Mistress of Madderlea Page 8

  ‘I am not using the carriage this afternoon, Luke. It is Lady Fitzpatrick and Charlotte who are going out in it and they are not yet ready. I came to ask you a question.’

  ‘Oh, and what would that be, miss?’ he queried, his heart in his boots in case it was another outrageous request like pretending she was her cousin.

  ‘There are a great many discharged soldiers in town, begging in the streets…’

  He looked startled. ‘Yes, miss, there are. But, cravin’ your pardon, miss, you should not be bothered by them.’

  ‘But I am bothered. I cannot stop thinking about them. What I wondered…’ She stopped and swallowed. ‘Do you know where they congregate?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know, miss, and you shouldn’t be asking me such a question.’

  ‘I want to help them.’

  He forgot to be subservient and stared at her in astonishment. ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know. I need to ask them. Food, lodgings, work. Luke, I am a very rich young lady and it is not fair that I should have so much when they, who have fought so gallantly and achieved such a fine victory, should have so little. So tell me, where can they be found? I saw some in Covent Garden a week or so ago. Is that where they are?’

  ‘Lady Fitzpatrick would never agree to let you go there!’

  ‘I do not intend to tell her.’

  ‘You don’t mean to go alone? No, miss, it is not to be thought of. You will be set upon, robbed. Worse. I could not have that on my conscience. I shall be obliged to tell her ladyship.’

  ‘I won’t be alone if you are with me, will I? Lady Fitzpatrick’s coachman can drive the carriage this afternoon and you can come with me.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Sophie, I dursn’t.’

  ‘You are quite right,’ she said, realising it was not fair to the young man to bully him so. ‘Forget I asked.’

  He breathed a sigh of relief and watched her as she left the mews. But she did not go back towards the house, but carried on to the main thoroughfare and he knew she intended to go alone. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know the answer to her question. His brother had died out in Spain and he had often, when he had an hour or two off duty, gone to drink and chat with the veterans, hoping that he might meet someone who had known and fought alongside Matthew. Hastily he called to Lady Fitzpatrick’s coachman to take over and hurried after her.

  ‘There is a soup kitchen I know of, where the men line up for a hot bowl of soup and a hunk of bread,’ he told her when he caught up with her. ‘It is run by a Mrs Stebbings.’

  ‘Good. Take me there. You will be well rewarded. And I am not Miss Roswell, nor yet Miss Hundon, I shall be Mrs Carter. A widow. An officer’s widow, I think. Do you understand?’

  He scratched his head in perplexity. ‘Yes, miss.’

  Mrs Stebbings, thin as a rake and dressed from head to foot in black, except for a huge white apron, was serving the men from the back of a wagon parked in an alley off Covent Garden. She was the widow of an infantry sergeant, she told Sophie, after Luke had introduced her. ‘Some of his men came to visit me after the war ended and I was appalled at their condition. The poor things were in rags and almost starving. They were men my husband had lived and fought with and naturally I fed them, but they told me of others, some in even worse straits, so I started a little subscription fund to buy the ingredients for the soup. Most of it is scrag of mutton and vegetables, but it is hot and nourishing.’

  ‘How long have you been doing it?’ Sophie asked, taking off her cloak and donning a sacking apron to help.

  ‘Almost a year, but the line of men and their families waiting to be served does not grow any shorter. Indeed, with the withdrawal of the occupation troops earlier this year, it has become even longer.’

  ‘And you have very little shelter against inclement weather.’

  ‘No, but they take no account of that, though I have noticed that many of them are ill when the weather is bad—some are still suffering from their wounds. What they need is shelter and medical care, but the fund will not stretch to that.’

  ‘Then more money must be found.’

  ‘I have tried, but most people look upon the poor men as a nuisance and want to see them off the streets.’

  ‘The best way to do that, surely, is for them to have work and homes.’

  ‘Oh, if only it were possible.’

  ‘I will undertake to raise enough for one refuge, at least.’

