Just One Season in London (2 page)

Rye w
as using a fresh slice of toast to mop up the juices from his plate of deviled kidneys when his mother entered the breakfast room. She shook her head when she saw his fingers in his plate, and Rye gave her his most charming grin. “If a man can't eat with his hands at his own table, Mama, where can he? There's a letter in the morning post for you from Lady Brindle.”

Lady Ryecroft had opened her mouth to reprove him, but instead she turned to the pile of letters and began shuffling through it. “From Ann Eliza?” She sounded excited.

Rye had cherished a mild hope that the change of subject might distract her, but he was stunned at how well the diversion had worked.

He finished off the kidneys and popped the last bite of toast into his mouth. Even from across the table he could see that Lady Brindle had crossed and recrossed her lines. No wonder his mother was frowning as she worked out that puzzle.

“I know she's one of your oldest friends, Mama,” he began finally, “but—”

“Don't use the word
oldest
to a woman of my years, dear,” Lady Ryecroft said absently.

“That's a hum. You won't turn forty until next autumn.”

She fixed him with a look he had long ago recognized as dangerous. “A
year
from next autumn, if you please, Ryecroft.”

“Beg pardon, Mama. As I was saying, I never knew you to be so devoted to Lady Brindle that you would study her letter instead of noticing that poor Carstairs is waiting to pour your coffee.”

Lady Ryecroft leaned back in her chair to let the butler fill her cup. “Carstairs, you're so silent and efficient that I had no idea you were there.”

Her face was alight with appreciation, and Rye could almost see the butler relax under the warmth of her gaze. It wasn't difficult for Rye to see where Sophie had come by her beauty; their mother must have been a stunner in her day.

The butler smiled, set the coffeepot at her elbow, and took an empty chafing dish with him.

“You are the most complete hand, Mama,” Rye said. “You can turn an abject apology into a compliment, and the servants adore you for it.”

His mother, who had returned to her letter, made a little noise that might have been agreement.

Rye frowned. That sort of abstraction wasn't at all like her usual behavior. “I wanted to talk to you, Mama.”

The pages of her letter rustled. “Oh goodness, Rye—how terrible for Ann Eliza. She has had a fall and sprained her ankle, and she is confined to the house. She would like me to—I'm sorry, dear. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Perhaps she
was
listening after all. “I'm going up to London for a few days. To see my tailor.”

It wasn't exactly a lie, for he
would
make sure to see his tailor—perhaps even before he dropped in on Lady Stone. He had let a decorous two weeks go by while he mulled over the advice the old lady had given him at the assembly. Now he felt it was time to act.

So he
wasn't
lying—quite. Still, when his mother's gaze sharpened, Rye felt much as he had as a child when he would put forth some outrageous whopper and hope to heaven she'd believe it. He had to restrain the urge to cross his fingers behind his back.

But all she said was, “When?”

“I thought I'd go today.” He tried to make the notion sound careless, casual. “What is it that Lady Brindle wants you to do?”

“Come to stay for a few days, to keep her company while she recovers. She's sending a carriage for me”—she flipped the page over—“Oh, dear, it's to arrive this afternoon.”

“In a hurry, isn't she?” But he felt sudden warmth for Lady Brindle. At the least her request should keep his mother too busy to wonder what he might be up to. “No reason you shouldn't go if you want to.”

“Of course I shall go. Ann Eliza is my oldest friend.”

Rye's jaw dropped. “But when
I
said that, Mama, you nearly bit my head off!”

“Nonsense, dear. I had thought to leave Sophie with you.”

Rye was aghast. “With me? But I won't be here.”

Lady Ryecroft's lips tightened.

Before she could ask why visiting his tailor couldn't possibly wait a week—a question for which Rye had no sensible answer—he said, “Why shouldn't she go with you, anyway? A little practice of her society manners wouldn't hurt Sophie.”

“You being the authority on society manners, of course.”

“Well, it's true. And it's not as if Lady Brindle's sprained ankle is contagious. Besides, you wouldn't want to leave Sophie here with me anyway,” Rye finished triumphantly. “Not without a real chaperone in charge. As long as James Newstead is hanging around her…”

Lady Ryecroft frowned. “He hasn't asked your permission to address her, has he?”

