Page 14 of The Scandal of the Season (Fairfax Sisters #2)

Chapter Fourteen

L’AUBERGE NOTRE-DAME, PARIS

Three days later

S ophie leaned her forehead against the cool glass window, watching the fine mist of rain wash away specks of dirt. There weren’t many. This was a much more respectable establishment than their lodgings in Calais, which Lord Rotherby had pronounced ‘a dubious backwater Horace should have known far better than to patronise while he was indisposed’. And while Horace had muttered extensively about headstrong young ladies who led them all a merry dance, he was too relieved about the recovery of his guvnor to complain.

Sophie had been far more vocal, pointing out the many advantages of such a dubious backwater until such time that they agreed their story, but Rotherby remained unimpressed.

‘I may not be gentlemanly in the way you would wish, but I draw the line at grubby sheets,’ he muttered, when they made the journey to L’Auberge Notre-Dame in Paris, which boasted a sparkling view of the Seine and the historic cathedral.

Yet even the superior view couldn’t allay Sophie’s cold fear that she’d made a very big mess of things indeed. She’d planned to be employed by some quiet, respectable modiste by now, not still in Lord Rotherby’s company, and getting more anxious with every passing minute. Gloomily, she thought of Phoebe and how much better she would have fared, especially when it came to a muddy back-alley brawl with two of the worst rogues in Calais.

And now she had no plan, no crossbow, no personal possessions whatsoever– at least not until hers had been washed and mended. She glanced down at the lace-trimmed jade muslin Lord Rotherby had provided while her own dress was with the seamstress. She was well aware it became her burnished curls and sea-blue eyes better than anything she’d ever owned– that Lord Rotherby appeared to have a considerable knack for picking out expensive Parisian fabrics and colours to suit– but even this acknowledgement failed to cheer her for long, as it was clearly down to much practice on his part.

Exhaling, she recalled the blur of the past few days. Lord Rotherby had insisted on making the journey from Calais to Paris, despite his wound re-opening and needing further care. Sophie had had little choice but to oblige until they reached Paris, and Horace had been her constant shadow ever since. She was certain his vigilance had far more to do with her care of his precious guvnor than any regard for her skin, but it had limited opportunities all the same.

Then, finally, Lord Rotherby had proposed a new arrangement: he would arrange for her to remove to the home of a friend outside Paris, if she postponed any new escapes.

Sophie had to admit that the prospect of some time to make a new plan, rather than traipsing through Paris in search of a modiste prepared to take a chance on an ingenue without a sketch to her name, was very tempting. And, once they’d established his friend was a respectable childhood connection and not one of his past light-o’-loves, she’d readily agreed. This unexpected reprieve had also helped her weather numerous curious glances from L’Auberge Notre-Dame chamber maids, who clearly hadn’t believed the story about a sick abigail in Calais.

It was with the promise of this removal uppermost, that Sophie made her way down L’Auberge Notre-Dame’s wide guest staircase. Horace was running errands while Lord Rotherby was resting, leaving her to enquire about progress with her dress. The hotel staff had been polite so far, but she was sick with fear they would change their minds the longer the party stayed without an appearance from the redeeming abigail. Indeed, it was just as she was wondering if whether she could persuade one of the curious maids to fill the breach, that she heard a voice that filled her with the oddest mix of hope and chagrin.

‘I require only a modest bedchamber, nothing special, and a light supper please,’ a most sensible voice requested.

‘ Mais, monsieur ,’ the landlord protested in his horrified tone. ‘L’Auberge Notre-Dame does not have zis… modest chambre . Only… grande!’ he boomed, gesticulating wildly.

‘Then the smallest of your grand rooms, s’il vous pla?t ,’ the calm tone persisted. ‘I am passing through Paris and will be checking out in the morning.’

At this the landlord shook his head emphatically, vastly unimpressed by any gentleman who refused to see how superior the L’Auberge Notre-Dame was in comparison to other Parisian establishments.

‘ A small grand chambre? Mais non! C’est une tragédie! ’

‘I assure you it is not a tragedy. I simply wish to book…’

‘Sir Weston?’ Sophie inquired, her heart hammering.

