Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine (11 page)

On market day, Lazarus was obliged to escort Miss Jane Osborne to the village square. How he came to invite the lady for a ride in his cart he couldn't remember, but it had something to do with a conversation they had at his party.

She was already waiting at the grass verge as his cart rattled down the lane at speed. The bonnet she wore was yellow straw with bulbous swirls of red-and-white striped ribbon. Although such things were still largely a mystery to Lazarus, he knew ladies took their bonnets and trimmings very seriously, so he was sure to compliment her on it as he drew his horses to a sharp halt. The lady looked up at him and beamed, stretching her lips over those enormous teeth. He was late, but now, since he'd complimented her hat, he was forgiven.

He knew enough about ladies to know…

Struck with an idea, Lazarus prodded Tuck with one elbow. “Get in the back and make room for Miss Osborne beside me.”

“Why can't she ride in the back?” Tuck protested grumpily.

“Because she's a lady, ain't she?”

Tuck huffed and puffed and muttered under his breath, but he crawled into the back of the cart. Jane Osborne eagerly accepted the hand Lazarus held down to her.

“You're too kind, Mr. Kane,” she giggled frothily.

And then they were off again, Tuck complaining loudly from the back of the cart. Lazarus slowed the horses to a prim trot and eyed the short, angular woman at his side. After a few minutes of struggle, he found something else to compliment. “Miss Osborne, that gown is a very becoming color on you.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Kane,” she neighed excitedly, causing the horses' ears to twitch.

Behind them, Tuck grumbled and spat and glared at the woman who had taken his seat. She tittered, and her left hip shifted closer to Lazarus as they traveled over another bump.

“Best hang on to me, Miss Osborne,” he told her. “I shouldn't like to lose you under the wheels.”

Tuck muttered, “Cart would come out worse for it.”

***

There was so much noise in the market square he could barely hear himself talk, but Miss Osborne still laughed loudly at everything he said, even things that were neither funny nor meant to be. Her laughter held its own against the bleating of goats and sheep as they rounded the animal pens. With her hanging on his arm, his considerable strength began to wane before they completed a full promenade of the square. But he soldiered on, his eyes scanning the crowd for the sight of a certain small, prim face.

“Mr. Kane, I should like to have my fortune told.”

He let Miss Osborne lead him off to the gypsy fortune-teller's striped tent.

“You'd best not come in with me, Mr. Kane,” she giggled. “It would not do for you to know all my secrets, would it? Not just yet!”

When he smiled, it actually felt painful. She disappeared through the tent flap, and he looked around, searching.

Aha! There they were.

It was the same gown she wore to church, a light primrose color sprigged with a pattern of tiny flowers, over which she wore a pale blue spencer today, instead of her longer coat. Rather than wear her simple bonnet, she carried it by the ribbons, swinging it at her side as she strolled along behind her brother.

Just as his eyes found her, she was joined by her sister, the rector's wife. The two women walked side by side, and he saw Mrs. Bentley's mouth moving rapidly, as usual, while Sophie said nothing. She swung her bonnet idly as her warm hazel eyes searched the stalls for anything of interest. The two women stopped to peruse a selection of jams and pickles just a few feet from where he stood, but Henry, turning irritably to see where his sister had gone, caught sight of the enemy watching. He clasped his sister's arm, and the officious coxcomb pulled her away into the crowd.

Lazarus realized his jaw hurt, and he raised his hand to it, rubbing it slowly to ease the tension.

“Mr. Kane! We wanted to thank you for the splendid party.” The Dawkins sisters sprang up out of the ground like weeds to stand before him and demand his attention. With one sister on either side, he was immediately penned in. “We so seldom enjoy an evening of dancing here in the village, Mr. Kane. Sydney Dovedale is rather a dull place, you know, for Mr. Valentine frowns on parties. He says they foster drunkenness and lewd behavior, so it is usually discouraged. Of course, there are dances at the Morecroft assembly rooms every month, but they're hardly worth going to, since one always sees the same people. Do you plan to attend the assembly rooms, Mr. Kane?”

