Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (33 page)

Her needle flashing in the weak sunshine slanting through the large mullioned windows, Sophie sat curled in one corner of the comfortable old chaise. While a small part of her mind concentrated on the work in her hands, her thoughts were far away.

The click of the latch brought her head up.

“Melly's here.” Clarissa came through the door, followed by her bosom bow, Mellicent Hawthorne, commonly known as Melly.

Sophie smiled a ready welcome at Melly, a short, plump figure, still slightly roly-poly in the manner of a young puppy, an impression enhanced by her long, floppy, brown ringlets and huge, spaniel-like eyes. These were presently twinkling.

“Mama's talking to Mrs. Webb, so I'm here for at least an hour. Plenty of time for a comfortable cose.” Melly curled up in the armchair while Clarissa settled on the other end of the chaise. Seeing Clarissa reach for a needle and thread, Melly offered, “Would you like me to help?”

Sophie exchanged a quick glance with Clarissa. “No need,” she assured Melly. “There's really not that much to do.” She blithely ignored the huge pile in the basket.

“Good.” Melly heaved a sigh of relief. “I really don't think I'm much good at it.”

Sophie bit her lip. Clarissa, she saw, was bent over her stitching. The last time Melly had “helped” with the mending, at least half the garments had had to be rewashed to removed the bloodstains. And if there was one task worse than darning, it was unpicking a tangled darn.

“Still, I don't suppose Mrs. Webb will have you darning in London. Oooh!” Melly hugged herself. “
How
I envy you, Clarissa! Just imagine being in the capital, surrounded by beaux and London swells—just like Mr. Lester.”

Clarissa lifted her head, blue eyes alight. “Indeed, I really can't wait! It will be beyond anything great—to find oneself in such company, solicited by elegant gentlemen. I'm sure they'll eclipse the country gentlemen—well—” she shrugged “—how could they not? It will be
unutterably
thrilling.”

The fervour behind the comment made Sophie glance up. Clarissa's eyes shone with innocent anticipation. Looking down at the tiny stitches she was inserting in a tear in one of Jeremy's cuffs, Sophie frowned. After a moment, she ventured, “You really should not judge all London gentlemen by Mr. Lester, Clarissa.”

Unfortunately, her cousin mistook her meaning.

“But there
can't
be many more elegant, Sophie. Why, that coat he wore to the ball was top of the trees. And he did look so dashing this morning. And you have to admit he has a certain air.” Clarissa paused for breath, then continued, “His bow is very graceful—have you noticed? It makes one wonder at the clumsiness of others. And his speech is very refined, is it not?”

“His voice, too,” put in Melly. She shivered artistically. “So deep it reaches inside you and sort of rumbles there.”

Sophie pricked her finger. Frowning, she put it in her mouth.

“And his waltzing must just be divine—so…so powerful, if you take my meaning.” Clarissa frowned as she considered the point.

“We didn't hear much of his conversation, though,” Melly cautioned.

Clarissa waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, that'll be elegant, too, I make no doubt. Why, Mr. Lester clearly moves in the best circles—good conversation would be essential. Don't you think so, Sophie?”

“Very likely.” Sophie picked up her needle. “But you should remember that one often needs to be wary of gentlemen of manifold graces, like Mr. Lester.”

But Clarissa, starry-eyed and rosy-cheeked, refused to accept the warning. “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I'm sure you're wrong, Sophie. Why, with all his obvious experience, I'm sure one could trust Mr. Lester, or any gentleman like him. I'm sure they'd know just how things should be done.”

Mentally Sophie goggled. She was quite sure Jack Lester, for one, would know just how “things” were done—but they certainly weren't the “things” Clarissa imagined. “Truly, Clarissa, trust me when I say that you would be very much safer with a gentleman
without
Mr. Lester's experience.”

“Oh, come now, Sophie.” Puzzled, Clarissa eyed her curiously. “Have you taken him in aversion? How could you? Why, you'll have to admit he's most terribly handsome.”

When it became clear neither Clarissa nor Melly was going to be satisfied with anything short of an answer, Sophie sighed. “Very well. I'll concede he's handsome.”

“And elegant?”

“And elegant. But—”

“And he's terribly…” Melly's imagination failed. “Graceful,” she finally said.

Sophie frowned at them both. “And graceful. Yet—”

“And his conversation is elegant, too, is it not?”