Sir Weston’s calm and unruffled figure turned to peer up the shadowy stairwell.

‘Miss Fairfax?’ he asked incredulously, ‘Is that really you?’

Sophie smiled wanly, feeling as though a thousand years had passed since he came to her assistance at The British Institution.

A shadow flitted across his face as he regarded her.

‘I’ll take any room that’s free– grande , petite or anything in the middle,’ he threw at the landlord, who was muttering darkly about the 'eccentric English and their ways'.

‘Are you well? What are you doing here?’ he added in an urgent undertone, striding across to meet her. ‘I heard you’d left for Paris rather suddenly, but didn’t dare hope I’d run into you…’

Sophie nodded, barely trusting her own voice, and suddenly aware of a few heads turning their way.

‘Please excuse any indelicate questioning on my part,’ he added, lowering his voice. ‘I am just so surprised to see you here… Would you care to join me in the parlour? Partake in some refreshment?’

Sophie nodded without hesitating, the prospect of being in Sir Weston’s calm and reassuring company for a short time eclipsing all her concerns. Gratefully, she followed him into the parlour, where he proceeded to order glasses of the landlord’s recommended Bordeaux – a request that appeared to redeem him a little– and find a private booth beside the parlour fire. Then, haltingly, Sophie repeated the fictional story about the sick abigail, though Sir Weston’s earnest face made the task almost impossible.

‘Though of course you are free to draw your own conclusions, and who could blame you after all,’ she finished, hanging her head.

‘Do excuse me, Miss Fairfax,’ Sir Weston replied gently, ‘but it seems to me you are not quite yourself at all. You are under no obligation to tell me anything of course, but as Lord Rotherby and I are related, you are free to confide in me with all confidence.’

Sophie glanced up sharply.

How did she not know Lord Rotherby and Sir Weston were related? And how could two such dissimilar gentlemen be related at all?

And yet, as she looked at him, the truth of his words was undeniable. They were different gentlemen in every way, but now he’d said it, she could see little else. Sir Weston was fairer, but otherwise they had the same jaw, the same high brow and, when they chose it, the same glint in their eye too. It was inconceivable, yet so obvious too– like two sides of one coin.

‘You should also know, I am quite aware of Lord Rotherby’s… character, and can assure you of my utmost discretion, were your situation to be slightly different to that which you have described?’

‘Oh,’ Sophie replied, trying to resist the temptation to tell kind Sir Weston everything, and failing instantly. ‘I was only trying to dissuade Aurelia,’ she confided falteringly, ‘and then Lord Rotherby thought I was Mrs Haxby… and so he didn’t actually know I was in his coach until Dover when I shot him with the crossbow… which was when the whole marriage thing came up,’ she exhaled heavily.

‘Mrs Haxby… marriage thing… you shot him ?’ Sir Weston repeated in a bewildered tone, making Sophie wonder if he’d caught a chill, or had the headache perhaps. ‘And he’s staying right here in L’Auberge Notre Dame?’ he added through gritted teeth. ‘I will put a stop to this right now, Miss Fairfax. I will call him out for there can be no marriage without a bridegroom, after all!’

Sophie frowned. It was a tricky situation by anyone’s reckoning but she couldn’t imagine anyone less likely to get the better of Lord Rotherby in a duel than kind, sensible Sir Weston.

‘We’re both here, in separate bedchambers,’ she confirmed hastily. ‘He tells everyone I am a distant relation he is delivering to my parents, though I fear that tale has not been as persuasive as we might wish. Still, his Lordship is recovering from a wound at the moment, and since he has behaved quite properly since the whole street brawl?—’

Sir Weston eyed her with such horror then that she considered sending for a jug of water.

The whole situation was undoubtedly a mess, but she’d never imagined Sir Weston being quite so enraged on her behalf.

‘I cannot fathom why you were forced to defend yourself with a crossbow,’ he said heatedly, ‘any more than I can bear the thought of you being mixed up in a street brawl! I will not abandon you to your predicament, Miss Fairfax.’

He stood up then to kick a log into the dancing flames before turning to face her with an expression she barely recognised.

