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Chapter Text

The Grand Sophy - epilogue

"Charles this is crazy! Did you come in your curricule? What if it should begin to rain again? I shall be drenched!"

"Then you shall be well served!" retorted her unchivalrous cousin.

"Charles!" uttered Sophie, shocked, "You can not love me!"

Mr Rivenhall pulled the door to behind them, and in a very rough fashion jerked her into his arms and kissed her. "I don't: I dislike you excessively," he said savagely.

Entranced by these lover-like words, Miss Stanton-Lacy returned his embrace with fervour and meekly allowed herself to be led to the stables."

Their arrival at the stables was delayed by Charles' continued vexation, which appeared to only find relief in repeated crushing embraces and fierce kisses; and the rain, that had so prostrated Lord Bromford, which was starting to fall as Charles strode towards the stables, shouting for his groom. This gentleman was engaged in the task of rubbing down the first of Charles' famous greys, whilst the rheumy pensioner, charged with the running of the Lacey Manor stables, enthusiastically performed the same office for the second, all the while regaling his younger colleague with a catalogue of similarly high bred 'Uns that had been in his care when Sir Horace had last been in residence.

'Hitchin!" barked Charles, "have the curricle made ready immediately, Miss Stanton-Lacy and I are returning to London at once!"

"At once, sir?" faltered the groom, "but the greys have just done 30 miles straight at full pace. You can't be planning to put them to straight off?

"I said at once" retorted Charles icily. "Do as you are bid!"

Seeing nothing for it, Hitchin nodded briefly at his employer and muttered, "be ready for you in five minutes sir, just need to get this pair back in harness and we'll be ready for off." He stopped his current task and made towards the rear of the stable, there to retrieve the recently discarded tack. To do this, he needed to pass Sophie, who was stood, critically surveying the horses.
"Begging your pardon, miss, I just need to get past", he said, in respectful tones.

"Oh, of course, I beg your pardon, most foolish of me to obstruct your way in this fashion", returned Sophy, with an easy smile. As the groom edged passed, she murmured in an undertone, "These are beautiful horses, Hitchin, and we must not allow Charles' fit of temper to do them any lasting damage."

Hitchin lifted an eyebrow at this and grunted noncommittally. Whilst he had full knowledge of Miss Sophy's dominance within the Ombersley household, he bore no real hope that she could persuade his master to abort a journey he was so clearly set on taking. Mr Rivenhall was in as dangerous a mood as Hitchin could ever remember seeing him in. The drive down to Lacey Manor had been accomplished at a breakneck speed, the driver paying scant heed to the safety of himself, his horses, or other road users, regardless of the feeble protestations that Hitchin had occasionally found himself obliged to utter. Sir Vincent Talgarth, on one of his visits to the henhouse, had paused to exchange desultory gossip with the stables. Consequently, Hitchin knew full well that Mr Rivenhall had met his betrothed in the house. Every encounter with Eugenia Wraxton in recent weeks, had led Charles to drive ferociously thereafter. Hitchin knew that she could only have added extra fuel to his Master's barely simmering temper.

Consequently, Hitchin moved to fulfil Charles' order as swiftly as he could. Charles, after staring fiercely at his groom's retreating back, became aware of the curious gaze of the aged overseer of the stables, and the laconic curiosity of Talgarth's groom, who had wandered into the yard to see what the commotion was. He turned towards Sophy and, meeting her enquiring smile, ground his heel into the ground and flung his arm out to grasp hers.

"Well, let's not stand here indefinitely, providing amusement for the yokels!" He barked. "Come here Sophy, this is no place for a lady to be lingering."

Sophie smiled broadly at this, but allowed herself to be dragged angrily away from the stable yard, back towards the house. After a minute or so, Charles appeared to recollect the danger that lay therein and stopped abruptly. As they were skirting the edge of the kitchen garden at the time, and the rain was now coming down with some force, Charles pulled Sophy into a nearby outbuilding.

"There," he said, harshly, "at least you can't blame me for giving you a soaking yet."

Sophy, who had found, in the last half hour, that being kissed by Charles was far more exhilarating than she had been imagining in recent weeks, smiled up at him and asked, with a, far too studied, air of innocence, "I wouldn't dream of doing so, Charles. How sensible of you to think of taking shelter from the rain like that. We'd better just stay here for a few minutes whilst we wait for your greys to be led out. How shall we pass the time, do you think?"