Only half-listening, he replied, “I'm not much of a dancer.”

“Oh, but you must come!” The most outgoing sister of the two moved closer. “We can tell you all about the people there, and we shall have laughs.”

“And we saw you dance already, Mr. Kane,” the other sister chided him shyly. “You danced all night long at your party.”

He was straining to see where Sophie had gone, and then he caught sight of her again. She trailed behind her brother and sister, lingering to watch some piglets. She was smiling today, and on impulse, his hand went to his heart. He took a breath as his fingertips traced over the slight bump where that shard of metal rested under his skin—his Sword of Damocles.

The Dawkins girls had apparently followed his gaze with their own.

“I suppose it was a great shock to you, Mr. Kane,” one of them exclaimed while tapping his arm with her netted purse, “when you came here expecting to marry Sophia Valentine and saw that dreadful scar.”

“I've seen much worse.”

“Worse? How could it be any worse?”

He knew they would never understand. Their world was a sunny, sheltered one. They couldn't know of life's horrors. They would never see some of the places he'd lived in. They probably didn't even know of the existence of rookeries—the slums of London where he was born. They didn't know what it was like to beg for food in the streets and alleyways. And they would never fight on a battlefield and see their friends blown to pieces before their eyes.

To these ladies, it seemed, that scar on Sophie Valentine's cheek was a hellish disfigurement, the worst thing they could imagine. But they'd never been to hell, had they?

“She was engaged once before, I understand,” he muttered, low.

“Yes. Her beau gave her up, and serves her right too.”

Her sister had the grace to blush at those harsh words. “Poor Sophia. Her heart was broken.”

“But they say she jumped deliberately from that balcony. Mama says Sophia was always a wayward, disobedient creature. It serves her right Mr. Hartley broke the engagement.”

Lazarus watched the distant, shapely figure hurrying along, the breeze pulling on her skirt. When she was hiding, he wanted to lure her out of her shell with kisses. When she was angry, he wanted to do more than that. Something about Miss Valentine brought out every ounce of his masculinity, even those parts a gentleman was supposed to bury with good manners. From first sight, his heart, and indeed his entire body, had nursed this curious idea that she belonged to him, needed him…whether she admitted it or not. Of course, his heart was a very unpredictable beast and, by most learned accounts, should have ceased to beat some years past, so he couldn't trust it to behave wisely.

“Do tell us, Mr. Kane, what qualities you look for in a young lady.”

“Qualities?” he murmured, still distracted.

“What do you consider most attractive in a young lady?” the other Dawkins sister urged, her eyelashes quivering with mock timidity.

“A lady should have spirit and not be afraid to take chances,” he replied, “or make decisions of her own. She should take control of her life and her own happiness.”

Forgetting good manners, he abruptly left the two young ladies to follow Sophie through the crowd. So she had a broken heart, did she? This was why she kept her distance. She still pined for an old beau who had abandoned her.

He was distantly aware of the Misses Dawkins watching him go, and he heard one of them declare she didn't think him quite so handsome now as she did before. Her sister still allowed him to be an “interesting” fellow, if somewhat brusque and common.

Their chatter faded as he was submerged in the crowd, following Sophie. He slowed his pace. She seemed unaware of his presence behind her, but suddenly she lifted that ugly straw bonnet, placed it over her hair, and tied the ribbons under her chin, tucking that golden treasure away. Disappointment was as sharp as the broken knife blade lodged near his heart. She stopped suddenly, absorbed by a display of little clockwork ornaments, and he, rather than collide with her, stepped swiftly aside and walked on. As he passed, Lazarus raised his hand, prepared to tip his hat, but she stared down at the goods on display as if she didn't see him. So his hand dropped again, the gesture never fully developed. He lengthened his stride and hurried onward, furious with himself for being such a fool, but also with her for hiding away under her bonnet, denying him even the pleasure of admiring her hair.

Miss Osborne soon caught up with him, annoyed to find him gone when she emerged from the gypsy's tent. “What were you talking of with the Dawkins sisters?” she demanded.