‘I understand more than you know,’ he continued in a low, gritty tone, ‘and this is not the first time I’ve known Lord Dominic Rotherby to act dishonourably. Do you trust me, Miss Fairfax?’

Sophie had the distinct feeling that she was wandering further into hot water, but was unable to fathom an escape.

‘Well, yes… of course,’ she said faintly.

‘Then you will trust me to arrange things to your advantage?’

She hesitated again, before he stepped closer and took her hand.

‘Lord Rotherby is a known libertine of the ton, and I may not be as rich, but I warrant I am twice as honourable!’ he declared intently. ‘You’d need never shoot me, I promise.’

Sophie stared, as though in a trance, as Sir Weston lifted her hand and planted a small, chaste kiss on her fingers. It was so different to Lord Rotherby’s kiss that it was almost disappointing, and yet the intent behind his words mattered more.

Was he actually offering what she thought he was offering?

‘How very affecting,’ a voice drawled from the parlour entrance, ‘and yet a display of affection that is entirely excessive, for Miss Fairfax is shortly to become Lady Rotherby. Pray unhand her, Weston. I’m not in favour of any lady befriending buffle-headed buffoons, least of all my future wife.’

There was a moment’s silence, then a dark flush rose up Sir Weston’s neck, as he turned and locked eyes with Lord Rotherby. Transfixed, Sophie watched as each one regarded the other in some kind of murderous stand-off, until the full ridiculousness of the situation dawned on her.

‘When you are quite finished with your theatricals,’ she said coldly, gathering her skirts, ‘I shall be in my bedchamber, actually planning a way out of this mess.’

‘Don’t over-tax yourself,’ Lord Rotherby replied, his eyes softening briefly. ‘For I have news of my own. But firstly, I will see Sir Weston to the door, as I do believe L’Auberge Notre-Dame cannot accommodate any more guests. Is that not the case, Gérard?’

Lord Rotherby raised his voice so loudly that the long-suffering landlord had little choice but to approach the small party.

‘Weren’t you telling me this morning how full L’Auberge Notre-Dame is, Gérard?’ Lord Rotherby continued smoothly. ‘After I rented the remainder of the rooms on my floor.’

‘ Mais… c’est vrai , my lord, unfortunately…’ the landlord replied, when he managed to control his gaping mouth.

‘Unfortunately indeed. So, you see, Sir Weston, I do believe you must find a room in some other establishment, for Gérard’s rooms are already being used by esteemed guests of L’Auberge Notre-Dame.’

Lord Rotherby smiled then, though it wasn’t a smile of condolence, but one of vehement dislike.

In disbelief, Sophie watched as the bemused landlord looked from Lord Rotherby to Sir Weston and back again, before looking to the ceiling and muttering something very rude under his breath . Then he bowed stiffly and began explaining to Sir Weston in a stream of apologetic French how Lord Rotherby had booked out the last of les chambres earlier that day.

Knowing he was beaten, Sir Weston picked up his hat, bowed to Sophie and strode towards the door.

‘You will meet me for this, sir!’ he hissed as he passed between Lord Rotherby and the round-eyed landlord.

‘Another challenge, Weston?’ Lord Rotherby drawled. ‘I’ll expect a withdrawal within the hour then.’

Sir Weston stopped abruptly and turned towards Rotherby, and from this vantage point there was no denying that they shared a bloodline. Their stature and scowls were nearly identical, though one was controlled, while the other was wild enough to make the landlord throw up his hands in horror.

‘I do not accept your insults, and Miss Fairfax certainly does not deserve to endure your company,’ Sir Weston said through tight white lips. ‘You will hear more on both but unlike you, there is a limit to what I will say and do in front of a lady. And you can keep your view,’ he threw at the landlord, ‘because I never liked those damned gargoyles anyway!’

At this, Gérard turned a very deep and resentful purple, but had the good sense not to pass comment.

‘I depart your faithful servant, Miss Fairfax,’ Sir Weston concluded, turning back to Sophie. ‘But trust I will be in touch!’

Then he strode from the room, while Lord Rotherby and the landlord looked on with a mix of disdain and puffed-cheek forbearance.

‘Shouldn’t you be resting?’ Sophie demanded.