“No, Mama—you wouldn't have missed out on that, I am persuaded. That's what worries me. If he would come out in the open, I could depress his intentions. But as long as he's only running into her by chance in the village, or when she's out riding, or when she stops by the vicar's to deliver some of Mrs. Carstairs's preserves…”

“James Newstead happened to be visiting the vicar at the same moment Sophie was there?” Lady Ryecroft looked horrified.

“To Sophie's credit, she told me about the encounter herself.”

“And you didn't tell me? Rye…”

“She swore it was an accident, and she said she came to me because you would ring a peal over her head even though it wasn't her fault.”

“As indeed I would have. As for it being her fault… do you think she planned to meet him?”

Rye didn't. Sophie was too transparent to be as cunning as that. And this was James Newstead after all—not someone she might seriously be interested in. But if it would distract his mother, he'd play along. “Now that I come to think of it, she must have known that her groom would report the incident to me.”

“I should think he would if he values his employment. Do you suspect she only confided in you because she knew you'd find out anyway?” Lady Ryecroft didn't wait for an answer. “Very well. I'll take her with me.”

She didn't look particularly happy about it, Rye noticed. But he put the niggling thought aside and comforted himself with the notion that whatever was going on with his mother, at least it had kept her from asking uncomfortable questions about his trip to London.

***

Under other circumstances, Sophie would have enjoyed the drive, for Lady Brindle's carriage was well sprung and luxurious, and the countryside looked different from their usual surroundings at Ryecroft Manor. But it simply wasn't fair that Rye was going to London while she was stuck accompanying Mama to Sussex of all places. She was going to be farther from the city than when she was at home, and Lady Brindle didn't even live in the interesting part of the county.

Worse, it was likely to be a dull week. They weren't going to a house party, where she might at least meet new people. Not that Sophie had ever been to a house party—but she'd heard about them from her friend Emily. It wasn't even an ordinary visit where one might go calling or shopping or be invited to a party or a dance. With Mama's old friend lying upon her couch, they'd all be closed up together in Lady Brindle's house for days on end.

Sophie had only vague memories of a previous stay with Lady Brindle, when she'd been no more than a child. Of course, she'd been stuck in the nursery wing then, with Rye and with Lady Brindle's oaf of a son, but she feared this visit would be little better. She flounced back on the velvet seat.

“That is enough,” Lady Ryecroft said. “It won't be as bad as all that.”

“I didn't even say anything, Mama.”

“You didn't have to, my dear. Your feelings are plain, and it's unladylike to display them so openly. I hope you will have a care not to do so in front of my good friend.”

“But it's not fair! I've never been to London, and Rye's gone dozens of times!”

Lady Ryecroft's eyebrows raised. “
Dozens of times
is overstating it; pray do not exaggerate, Sophronia. Besides, patronizing your brother's tailor is not the sort of visit you have in mind, I'm certain, and you could hardly stay at Rye's club.”

Sophie bit her tongue. It was useless to discuss the matter with Mama, who was so far past her own London Season that she probably couldn't even remember it.

There was, after all, no real reason Rye couldn't have taken Sophie along. There would be nothing wrong with her going to the city, even staying at an inn—something Sophie had also never done—if she were traveling with her brother.

She suspected darkly that the truth was that Rye wasn't planning to spend much time with his tailor. When she'd confronted him in his library and begged to be rescued from Lady Brindle's sprained ankle, his expression had made her think he was up to something cagey.

A woman, perhaps. Though heaven knew Rye didn't have money for a highflier… whatever
that
really was. Sophie's friend Emily had overheard the term from one of her brothers, but he'd outright refused to define it more precisely. In fact, Emily said, he had turned red in the face when she'd asked him to elaborate. So Sophie knew better than to ask her mother or Rye for an explanation.

Still, it wasn't hard to deduce that whatever sort of woman a highflier might be, she'd require more money than Rye was likely to have at hand.