  ‘You can do that?’ Mrs Stebbings’s astonishment was comical, making Sophie smile.

  ‘I think so. I have some visits to make now, but I will be back.’

  She had sounded so positive when talking to Mrs Stebbings, but making good her promise would not be easy, she knew. Her allowance, though more than generous, was not a bottomless purse. Most of London was owned by aristocratic landowners, even the poor districts, and they employed agents to look after their interests. Accompanied by a bemused Luke, she set off to find such a one.

  She wanted to rent a house, she told him. It had to be very cheap so it did not have to be in good repair, because she was sure the tenants would be only too pleased to make it habitable, and it ought to be somewhere around Covent Garden.

  The poor man did not know what to make of this extraordinary request from someone who was obviously a gentlewoman. Had she run away? Had she been abandoned by a lover and was too frightened to go home?

  ‘I would advise you to return to your parents, miss,’ he said. ‘You do not know what you are embarking upon. You would never survive living in such a district.’

  ‘I do not intend to live there, sir,’ she said, perfectly able to read his mind. ‘I am representing an association of philanthropic ladies dedicated to looking after out-of-work soldiers. We wish to make a refuge for them to stay until they find work.’

  ‘Then I think I have the very property,’ he said, breathing a huge sigh of relief which made her smile. ‘It is in Maiden Lane. I will conduct you there, if you would not object to waiting while I arrange for my clerk to take over in my absence.’

  When Sophie saw the house her disappointment was acute. It was in a dreadfully run-down state, with broken windows and doors, tiles missing from the roof and damp everywhere. The agent assured her she would find nothing cheaper, so she paid a deposit and returned to Mrs Stebbings with the good news.

  She would write to Uncle William and tell him their expenses had been much higher than they had calculated and she needed an increase in her allowance. He would not refuse her, knowing how important this trip to London was for the future of Madderlea and the lifting of his burden as trustee. Later she would tell him the truth, along with a confession about her change of identity with Charlotte. If, by then, she had secured a husband, he would not be too angry.

  Securing a husband was the main stumbling block. The Season was already well underway and she had not done a thing to advance that cause. In fact, she had been dilatory to the point of standing still. And the reason for that was a tall, handsome man who set her nerves tingling and turned her legs to jelly. She must stop thinking about him, she really must. She saw him everywhere, expected him round every corner, wanted him to be there, was disappointed when he was not. She longed for him and knew that whatever her future life held, she would never love anyone else. Was Madderlea worth the anguish?

  Richard had been in Holles Street, intending to pay his respects to Lady Fitzpatrick, and request Miss Roswell’s company for a carriage ride in the park, when he saw Sophie leave the house alone. He had dived, like a thief, into the cover of the nearest bush and watched her.

  She was dressed in that awful grey gown and cloak, but she walked with a purpose and held her head high, her red-gold curls peeping out from beneath a small straw bonnet. Martin had been right, she did have dignity and presence, but that covered a very passionate nature as he knew to his cost. He could not put that kiss and the feel of her body held against his from his mind. It eclipsed everything else, made nonsense of his coldly calculated lis
t of requirements for a wife, turned him from a man of the world into a boy in the throes of first love, and he resented it.

  As he watched, the young groom had joined her and they set off together, talking animatedly. He felt an uncontrollable envy of her young escort and had set off after them, intending he knew not what. She had no business going out with no other escort but a servant; he had told her that when he had intervened over those begging soldiers. Did she never listen to advice?

  He had followed them, keeping out of sight, while they made their way along Oxford Street and down Charing Cross Road towards Seven Dials. Surely she was not going to venture into that notorious den of iniquity? He had quickened his pace. She must be stopped and that groom called over the coals for taking her anywhere near the place. He smiled grimly, remembering the last set down she had given him for interfering. Well, he would interfere again and chance her wrath.