Sophie tried a scowl. “Clarissa…”

“Is it not?” Clarissa was almost laughing, her natural exuberance bubbling through her recently acquired veneer of sophistication.

In spite of herself, Sophie could not restrain her smile. “Very well,” she capitulated, holding up one hand. “I will admit that Mr. Lester is a paragon of manly graces. There—are you satisfied?”

“And you did enjoy your waltz with him, didn't you? Susan Elderbridge was in transports, and
she
had only a country dance.”

Sophie didn't really want to remember that waltz, or any other of her interactions with Jack Lester. Unfortunately, the memories glowed bright in her mind, crystal clear, and refused to wane. As for his eyes, she had come to the conclusion that their image had, somehow, impinged on her brain, like sunspots. Whenever she closed her eyes, she could see them, that certain light which she trusted not at all in their deep blue depths.

She blinked and refocused on Clarissa's face, suffused with ingenuous curiosity. “Mr. Lester is very…skilled in such matters.”

With that global statement, Sophie took up her needle, hoping her cousin would take the hint.

But Clarissa was not finished. Her arms sweeping wide to encompass all they had discussed, she concluded, her voice dramatic, her expression that of one convinced beyond doubt, “So we are agreed: Mr. Lester is a paragon, a maiden's dream. How then, Sophie can you not
yearn
to find happiness in his arms?”

“Well—his, or someone like him,” Melly added, forever prosaic.

Sophie did not immediately raise her head. Her cousin's question was, indeed, very like the one she had been asking herself before Clarissa and Melly had entered. Was what she felt simply the inevitable response to such as Jack Lester? Or was it—Abruptly, she cut off the thought. “Indeed, Clarissa,” she replied, shaking out Jeremy's shirt and folding it up, “Mr. Lester is the sort of gentleman of whom it's most unwise to have such thoughts.”

“But why?”

Sophie looked up and saw genuine bewilderment in Clarissa's lovely face. She grimaced. “Because he's a rake.”

There. It was said. Time and more that she brought these two down to earth.

Their reaction was immediate. Two pairs of eyes went round, two mouths dropped open.

Clarissa was the first to recover. “Really?” Her tone was one of scandalized discovery.

“No!” came from Melly. Then, “How can you tell?”

Clarissa's expression stated that was her question, too.

Sophie stifled her groan. How could she explain? A subtle something in his eyes? An undertone in his deep voice? Something in his suave manner? Then she recalled she had known instantly, in the moment she had seen him framed in Lady Asfordby's doorway. “His arrogant air. He carried himself as if the world were his oyster, the women in it his pearls.”

His to enjoy at his whim.
Sophie had surprised even herself with her words.

Both Clarissa and Melly fell silent. Then, frowning slightly, Clarissa glanced up. “I don't mean to doubt you, Sophie, but, you know, I don't think you can be right—at least, not in this instance.”

Resigned to resistance, Sophie merely raised her brows.

Encouraged, Clarissa ventured, “If Mr. Lester
were
a rake, then surely Mama would not be encouraging him. And she is, you know. Why, she was perfectly thrilled to see him this morning—you know she was. And it was her suggestion he sit with us, beside you.”

That, of course, had been the other niggling concern that had been inhabiting Sophie's mind. All Clarissa said was true; the only point Sophie was yet unsure of was what, exactly, her aunt was about. And that, as she well knew, could be just about anything. Given that Mr. Lester was a rake, one of the more dangerous of the species if her instincts were any guide, then Lucilla might just be grasping the opportunity to have her, Sophie, brush up on the social skills she would doubtless need once they were established in London. In the present circumstances, safe in the bosom of her family in their quiet country backwater, there was no real danger involved.

“Anyway,” Clarissa said, drawing Sophie from her thoughts, “what I said at first is still undeniably true. Experienced London gentlemen are
much
more interesting than country gentlemen.”

Knowing there was one particular country gentleman Clarissa had in mind, Sophie felt compelled to point out, “But young country gentlemen do grow older, and gain experience in so doing. Even experienced gentlemen must once have been young.”

The comment drew a spurt of laughter from Melly. “Can you imagine Mr. Marston young?”

