A Study in Scoundrels Page 4

  “I’m becoming increasingly familiar with uncertainty.” He stared at the even lines of black and white in the skirt of Sophia’s gown, avoiding her gaze.

  “Forgive me.” Reaching across the carriage, she gently laid her gloved fingers at the edge of his wounded hand. “I was thoughtless to jest when you’re worried about your sister.” Straightening on her bench, she retreated so quickly he might have imagined the gesture. Except that his skin was tingling where she’d touched him.

  “I’d jest with you, Sophia, any day of the week.” He could happily lose himself in her guileless gaze. “But you’re right. Phyllida is out there somewhere, and I must find her.”

  The carriage drew to a stop, and Sophia lurched forward. Grey gripped her arm to steady her and fought the urge to haul her into his lap, to kiss those tempting lips, to forget everything but giving and taking pleasure, if only for a moment.

  “Thank you for escorting me home, Mr. Grey.” She righted herself and stared at him a moment before glancing down to where he held her arm. “I pray you find your sister soon.”

  Grey released his hold and hopped out of the carriage when the groom opened the door, reaching inside to help Sophia down. She took his hand, and he held on too tightly, enjoying her touch far too much.

  “There are private detectives who could assist you.”

  “No police or investigators.” Grey shook his head. “There’s too much risk for rumors to start. I won’t allow Liddy’s reputation to be ruined over what’s likely nothing more than a youthful indiscretion.” As the hours ticked past, he tried to convince himself his sister had slipped away for a bit of freedom. She’d always expressed a fancy for Brighton or a visit to some seaside resort, and he could imagine her being hardheaded enough to set out on her own.

  “Good day to you then, Mr. Grey.” She tipped her head back, and sunshine lightened the blue of her eyes.

  As she began striding away, he fought the urge to follow. To spend more time basking in her clean scent and unaffected manner. Perhaps, beyond her blinding beauty and by-the-book propriety, there was more to Sophia Ruthven.

  If nothing else, she was a woman who, unlike every other, seemed completely immune to his charms.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “A detective will meet all sorts during an investigation. Liars, rogues, seducers, and scoundrels. No matter the provocation, never let them rattle you.”

  —CASEBOOK OF EUPHEMIA BREEDLOVE, LADY DETECTIVE

  Sophia slammed the front door behind her and melted against the wood, struggling to catch her breath.

  She loathed the unsettling power of Jasper Grey. The man was too . . . everything. Charming and handsome and distractingly well built. Flirtatious and brazen. She thought back, trying to recall each word he’d said. Now, out of his presence, nothing struck her as particularly outrageous. Yet everything about the man provoked her. Even his easy smiles and the constant sparkle in his eyes.

  Especially those.

  How could anyone be so at ease in his own skin?

  She pushed the man from her thoughts and fretted as she tugged off her gloves, worrying over her abrupt departure from the Westby townhouse. Wouldn’t facing the consequences of her encounter with the earl and maintaining whatever favor she’d found with Lady Vivian have been the better course? She’d accepted the invitation to the noblewoman’s tea as a representative of Ruthven Publishing. What would the noblewoman and her friends think of The New Ruthven Rules for Young Ladies now that one of its authors had scurried away like a thief escaping in the night?

  “Miss Ruthven, I trust you had a good visit.” Catherine Cole, the petite, dark-eyed, and impressively efficient housekeeper she’d hired for Kit and Ophelia approached with a list between her fingers. Just a year older than Sophia, Mrs. Cole had made herself indispensable quickly, and the two had built an instant rapport. “Cook would like to discuss the going-away menu for this evening, the mason came to repair the chimney and says he’ll return tomorrow to finish, and Mr. and Mrs. Ruthven and their luggage will be picked up for delivery to the station at ten thirty tomorrow morning.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Cole. I’ll speak to Cook after I’ve changed.”

  As Sophia started up the stairs toward her room, high-pitched giggles and mischievous whispers filtered through the half-open parlor door.

  Mrs. Cole rushed inside and issued one of her no-nonsense commands. “Cease this tomfoolery at once. Back to your duties, girls.”

