Page 22 of The Scandal of the Season (Fairfax Sisters #2)

Chapter Twenty-Two

LADYBIRDS AND PEACOCKS

Several cold hours later

‘Y ou couldn’t look less like a revolutionary if you tried!’ Lu Lu said placatingly. ‘Not that you wouldn’t look divine in a pair of those revolutionary breeches, though,’ she added through a layer of blanket.

Sophie nodded, cold reality far outweighing any thoughts of revolutionaries or their breeches. Dawn had brought the very sobering realisation that not only did she care very much about the outcome of the duel, she’d also kidnapped a monstrous gentleman and incited an excitable revolutionary to murder too. The sum of this was a stone-cold fear that not even a dawn glow over the fabled town of Chartres could appease.

She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the nausea that had arisen since she’d admitted the true likelihood of Horace’s success when it came to his guvnor’s duel. If Rotherby had won, and the viscount was killed, she would have lost a sister; and if Damerel had done as he’d sworn and run a sword through Rotherby… Sophie clutched the sides of her seat until her knuckles turned white.

Miserably, she watched as the tired horses pulled them towards the approaching town, acknowledging that leaving Versailles and leaving her guilt were two very different things entirely, and whether Rotherby possessed a heart or not, she had most certainly lost hers.

‘We only know true love when we face its loss,’ Lu Lu said mournfully, side-eyeing Sophie. ‘But my Dominic knows he must not kill any of your family, so it is more likely he has let the viscount kill him, non ?’ she added, patting Sophie’s hand.

Sophie responded with a very strange groan.

‘But of course we must wait for news before thinking of our widow’s weeds, ma chérie,’ Lu Lu continued rapidly , ‘ And in the meantime, we must rid ourselves of the great stupide and eat, for everything is always better after coffee and pastries, non ?’

Sophie tried to smile. It had been a long night for them all and Lu Lu hadn’t once complained at having been dragged into an entirely fresh scandal not of her making.

‘Try not to assume the worst, ma chérie ,’ she said, slipping her arm through Sophie’s as the tired horses trotted past the impressive facade of the cathedral Notre-Dame de Chartres .

‘We will return to Paris after le petit déjeuner , and face everything together, oui ?’

Sophie nodded wanly, but the truth was that Sir Weston had been quite correct. Not only was Lu Lu a widow, and therefore not subject to the same rigorous standards as a debutante, there was also the fact that if there had been a duel to the death at Versailles, all of Paris would now hold her responsible. And the more she thought about a world without the scandalous Lord Rotherby, the more she felt like shooting both the lecherous Sir Weston and the rude coach driver, who’d been singing to himself for at least an hour now.

Sophie cast a look around the sleepy courtyard entrance to Chartres’s Hotel de Montescot, the only hostelry open to travellers , before nodding at a sleepy young ostler.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, climbing down as though she’d aged a hundred years since Versailles.

The pan-faced ostler nodded, though his round eyes said everything about the appearance of two grand Versailles ladies, atop a common hire coach, at dawn, at the Hotel de Montescot.

Inhaling deeply, Sophie yanked open the coach door and discovered Sir Weston sprawled across the seat, as though settled in for the week.

‘Madame Dupres and I have bespoken a parlour for breakfast,’ she threw coldly. ‘What you do now is entirely up to you.’

Then she turned and stalked inside to warm herself by the comfortable parlour fire, only to find both the coach driver and Sir Weston at her door a few minutes later.

‘The landlord has only this parlour available for breakfast guests,’ the coach driver said in a wheedling tone, ‘and there are no other hotels open.’

Sophie closed her eyes in disbelief, while Lu Lu scowled.

‘Well, come in if you must, but sit over there, out of the way!’ Lu Lu scolded, before planting herself at the pretty parlour table. ‘And do not even think about touching the pastries, for I am quite famished!’

For a short while, Sophie drowned her thoughts in the bottom of a pretty coffee cup, while Lu Lu put pay to a good number of the aforementioned pastries. Then the faint sound of fresh wheels reached through the courtyard window.

She glanced up swiftly, her skin growing clammy with fresh fear, and wondered if it was the moment of truth. She’d only wanted to take care of her family the only way she had left, but instead of fixing everything, she’d made it far worse. Lord Rotherby’s dark eyes surfaced amid her thoughts, glinting at her in the candlelight, and her chest ached intensely.

‘There’s no point in hiding, for I know you’re both in there!’

Sophie looked across at Lu Lu, hardly trusting her ears as the imperious voice echoed along the corridor.