  He had been relieved when she safely negotiated the corner, but the danger was not over and he kept close behind, ready to pounce on anyone who so much as lifted a finger against her. When she turned down Long Acre and into Covent Garden, he guessed it was the discharged soldiers she was thinking of. Her compassion did her credit, but he did not see what good giving them a handful of sovereigns would do. They would never leave her alone once they realised she was a soft touch.

  He watched in amazement as she approached the soup kitchen where she took off her cloak and donned an apron to serve food to the line of men. It was magnificent of her and his annoyance turned to admiration and a burning desire to stand at her side and do likewise. But he desisted, knowing she would not welcome him.

  He stood, lost in admiration of her cool perfection, knowing there would never be another woman for him and, however much his grandfather blustered and threatened, however often Martin reminded him of his rash and arrogant list of requirements, he would marry no other. But how to win her? Was it already too late?

  He had been a thorough-going fool and ruined his chances with his brash conduct and his half-hearted efforts to engage the attention of other hopefuls, including her very rich, very pretty, but somewhat uninspiring cousin, who deserved to have a husband who loved her. He could not love her, or anyone else, while Sophie Hundon lived and breathed.

  And he had insulted her with that kiss. It had been intended to hurt for making him feel as he did, to let her know who was master, not only of her but of his own emotions. Her response had been unintentional, a physical reaction down to his own practised ability and her innocence. And he had called her a tease—worse, a demi-rep! Would she ever forgive him for that?

  The men to whom she was administering were rough and unkempt but they treated her with extraordinary courtesy and good humour, and she was in no danger with Luke glued to her side. He waited until she left, assuming she was returning home, then turned and strode away, unaware of the next call she made.

  He must see his grandfather, tell him the truth and beg to be allowed a free choice. If the old man met Sophie, he would surely understand. He could put an end to the charade he had been playing and be himself. But first he needed to know how Sophie really felt about him, whether, she held him in complete aversion or whether if he tried to explain, she might understand. It was going to be decidedly tricky, especially as she was so evidently very fond of her cousin and would do nothing to hurt her.

  He arrived back at Braybrooke House in the late afternoon. Leaving his horse for a groom to stable he strode indoors, intending to order the tea-tray to be taken to his room, where he could drink it while he changed. He was puzzled to find a mountain of luggage in the hall.

  ‘What’s that?’ he demanded of the footman who had opened the door to him.

  ‘Lady Braybrooke is here,’ the man said. ‘She and Miss Braybrooke arrived earlier this afternoon. They are taking tea in the drawing room.’

  Aunt Philippa and Emily! They were the last people he wanted to see. ‘Tell them I will join them directly I have changed,’ he told the servant, before bounding up the stairs two at a time.

  Half an hour later he entered the drawing room, bathed and dressed in a modest kerseymere frockcoat and matching pantaloons. He bowed to his aunt before kissing her hand and then turned to do the same to Emily, noticing the colour flare in her pale cheeks when he asked her how she did.

  ‘We have been hearing such tales, Richard,’ his aunt said, when the courtesies had been completed. ‘I determined to come at once and scotch them.’

  ‘Rumours, Aunt? About whom?’

  ‘You, of course. Tell me you have not been flirting with every unmarried girl in town, making a cake of yourself…’

  He laughed, though the sound was a little cracked. ‘Grandfather ordered me to find a wife and that is what I am doing. How I go about it is my affair.’

  ‘And that includes making up to dowds who are no more than paid companions…’

  He did not doubt she was referring to Sophie, though how she had found out about her he did not know. He supposed tattle was as easily spread by writing letters as by word of mouth. ‘If you mean Miss Hundon, she is far from a dowd.’

  ‘She is highly unsuitable. You know perfectly well what your grandfather’s wishes are and acting the park saunterer will not endear him to you. I only wish the estate had not been entailed, then Emily would hold all the cards, not you.’

  ‘Marriage is not a game of cards, ma’am,’ he said sombrely. ‘Though I own it is a great gamble.’

  ‘Of course it is not. You simply do your duty.’

  ‘Mama…’ Emily began. ‘Please, you are putting me to the blush.’