Clarissa giggled. Sophie knew she should chide them but did not; she agreed far too well to make a rebuke sound sincere. As Clarissa and Melly fell to chattering, comparing various older men of their acquaintance and speculating on their younger incarnations, Sophie tried to visualize a younger Jack Lester. It was, she found, a very difficult task. She couldn't imagine his eyes without that certain gleam. With an inward snort, she banished such foolish thoughts and reached for the next garment to be mended.

Doubtless, Jack Lester had been born a rake.

F
ATE WAS DEFINITELY
smiling upon him.

Tooling his curricle along the lane to the village, Jack squinted against the glare of the brittlely bright morning sunshine, his gaze locked on the group slowly making its way down the lane on the other side of the narrow valley, also bound for the village. A female figure in a familiar cherry-red pelisse was walking a horse of advanced years, hitched to the poles of a gig. A young girl skipped about, now beside the woman, now on the other side of the horse.

“Looks like a problem, Jigson.” Jack threw the comment over his shoulder to his groom, perched on the box behind him.

“Aye,” Jigson replied. “Likely a stone from the way he's favouring that hoof.”

A tiny track joining the two main lanes across the narrow valley came into sight just ahead. Jack smiled and checked his team.

“Be we a-going that way, guv'nor? I thought we was for the village?”

“Where's your sense of chivalry, Jigson?” Jack grinned as he steered his highly strung pair onto the hedged track, then steadied them down a steep incline. “We can't leave a lady in distress.”

Especially not
that
lady.

He should, of course, have left for London by now—or, at the very least, quit the scene. His experienced brother-in-law, for one, would certainly have recommended such a strategic retreat. “Women should never be crammed, any more than one's fences” had been a favourite saying of Jason's. He had, of course, been speaking of seduction, a fact that had given Jack pause. Given that he was, to all intents and purposes, wooing his golden head, he had elected to ignore the voice of experience, choosing instead to take heed of a new and unexpectedly strong inner prompting, which categorically stated that leaving the field free to Phillip Marston was not a good idea.

As he feathered his leader around a tight curve, Jack felt his expression harden.

According to Hodgeley, his head groom at the cottage, Marston was a gentleman farmer, a neighbour of the Webbs. He was commonly held to be a warm man, comfortably circumstanced. Village gossip also had it that he was on the lookout for a wife, and had cast his eye in Miss Winterton's direction.

Jack gritted his teeth. He took the tiny bridge at a smart clip, surprising a startled expletive from Jigson, but not so much as scratching the curricle's paintwork. Frowning, he shook aside the odd urge that had gripped him. For some reason, his mind seemed intent on creating monsters where doubtless none lurked. Fate wouldn't be so cruel as to parade his golden head before him, only to hand her to another. Besides, Jigson, who frequented the local tap, had heard no whispers of Mr. Marston heading south for the Season.

Deftly negotiating the tight turn into the lane, Jack relaxed. He came upon them around the next bend.

Sophie glanced up and beheld a team of matchless bays bearing down upon them. She grabbed Amy, then blinked as the team swung neatly aside, pulling up close by the ditch. Only then did she see the driver.

As he tossed the reins to his groom and swung down from the elegant equipage, she had ample time to admire the sleek lines of both carriage and horses. He strode across the narrow lane, his many-caped greatcoat flapping about the tops of his glossy Hessians, the cravat at his throat as neat and precise as if he were in Bond Street. His smile, unabashed, stated very clearly how pleased he was to see her. “Good day, Miss Winterton.”

Stifling her response was impossible. Her lips curving warmly, Sophie countered, “Good morning, Mr. Lester. Dobbin has loosed a shoe.”

He put a hand on the old horse's neck and, after casting an improbably apologetic glance her way, verified that fact. Releasing the horse's leg, he asked, “I can't remember—is the blacksmith in the village?”

“Yes, I was taking him there.”

Jack nodded. “Jigson, walk Miss Winterton's horse to the blacksmith's and have him fix this shoe immediately. You can return the gig to Webb Park and wait for me there.”

Sophie blinked. “But I was on my way to see my mother's old nurse. She lives on the other side of the village. I visit her every Monday.”

A flourishing bow was Jack's reply. “Consider me in the light of a coachman, Miss Winterton. And Miss Webb,” he added, his gaze dropping to Amy, who was staring, open-mouthed, at his curricle.

“Oh, but we couldn't impose….” Sophie's protest died away as Jack lifted his head. The glance he slanted her brimmed with arrogant confidence.