‘Probably,’ Lord Rotherby replied, his eyes glittering, ‘except my betrothed seems determined to attract the attention of every gutter-dweller in France. Including those who wish to shoot at me with alarming regularity– not that Sir George Weston poses a serious threat of course.’

Sophie scowled as the landlord walked away muttering some very rude, very French things.

‘How could you behave so to a gentleman who was only seeking to assist a friend? she threw furiously. ‘You consider yourself a nobleman, but what is noble about insulting another before denying him a roof over his head? And a kinsman too, I am led to believe. It is the act of a villain, and I for one could never imagine Sir Weston engaging in such behaviour, no matter his reason.

She paused to watch Lord Rotherby’s lips tighten and felt a dart of satisfaction. Somehow, she’d got under his skin.

‘Why did you have to leave London so quickly?’ she added. ‘Why can you not return? And why do you pretend you are invincible, when it is so very clear you are not?!’

She glared at Rotherby’s injury, which was clearly causing him considerable discomfort, and waited for the usual derisory retort, but instead he only regarded her through half-shuttered eyes.

‘Above all things, I consider myself honourable,’ he replied grittily. ‘I do not lead or make false promises to ladies, any more than I accuse a gentleman unjustly, yet I cannot explain it, so you will just have to trust me when I say Weston is not all he appears to be. I left London because I was falsely accused of villainous behaviour– that I will disprove. You must accept my word that this is truth.’

He paused to smile darkly, and Sophie wished she didn’t find him so convincing.

‘As for Weston, better for him he’s out of my sight. You know my reputation. I never miss– it’s a Rotherby thing.’

There was a brief silence while Sophie scrutinised him intently.

‘I accept that there are some things gentlemen prefer not to discuss,’ she replied quietly, ‘in the same way ladies do not divulge all their secrets. But I cannot accept Sir Weston’s nature is as you describe. He has only ever treated me with the utmost respect and gentlemanly regard so I think Lord Rotherby, given all the circumstances, I will make my own mind up about who I do and don’t trust– it’s a Fairfax thing!’

Then she gathered her skirts and swept from the room, wishing with all her heart that her sisters were there to agree.

* * *

It was one hour, and nearly two foiled plans later, when a scratch at her door revealed a rather sheepish-looking Horace.

‘Guvnor says you’re to come with me, miss,’ he muttered, not quite meeting her eyes.

‘Does he?’ Sophie returned in an arctic tone. ‘Well, please tell your guvnor that I’ve no wish to go anywhere with him, or anyone remotely connected with him, now or in the future, thank you, Horace.’

Sophie made to close the door, only to find Horace’s boot in the way.

‘Guvnor said you’d say that an’…’ He paused to scratch his head. ‘Well, he said to say it’s in your best interests, miss. He’s managed to arrange the stay with ’is relation, miss, a Madame Dupres , while he conducts some bus’ness. He says it’s not ’propriate for you to stay ‘ere anymore, an’ she’s from one of the best fam’lies an?—’

Sophie yanked open the door with the force of a small tornado.

‘You can tell his lordship,’ she hissed, ‘that I’ve changed my mind and I’m not being foisted off on some poor, unsuspecting female relation while he jaunts off in search of someone to marry us! I have my own plan, and I’m?—’

‘Beggin’ yer pardon, miss,’ Horace persisted, ‘he said I was to give yer back this, miss?’

Sophie frowned as the awkward tiger pressed a familiar miniature crossbow into her hands.

‘Guvnor says yer have a right to be angry, miss, and if he doesn’t arrange things to your sat’sfaction, miss, well, you can shoot ’im, or anyone else you choose, with ’is blessing, miss.’

For a moment, Sophie said nothing. Then she took the crossbow and drew in a deep breath.

‘I will come then, but only so I may arrange my future to my satisfaction, and to that purpose, female company will be infinitely more useful.’ She tucked the crossbow into the pocket of her jade muslin.

‘Right y’are, miss,’ Horace said, regarding her with new respect.

‘And Horace?’

‘Yes, miss?’

‘It was entirely his lordship’s own fault that I shot him.’

‘Yes, miss.’