Page 13 of The Scandal of the Season (Fairfax Sisters #2)

Chapter Thirteen

MISCREANTS AND GUTTERSNIPES

Several fretful hours later

I t was one bumpy coach journey, two harried conversations– during which Sophie couldn’t recall the French for niece for love nor money– and several fretful hours later when the doctor finally arrived.

Horace had secured lodgings on a quiet Calais street and while they weren’t the finest, Sophie was satisfied the sheets were clean and the surroundings respectable. The landlord also seemed happy to put things on account, especially when Sophie bestowed her most beguiling smile, restoring her faith that on most people, and on most occasions, it worked.

‘About time too!’ Horace scowled while watching the doctor’s ponderous approach out of the bedchamber window. ‘For ’ow long the guvnor has been talkin’ to hisself, no one knows.’

Sophie nodded, frowning. She too had heard Rotherby’s feverish mutterings, that had suggested something was playing on his mind.

‘He’s mentioned the word mark a few times,’ Sophie whispered. ‘Might it have something to do with why he left London?’

She’d wracked her brains but could think of little that may have prompted a midnight flight by an established member of the ton. To her surprise, however, a shadow of genuine concern passed across Horace’s face.

‘That’s not for me to say, miss,’ he said, his lips set loyally. ‘Tis a serious matter, to be sure, but the guvnor weren’t r’sponsible of course. He was jus’ coming to Paris for time to sort ’t out.’

Not for the first time, Sophie wondered at a world in which a notorious rake of the ton earned the undying loyalty of a dockland tiger. And yet, with this cryptic utterance Sophie had to be content, for le médecin had finally arrived at the bedchamber door.

The doctor turned out to be a portly gentleman of advancing years who smelled of tobacco and bourbon. He pronounced Lord Rotherby’s wound to be très enflamé , and recommended a thin oxtail gruel and a course of leeches.

‘Leeching always seems a barbarous practice to me,’ Sophie whispered upon spying the bottle of creatures in the doctor’s open bag.

‘May look it, miss,’ Horace growled knowledgeably, ‘but works better than bloodlettin’ and cuppin’.’

As Horace predicted, the prescribed course turned out to be surprisingly calming, and once the doctor had left, Sophie returned to his Lordship’s side.

‘I’ll have you know I am a Rotherby!’ he muttered, turning his brow into her hand unseeingly.

‘Well, it’s encouraging you’ve not forgotten your name, at least,’ Sophie replied, her tone belying her anxiety.

There was no escaping the seriousness of his infection, and yet the longer she stayed in his company, the higher the risk to herself.

‘…Roseby and O’Sullivan are JPs… Sir Giles and Weston too strait-laced… it’s a damnable matter… marked during the game… it has to be one of us…’ he murmured, before settling again.

Sophie frowned, more convinced than ever that Lord Rotherby’s feverish mutterings related to his scandalous midnight flight in some way.

‘I prefer not to discuss the circumstances under which I left London, but suffice to say they are temporary, and less detrimental to my name than your situation is to yours.’

‘What did you do?’ she whispered, mostly to herself.

‘It was you who shot me, remember?’ Rotherby murmured weakly.

Sophie’s eyes flew to his, which were still closed.

‘Well, yes, but you were such a pigwidgeoned dunderhead I had no choice but to do it,’ she said with a faint smile.

Rotherby gave a dry chuckle.

‘If that is what you truly believe,’ he replied softly, ‘then why are you still here?’

There was a short silence during which Sophie acknowledged the question she’d been avoiding since the doctor left.

‘You know I’ve no wish to add murderess to my list of misdemeanours,’ she replied carefully. Thankfully, the doctor believes we will avoid it, if you follow his instructions.’

It was the truth. Lord Rotherby was ill, but he was also young and strong, and the doctor was only too delighted to add him to his expensive daily list of patients to visit.

‘I have sent my letters,’ she added, mostly for her own benefit. ‘And I expect to leave just as soon as your fever has broken.’