"Sophy, you devil," murmured Charles, cupping her chin in his hand and kissing her. His lips had touched hers quite softly to begin with but, as Sophy wrapped her arms around his neck and started to wind her fingers through his short locks, his kiss deepened into something more urgent and fiery.

"Good God, Sophie!" He muttered, between kisses, "do you have any idea what you do to me?"

Sophy, who had found Charles' fierce embraces as instructive as they were exhilarating, smiled sweetly up at him and said, innocently, "well Charles, I thought I had some idea, but I see now that I was someway short of the mark." She then leaned towards him, dropping a soft kiss on his cheek, before whispering, "but have you stopped to reflect, dearest Charles, on what you might be doing to me?" She followed this with a nibble on his earlobe; this elicited a visible tremor from Charles, who responded by clasping Sophy even more tightly about her waist and kissing her with an open-mouthed ferocity that quite took her breath away.

It was some minutes before Charles recollected his purpose and pulled himself, reluctantly, away from Sophie, picking up her hat, which had been removed and hurled across the room during his earlier onslaught. He gave it a cursory dusting, before handing it to Sophie with a curt, "here, put that back on. We ought to be leaving."

Sophie smiled, and placed the battered headpiece once more atop her disordered curls, before following Charles, meekly, back to the stables. The curricle was waiting for them in the stable yard, with the two, still sweating, greys in harness. Charles handed Sophie up into the carriage and then leapt into the seat alongside her, taking the reigns from a silent, and disapproving, Hitchen.

The greys, having been pulled from a welcome rub down and bucket of oats, tossed resentfully. Charles, equally agitated, jerked furiously at the ribbons, causing the horses to set off with a start, throwing Sophie back into her seat and making Hitchin, riding on the rear footplate, clutch anxiously at the strap. Charles, grimly aware of everything his passengers weren't saying, jabbed again, heedless of the delicate months of his disgruntled cattle; furious with himself for compounding his error of judgement, in having his prize horses set to again, so soon after a long, bruising drive, by such a cow-handed display of driving.

Sophie, sitting demurely by Charles side, said nothing, very eloquently. But his display of temper sharpened her resolve to carry out a line of activity that had been developing since their first, angry, visit to the stables. They had gone scarcely a mile when she turned to Charles and said sweetly, "My dear Charles, you know how I long to drive your Greys, might now be a good opportunity to try?"

Charles gave a short bark of incredulous laughter at this blatant attempt at disingenuousness. "Don't be ridiculous Sophie, my horses are in no temper to be tooled by a novice."

"A novice, Charles?" murmured Sophie, with dangerous sweetness, "surely not a novice?" Sophie's raised eyebrow added emphasis to her italics.

"Well, you know what I mean, Sophie," muttered Charles, "of course you are not a beginner with the ribbons, but this pair are fractious at the best of times, they will not respond well to unfamiliar hands."

Sophie forbore to point out that the highly strung horses were not responding at all well to the familiar hands on the reigns, she merely directed a pointed stare at the mouths of the snorting, twitching cattle and cleared her throat, softly.

Charles, feeling the force of this silent attack, carried war into the enemy camp, exclaiming, "and anyway Sophie, what on earth makes you think that, after an evening like the one you have just put me through, I would reward you with the opportunity to handle my greys."

"May I remind you," returned Sophie, pointedly, "that my evening's work has resulted in Cecelia returning home engaged to Charlbury, and that you, my dear Charles, are no longer engaged to Eugenia."

Charles stiffened at the mention of his former betrothed's name, jerking the reigns involuntarily and setting off a litany of snorts and huffs from the indignant greys.

"Right that's enough," snapped Sophie, decidedly. "You are far too cross to be handling such delicate horses, give the ribbons to me." With that, she leaned across and took the reigns from Mr Rivenhall's, surprisingly unprotesting, hands.

Behind them, Hitchin stifled an incredulous gasp, as he watched that renowned whip, Mr Charles Rivenhall, cede command of his prize pair, unresistingly, to a passenger. And a female at that. But then, the groom reflected gloomily, the master had been in damned queer stirrups all day, dashing down to Lacey Manor at a moments notice, driving fit to burst for mile after mile, raging and fuming the whole way. And then, not content with wringing a furious pace out of his prize pair for three whole stages, to demand that they repeat the journey, with scare enough time for precious pair to get a sniff of oats, well that was not what Hitchin expected of a man who was noted, not just for his judge of horseflesh, but for his care of his cattle as well. Nothing, thought Hitchin indignantly, could surprise him now.

