little wonder too. You should have had the wound sterilised and bound hours ago! Horace, I’ve changed my mind. You can bring me that bottle, but not for his lordship to drink– and fresh bandages or cravats too, I mind neither– as well as a bowl of tepid water.’
Horace gaped at his new mistress with barely concealed awe. Clearly no one had ever overridden his lordship before.
‘Now please, Horace!’ Sophie demanded.
‘Of course, miss. Right away, miss,’ Horace replied, scurrying away despite his guvnor’s thunderous expression.
‘I suppose you intend to relieve the skipper of his role too, and sail us straight into Calais!’ Rotherby expelled with a short, pained laugh.
‘Not unless I have to,’ Sophie replied, rolling up her muslin sleeves. ‘And I’m not playing nursemaid either. As I said before, I am simply not letting you die on my watch. The moment we reach Calais and a doctor has been fetched, I’ll consider myself free of my duty but until then, my lord, I’m your best hope of avoiding a pernicious pyrexia of the blood.’
At this, Rotherby gave another bark of laughter that ended in a painful wince.
‘I’d also thank you to sit still while I make this a little easier,’ she instructed, calmly unwinding her previous handiwork, ‘for jumping around like a jack-in-the-box won’t aid either of us.’
It took several heated exchanges, many colourful curses and countless dark mutterings about interfering debutantes before Lord Rotherby finally eased himself back into his chair, looking a lot more comfortable.
Sophie had taken the precaution of dousing and washing the angry wound with his lordship’s finest bourbon wine, much to his vociferous disgust, before binding it carefully, but he was still running a fever. She pressed a clean, damp cravat to his forehead and watched as his eyelids lowered in relief.
‘Don’t go getting too comfortable just because I’m laid up,’ he muttered with a ghost of a smile. ‘I know every route out of Paris, and even if you got that far, I would find you. I’ll not let you ruin yourself, even if you think it preferable to being tied to me. I told you I won’t bother you… but you’ll have the protection of my name if it’s the last thing I do.’
Sophie withdrew the cloth and stared into his pained eyes, which at this close vantage appeared to be the colour of a dusky spring evening at Knightswood. She closed her own eyes and silently berated herself. Lord Rotherby was a cad and a rogue– albeit one with the oddest sense of chivalry– but a cad and a rogue all the same. The sooner they docked and she was free of his company, the better it would be for both of them.
‘I have thought about my situation carefully,’ she replied, avoiding his searching gaze. ‘And while I am sensible of the offer you make, of its generosity, I am not willing to partake in a liaison that has come about so scandalously and which will undoubtedly bring us both great unhappiness in the end.’ She paused, and refreshed the cravat for want of something to do. ‘I have a plan, and I intend to put it into action once we reach Calais.’
‘A plan?’ Rotherby scoffed. ‘Write to your sister and demand Damerel put a bullet in me, I’ve no doubt.’
‘Actually no,’ Sophie countered, lifting her eyes and forcing herself to meet his distracting gaze. ‘I will put my family’s minds at rest of course, but given the fact I cannot return to London for some time, I intend to make my own way,’ she said, with much more confidence than she was feeling.
Inwardly, she shrank. Phoebe may have relished the idea of joining a band of travelling players, or riding bareback across clifftops at midnight, but she had never wanted anything more than her sketchpad and a love match. And now that her marital ambitions were all but shattered, she had no choice but to plough her energies into the former. She had no idea how hard it was to find work with a Parisian modiste, particularly as she had no references or designs with her, but it was all she could think to do. And, if she could make it work, she would be an independent working person; even Phoebe would have to respect her for that.
She lifted her chin.
‘Oh, well, that’s settled then,’ Rotherby threw scornfully. ‘I’ll just abandon a young debutante to the mercy of every miscreant and guttersnipe in Paris without a backward glance! I give you two days before you find yourself penniless and alone in the Rue Saint-Denis!’
‘Where?’ Sophie said, frowning.
‘Never mind,’ he muttered. ‘Come on then, Miss Fairfax, out with it. What is this famous plan that is so vastly better than shackling yourself to me?’
‘Why, I don’t see that it is any concern of yours,’ she returned haughtily, ‘but if you must know, I am a reasonable artist with some talent for…’ She tailed off, thinking about her scrapbooks of fashion designs back at Knightswood, and how useful they would be now. ‘For designing pelisses,’ she finished, colouring faintly.
‘Ah yes, the infamous fashion exhibition,’ he drawled, but his eyes sharpened. ‘I’ve always believed fashion should be a blend of art and functionality…that there should be room for both ,’ he paraphrased. ‘Have I got it right?’
Sophie flushed, recalling how he’d discovered her at the exhibition with Aurelia.
‘It is my belief,’ she replied, bristling, ‘and I would thank you not to ridicule it. It is also my intention to offer my services to a French modiste. It’ll be respectable work, and once some time has passed, I might be able to return to Knightswood– if Thomas agrees.’
‘You mean, if he isn’t six feet under by then for trying to put a bullet in me?’ Rotherby muttered brusquely.
Sophie stared at his feverish face and wild eyes, and had the oddest desire to push back the damp hair that had fallen forward onto his forehead. He was opinionated, spoilt, and very stubborn, but there was something about him that was oddly endearing too.
She swallowed.
‘A letter will exonerate you, my lord,’ she replied quietly.
‘There is no gain to be had by adding a scandalous duel, so I will simply inform Thomas that I left of my own free will?—’
Sophie was stilled by a sudden, firm grasp of his fingers around her wrist, stealing the remainder of her thoughts.