‘Aurelia?’ she said in disbelief, as the voice was followed by a sharp rap on the door, before it flew open to confirm the new arrival was indeed Lady Aurelia Carlisle.

For a second, no one said anything.

She was still dressed in her Versailles finery– an exuberant affair comprising the duck-egg blue satin gown, overlaid with numerous layers of net and lace until Sophie wasn’t entirely sure where the dress stopped and Aurelia began. Yet, it was all painted with a fine spray of mud, while her pearl-netted curls were askew, her rouge streaked, and her china-blue eyes glinting murderously.

Sophie blinked as Lu Lu beamed.

‘Aurelia!’ Lu Lu exclaimed delightedly, ‘have you come all the way from Versailles? Oh! And Madame Montmartre too?’

Sophie’s gaze widened as the revolutionary modiste suddenly appeared in the doorway, looking decidedly the worse for wear.

‘How lovely to see you again, Madame Montmartre,’ Sophie said in a rush, her brain whirling with a thousand possible excuses as to why she might not be quite ready to join la révolution . ‘We were so anxious for you when you left… and do excuse me, but are you quite well? It looks as though you may have been in a skirmish?’

Sophie cast her gaze up and down the volatile revolutionary, who was now dishevelled and muddied, as though she’d encountered some fierce loyalists along the way.

‘Was it the barouche driver?’ she asked with a frown.

‘ Mais oui . It was this rude barouche driver,’ Madame Montmartre stormed in, gesticulating at Aurelia. ‘I’d half a mind to run my sword through her, but it is the bodice, you see, it is very fine lace so I could not bring myself to do it. And she says she is a friend of yours so… voilà !’ She flung herself into a chair beside Sir Weston.

‘Wait, so you were the barouche driver?’ Sophie asked Aurelia in astonishment. ‘And you drove all the way from Versailles– after us? But what of the viscount or…’

Sophie faltered, unable to say Rotherby’s name on top of the sudden, intense fear seeping through her bones. Whether from comfort or vanity, she’d convinced herself one of them was in pursuit, and now she had to face the possibility that neither were able to do so.

Aurelia smiled contemptuously, before pulling an ivory-handled dagger from her skirts, prompting a series of gasps around the room.

‘I have pursued you all the way from Versailles,’ she said dangerously, ‘without so much as a change of undergarments, and all you can ask is, where is Lord Rotherby ?’ She brandished the dagger in the air. ‘Hopefully he and the viscount are fully impaled on the end of each other’s swords by now, for they are nothing to me!’

‘Aurelia!’ Lu Lu scolded reprovingly, as a second gasp rippled through the room.

‘You are speaking of my own very dear Dominic, and Sophie’s brother-in-law too. Pray, do not forget your manners, ma chérie !’

‘I forgot my manners the night Miss Sophie Fairfax forgot hers and stole my plan, though how Lord Rotherby ever mistook her scheming face for mine I’ve no idea!’ she snapped.

‘It was dark!’ Sophie protested.

‘Well, there must have been thick fog in both your heads but I care not! I’m so over the Fairfaxes and your husband-thieving games. What I cannot forgive is that you think nothing of stealing my cherished friend, while running away with another half-wit! And don’t deny it– I saw the two of you carry her to your coach.’

Sophie blinked as a faint memory stirred.

‘I also have an old beloved friend in Paris who has much influence with Lord Rotherby…’

And in a rush, Sophie realised she’d been staying with the friend Aurelia had mentioned at the exhibition– a friend she actually appeared to care about far more than anyone knew.

‘ Non, non, ma chérie ,’ Lu Lu protested. ‘Sophie did not steal me, and she was certainly not running away with that great stupide, that imbécile ! How could you think so? In truth, I thought him my friend also, but now I know I’d rather remain a widow for the rest of my days than marry Sir Weston!’ she exclaimed with a look of disgust.

‘Well, I think that’s a bit strong,’ he muttered indignantly.

Sophie took a deep breath, now certain Lu Lu’s loyalty had never been in question.

‘Aurelia, you know, even if you can’t admit it, that I never set out to steal anyone,’ she said in a low tone. ‘And I am quite aware that your plan to spread rumours about my life will be all the harder if it risks the reputation of your beloved friend . ’

At this Aurelia stared sullenly, yet Sophie knew that her pursuit showed a chink in her armour; that there was hope for her too.

‘And really, ma chérie , I am only here because the great stupide thought I added respectability to his folly,’ Lu Lu said with great solemnity, ‘which is altogether très dr?le , is it not?’

