The Lady Hellion (3 page)

His jaw hardened, but his eyes burned into her, churning with an emotion she’d never seen before. Was it . . . doubt? It gave her pause. Quint moved about the world with ease, with no need to question himself because he was rarely wrong. Any criticisms he encountered were for matters he cared little for, such as the unfashionable length of his hair or his appalling sartorial sense.

But this was new. He looked . . . uncertain.

“Then you must do whatever you feel necessary,” he finally said, reaching to knead his temples with his fingertips. “I apologize I am unable to fulfill your request. Taylor will see you out.” He bowed and then headed for the door.

She watched him go, stunned at both his rudeness and the expression on his face.

“Quint,” she called to his back. He stopped but did not turn. “Are you all right?”

“Never better,” he answered and disappeared into the corridor.

“No,” she whispered into the empty room. “Somehow I think not.”

“Well, that did not take long,” Alice said once they were on the walk back to the Barnes town house. “Did his lordship agree, my lady?”

“No.”

A pair of older ladies strolled near in the rare spring sunshine, and Sophie smiled politely as they passed. The streets of Mayfair were busy once again, with horses and carriages each way you turned—a sign that another Season was nigh.

The familiar heaviness settled in Sophie’s chest. She dreaded the next few months. More dress fittings. More inane chatter. Dancing with the men her stepmama foisted on her. Pretending to ignore the pitying, curious glances.

She had no one to blame but herself. Some mistakes could not be undone.

Alice came alongside. “What shall you do now?”

“I’ll figure something out. Do not worry on it, Alice.”

Her maid made a dismissive noise. “A dangerous game your ladyship is playing.”

“So you’ve said on more than one occasion.”

“I wish your father had not let you sit in on some of those cases, my lady. It was not proper for a young girl at such an impressionable age to hear sordid tales of criminal behavior.”

Sophie hid her smile. Oh, she had loved every minute. Instead of ignoring her after her mother died, her father had kept her even closer. Wherever the marquess went, so did his little girl. The quarter sessions he would oftentimes attend were her favorite.

When she was nine, she’d told him she wanted to be a magistrate when she grew up.

He’d laughed.
My dear, girls cannot be magistrates, though you’d make a fine one. But you’re to marry and have your own family. That is what proper young ladies do.

Sophie didn’t like to be told no, especially because “that is what proper young ladies do.” Hang propriety.

Turning to Alice, she asked, “Did you learn anything from Lord Quint’s staff?”

“Superstitious fools, the lot of them,” Alice snorted. “All but the butler, who seems entirely loyal to his employer. The rest of them believe his lordship to be the devil himself.”

“The devil? Ridiculous.” Quint was far from evil. He was intelligent and kind, a man most of London did not understand for his eccentricities. But the devil? “Why would they believe such a thing?”

“Say his lordship stays locked in his study for hours, never sleeps nor eats. Never leaves. No visitors. Rooms off limits to the staff.”

“Never leaves?” She’d suspected something was off. He hadn’t missed an opening of the Royal Society in recent years, a fact she could attest to because she always attended as well. Quint routinely gave a speech, and Sophie could listen to him lecture for hours. He had a deep, clear voice that rang with knowledge and purpose, his ideas elucidated logically. His talks were heartfelt and passionate, and Sophie felt the depth of that passion down in her soul. It was the closest she allowed herself to get to him.

Instead, he’d shut himself up in his house to study books about diseases of the brain. Odd—though perhaps she’d never known him as well as she’d thought. Merely because a man kissed you as if his next breath depended on it didn’t mean you were of a like mind.

Especially when that man proposed to another woman within three weeks of said kiss.

Sophie forced that thought away.
You rejected him. What did you think he’d do?

“It does seem strange,” Alice said. “But as your ladyship knows, it hardly matters if it’s true. Servants love to gossip.”

This felt like more than gossip. Something was wrong. Yet Sophie couldn’t very well explain her intuition to her maid. How did one describe that gnawing, slightly nauseated sensation in one’s belly that was more suspicion than fact? But Sophie trusted her gut—it had led her away from trouble more often than not.