‘Is the thought of a life with me so very repulsive that you’d prefer eking out your livres by the light of a guttering candle?’ Lord Rotherby asked intensely. ‘I would take care of you, you know, and you could try to… improve me? As well as sew as many damned pelisses as you want.’
Sophie smiled faintly, withdrawing her hand.
‘Do you recall our wager, my lord?’ she asked, steadfastly. ‘My desire has not changed, though my course is diverted for now. I will make a love match in the end– or none at all. And I find I am quite content with the prospect.’
‘Hell and damnation! Why can’t you see that what I am offering is safety? You are in the most precarious position, there is no guarantee your plan will work, and I never shirk my responsibilities!’
Sophie regarded Lord Rotherby’s flashing eyes. She’d seen him witty, provoking, stubborn and furious, but never concerned before. It seemed an odd emotion for a rake to possess, despite his regard for his reputation.
‘But why should you be forced to marry when, by your own admission, you have never sought it?’ she replied carefully.
There was a moment’s silence, during which Sophie was aware only of the drum of blood in her ears. Then she stood up and walked to the cabin door, feeling as though the waves were still rough beneath her feet.
‘I thank you for your consideration, my lord,’ she repeated, avoiding his intense scowl. ‘But the moment we reach Calais, and you are under the care of a doctor, I will consider myself free to go my own way.’
Then she closed the door behind her and returned to the safety of her own cabin, where she sank onto the bed, and tried not to give in to the whirl of fear inside. It was only when she was steadier, that she shook back her shoulders, blew her nose, and forced her mind to her plan. She might not be the most courageous Fairfax, but she had always been the most cunning.
An hour later she stared down at two letters, one addressed to Phoebe at her last address in Athens, and the other to her brother, Thomas. Each was crafted to reassure, without providing any specific details– Rotherby wasn’t entirely unrealistic about Thomas challenging him– and she had no desire to add murdered family members to her growing list of scandalous wrongdoings.
She was quietly confident her plan wasn’t so terrible either. She was talented, and had always dreamed of working as a real fashion modiste. It was just the thought of not finding respectable employment that sent her thoughts into a spiral. Would she end up on rue wherever-Rotherby-had-said ? She’d heard rumours about opera girls offering more than musical entertainment but had never fully understood exactly what– only that it sent her aunt into a fluster if she enquired.
It was with all these thoughts competing that Sophie finally made ready to leave the yacht. She wasn’t fool enough to believe Rotherby would wave her off with a smile, but this wasn’t Dover at dawn, and even he wasn’t brazen enough to throw a screeching female over his shoulder in the middle of a busy dock. Then, once alone, she would make her way to the nearest jeweller, where she intended to sell the miniature crossbow to pay for modest lodgings until she found work. She stared down at the pretty pearl-inlaid piece and felt a brief pang of guilt before reminding herself she wouldn’t need to sell it at all, if his lordship hadn’t acted like one of Matilda’s pigwidgeoned dunderheads. And even though he’d acted fairly honourably since discovering her identity, she was sure it was only because he feared further damage to his own name.
She scowled. Most people would think her very foolhardy indeed to refuse an offer from one of the most eligible bachelors of the ton with so much at stake. But despite every good reason to accept Lord Rotherby, she found herself unable to entertain the notion. He had teased her from the moment they met, and she had risked everything in return. How could she consider marriage to a man who brought out the very worst in her? Their match, no matter how sensible, would end in heartache and disaster.
She sighed heavily, just as the faint shouts of the deckhands filtered through from above.
‘Calais,’ she whispered, and after one final glance at her cloaked countenance, made her way up on deck.
Despite the promise of dry land, it was the chaos on board that stole Sophie’s attention at first. Not only did Lord Rotherby keep a far bigger crew than she’d first realised, they also seemed to know their way around the complex sails and rigging blindfolded. It was a comforting thought as they navigated their way into the busy port, which seemed to be spilling over with every kind of trader, vying to dock and unload their wares.
She waited tentatively, trying not to think of the coldness that had crept into her bones, and focusing instead on her plan. Yet as the first faint French words began to reach across the churning water, she became conscious of a shadow behind her.
‘Please don’t try to dissuade me,’ she murmured quietly, ‘for my mind is quite made up.’
‘That may be as you say, miss,’ came Horace’s perturbed response. ‘But it’s the guvnor, miss. He’s tak’n a turn for the worse.’
One look at Horace’s wide-eyed fear was enough to convince Sophie that this was not a ruse cooked up by Lord Rotherby to stall her plan.
‘Take me to him,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘And send for a doctor as soon as we dock.’
Moments later, Sophie was anxious to see that the wound had indeed become inflamed, and his lordship delirious with it. Instantly, she set about implementing all she’d learned from nursing Josephine’s lung spasms and feverish deliriums, but with minimal effect.
‘I am loathe to move him,’ she whispered to Horace, when she had settled him as best she could. ‘Yet I do believe we stand little chance of breaking his pernicious fever while he’s stuck in this stuffy cabin. We must remove him to a more comfortable lodging, just as soon as it can be procured.’
‘Right you are, miss,’ the fiery tiger acquiesced, his swift agreement only serving to make Sophie even more anxious. ‘I’ll send enquiries immediately.’
Sophie nodded before returning to Rotherby’s side in a much graver mood. Awaiting ruination as a debutante was one matter, facing the gallows as a murderess quite another.