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

He was equally formal as they seated themselves and the butler offered to go for the tea. He watched her the entire time, his gaze sharply calculating.

      As the servant’s footsteps faded in the marbled hall, her uncle spoke. ‘I was annoyed when I first heard you had come to town, I admit.’

      ‘I am amazed you thought to care one way or another.’

      He crossed his legs negligently. ‘It doesn’t look well, you coming here without my sponsorship, but, after meeting you, I’m willing to overlook the matter.’

      Sophie inclined her head regally. ‘That does seem to be what you do best.’

      He leaned forward, suddenly intent. ‘Look here, niece. We can sit here all afternoon while you flail me with the sharp edge of your tongue, or we can get straight to the point. Which would you prefer?’

      ‘Whichever gets us finished quickest.’

      He chuckled. ‘I’m impressed, my dear, and that is not something I say with any frequency.’ He shook his head. ‘I just never guessed you had any fire in you.’

      The tight control she held on her rage snapped. ‘It is impossible that you would know anything about my character!’ She struggled to regain herself as the servants returned with tea.

      Heavy silence hung in the room as she poured for them both and wished mightily for Emily’s return.

      Her uncle was still entirely at ease. ‘I know more about you than you would think, young miss, never doubt it. I know you resent me, but what’s done is done. We find ourselves now in a situation where we can help each other.’

      Determined not to let him see her out of countenance again, Sophie sipped her tea. ‘Your offer comes fifteen years too late, sir. I’m not interested.’

      ‘Don’t go missish on me now, girl. It took brains and courage to get here without my help. Now I can make sure you go much, much further.’ He leaned back. ‘I have connections. What is it that you want? To be a leading lady of the ton? A political hostess holding her own salons?’ He gestured to her colour-stained fingers. ‘A patroness of the arts?’

      She merely shook her head in reply.

      ‘There is power to be had behind the scenes. True power. Empires are won and lost by chance meetings at a ball, by a loose word let slip over drinks. You could be a great help to me, and I can make sure you meet all the right people.’

      Sophie closed her eyes in pain. She’d spent too much of her life hoping for some kind of attention from her uncle. Now here he sat and she only felt ill. He wasn’t interested in her, only in what she could do for him. Perhaps, she thought for the first time, she had been better off without his attention.

      ‘You are more like your mother than I thought possible,’ her uncle continued. ‘She had beauty and intelligence and spirit as well. But she chose poorly, and look what it got her. A few years of love in a colonial backwater and a watery grave.’ He sat straighter and stared intently at Sophie. ‘Don’t repeat her mistakes.’

      ‘I thank you for the confidence you have finally shown in me, sir, but I am not feeling at all well just now.’ She could stay no longer. What he did not know was that Sophie had her mother’s temper as well, rarely raised, but devastating in scale. One minute more of this and she would be throwing his offer, along with her cup of tea, in his face. Only the thought of Lady Dayle’s and Emily’s disappointment stayed her hand. She took comfort instead in imagining his reaction when all of her plans were revealed. ‘Pray, do excuse me.’

      He rose and gave a short bow before declaring in a hard voice, ‘I’ll give you some time to consider. Don’t dawdle, Sophie. Together we can accomplish much.’

      Shaking, Sophie rose. It was the first time he had ever called her by her name. Her anger fled, leaving her aching and empty inside. With a barely audible farewell she hurried out and up the stairs. The lilacs mocked her as she entered her room and flung herself upon the bed. First Charles and now her uncle—who would ever have guessed that getting all the things she thought she wanted would be so horribly disappointing?

      She cried then, hard, racking sobs for the little girl who had only wanted someone to love her, and for the grown woman still searching.

      Lord Cranbourne watched her leave. He turned and stalked out to his waiting carriage, fiercely ignoring the pain once again radiating down his left arm.

      The chit was going to be a problem. He had enough trouble this spring chasing after a political appointment that should have come easily, and, far more worrying, dealing with his own body’s betrayal. Throw a headstrong brat into the brew and he might not be able to vouch for the outcome.

      Inconstancy. Unpredictability. He was unused to such, yet they seemed suddenly pervasive, hanging thick in the air, obscuring his vision, fouling his plans. He was a man used to being in a position of strength, of knowing all the variables in myriad situations and understanding ahead of time where the players were connected and how the final act would play out.

      In a world where knowledge was power, he was a very powerful man indeed, albeit, as he had hinted to his niece, behind the scenes. For most of his life it had been enough, but lately, when faced with these reminders of his mortality, he found he wanted more. He wanted just a bit of the glory and recognition due him, and he wanted it with a fierceness that surprised even himself.

      Now he stood on the verge of gaining his objective and his carefully laid plans were fragmenting. He clenched his fist to his chest against another pain and cursed out loud. He was not going to go down without a fight.

      When the carriage rocked to a stop, Cranbourne stepped down on to Green Street and walked gingerly up the stairs. He’d feel better after a good stiff drink. He left his coat with a footman, and calling for his secretary, headed for his study.

      ‘You’re sure that message went off to Philadelphia as planned?’ he asked the compact, extremely efficient man.

      ‘Indeed, yes, sir.’

      ‘And we can expect a reply, when?’

      ‘Two weeks … maybe three at this time of year.’

      Cranbourne grunted. Three weeks. He was glad he’d had the foresight to send his inquiries earlier. Judging by the obstinate look on his niece’s face, he might need some help from that direction.

      ‘If I may, sir? You have a visitor in your study.’

      ‘Wren, is it?

      ‘No, sir. It is Mr Huxley.’

      ‘What? Old Huxley, here?’ he paused outside the study door.

      ‘No, sir, the young gentleman with the maps, if you will remember?’

      Cranbourne wrinkled his brow and longed for that drink and a few minutes of peace. Serious matters were afoot. He needed to think. ‘Maps? Oh, yes.’ He sighed. He’d done a favour for a very useful friend, and hired one of his sons to do some detailed survey work. Heaving a sigh, he went in.

      ‘Lord Cranbourne, sir.’ The young man rose, blinking like an owl from behind a thick set of spectacles. ‘I have good news. The project is completed.’

      But inspiration had hit Lord Cranbourne just as the mid-afternoon sun glinted off Mr Huxley’s dishevelled blond hair. The boy was the right age, tall, shaped well, and easy enough to look at if he would lose the barnacles. ‘Good, good,’ the old man said as he took the papers the puppy handed him. He barely glanced at them. ‘Yes, you’ll do. Sit down, my boy.’ Cranbourne sank gratefully into his own chair.

      ‘You will find the map completely updated, sir. I walked practically every inch of Lancashire myself. Every lane, farmer’s track and footpath is noted.’ He handed over another folder. ‘The only thing missing, I dare say—’ he smiled ‘—is who is on the roads at present.’

      ‘Yes, very thorough,’ agreed Cranbourne, but his mind was racing.