  Sophia couldn’t resist poking her head into the room. “What’s so amusing?”

  Two maids stood with their backs to the front parlor window, cheeks flaming. One clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a round of giggles that emerged as strangled gurgles.

  “There’s a gentleman out front, miss,” the boldest of the two explained before ducking her head.

  “Which is no concern of yours,” Mrs. Cole insisted. “Now get back to your duties this minute.”

  When the two scurried from the room, Sophia approached to glance through the sheer lace curtain. Her pulse jumped in her throat, and suddenly she couldn’t blame the maids at all.

  Jasper Grey hadn’t moved from the spot where she’d left him.

  The man possessed that elusive characteristic all actors dreamed of—a magnetic allure that made it hard to take one’s eyes off him. Not that he was performing Hamlet at the moment. In fact, he wasn’t doing anything, other than standing next to the impressive closed carriage he claimed belonged to his father and gazing up at Kit and Ophelia’s townhouse.

  With his disheveled hair and lost expression, he looked a bit like a waif or stray. Though he was an unusually handsome stray, Sophia suspected he had no real interest in being tamed or taken in by one of his many fawning admirers and settling into domestic bliss. Not only did he have a wretched reputation, but he’d stared at her as hungrily as had the Earl of Westby.

  Were all men bound to be cads?

  Perhaps. Though Mr. Grey seemed a different sort than Lord Westby. He’d touched her to offer assistance and protection, while the earl had left a bruise on her arm and a sickening flavor on her lips. She swept the back of her hand across her mouth, wishing to rid herself of the memory.

  Now that she possessed a matrimonial prospect for the first time in her life, Sophia hoped there was at least one honorable gentleman left in England. The mystery to solve was whether Mr. T. Ogilvy, Esquire, would prove to be that man.

  Just when she decided Mr. Grey must have forgotten something, he turned and climbed into his carriage, offering one single gaze back at their house before departing. With his sister missing, the man must be mad with worry, but she thought it folly for him to refuse assistance or the name of a reliable detective.

  There were endless ways to find trouble in London’s sprawl. What if his sister had ventured beyond the city? Most worrying of all was that Mr. Grey seemed to have no notion how to proceed with his hunt for the girl. If Sophia were conducting such a search, she’d start with the girl’s friends and confidants, or discover if she kept a journal. Young ladies either confided their secrets to close friends or locked diaries.

  “I suppose he is an appealing sight.” Mrs. Cole spoke softly from over Sophia’s shoulder. “Not that it’s my place to say.”

  When Sophia glanced back to offer the housekeeper a grin, Mrs. Cole pursed her lips in consternation.

  “A woman would be blind not to notice his appeal,” Sophia admitted. “But one must never forget he’s an utter scoundrel. He told me so himself the first time I met the man.”

  “Are you well acquainted with the gentleman?” Mrs. Cole cocked a dark brow.

  “Not well, no.” Only well enough to know that his voice was the most appealing she’d ever heard. “He’s an actor. A theater friend of my brother’s.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Cole raised a hand to her lips to stifle what sounded suspiciously like laughter. “We’ll have to blinker the maids if he ever comes for a visit.”

  “Nonsense. We’ll just
have to warn them about what kind of man he is.” Ironically, he was precisely the sort he must fear his sister had absconded with.

  “Do you think so? I suspect that will only make them more determined to fancy him. You know how young ladies carry on. They rush toward adventure without a thought for the consequences.” Mrs. Cole crossed to a table near the parlor door and retrieved the morning’s post. “Some letters for you, miss.”

  “Quite a few, I see.” Sophia retrieved the stack, hoping for one from her younger sister. Instead, the pile contained business correspondence related to Ruthven Publishing and, on the bottom, an envelope addressed to her in neat italic script from Mr. T. Ogilvy.

  The gentleman had been quick about replying, though haste wasn’t difficult when the postman delivered several times a day in the city.

  A sickly combination of anticipation and dread welled up as she headed to her sitting room to read his letter. Very like the roil of emotions she’d felt when posting her first reply to his matrimonial advertisement in the London Inquirer.