Despite his morose projections, Hitchen was destined to be further shocked before the night was out. Sophie, having secured the reigns, drew the greys into a brisk trot and addressed herself to her irate lover, who was seething, damply and impotently, alongside her.

"Charles, I refuse to drive almost 30 miles in an open carriage in this weather," she announced, decidedly. "Have you considered what a ridiculous spectacle we would make of ourselves, turning up in Berkley Square, well after dinner, soaking wet? And hungry." She added, as an afterthought.

"Well pardon me for not making alternative dinner plans," snapped Charles, "My only thought was to get as far away from that rabble you have assembled, before I was induced to make an evening party with a sneezing Bromford, my former fiancé, and that bloody poet!"

Sophie smiled a little at this flood of indignant invective. She slowed the horses to a jog trot, as they entered Lacey village and, at the sign for The Green Man, pulled off the high rise and into the inn yard. Hitchin leapt down from his perch and ran to the greys' heads, where he was joined, moments later, by an interested looking ostler.

"Take them and see them comfortably bestowed, Hitchen," commanded Sophie, "they won't be travelling again tonight. You can bring the curricule back to London tomorrow."

Hitchin glanced fleetingly at Mr Rivenhall, who was beginning to expostulate but, as Sophie had given him an order he was very much inclined to follow, he quickly looked away and busied himself with the horses.

"Charles," continued Sophie, inexorably, "stop fussing and hand me down, we will dine here before hiring a more appropriate vehicle to convey us back to London. Excuse me please?" This last to the grinning ostler.

"Can you have a post chaise and four," Sophie glanced briefly into her reticule and then hastily corrected herself, "no, a pair, ready in an hour?"

The ostler grinned again and nodded. Noticing that the irate gentlemen had not yet exited the curricule, he extended a grimy paw to the commanding female above him. Sophie took his hand, gathered her skirts around her and jumped lightly down. She turned to address the, still stupefied, Charles.

"Well Charles, are you eating dinner in the stables or the dinning parlour? Because I don't intend to linger in this damp yard for a moment longer, if you are planning to join me, you had better move."

With that, Sophie turned on her heel and marched into the inn.

Chapter Text

Charles gazed, balefully, at Sophie's receding figure, his wrath and exasperation ebbing slightly as he allowed himself to enjoy the sight of her well fitting pelisse clinging to her high bosom, and the way her skirts excentuated the gentle sway of her hips as she walked. As many debutantes and, more often, matrons in search of extra marital interest, had found, Charles Rivenhall was impervious to the use of feminine tricks to beguile him. But Charles had been uncomfortably aware, for some weeks now, that Sophie's direct footsteps awoke an interest in him that he had not thought any woman capable of firing.

A slight cough brought Charles back from his brief reverie as he realised, with increasing vexation, that he was still sat in the curricle, watched by the ostler and his own groom, both of whom were waiting, rather pointedly, for him to leave. He leapt down, pausing only to direct the ostler to prepare a chaise and four, rather than the pair Sophy had, rather parsimoniously, ordered, before walking into the inn.

He removed his beaver hat and stood, steaming slightly, as the rain fell off his voluminous driving coat, creating tiny rivulets along the uneven stone flags in the hallway. He glanced through the first of the two doors that opened at the end of the short entrance hall. This led, apparently, to the tap room, as the presence at the bar of a red faced, white bearded, old man, nursing a stone tankard, attested. This ancient raised his head from his private contemplation of his ale and fixed his rheumy stare upon Charles.

"If you be wanting the young lady, she be up in the parlour with Tommy," the old man mumbled, laconically. "A very determined young miss, that one, I never seen old Tom pressed into service so swift, like."
Charles stared, unsure whether to thank the man for his direction or suppress his impertinence. The ancient, observing the affront in Charles' stare, chuckled.

"And I dare say you shouldn't be lagging here bandying words with the likes o me. Not when there's a pretty miss be a wanting your company." The old man chuckled again and surveyed his ale once more, having exhausted his stock of conversation. Charles, hesitated a moment, then turned sharply through the second door and up a short staircase onto a half landing. Here, through the open door, her saw Sophy, engaged in issuing detailed instructions to a startled looking landlord. At the sound of Charles' footstep on the wooden floor, Sophy turned and cast a dazzling smile in his direction.