He thought quickly. “The Morecroft assembly rooms.”

“Lord! You don't want to go there, Mr. Kane,” she exclaimed. “They're always full of the commonest riffraff. All manner of drunks and strumpets go there! It's the sort of place tawdry, desperate girls go to find husbands. I certainly would never be so frantic to find a husband as some of the women around here. The lengths they will go to…advertisements in the paper…” Miss Osborne's voice echoed around the marketplace, and he realized Sophie looked over at them. For just a moment, he was the target of her questioning perusal. Then her gaze lowered to her feet again, those disapproving lips pursed tightly. He wished he'd never given Jane Osborne his arm, but it was too late.

***

The rumors were confirmed, then. He was courting Jane Osborne. Folk said he'd dined with the Osbornes at least thrice and showed the young lady a great deal of attention. Jane Osborne was nearer his age, more suited to him in many ways.

With the noise of the marketplace churning in her ears, Sophie picked up a little clockwork bird in a cage and studied it as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. It was very delicately painted, the eyes wide and staring, the tiny beak chirping at her.

“Good gracious!” Maria clutched her sleeve. “Is that James Hartley?”

She looked up as a jaunty, yellow-wheeled curricle rolled across the cobbles, traveling fast in their brother's direction. Absorbed in his own reflection in the butcher's bow-front window, Henry must not have heard his name shouted and was almost run over in the street. The great rumbling wheels came to a juddering halt, the horses close enough to bite holes in his hat.

“Valentine! I thought that was you. Almost mashed you to a pulp. Where have you been, old chap? Haven't seen you at the club lately!”

Sophie, realizing her mouth was open, quickly closed it and set the little caged bird down.

“It is!” Maria whispered in her ear. “It is he. And he doesn't look a day older.” She grabbed her sister's arm tightly and drew her away from the market stall and across the square in unseemly haste. If this was any normal day, Sophie would have resisted, but with the memory of Jane Osborne's disdainful comment still ringing cheerlessly in her ears, she let her limp self be dragged across the cobbles, dignity be damned. Admittedly, she was almost as curious as Maria.

James Hartley leaped down from his curricle and exclaimed, “You're looking a little green about the gills, Valentine. Married life not suiting you? Although”—he paused, standing back to take in Henry's full figure—“somebody feeds you well.”

“Bored with London again, Hartley? Aren't we too dull and provincial for you now?”

James laughed, the diamond pin in his cravat winking. “Must visit Grandmama in Morecroft once in a great while to replenish the pockets. And I just heard some most astonishing news while I was there, Henry.”

“Indeed?”

“That your sister seeks a husband in the pages of the
Norwich
and
Morecroft
Farmer's Gazette
.”

Fumbling in his waistcoat pocket for his watch, Henry avoided the subject of that advertisement. James looked around for something more interesting, and found Sophie and her sister standing nearby. His gaze hardened. It was only a subtle dimming of the merry, careless light in his eyes. Most folk would have missed it.

“It is all over town,” she heard him say. “Such a strange thing. Especially since I thought she was resolved not to marry. At least, that's what she once told me.”

Henry replied, “Yes, well…it
was
a long time ago.”

“I suppose time passes, and we're all very much older now.”

“And some of us are wiser. Well, I cannot stay and chat, Hartley. Good day. My regards to your grandmama.” Henry hurried away down the street, obviously keen to escape.

But Sophie came to a halt on the path. Guilt made it necessary to explain herself. When she'd posted that advertisement, she never thought it might come to James's notice. He was so seldom in Morecroft, the possibility never occurred to her. He surely never read a publication like the
Farmer's Gazette
. Someone must have pointed it out to him, probably one of his friends, to tease him.

“How pleasant to see you again, James.”

“Yes,” he answered sharply and squared his wide shoulders under that fine garnet coat.

“You look…very well.”

“So do you, Sophia.” His voice shook a little when he said her name, belying his stiff, unyielding demeanor.

Clouds passed over the sun, and grey shadows rolled at her feet. She was painfully aware of faces turned to watch the encounter, hands pressed to whispering lips and eager ears.