Jack looked down at Amy. “What say you, Miss Webb? Would you like to complete your morning's excursion atop the latest from Long Acre?”

Amy drew in a deep breath. “
Oooh,
just wait till I tell Jeremy and George!” She looked up at Jack's face—a long way up from her diminutive height—and smiled brilliantly. She reached out and put her small hand in his. “My name is Amy, sir.”

Jack's smile was equally brilliant. “Miss Amy.” He swept her an elegant bow, and Amy's expression suggested he had made a friend for life. As he straightened, Jack shot Sophie a victorious grin.

She returned it with as much indignation as she could muster, which, unfortunately, was not much. The prospect of being driven in his curricle was infinitely more attractive than walking. And, after his conquest of Amy, nothing would suffice but that they should travel thus. The decision was taken out of her hands, though Sophie wasn't sure she approved.

His groom had already taken charge of old Dobbin. The man nodded respectfully. “I'll see the blacksmith takes good care of him, miss.”

There was nothing to do but incline her head. “Thank you.” Sophie turned and followed as Jack led Amy, skipping beside him, to the curricle. Abruptly, Sophie quickened her stride. “If you'll hand me up first, Mr. Lester, Amy can sit between us.”

Jack turned, one brow slowly lifting. The quizzical laughter in his eyes brought a blush to Sophie's cheeks. “Indeed, Miss Winterton. A capital notion.”

Relieved but determined not to show it, Sophie held out her hand. He looked at it. An instant later, she was lifted, as if she weighed no more than a feather, and deposited on the curricle's padded seat. Sophie sucked in a quick breath. He held her firmly, his fingers spread about her waist, long and strong. In the instant before his hands left her, his eyes locked with hers. Sophie gazed into the deep blue and trembled. Then blushed rosy red. She looked down, fussing with her skirts, shuffling along to make room for Amy.

He had taken up the reins and half turned the curricle before she recalled the purpose of her trip.

“The basket.” Sophie looked back at the gig. “For Mildred. It's under the seat.”

Jack smiled reassuringly. In a trice, Jigson had the basket out and transferred to the curricle's boot. “Now,” Jack said, “whither away?”

Sophie bestowed a smile of thanks on Jigson. “The other side of the village and out along the road to Asfordby, a mile or so. Mildred lives very quietly; she's quite old.”

Jack gave his horses the office. “Your mother's nurse, you said. Did your mother's family come from hereabouts?”

“No, from Sussex. Mildred came to Webb Park with Aunt Lucilla on her marriage. My aunt was the younger, so Mildred stayed with her.”

Jack slanted a glance at the pure profile beside him—Amy's head was too low to interfere with his view. “Do you often do the duty visits for your aunt?”

Sophie considered the question. “I've often done so whenever I've stayed.” She shrugged. “Aunt Lucilla is frequently very busy. She has twins younger than Amy—they're just six.”

Jack grinned. “And quite a handful?”

“That,” declared Sophie, “is a description insufficient to adequately convey the full glory of the twins.”

Jack chuckled. “So you help out by taking on the role of the lady of the manor?”

“It's hardly an arduous task,” Sophie disclaimed. “I've been doing much the same on my father's estate ever since my mother died.”

“Ah, yes. I recall you mentioned helping your father.”

Sophie threw him a quick frown. “That's not what I meant. Performing one's duty is hardly doing anything out of the ordinary.” There had been something in his tone, a note of dismissal, which compelled her to explain. “I acted as his amanuensis in all matters concerning the estate and also for his studies. And, of course, since my mother's death, I've had charge of the house.” It sounded like a catalogue of her talents, yet she couldn't help adding, “House parties, naturally, were impossible, but even living retired as we did, my father could not escape some degree of local entertaining. And the house, being so old and rambling, was a nightmare to run with the small staff we kept on.” Sophie frowned at the memory.

Jack hid his keen interest behind an easy expression. “Who's running the house now?”

“It's closed up,” Sophie informed him, her tone indicating her satisfaction. As the curricle rounded a corner, she swayed closer. “My father would have left it open—but for what? I finally managed to persuade him to leave just a caretaker and his agent and let the others go on leave. He may be away for years—who can tell?”

Jack slanted a curious glance at her. “If you'll forgive the impertinence, you don't seem overly troubled by the prospect.”