"Ahh Charles, there you are, I trust Hitchen is seeing the bays safely bestowed? I was just telling our host, Roberts, here what an excellent pair you have and how very reluctant we would be to over tax them. I have arranged for Hitchen to remain here tonight and we will resume our journey to London in a chaise that the excellent Roberts will provide us with once we have supper. Supper will be ready for us in what? Half an hour?" This last was directed at the bleary looking landlord, who at once snapped to attention and made haste to assure her that his wife would be able to set a dinner before them in half that time, should they require it.

Sophy dismissed this offer with a smile, "Oh no, I would not place such unreasonable demands on your kitchen. Half an hour will be swift enough. Thank you so much for your attention." Another bright smile robbed this obvious dismissal of any sting and the landlord bowed himself out of the room importantly, hastening to the kitchen where he proceeded to seriously impair his wife's progress in making a dinner suitable for her unexpected fine guests.

"Sophie how dare you issue orders to my groom!" Expostulated Mr Rivenhall, angrily. "And as for stopping here, when we should be hastening back to London?"

Sophy smiled as Charles continued to pace and bluster. "Why, Charles, dear?" She interjected, sweetly, "Why should we be hastening back to London?"

Charles glared at her, "because... your father will expecting you?" He finished, weakly.

"Sir Horace will expect me when I arrive." Sophy replied, briskly. "Both my note and Celia's explanation, once she and Charbury arrive back at Berkeley Square, will assure Aunt Lizzie of my whereabouts and my well being. If we were to dash back to London as you suggest, then all that would happen is that we would be wet and hungry, your greys would be broken down and Sir Horace, will have left for his club hours ago in the happy assumption that I would be staying at Lacey Manor, under Sancia's excellent chaperonage, and he will no doubt see me in the morning."

"But I need to see Sir Horace." Charles muttered, with pained urgency.

"But why?" Sophy enquires, with genuinely perplexity.

"Because I ought, of course, request you father's permission to pay you my addresses!" Charles retorted, "you must see that Sophy."
"Well," mused Sophy, consideringly, "I can understand that you would want to behave correctly and with the utmost proprietary." She moved a little closer, removing his hat from his unprotesting fingers and laying it on the table. "But have you considered, dear Charles, how your petition might appear? You deliver Sir Horace's daughter to him, late at night, soaked to the skin, and very hungry." Sophie laid a tantalising emphasis on this last point, as she gently unbuttoned Charles' driving cape. "You are, in the eyes of the world, engaged to be married to Eugenia Wraxton and, until this engagement is formally and publicly repudiated, are in no position to be offering for another woman. Moreover," Sophy moved closer to Charles, her face inches from his as she delivered her closing argument, "Sir Horace will notice that his daughter is looking like a woman who has been thoroughly, recently and enjoyably, kissed."

"Sophy, you devil," said Charles, with a smile, shrugging off his great coat and throwing it over the nearest chair, "what on earth do you expect me to say in response to that sort of argument?"

Sophie's hands rested lightly on Charles chest as she looked up at him, invitingly. "But Charles, I don't expect you to say anything at all." She murmured innocently and lifted her lips to meet his, inevitable, rejoinder.

Chapter Text

The creak of the landlord's heavy tread on the staircase recalled the pair to their surroundings. Charles jerked away, thrusting Sophy from him with inelegant force. He steered her towards towards the fireplace where she took a seat, blushing rosily. He then turned to face the landlord, who enquired, with marked obsequiousness, whether he could fetch the lady and gentleman some refreshment.

Charles replied, some what testily that ale would suffice, with a ratafia for the lady. As the landlord retreated upon this errand, Sophy expostulated,"But Charles, really, you know I don't touch ratafia, of all the insipid beverages."

Charles retorted, sharply, that Sophy would benefit from a touch of insipidity at the moment.

Soppy cocked an enquiring eyebrow at this. “You prefer insipid, then Charles? How unexpected. To be sure,” she went on, musingly, “after prolonged exposure to Miss Wraxton’s somewhat forceful opinions, I can see how you might value compliance in a bride, I am sure you would find plenty of options amongst next seasons debutantes, should you care to look.”

“I don't care to look, as well you know, Madam!” Expostulated Charles, “but damn it Sophy, I can't count myself engaged to you, as you rightly point out, and well, damn it…” here Charles descended into inarticulate confusion and looked appealing at Sophie. Sophie continued to regard Charles steadily, a look of detached expectation on her face, as she pointedly waited for him to continue.

“Dash it all, Sophy!” Charles ground out, “I can hardly look at you without wanting to kiss you!”