Besides, were she and Quint not friends after all this time? She’d saved his life two months ago, though he didn’t know it. For nearly a week she—along with a physician—had cared for him, bringing him back from the edge of death. Once he’d begun to recover, however, she’d instructed his staff on what to do and stayed away.

She recalled a few minutes earlier, the uncertain expression that had appeared on his face. A hopeless, confused sort of look, as if he’d lost his way in the world. If he had a problem, she might be able to help. If not, then perhaps she could pick up tips on dueling.

“Alice, I believe I’ll return there tonight.”

Her maid clucked her tongue. “I cannot see how that’s wise, if you don’t mind my saying. Not when his lordship has already refused.”

“Perhaps I can help him to see reason.”

“Heaven help his lordship then, my lady.”

Sophie nearly rolled her eyes. “Would you rather I attended the duel without learning how to do it properly, then?”

“I’d rather your ladyship did not attend a duel at all.”

Unfortunately, that might not be a choice, but she refrained from saying so to her maid.

Barnes House, the London residence of the Marquess of Ardington, stood on the northwest side of Berkeley Square, not far from Quint. While not as big as Lansdowne House at the other end of the square, Barnes House was an impressive stone structure with massive columns, portico, and rows of windows. Sophie never wanted to live anywhere else.

When she and Alice crossed the street, a soft voice reached her ears. “My lady.”

Sophie slowed as a cloaked woman emerged from around a waiting hackney. Her hood was pulled low to obscure her face. Alice was suddenly by Sophie’s side. “Here now,” Alice said. “Who are you and what do you want with the lady?”

The woman shied away, reconsidering her approach in the face of Alice’s protectiveness. “It’s all right, Alice,” Sophie said, stepping closer. “Were you searching for me?”

The woman revealed the slightest bit of her face. “I apologize for searching your ladyship out on the street.”

Sophie relaxed. “Lily! How nice to see you again.”

She offered a curtsy. “I know your ladyship said no payment was necessary, but I wanted you to have this.” She held out a parcel. “It’s nothing much, just some fancy soap I had a boy pick up in a shop.”

Sophie tried to refuse, but Lily was determined. “Please, my lady. To find my sister after all these years, and happily settled at that, I cannot tell your ladyship what it means to me.”

Sophie did not want to hurt the other woman’s feelings, so she accepted the box. “Thank you, then. I am honored to accept it.”

This is why Sophie enjoyed helping people, especially women who seldom found a champion. Magistrates ignored them—or offered aid in exchange for physical favors. Runners were expensive and generally more interested in a higher class of clientele. To whom should these women turn, then, when in need?

Sophie gave them hope. An ear to listen. Answers.

She reached to squeeze Lily’s hand. “All my best to you and your sister.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Lily curtsied and withdrew, disappearing around the side of the hack.

Alice sniffed as they neared the stoop of the Barnes town house. “A lightskirt approaching a lady on the streets of Mayfair in broad daylight. I do not know what this world is coming to, my lady.”

“Oh, Alice. She’d likely been standing there for hours. The very least we could do was speak with her. And she brought me a gift. I think it’s sweet.”

“Some days I regret starting your ladyship on this path.”

That was a partial truth. There was one event, from ages ago, long before Alice came to work for her, when a kitchen maid had been accused of theft.

Jenny had been her name, and Sophie had liked her. She’d often snuck eleven-year-old Sophie currant buns and sugar paste when no one was looking. So Sophie hadn’t instantly believed the upper housemaid’s tale that Jenny had stolen money from the housemaid’s room—especially since Sophie had observed a footman flirting with both girls. The two maids had argued only the week before, making it clear they didn’t care for each other. Wasn’t that reason enough to doubt the allegation?