‘I expect you do,’ Rotherby murmured, drifting away. ‘And I wager I’d find you before nightfall.’

* * *

Sophie smoothed the forget-me-nots on her cotton quilted bedspread, knowing she didn’t feel quite as she ought.

It was three days since Lord Rotherby’s fever had abated and, despite his vociferous objection to almost every plain and healthy dish she’d ordered, he was making swift progress. And in between threatening to throw his every meal to the gulls, she’d formulated her plan, sent her letters and waited until she was convinced he was out of danger. Yet now the day had arrived, the thought of leaving was unexpectedly hard.

Briefly, she closed her eyes and let her mind conjure the moment he kissed her outside Rotherby House, and then the moment in his cabin just before she shot him. His eyes had darkened with a visceral heat she barely recognised, and yet, it had prompted such an intense coiling of something in her core she’d been almost tempted to throw caution to the wind. To do what exactly?

She flushed, recalling all the hints, whispers and innuendoes about marital liaisons that she could. What was it Phoebe had said?

‘I do believe you will much prefer to discover the mysteries of marital relations with your husband…’

Would the discovery with Lord Rotherby be worth the fall from grace?

Sophie flushed even harder as she realised she was contemplating complete ruination just to understand what Lord Rotherby had in mind– which was only further proof that she needed to get as far away from his influence as possible before she threw all her scruples to the wind and actually turned into Aurelia.

Briskly, she pulled on her cloak, picked up her gloves, and slipped out of her bedchamber. Then, pausing only to pull her hood forward, she slipped down the back stairwell and into the quiet backstreet outside.

The first thing she noticed was the faint aroma of sweet pastries, combined with more tobacco and something far less inviting too. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, before making her way down the quaint, cobbled street , nodding at two ladies who greeted her in such a friendly fashion that Sophie couldn’t help but feel a little heartened. Then when she reached the end, the street divided into two more bustling directions. Sophie hesitated only briefly before choosing the sunnier of the two, which turned a corner and meandered quietly until the reason for the less inviting aroma became clear.

For a few moments, Sophie gazed around at Calais’ quiet dockside. The afternoon water was murky and still, while the loading area was now entirely empty, save for piles of discarded fish entrails and the occasional marauding gull. Suddenly, it seemed so far from Knightswood and everything she knew, that a pang of homesickness reached through her. She drew deep breath, and forced herself to look around, wondering which direction might lead her to some shops and a jeweller.

‘ Es-tu perdu, chérie? ’

Sophie glanced up as the two friendly ladies approached her with wide smiles.

‘Oh… non … merci ,’ Sophie replied, unable to help wondering at the design of their plunging corsets. ‘ Mais … c’est … Je cherche un … jeweller’s… s’il vous pla?t …?’ she added in what she hoped was a passable French accent.

‘Ahh, un joaillier for the English lady!’ the second lady cried in such excitement that Sophie immediately forgave her the rouge wedged between her yellow front teeth.

Not everyone had the benefit of a vanity mirror about their person after all.

‘ C’est proche . Near… Suivez … follow, follow!’ the first lady insisted, beckoning so vigorously, while the other stood by and grinned, that Sophie began to feel a little unsure.

And yet, jolly female company had to be far less risky than traversing the streets of Calais alone, particularly when they did seem to know their way around.

Smiling politely, Sophie fell in beside the chattering ladies, who seemed only too delighted to lead the way to the local traders. And for the first few minutes she was quite content to have the local sights pointed out via a mix of stilted French and happy gesticulations. Indeed, it was only when they swapped the open dockside for squalid, shady streets with grime-streaked urchins and leering faces, that she began to wonder if she might have been a little hasty. She wasn’t too sure a jeweller’s in such a district would be very interested in a pearl-inlaid crossbow, particularly when half of the inhabitants looked as though they could barely afford food.