‘Hurry, boy!’ A sudden pompous tone filtered along the corridor, halting Aurelia’s response. ‘I have a very important meeting about a very urgent matter, and as I am already two minutes late, I must make haste.’

Feeling as though this morning couldn’t possibly get any worse, Sophie shot a glance at Sir Weston, who was reclining in his seat with the air of one very satisfied with himself. A wave of suspicion arose within her– and then she just knew. She scowled intently at his horribly smug expression. Of all the hotels in all the provincial towns in France, they had to break their fast in the same one in which Sir Weston had arranged to meet the pastor!

A thousand conflicting thoughts hurtled through Sophie’s head, but uppermost in her mind was the fact that she now needed to defend herself to the infamous English pastor in a muddied Versailles gown and domino, amidst the oddest array of company. Cursing beneath her breath, she did her very best to shake out her flattened curls and crumpled skirt. She might be the most disgraced debutante ever to walk the earth, but she was determined to look respectable enough for the pastor to listen to her, and not Sir Weston.

Yet the moment the door opened, her brief flicker of hope guttered, for from the slick of his oiled hair to the silk tassel of his Hessian boots, stood a greater stuffed peacock she had ever to set eyes upon.

‘Ahem,’ he cleared his throat noisily. ‘I am looking for Sir George Weston, but feel I may have been brought to the wrong room. Pray excuse my intrusion into your’—his supercilious gaze swept the room, taking in the varied array of persons and their even more varied array of bedraggled clothing—‘gathering,’ he concluded disparagingly.

He prepared to withdraw, just as Sir Weston got to his feet.

‘I am the gentleman you seek,’ he confirmed with one of his most proper bows, ‘and I thank you for being so prompt, sir.’

‘The lady I am betrothed to wed is that one– not the one wielding a dagger.’ He gestured at Sophie smugly. ‘You see, dearest, didn’t I say the pastor could be counted upon?’

Sophie glowered as the pastor ran his gaze slowly over Sir Weston’s crumpled coat, dangling Versailles mask and half-eaten pastry, before drawing a visible breath.

‘Your letter,’ he enunciated very deliberately, ‘stated that you were quiet, respectable persons, wishful of a quiet, respectable wedding, however’—he swung his gaze between them with the look of someone who’d stumbled across a water closet that hadn’t been emptied for several weeks—‘I see nothing remotely quiet or respectable here. Your manner, sir, is presumptuous, there are crumbs about your person, and your company is very much less than’—he cast a deprecatory glance around the room before wrinkling his nose in distaste—‘honourable.’

‘ Vous avez raison, monsieur, ’ the coach driver nodded traitorously through a mouthful of warm bread, ‘c’est vrai. The English lady, she seized my coach.’

Sophie looked at her feet as the pastor blanched and swung his condescending gaze back to her.

‘Seized?’ he pronounced awfully, looking her up and down, ‘And now I know I have wasted my time entirely! I do not perform marriage ceremonies for persons of dubious quality, and I certainly don’t dally in low company. Does no one in this party have any sense of propriety?’

At this, the ladies gasped.

‘Monsieur, that is an insult too far!’ Madame Montmartre exclaimed, shaking out her silk-lined velvet cloak to its fullest advantage. ‘I have the privilege of dressing most of the ladies present and not only are they very respectable, they know, unlike you, to avoid green puce under all circumstances! I can assure you, not all my customers are so insightful.’

She turned to smile at the ladies in question, well satisfied with herself.

‘And you are?’ the pastor enquired, reminding Sophie of a beleaguered trout.

‘Madame Montmartre, Parisian modiste at your service,’ she replied, sweeping a haughty bow.

‘A modiste? Dressed like a revolutionary?’ the pastor accused, his eyes narrowing.

‘Bah!’ she said dangerously, ‘better a revolutionary than a stuffed English peacock!’

Sophie took a deep breath, feeling her every crease and displaced curl flood with a curious kind of exhaustion. Quite aside from being a murderess, she’d travelled all night, hadn’t bathed in hours, had suffered the attentions of lecherous libertines, and then been subjected to Aurelia’s accusations before this poppycock of a pastor had appeared. She should be furious– and she would be– if it weren’t for the fact that his pompous nature had also provided her with an opportunity. She glanced at Sir Weston, inspiration brewing. Perhaps this would prove easier than she first thought.