Unfortunately, Jenny had had no proof she hadn’t taken the money and no one had believed her denials. Then, when ten pounds was located under her mattress, she had been tossed out without a reference. Sophie tried to get her father to intervene, to help Jenny, but he refused, saying the housekeeper would take care of the matter. The servants were not Sophie’s concern.

When Sophie saw the housemaid’s smug smile over the next few days, she was positive the girl had lied. No one listened to her, however, and the matter was firmly dropped. Sophie had been heartbroken to learn that Jenny had died in a cholera epidemic shortly after leaving their service.

The tragic tale left a lasting mark on Sophie’s brain, one never forgotten. The truth mattered, regardless of what class one was born into.

“Do not be ridiculous,” she told Alice. “I enjoy these cases and I am good at it. Yes, this officially started when your sister was accused of stealing her employer’s silver, but if not for her, it would’ve been someone else. I feel as though I was born to do this.”

“Well, my sister is ever so grateful your ladyship stepped in and found the real culprit. To think, one of the grooms sneaking in the house and pilfering the forks and knives.”

Sophie snickered. “One would have assumed him smart enough to wipe the liniment off his hands first.”

“As we’ve seen, your ladyship, most criminals are not at all bright.”

“And thank heavens for that.”

Chapter Three

Quint put his hands on his hips and stared down at the perfectly matched set of ivory-handled Manton dueling pistols. Should he give her these or the newer tube-lock pistols he’d purchased in January?

Pistols.

A
duel
.

Antimony, why would a woman of such intelligence and wit participate in this primitive ritual? The levelheaded thing to do would be to parley with the aggrieved party, discuss the slight, and come to some sort of resolution satisfactory to both sides. To risk one’s life over something so trivial was absurd, in Quint’s opinion.

Reservations and common sense aside, however, he’d asked Taylor to retrieve the pistols. Quint planned to have them wrapped and delivered to her. If he could not teach her himself, at least she would be well armed. God knew he’d never need the deuced things again.

All day, he’d considered writing to the Marquess of Ardington. The marquess was a powerful man, involved at the highest levels of government, and Quint actually liked him quite well. Shouldn’t the marquess be warned of the danger his daughter faced? At best, her reputation would be shredded in a duel. At worst, she could be killed. Each time he’d picked up a pen to dash off a note, however, he’d set the pen back in the tray. He couldn’t do it. With anyone else, he would wash his hands of the whole business. But Sophie . . .

Though he was loath to admit it, there was another reason he hadn’t written to her father. After more than three years, he still had a soft spot for her—which merely proved his idiocy. After all that had happened between them, he could not deliberately hurt her.

His entire life, Quint had been considered odd. Different from other men in his pursuits and interests. From the first moment he’d met Sophie, however, he’d felt a deeper understanding in her sharp gaze, that she was a woman unlike any other. Another misfit. And he had hoped.

They’d begun a casual flirtation at events over many months, and she had seemed to enjoy teasing him. He’d often found her staring at him from under her long brown lashes, an occurrence guaranteed to send a bolt of lust to his groin. During one particularly dull ball, he’d wandered away, as he frequently did, to the host’s library, knowing the books would be far more interesting than the small talk, and Sophie, surprisingly, had followed.

 

 

 

 

That one kiss had been monumental. Life altering. She’d been willing and pliant, and he’d lost all sense of himself, forgetting they were mere yards away from a crowded soirée. And he’d been so sure, so certain at the time, that his feelings were reciprocated.

Only, he’d miscalculated. With the subtlety of a sledgehammer, she’d broken his heart into millions of molecules and scattered them like pebbles. He would be unwelcome as a suitor, she’d said, the encounter nothing but a momentary fancy.

Under normal circumstances, serving as a beautiful woman’s “momentary fancy” would not be a hardship. But with Sophie . . . it had mattered. A lot.

Ended up a fortunate turn of events for her, however. Quint would not wish himself on any woman, considering what his future held in store.

As a boy, he had witnessed his father’s mental decline and the toll it had taken on his mother. She had cried all the time, hardly eaten, and had consulted with countless apothecaries, physicians, and scientists about a potential cure. All for naught. She had exhausted herself and ignored her son, and the viscount had never recovered.