  His ad had read:

  T. Ogilvy, Esq., a professional gentleman of reliable means and moderate age, desires the acquaintance of an accomplished lady of unquestionable character, matrimony being the object. She must be between eighteen and twenty-eight years of age, of genteel education, and accustomed to good society. Preference given to ladies with an interest in books, walks in the park, and the quiet pleasures of home.

  Initially, she hadn’t been searching for a husband at all. Just ideas. The personal ads provided an endless crop of story inspiration. Where better to find drama than in the pages of a newspaper?

  Despite her willingness to approach matrimony through such modern means, marriage wasn’t a prospect Sophia had ever taken lightly. Unlike her sister, she harbored many of her father’s traditional notions. She’d never minded the thought that wedlock would be her fate. She’d looked forward to it. Expected it. And with such a goal in mind, she’d applied herself to scrupulously following the rules of etiquette and her father’s prescriptions for polite behavior. She believed they’d bring her a husband, a family, and a long, contented dotage.

  Of course, her parents hadn’t achieved contentment together. But she wasn’t like her mother, fitful and moody. Nor did she intend to be like her father, ignoring his family to pursue business goals and wealth.

  There was only one problem—and it was a significant impediment to happily ever after. At six and twenty, not a single proposal had ever come her way. Worse, Sophia wasn’t precisely sure why. Men praised her beauty, and she’d passed enough mirrors to consider herself passably pretty. She’d begun to fear that she lacked something inside, a nature and disposition that made others wish to know her beyond her looks.

  At her first country ball, gentlemen had vied for her attention the moment she stepped into the room. Her father selected the petitioners he approved of, and at least five respectable young men had whirled her around Lady Pembry’s ballroom that evening. During each dance, she’d concentrated on performing the steps gracefully and politely answering every question put to her.

  Imagine her surprise when she stepped into her host’s maze garden and overheard three gentlemen discussing her merits with all the delicacy they’d afford a mare for purchase at Tattersall’s.

  Pretty face but cold as ice. Too frigid to desire. Ice queen.

  She’d stormed back into the ballroom, eyes stinging with tears she refused to shed, and had chosen the handsomest young man in the room.

  Stephen Derringham was tall and dashing, a young rogue ladies whispered about behind their fans.

  After catching his eye, Sophia lured him closer with what she hoped was a coquettish grin. He’d drawn scandalously near, whispering to her in a voice so deep it made her shiver. He invited her into the garden, and when her father was distracted, she’d slipped away.

  But Derringham hadn’t been interested in romance, only in groping and pulling and attempting to get her onto her back. He’d torn her stocking as he struggled to hike up her dress and steal what she did not wish to give. She’d fought him, pushing and kicking, until he released her with a curse, and she scrambled through the darkened garden to escape.

  She still woke in the night sometimes, a cry caught in her throat, arms flailing to keep Derringham’s hands away.

  The incident had cured her naïveté. Afterward, she’d taken more care with her behavior, found a kind of comfort in her father’s rules of etiquette.

  Her sister Clary insisted Sophia needed to be more forthright with her feelings. That if she favored a gentleman and revealed her interest, he would respond in kind.

  Sophia wasn’t convinced. It was a risk no man had ever inspired her to take.

  After slicing the letter opener along the envelope’s edge, Sophia slipped Mr. Ogilvy’s note out carefully, warily. Her first reply had contained mostly banal niceties, assuring him that she met all of the requirements—age, status, and good character—mentioned in his advert. A photographic postcard emerged with the folded foolscap, and Sophia glimpsed only dark hair and a mustache before flipping the card and focusing on the man’s letter. She wished to judge Mr. Ogilvy not by his visage but first and foremost by the content of his heart.

  Miss Ruthven,

  Your reply stood out among all others, and I confess myself most eager to continue our acquaintance.

  To that end, I have enclosed a photograph, so that you may judge whether my countenance induces anything like your approbation. If your beauty is half as fulsome as the character you’ve described yourself as possessing, I shall be beyond pleased to make you my bride. Please enclose a recent photograph with your next reply, which I eagerly await.