Anxiously, she slipped her hand into her cloak pocket, wondering how to excuse herself, only to discover her pocket was completely empty. Swiftly, Sophie fumbled for her left pocket, telling herself she couldn’t have been so naive as to lose her only means of paying her way within a half hour of leaving Lord Rotherby. But much to her mounting horror, her left pocket was empty too.

For the briefest of moments, Sophie’s eyes prickled uncomfortably, and she had the feeling she might actually bawl like Edward the day his grandfather newt died. Then she recalled that no amount of tears had prevented the newt’s Viking funeral across Knightsmoor lake in a rain that had extinguished three of cook’s best candles. And crying certainly wouldn’t change the stark and unwelcome conclusion that her newfound friends weren’t really friends at all.

Rapidly, Sophie considered her options before alighting on the only item she had remaining that might help her cause: a hairpin. With just a moment’s sorrow for her curls à la Sévigné , she reached up and dragged the pin out, leaving the rest of her curls to fall around her face in what she hoped was more of a renaissance tumble than a hedgerow-bird’s-nest. Then she gripped it tightly, and waited until they turned onto a busier street, with market traders hawking a number of wares that looked as though they deserved burial, more than someone’s plate.

‘Oh, how pretty!’ Sophie exclaimed, feigning interest in a small arrangement of dead flowers she wouldn’t even give to Aurelia.

Her companions leered momentarily, giving Sophie the opportunity to thrust her arm into her pocket with a dramatic flourish.

‘I think I would like to buy— Oh!’ she gasped, channelling a Fairfax production of Oliver Twist . ‘I’ve been robbed! But who would rob an innocent lady in broad daylight, I ask you?’

Then she clamped her hands together, with a most appealing expression.

‘ Non, non! ’ her first companion shushed, taking her arm tightly.

‘ Venez avec nous … come with us… et nous le chercherons. ’

‘ Arrêt! Quittez la jeune femme! ’ the woman selling the dubious flowers called out.

‘Yes, let go of the young lady,’ Sophie repeated loudly, before lifting her boot and driving it down onto her captor’s toe.

Her captor obliged instantly, her painted face twisting up in a toothy grimace that gave Sophie the most delightful sense of satisfaction before her companion closed in with a coarse laugh.

‘ Bravo, ma petite, bravo! Vous êtes une naturelle !’ she said loudly, gripping Sophie’s other arm and extending her other as though they were on stage.

‘ Et maintenant … we go… au théatre !’

It was clear no one was convinced, and briefly Sophie wondered how even she could have been so easily duped. Yet, they’d stolen her only means of paying for food and lodgings, and there really was no time for regret.

‘Really?’ Sophie threw fiercely, ‘but we already have an audience right here!’

Then she jabbed her hairpin directly at her captor’s hand, who yelled, as Sophie tried for what her brothers would call a stranglehold– to find herself counter-thrusted, unceremoniously, onto the cold, wet cobbles instead. Furiously, she used all her strength to pull her captor down with her; resulting in the most undignified roll through a muddy puddle which did not improve her complexion at all.

‘How dare you!’ Sophie gasped, gripping her opponent’s hair, only to find it lifting away in her hands entirely.

A shocked gasp rippled through the watching crowd as Sophie gazed at the mangled item in disbelief, before offering it back. There were some things even she couldn’t fix.

‘ Non, non, non! ’ the furious woman moaned, grabbing the wig and attempting to replace it, just as a black barouche rounded the end of the street.

Sophie glanced up, too distracted by the offence on her captor’s head to be much disturbed by a hire barouche. Yet when it careered to an abrupt halt beside them, and a familiar tiger jumped down with a deprecatory look that confirmed he did not understand the gravity of her situation one bit, reality began to dawn.

‘Not quite la Rue Saint-Denis,’ drawled a familiar voice, ‘though damnably close and a little swifter than I predicted too. Regrettably, the show is over, my dear, and it is time for you to say farewell.’