Quint had vowed never to let that happen to him. He would never succumb to the madness that had overtaken his father. He would be smarter. Sharper. Work harder at his focus, memory, and stamina. No matter the cost, he’d avoid his father’s fate.

And it had worked until a bullet had grazed his neck last February, nearly robbing him of his life.

A brisk knock on his study door interrupted his thoughts. Taylor appeared, a cloaked figure behind him. “My lord, a visitor.”

Every cell in Quint’s body came to attention. He recognized that shrouded form. Why had she returned? “See that we’re not disturbed, Taylor.” His butler started to turn away and Quint added, “And remind me to review my visitation policy with you later.”

Taylor nodded and left, after which Sophie drew down the hood of her cloak. She wore no bonnet or cap, her brown hair twisted in a simple knot at her nape. The yellow glint of candlelight reflected in her dark eyes. Her mouth quirked. “Do not blame Taylor. I was already in the house, coming up the servants’ stairs, when he found me. He couldn’t very well kick me out then.”

“Why have you come back, Sophie?”

“What have you there?” She came closer and peered at the box on his desk. “Are those pistols?”

He sighed. May as well deal with her now. Then he could get back to his cipher. “Yes. This pair was crafted by Manton, who produces the best dueling pistols in the world.”

“What makes them superior?”

He tried not to notice her nearness, how shifting an inch or two would bring their shoulders together. He cleared his throat. “Manton discovered weighting the barrel allowed for a steadier shot. Less recoil in the forearm when the charge is fired. They are remarkably accurate at the right distance. I have others, but this is likely the easier set for you to use.”

“Hmm.” Her fingertip slid down the ivory handle. “Why did you have them out, if you do not plan to help me?”

“Because it is important to have the very best equipment for whatever task you undertake. Since I had no way of knowing what pistols you intended to use, I planned to send these to you. I will not need them.”

“Have they been loaded?”

“Absolutely not. The barrels are empty.” Less chance of someone—him, most likely—getting shot.

“But how can I practice if they are empty?”

“You need to build up your arm strength in order to hold them steady for a prolonged period of time. Women have a lower percentage of muscle mass in their upper body and torso, so you need more practice than pulling the trigger if you want an accurate shot.”

“See, that is exceedingly helpful. I cannot trust anyone else to tell me these things.”

A sharp and unexpected sense of satisfaction coursed through him, followed quickly by resentment. She was clever, using flattery to get what she wanted. He preferred facts, however. “You are aware, of course, that duels are illegal. And that most result in death or serious injury.”

She tilted her head up to find his eyes. “Some, but not most. And I question the validity of such a statement. No actual data can be gathered as most duels are private and unreported, especially those with no injuries.”

Heat suffused his body. Christ, when she used words such as “validity” and “data,” Quint wanted to do unspeakably improper things to her. Dragging a hand through his hair, he put some distance between them. “There’s little use in debating the point. In case you’ve forgotten, you’ve asked for my assistance and I have refused it.”

“Which I refuse to accept. Not only are you the most clever man I know, you’re a friend. Who else is in a better position to help me than you?”

Now he would appear churlish to refuse. Smart.

He flexed his fingers, thinking. While he did not appreciate being manipulated, he did not want to see her hurt. And if he showed her how to operate the damn things, would she go away and leave him in peace?

“If I give you your hour, do you promise not to return?”

“Yes,” she answered quickly, enthusiasm lighting up her face.

“And what if you show no aptitude for firearms? Will you abandon this silliness?”

“Of course. I do not have a desire to die.” She removed her cloak and threw the heavy garment over a chair. “I’ll suggest swords instead.”

 

 

“If that is your idea of a jest, I am not laughing.”

Sophie bit her lip. No, Quint’s face did not show any hint of amusement. With his eyes narrowed and mouth curved into a frown, he looked quite dour—even for a man who tended toward the serious. All the more reason she sensed something was off with him.