  ‘Then go and do your embroidery. I came to speak my mind and I intend to do it.’

  ‘Aunt, you are being unkind to Emily,’ he said. ‘Given a free choice she would not choose me, I am quite sure.’

  ‘How do you know? You haven’t offered for her.’

  Emily, overcome with embarrassment, fled from the room in floods of tears.

  ‘There! See what you have done,’ his aunt said. ‘She will make her face all blotchy with weeping and we are meant to be going out this evening.’

  He did not answer. What was the good? His aunt was in no mood to listen. In fact, she continued to scold. ‘I think you might at least make a push to be agreeable to your cousin and let the world see that you are not the scapegrace they think you are. A little conduct would not come amiss.

  ‘Escort us both to Mrs Whitworthy’s this evening. We were invited to supper, but I was afraid we would not arrive in town in time and undertook only to join the company for the entertainment afterwards. It is just as well because it will take some time to repair the ravages to Emily’s complexion.’

  He was not aware that he had been disagreeable to Emily. In fact, he had always been scrupulously careful in his conduct towards her. He was fond of her in a cousinly sort of way and had done nothing to encourage her to think of him as a husband. It was her mother who had put the idea into the old duke’s head and kept it there with constant nagging.

  To save his cousin from any more scolding from her mama, he agreed, but that didn’t mean he would abandon his plan to go to Hertfordshire to see his grandfather. Escorting his aunt and cousin was simply an unwelcome diversion.

  Sophie and Charlotte, in a whispered exchange, agreed that the supper party was extremely dull. The young men were either peacocks, making no secret of their need for a rich wife, or were already very rich and looking only for a breeding machine to produce the mandatory heir. Some were extremely silly. The young ladies were their counterparts and, in Sophie’s opinion, they deserved each other. It was a bigger masquerade than ever she and Charlotte were perpetrating and she hated it.

  ‘We shall have to do something to liven it up, or I shall die of boredom,’ Charlotte murmured, as they applauded a very out-of-tune duet. ‘Shall you play and sing for us?’

  Mrs Whitworthy, catching the end of what Charlotte had said, turned to Sophie. ‘Oh, Miss Hundon, do entertain us. It is al
ways nice to listen to a new talent.’

  ‘I am not very talented, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, she is, she is,’ Charlotte put in.

  Sophie rose reluctantly and took her seat at the pianoforte, wondering what to play. And then an imp of mischief jumped into her head and nudged her. ‘You wanted to liven things up,’ it said. ‘Then go on and do it.’

  She struck a chord, then her fingers danced over the keys and her melodious voice began to sing in French. It was not until she repeated the chorus that the assembled company began to fidget. Few of them were able to translate accurately because the song was in patois, but the tune and the rhythm was quick and lively and her manner of delivery was enough to alert them to the fact that this was not a song for the drawing room. After a time she heard a murmur in the room behind her, then the rustle of skirts and a cough or two and then a chuckle. Someone appreciated it.

  At the end she turned in her seat, with a smile which could almost have been construed as triumphant, to receive the applause which was more enthusiastic from the young men than the ladies who were present. It was when she rose to go back to her seat she saw Richard standing at the back of the room, an expression of delighted surprise on his face. How long had he been there? Had he understood the words of the song? She could feel the colour burning her cheeks and wished she had not been so lacking in decorum. What must he think of her?

  ‘Viscount Braybrooke, Lady Braybrooke and Miss Emily Braybrooke,’ the footman announced.

  ‘His lordship’s aunt and cousin,’ she heard Lady Fitzpatrick whisper to Charlotte as she returned to sit with them. ‘There is talk that the old duke would like to see a liaison there. If the gossip is right, it is a great shame. But I cannot think why else they have come to town. You are going to need your wits about you, my dear, if you are to prise him loose.’

  ‘My lady,’ Charlotte returned, ‘if that is where his heart lies, I have no wish to detach him from her. In truth, I…’