Sophie grinned. “I'm not. Indeed, I'm truly glad Papa has gone back to his ‘old bones.' He was so abjectly unhappy after my mother's death that I'd be a truly ungrateful wretch were I to begrudge him his only chance at contentment. I think his work carries him away from his memories, both physically and mentally.” Her lips curved wryly; her gaze swung to meet Jack's. “Besides, even though I managed affairs for his own good, he could be a crusty old devil at times.”

Jack's answering smile was broad. “I know exactly what you mean. My own father's in much the same case.”

Sophie grasped the opportunity to turn the conversation from herself. “Are you his only son?”

“Oh, no.” Jack turned his head to glance at her. “There are three of us.” He was forced to look to his horses but continued, “I'm the eldest, then Harry. My sister, Lenore, came next; she's now married to Eversleigh. And the baby of the family is Gerald. Our mother died years ago but m'father's held on pretty well. Our Aunt Harriet used to watch over us, but Lenore did most of the work.” He threw another glance at Sophie. “My sister is one of those women who shuns the bright lights of the
ton;
she was perfectly content to remain at home in Berkshire and keep the Hall going and the estates functioning. I'm ashamed to confess that, when she married two years ago, I was totally unprepared to take on the burden.”

Noting the wry grimace that twisted his lips, Sophie ventured, “But you've managed, have you not?”

Jack's lips lifted. “I learn quickly.” After a moment, he went on, his gaze still on the road, “Unfortunately, Aunt Harriet died last year. The estate I can manage—the house…that's something else altogether. Like your father's, it's a rambling old mansion—heaps of rooms, corridors everywhere.”

To Jack's surprise, he heard a soft sigh.

“They're terribly inconvenient, but they
feel
like home, don't they?”

Jack turned his head to look at Sophie. “Exactly.”

For a long moment, Sophie held his gaze, then, suddenly breathless, looked ahead. The first houses of the village appeared on their right. “The fork to the left just ahead leads to Asfordby.”

Their passage through the small hamlet demanded Jack's full attention, his bays taking well-bred exception to the flock of geese flapping on the green, the alehouse's dray drawn up by the side of the road and the creak of the tavern's weatherbeaten sign.

By the time they were passing the last straggling cottages, Sophie had herself in hand. “Mildred's cottage is just beyond the next corner on the right.”

Jack reined in the bays by the neat hedge, behind which a small garden lay slumbering in the sunshine. A gate gave on to a narrow path. He turned to smile ruefully at Sophie. “I'd come and lift you down, but these brutes are presently too nervy to be trusted on loose reins. Can you manage?”

Sophie favoured him with a superior look. “Of course.” Gathering her skirts, she jumped down to the lane. Collecting her basket from the boot, she turned to Amy.

“I'll stay here with Mr. Lester,” her cousin promptly said. “Old Mildred always wants to tidy my hair.” Her face contorted in a dreadful grimace.

Sophie struggled to keep her lips straight. She glanced up at Jack, a questioning look in her eyes.

He answered with a smile. “I can manage, too.”

“Very well. But don't be a nuisance,” she said to Amy, then, unconsciously smoothed her curls, Sophie went to the gate.

The door opened hard on her knock; Mildred had obviously been waiting. The old dame peered at the curricle and all but dragged Sophie over the threshold. Mildred barely waited for Sophie to shut the door before embarking on a catechism. In the end, Sophie spent more time reassuring Mildred that Mr. Lester was perfectly trustworthy than in asking after Mildred herself, the actual purpose of her visit.

Finally taking her leave, Sophie reached the curricle to find Jack busy teaching Amy how to hold the reins. Depositing the empty basket in the boot, she climbed aboard.

Jack reached across Amy to help her up, then lifted a brow at her. “Webb Park?”

Sophie smiled and nodded. Amy relinquished the reins with sunny good humour, prattling on happily as the horses lengthened their stride.

About them, the March morning sang with the trills and warbles of blackbirds and thrush. The hedges had yet to unfurl their buds, but here and there bright flocks of daffodils nodded their golden heads, trumpeting in the spring.

“So tell me, Miss Winterton, what expectations have you of your stay in the capital?” Jack broke the companionable silence that had enveloped them once Amy had run her course. He flicked a quizzical glance at Sophie. “Is it to be dissipation until dawn, dancing until you drop, Covent Garden and the Opera, Drury Lane and the Haymarket, with Almack's every Wednesday night?”