‘This is clearly a meeting place for vagrants and vagabonds,’ the pastor continued, ‘and you should be ashamed of yourself, sir, for luring a man of the cloth into such company. I will remove myself before my reputation is tarnished beyond redemption.’

‘You really should,’ Sophie agreed swiftly, feeling Aurelia’s stare. ‘It is well known that I have a penchant for befriending rakes, rogues and everyone in between, sir. And there is no telling what damage you may do– to your heavenly reputation, as well as your earthly one– simply by being in this room with us. It is certainly for the best that you remove your esteemed personage while you still can?—’

‘Mais non, ma chérie,’ Lu Lu interrupted, ‘you are tres honourable!’

‘Do not listen to her, sir,’ Sir Weston protested. ‘Miss Fairfax is all things?—’

‘No, no I am not!’ Sophie interrupted furiously. ‘I am extremely dishonourable and dubious and there is absolutely nothing to be done about it– the pastor really must know the truth.’

‘Well,’ the pastor blustered, his eyes bulging, ‘in all my years, I have never heard such a confession spoken so glibly. For my part, I cannot imagine anything less heavenly than a marital union between a tap-hackled ne’er-do-well and common adventuress! I bid you goodnight.’

‘In truth, sir,’ Sophie called after him, ‘the relief is all ours!’

Then she turned back to face Sir Weston with a look of triumph, but the victory was short-lived for no sooner had the disapproving parson disappeared, than the yard filled with the sound of more horses and ostler calls. She swallowed, knowing the brightening morning would bring a flurry of visitors to the hotel, and with them the very distinct likelihood of real news.

‘ Mon dieu! Who now?’ Madame Montmartre exclaimed, rushing to the window.

‘I could guess at a few,’ Aurelia said with a smirk.

A fresh wave of suspicion stirred with Sophie.

‘Did you tell someone you were following us?’ she demanded.

‘Oh no, well… not exactly,’ Aurelia replied, breaking a pastry apart. ‘Although I suppose I may have dashed off a letter to your brother, Thomas, before I left England, to let him know you were Lord Rotherby’s new courtesan . Come to think of it, he wrote back most promptly saying he’d been informed otherwise, but that he was making all haste to Paris, and if Rotherby didn’t escort you down the aisle, he would take the greatest pleasure in persuading him to wed you at the tip of his own sword! La, what a thought! I’d give all my pin money to watch anyone try to force Dominic to do anything he didn’t want. And, now I think of it, I may have left a message about your excursion to Chartres for the charming viscountess too. She’s newly arrived in Paris and most keen to see you, as I understand it, so really it could be any one of your delightful brood. How exciting!’ She popped a morsel of croissant in her mouth.

Sophie listened in disbelief, subtly aware that there was something new in her tone– a note of regret perhaps– yet what did it matter? She'd done everything she could to protect her family, all for Aurelia to bring them directly after her.

‘How could you?’ she accused shakily.

‘And now the two English ones will kill one another,’ Madame Montmartre pronounced in an awful voice.

‘That would certainly change my plans,’ Sir Weston said, just as a familiar voice filtered through the draughty window.

‘Excuse me, but is there an English miss here? It’s of the utmost importance I speak with her.’

‘Phoebe!’ Sophie whispered hoarsely, her head spinning.

Her sister sounded grave and alone, and suddenly the full horror of discovering whether she’d ruined Phoebe’s life, as well as her own, was more than she could bear. She cast a stricken look around the room before rushing to the door. She could already hear Phoebe at the front entrance, talking to the landlord, and a wave of homesickness threatened to topple her. She wanted nothing more than to run towards her sister, to throw her arms around her and bury her face in her warmth and protection.

Except Phoebe might not offer her warmth and protection ever again– and she would rather live her whole life apart than spend a second watching her beloved sister’s heart break.

Which left Rouen.

Her chest pounding, Sophie sprinted as though her life depended on it, through the corridor and steamy kitchen and out of the back door into the fresh spring air. Then she let herself out of a small yard, slipped down an alley and emerged onto a town road where, to her wretched relief, a public coach was boarding.

‘Rouen?’ she panted, just as the coach driver was closing up.

He frowned at her crumpled Versailles gown, before she proffered her gleaming crossbow fare, a question in her eyes.

‘ Oui ,’ he replied with a shrug, opening the door for her.

With a last big effort, Sophie climbed up and squeezed into a corner of the rickety contraption, beside an elderly farmer with a basket of goods.

‘ Oignon ?’ he offered kindly.

At which point, she thought only of Phoebe, and promptly burst into tears.