Slowly Sophie swung her gaze, fully aware of the comical figure she must present, to find Lord Rotherby regarding her back with a highly amused expression. Inhaling deeply, she drew herself up and hobbled towards the barouche, as though one approaching her own funeral.

‘Well, you needn’t look so pleased with yourself,’ she hissed, climbing in opposite the shadowed lord, who’d given in to a silent mirth that only enraged Sophie further.

Yet he only wiped his eyes and tipped his hat, before swinging his attention back to the watching crowd.

‘I must extend my thanks!’ he called out in perfect French, to the gawping females who’d held Sophie captive. ‘There are two gendarmes behind me who were most interested to know you’d taken my young friend under your wing. Pray tell them the crossbow is a pretty toy I took from a highwayman back in Somerset, with the compliments of Lord Rotherby!’

There was a short silence before a ripple of understanding filled the air, peppered by muffled gasps and suspicious glances. And then, two things happened at once.

The first was that the pretty fake was lobbed through the air like a tiny glinting arrow, directly at the barouche; and the second was that the gawping, muddied females took off down the street at impressive speed. Lord Rotherby watched with a smile of satisfaction as he leaned out to catch the weapon, before calling to Horace to drive on.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Sophie said, noticing his grimace of pain as he settled back in the seat opposite her.

‘Neither should you,’ he retorted.

She stared at his furrowed eyes and damp brow, and realised how much the excursion had cost him physically.

‘How did you find me?’ she added in a softer tone.

A mischievous smile flitted across his face.

‘It wasn’t that hard,’ he replied in amused exasperation. ‘I simply asked Horace to find out if anyone had seen a young lady in the company of known rogues. You know, you really are the most stubborn and wilful female I’ve ever met,’ he added through half-closed eyes.

For a moment, Sophie just wanted to laugh.

‘Surely it would be easier for you just to close your eyes and let me go?’ she asked instead. ‘You could say you provided me with safe passage, and I went on to stay with friends in France. You could carry on doing whatever it is you do, and in the end, they would all forget.’

‘Whatever it is I do?’ he repeated, his eyebrows arching. ‘I exist in a space where no one gets hurt Miss Fairfax– what’s so wrong with that? Far too many are ignorant of the impact of their actions, and I swore a long time ago never to join them.’

There was another silence while Sophie observed him.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said something curiously honourable, and it was unexpected for a nobleman she’d written off as the worst kind of rake.

‘And anyway, the ton never forgets. You know that.’

She glanced down, acknowledging the truth of his statement, despite her wishing it a thousand times otherwise.

‘But in answer to your question, he added softly, ‘I also believe it would be quite sad for a flame to burn so brightly, only to be snuffed out by a mistake. I would hate to be responsible for that fate, Miss Fairfax.’

‘As for your terrible judge of character, I claim no responsibility for that at all.’

Sophie chuckled, suddenly grateful for the darkness inside the small barouche.

‘Perhaps I have a penchant for rogues,’ she muttered.

He smiled wryly.

‘Perhaps,’ he concurred. ‘Though you certainly seemed to have the upper hand when I arrived and, while unusual, there is a certain charm to your… current raiment.’

Sophie flushed as she cast an eye down her muddied and torn gown, never more aware of the bedraggled figure she must present.

‘Does it hold some sentimental value?’ she tried to distract, with a nod towards the crossbow. Lord Rotherby’s eyes gleamed with mischief.

‘A little,’ he acquiesced, ‘but I’m quite partial to diamonds and mother-of-pearl too.’

Sophie bit her lip to stop herself laughing.

‘I must say I’m impressed,’ she replied when she could, ‘to know the full extent of your duplicity. But then why, if the crossbow is so precious, did you give it to me?’

‘I knew you would try to take off as soon as you could,’ he replied. ‘It was the most I could do to ensure you were not penniless when you did so.’

‘But… you owe me nothing,’ Sophie murmured.

‘I exist in a space where no one gets hurt, Miss Fairfax,’ he replied quietly, ‘and I am quite determined to stay there.’