Sophie sighed as she caught the sympathetic eye of her mother's maid, who was sitting in the opposite seat, with her back to the horses. Mary glanced from Sophie to Lady Ryecroft, and Sophie tried to turn her sigh into an expression of appreciation instead of annoyance. “This is a nice carriage, isn't it, Mama?”

“Very nice,” Lady Ryecroft agreed. “But I believe our journey is coming to an end.”

“Truly?” Sophie pulled back the curtain just as the carriage turned into a long, sweeping driveway. At the end of it was the ugliest pile of dark brown brick she'd ever seen. She'd forgotten how frightful Brindle Park was—or perhaps on that years-ago visit she'd been too young to notice.

Sophie's heart sank. Their home might be battered by nearly two centuries of serving the family, followed by more than a decade when there hadn't been much money for repairs, but at least Ryecroft Manor was full of light and air. Brindle Park looked as if it had been built by someone who didn't understand the concept of a window.

No wonder Lady Brindle had fallen down the stairs. It was probably so dark inside that she hadn't been able to see her feet at all!

“Pray, Sophie, do not hang out of the window to stare.”

Sophie sank back against the velvet again. The carriage stopped, then rocked as a footman jumped down from his perch, and Sophie could hear the crunch of his steps as he came around to the door.

Lady Ryecroft straightened her hat and took a deep breath. “Sophie—”

A last-minute lecture on manners, no doubt. “Yes, Mama. I'll be good.”

The door opened, and the footman lowered the steps. Lady Ryecroft squared her shoulders—almost as if she was bracing herself for an ordeal, Sophie thought. But what would her mother need to gather her strength for?

As soon as Lady Ryecroft had descended, elegantly leaning on the arm of the footman, Sophie gathered her skirt in one hand and followed.

Just as she put her head out of the carriage, a horse snorted so loudly it seemed his nose was almost against her ear. Startled, Sophie raised her head, knocking her hat on the carriage door and tipping it forward over her eyes. Her foot slipped, and to save herself from falling, she leaped from the top step to the crushed shells of the carriage drive. She landed lightly, pretending not to hear Lady Ryecroft's half-smothered sigh of exasperation—why, pray tell, could Mama sigh, when Sophie wasn't allowed to?—and raised one small gloved hand to push her hat back into place.

The horse snorted again, and she turned toward the sound and looked directly into the gaze of the rider.

He was scowling down at her—dark-faced and fierce-browed. He was obviously a gentleman, judging by the cut of his coat, the carefully arranged neckcloth, and the high polish on his boots. A fairly young gentleman too—not a particularly handsome one, but with an air that said he was used to getting whatever he wanted.

As Sophie watched, his eyes went wide and his jaw slack, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. With his rider's attention wandering, the horse sidestepped, and the gentleman tugged the animal back into line. Then he swung down, tossed the reins to a groom who had come running, and tipped his hat to Lady Ryecroft. “My apologies, ladies. I regret that my horse caused you to suffer a fright.”

Sophie wanted to snort. What kind of a lily-liver did he think she was, anyway? As if she'd fall into a swoon because a horse made a noise!

The young man didn't take his eyes off her as he came closer. “Surely this can't be Sophie. My mother didn't tell me that you were coming to visit too.”

Lady Ryecroft cleared her throat. “Sophie, you remember my dear friend's son, do you not? Lord Randall, Miss Ryecroft.” The emphasis on the last two words was gentle but distinct.

Lord Randall looked abashed. “I beg pardon for the informality, ma'am. I was taken straight back to the days of your last visit, when Sophie—Miss Ryecroft, I mean, was—”

“Nothing but a tomfool nuisance of a girl, I believe you called me.” Sophie tempered the words with a smile and a tiny curtsy. “But I shall not hold that against you, Lord Randall, if you promise in return to forget just how much of a tomfool nuisance I
was
back then.”

He looked dazzled.

Sophie hoped her mother was watching closely. If only Rye could have been there, she thought—for if he could see this performance, he would never again dare to say that her society manners needed polishing. “I hope we find you well, Lord Randall. And how is your mother?”