She forced herself back to the conversation. “Of course I am jesting.”
Not in the least.
“Now, let us begin. I need to return before daybreak.”

That did not appear to make him any happier. “Just how did you escape, by the way? And how did you sneak into my house without any of my staff stopping you?”

She dared not tell him of her abilities. Only Alice had an inkling of the talents Sophie possessed, and no one else need know. “My maid is covering for me. She’s entirely trustworthy and discreet. And your kitchen door was unlocked. I assume your cook forgot to lock it on her way to bed.”

He pulled at his full bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger, clearly contemplating something. The action brought attention to his mouth, and her skin began to tingle with the memory of what it had felt like to have those lips on hers. He was a remarkable kisser, with a single-minded focus and thoroughness to make a courtesan blush.

That was the thing about Quint: Whatever he chose to do, he did well. His viscountess would be a lucky lady, indeed.

Too bad it would not be Sophie.

She glanced away and took a deep breath. These reactions to him would not do, not if she planned on paying attention.

“Let’s examine the weapons,” he said, dropping his arm. “Pick one up, if you please.”

Sophie reached into the velvet-lined box and lifted one of the pistols. The ivory handle was cool against her palm. “It’s heavier than I assumed.”

“That is why you need to practice holding it, as I said, to build up your arm strength. The steadier you keep it, the more accurate your shot. And if you cannot hold it steady, then do not go through with a duel.”

“Understood.” She peered down the barrel, pointed it at the floor. “Will you show me how to load it?”

“No. The seconds oversee the loading of the pistols. All you need to be concerned with is not dying.”

“But how shall I practice properly if I cannot load it?”

She expected him to argue, but he surprised her by sticking to the practicalities. “You are aware you’ll need to drive out into the country in order to shoot, I hope.”

“You needn’t treat me like a child, Quint. I plan to spend a few days in Sussex. I daresay there’s enough space on Papa’s estate to discharge a cannon and not be overheard.”

He held up his hands. “Fine.” Reaching into the case, he withdrew various bits and pieces, which he lined up on the desk. His thorough explanation covered both the construction of the pistol and firing mechanism, as well as the function of the other items originally contained in the box. He showed her the paper cartridges, how they were used. In all his diligence, however, he never touched the pistol once.

She began to shift impatiently, ready to actually
do
something.

“Are you listening to me?” he asked sharply. When she nodded, he lifted a skeptical brow. “What can cause the pistol to misfire, then?”

“A dull flint, soft frizzen, weak springs, over-primed pan, clogged touch-hole,” she recited none too smugly. “Anything else?”

“Let’s see you load it,” he said by way of answer.

She did so quickly, efficiently, and then looked to him for confirmation. He nodded in approval and she grinned, inordinately pleased with herself. “Are we finally ready to practice?” she asked.

“Anxious, are you?”

“Well, I must return home before someone notices I’m missing. Otherwise, you’ll be putting these pistols to use when my father requests your presence at dawn.”

“Fair enough. Switch yours for the empty one.” He strode to the center of the room.

She didn’t bother switching pistols. It wasn’t as if she would shoot him. “Wait. Should you not take one as well?”

“No. I’ll pretend,” he said, flexing his fingers. She’d noticed him doing that motion a few times, especially since she’d started handling the guns. A nervous habit?

“Your challenger decides the distance,” he explained. “Ten paces is common, though I’ve heard of six or eight. The seconds will mark it off. Take your position.”

She stepped off ten paces then turned to face him. “Here?”

“Good. Once you’re both ready, you’ll be given a signal after which you’ll have three seconds to fire.”

“And I should aim for . . . ?”

“The extremities. Shoulder. Arm. You do not want a death on your hands or your conscience.”

Hard to argue there. “What happens if both parties miss?”

“Then your challenger must decide if his honor is satisfied or not.”

She examined the pistol in her hand. It really was quite pretty, with its gold accents and pearl handle. The wood was smooth and polished. “Have you ever engaged in a duel?”