Regency Rebels: Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss / An Improper Aristocrat. Deb Marlowe

supported him, there were others, they reported, who felt that his character was not steady. Charles sighed. Before all this he’d been at the top of the list to chair their new committee; now he’d be fortunate to be invited as a committee member.

      Sir Harold commiserated with him, but advised him to be patient. ‘Now is perhaps not your time, Dayle,’ he said. ‘Wait until this gossip dies down. There will be other committees, other paths to the ministry.’ He sympathised with him on the simmering scandal broth as well. ‘Still no idea who your enemy might be?’

      ‘No.’ Charles did not go into detail. ‘Jack seems convinced that it is not Avery, however.’

      ‘Hmm. His antipathy doesn’t help your situation, for certain, but I tend to agree. Avery’s style is to confront you directly, just as he has been doing. He’s not the sort to sneak behind a man’s back.’

      Sir Harold was quiet a moment. ‘I have the feeling that whoever is behind this is more powerful than we suspect. It won’t be easy rooting him out.’

      ‘I begin to wonder if the struggle is worth it,’ Charles said. This setback disheartened him. He was tired, tired of fighting, tired of trying to prove himself to a world determined to see only the worst in him.

      ‘Don’t give up, Dayle. You’ve a great future ahead of you. Find the man behind all this and give him back a taste of his own misery. Once you’ve done that, take a little time for yourself. Concentrate on choosing one of these fine young ladies. Set up your nursery. Show the doubters that your judgment is sound, that you’ve finishing sowing oats and are ready to reap a more steady crop.’ He gestured to the others, still energetically debating the latest Poor Relief Bill. ‘We’ll still be here for you.’

      His mood low, Charles shook the man’s hand and thanked him for his kindness. He stood alone a moment, wishing all his guests back to their own homes, himself to his favourite brooding chair, and his unseen enemy to the devil. He sighed. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. The way Charles’s luck was running, he’d likely be trampled instead. He would do better to seek out his brother.

      He’d just spotted Jack in animated conversation with a crowd of young bucks when the sound of Sophie’s name, spoken with derision, drew him up short. He glanced quickly around and saw a cluster of dandified gentlemen just off to his right.

      ‘Impudent chit. I don’t care if she is an earl’s niece; she has spent her life buried in the country. What does she presume to know of fashion?’

      Charles stared. Was that his cousin Theo rigged out in that hideous get-up of turquoise and buttercup yellow? Yes, he rather believed it was.

      ‘Didn’t like your waistcoat, old boy?’ sniggered one of Theo’s companions while gesturing to the elaborately embroidered disaster.

      ‘Don’t you dare laugh—this is the height of fashion, and cost me ten guineas! No, the chit betrayed her own ignorance when she said that not only should I not wear this colour combination, but no one in all England could pull it off.’

      ‘Except for a jockey on the back of a deep chestnut bay!’

      Peals of laughter rang out from the group, heightening Theo’s colour, along with his temper, Charles surmised.

      ‘Theo’s right,’ interjected a gentleman arrayed in silver and puce, ‘the girl has no business giving fashion advice.’

      ‘Well, you cannot deny her success, and certainly I’ve never seen her look anything less than smashingly gorgeous,’ someone argued.

      ‘True enough!’ came a chorus of agreement.

      ‘I wonder what her dowry is like?’ someone wondered out loud. ‘I think I shall ask her to partner me in whist.’

      ‘You shan’t get a jump on the rest of us,’ someone cried and as a group they moved off to seek out the lady’s attention, leaving only Theo and the other malcontent still grumbling.

      Moving forward, Charles decided to nip that little bud before it could bloom into a larger flower of disgruntlement.

      ‘Good evening, Theo. It has been a while, has it not?’

      ‘Dayle,’ returned Theo, still in a pout over the attack on his sartorial splendour.

      ‘My mother must be pleased to have you tonight, I know she wants all the family to meet her particular friend, Miss Westby.’ As a warning it was not much, but it was all that was required. Mumbling his agreement, Theo and his friend took themselves off.

      Charles watched them go. He was annoyed with Theo, but, oddly enough, the bulk of his irritation lay on Sophie’s shoulders. Just once he wished she would hold her tongue and not say the first thing that leapt to mind. Yes, Theo was ridiculous, but must she point it out in such a public forum?

      Who was he to conjure criticisms? His life was unravelling faster by the minute. He left in search of a drink.

      He found one, but his mother also found him.

      ‘Charles, dear,’ she fussed, drawing him aside. ‘Do you think you could influence Sophie and persuade her to allow me to make an announcement about her book?’

      He lifted a questioning brow. ‘Her book?’

      ‘Yes, her book.’ His mother sounded exasperated, but when she saw his puzzlement she relented. ‘Do you mean she hasn’t even told you? Oh, she must indeed be serious about keeping it quiet.’

      ‘Explain, please, Mother.’

      ‘Well, I suppose it’s too late now, and I’m sure she doesn’t mean to keep it from you. And at least I can break the news to you, if to no one else.’

      ‘Mother.’

      ‘Oh, yes. Well, isn’t it the most wonderful thing?’ She leaned in and lowered her voice. ‘Sophie has written her very own design guide! And a very reputable publisher has agreed to take it on. The proceeds, of course, will be donated, but I know you can appreciate what such validation means to her.’

      Indeed he could. Charles was sure that the accomplishment left Sophie feeling deeply satisfied. Unfortunately it left him feeling frustrated and strangely upset. He shook his head. Why should Sophie’s good news make him furious? He murmured something to his mother about finding a drink and wandered off, quite forgetting the one he held in his hand.

      The party broke up soon after, but far too late for Charles’s peace of mind. He caught Sophie alone as her party was preparing to leave. In the dark corner of the hall he caught up her hand and held it, searching for something, anything, he could say to express the myriad of emotions that swamped him. It was all too much. He’d schooled himself to feel nothing save ambition for so many long months, and now Sophie had him twisted in ten different knots in one evening.

      He couldn’t just stand here, dumb as a doorknob. He opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him with a shake of her head. Her hand lingered in his, however, and they stood together, silent, connected in a way that went beyond touch. The moment stretched on, but Sophie never looked up. Instead she kept her gaze locked on their clasped hands, until Emily Lowder cleared her throat, then Sophie recalled herself and her hand and swept away.

      Somehow Charles got through the next hour. He bid goodbye to all the guests, kissed his mother goodnight, bade the servants to go on to bed and leave the mess for the morning. He took himself to the book room and shut the door. He poured a brandy, but didn’t drink it. He stared long at the fire, without seeing it. He sat down in his favourite chair and slowly descended the slippery slope into insanity.

      It must be what this was, insanity—or as close as he’d ever come to it. His mind was whirling, events and voices from the past weeks were haunting him. Sacrifice anything … decide what you want … you forgot me.

      They were all slipping away, all the reasons that had given him purpose, allowed him to go on. If Viscount Dayle faltered, would there be enough left of Charles Alden to survive?

      All