  Yours respectfully,

  T. Ogilvy

  “Well, bother.” Sophia closed her eyes and sighed. She fiddled with the edge of the postcard but refused to turn the photo over.

  Ogilvy had sounded so principled in the newspaper, seeking a match based on character and the harmony of two minds. He’d sparked her notice because his ad mentioned nothing regarding looks or physical measurements. Now it seemed to be the man’s only real concern. What of similar interests? What of shared beliefs? What of preferences and inclinations that may or may not be compatible? After waiting so long for a suitor, she refused to jump straight to assessing each other shallowly.

  Did she require any greater evidence than the Earl of Westby to prove that a man’s beauty could steal one’s breath while he offered nothing else in the way of reliability or honor?

  She would not send Ogilvy a photograph. Not yet. She knew too little of the man. He hadn’t even seen fit to share his given name before asking for a glimpse of her face.

  After pulling a clean sheet of foolscap from her desk, she began crafting a response to his letter.

  Mr. Ogilvy,

  Your quick reply is greatly appreciated, sir. However, your enclosed photograph was most unexpected. I must inform you that I have set your image aside and shall not look upon your face until we are further acquainted.

  What are your interests, Mr. Ogilvy? I do not know your occupation, nor by what name your friends address you. For myself, I prefer the county to the city, tea to coffee, and mystery stories like those of Mr. Conan Doyle to any other sort of fiction. I’ve never been gifted with a nickname. Everyone calls me Sophia.

  Mayn’t we correspond for a while to deepen our understanding of each other?

  Sincerely,

  Sophia Ruthven

  When a knock sounded at her door, she blew across the paper to dry the ink from her fountain pen. “Come in.”

  “Rather than making you go down to the kitchen, Miss Ruthven, I brought up the menu for this evening.” Mrs. Cole hustled into the room, holding out a sheet of paper in front of her.

  Sophia had taken care to plan a special bon voyage meal for her brother and sister-in-law’s last night at home before their departure for France. She wanted to give the newlyweds a pleasant send-off and assure them t
hat all would be taken care of at home during their absence.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cole. Tell Cook this looks perfect.” Another thought struck Sophia as the housekeeper started out of the room. “May I speak to you on a delicate matter?”

  “Of course, Miss Ruthven.” The housekeeper clasped her hands in front of her as she reentered Sophia’s room, her shoulders back, body tense, as if she expected a reprimand or interrogation.

  “Let’s sit for a moment.” Sophia gestured to a pair of chairs near the long window looking out onto the townhouse’s back garden.

  Rather than put Mrs. Cole at ease, the suggestion seemed to make her anxious. She reached up to fiddle with a small brooch at the neck of her blouse. “Is anything amiss with my performance, Miss Ruthven?”

  “Not at all.” Sophia had already taken a chair and motioned toward the other, offering Mrs. Cole an encouraging grin.

  Quickly, as if she didn’t wish to waste Sophia’s time, the housekeeper seated herself and assumed the same stiff posture she employed when standing. “Yes, miss?”

  “You must tell me if this question seems untoward or impolite.” Sophia bit her lip and inhaled sharply. “But I wonder, Mrs. Cole, if you’d tell me a bit about Mr. Cole.”

  The woman’s brow crinkled, and one eye narrowed before she said, “My father?”

  “No, I mean your husband.” Sophia softened her tone. Perhaps this topic was difficult. She began to feel a fool for mentioning it at all.

  “My husband?” Now it was Mrs. Cole’s turn to bite her lip. She twisted her hands too, over and over each other as if she were kneading a ball of imaginary dough.

  “Never mind,” Sophia said firmly. “I do not wish to distress you, and the question is too personal. I see that now.” She stood and approached the bell pull. “Will you join me for a cup of tea instead?”

  “You’ve found me out, haven’t you?” An anguished tone broke Mrs. Cole’s usually calm voice. “There is no Mr. Cole.” The housekeeper dipped her head and swallowed hard. “I’ve never been married, Miss Ruthven. I lied.”