Having torn this admission from himself, Charles flung himself into the chair opposite her. Sophy remained silent, a satisfied smile suffusing her features, whilst the landlord set a demure glass of the disputed beverage on the table. As that worthy departed, She took a sip, licking her lips, somewhat deliberately. “I fail to see, Charles,” she began, “the problem in that particular situation. To be sure, it may be a little inconvenient, particularly when dinner is about to be served, but I find nothing disagreeable about you wanting to kiss me. Indeed,” she took another sip of ratafia, looking directly at Charles as she licked her lips again, “indeed, I find it most agreeable.”

“Good god, Sophie!” Ground out Charles, in frustration, “what can I do?”

“What you can do, dear Charles, is have a drink. Then you will eat the dinner that our attentive host is shortly to set before you. After which we we proceed to London by post chaise, a journey that should provide you with ample opportunity to indulge in this new found predilection. If you should wish to of course.” added Sophy, as a musing aside. “On arrival at Berkley Square, you will inform your family that your engagement to Miss Wraxton is now terminated, Miss Wraxton is shortly to be betrothed to Lord Bromford and you have shown great restraint and not strangled your infuriating cousin. Once Miss Wraxton and Lord Bromford’s engagement is announced, you may then consider yourself free to press your suit.”

Soppy paused, and twinkled mischievously, before continuing, demurely, “you will find the lady most receptive to your attentions.”

Charles, torn between amusement, impotent rage and frustrated passion, let out a short bark of bitter laughter. But his intention to check how receptive his lady might be to his attentions was, to his combined relief and annoyance, thwarted by the arrival of the landlord, bearing dinner.

The meal proceeded rather quietly. The lady, who had been quite ravenous on arrival, found her appetite unusually suppressed. The gentleman, attacking the beef with a ferocity that betrayed the force of his suppressed emotion, was attending to the business of eating with a single mindedness that he hoped would dismiss from his mind thoughts a gentleman had really no business entertaining.

As the covers were removed and port set before Mr Ravenhall, Sophia, her mind awash with plans and possibilities entirely new to her, looked directly at Charles and asked, with a hint of indecision that was generally entirely foreign to her, “should you wish to be left to your port in solitary, masculine splendour, I could bespeak a chamber to retire to for a while. I perhaps ought to refresh myself before we set off again?”

Charles poured the port and pushed the glass toward Sophy. “I think, Sophy, that it might be safest, if you and I confine ourselves to, erm, public spaces until such time as I am at liberty to press my suit without constraint.”

Sophy blushed a little at this and looked so adorably, surprisingly, conscious, that Charles reached over to grab her hand. He gripped her hard as he continued, “knowing that you are inclined to be responsive to my attentions, makes me all the more conscious that it is my duty to keep those attentions under good regulation. You know if you took a bedchamber I would be in it with you before you had scarce closed the door. And there is every chance that my attentions may not be entirely gentlemanly.”

Sophy, her blush deepening, gave his hand an answering squeeze and exhaled, deeply, “there is also a chance that my receipt of those attentions may not be entirely ladylike.”

Charles smiled at her, there was a tenderness in his gaze that Sophy had not seen directed towards her before now. “Sophy, you are a beautiful, generous and courageous girl and I love you to distraction. If I could summon a parson to this room and make you mine before God and man right now, I would. But as you have, rightly and presciently, observed, there are several points of procedure to be observed before we can be betrothed. And I must be a gentleman because you, my delightful, enchanting, beguiling temptress, deserve that I should be so.”

Sophy coloured even more deeply at this unexpected tenderness. “Charles,” she began, hesitantly, “I…”

“Shush” murmured Charles, rising from his seat and pulling Sophy to her feet and into his arms. He planted a brief, soft kiss on her lips. “I think it is time for us to return to London, where I will woo you with all the form and propriety you deserve.” He kissed her again, deeply, and with just a hint of the passion that lay beneath his affectionate façade. Pulling reluctantly from the embrace he smiled, a little ruefully, and then grinned, “and hopefully with a little of the impropriety you deserve also.”

Sophy laughed and pulled him closer for a kiss that broke only with the warning sound of feet treading towards the door. There was an apologetic tap on the door and Hitchen stepped lightly into the room. “Begging your pardon sir, just wanted you to know that the chaise is ready for you, but there was a bit of confusion as to whether you ordered a team of four or a pair.

Mr Rivenhall looked questioningly at Sophy, who smiled and blushed and raised an inquiring eyebrow back at him. “A pair, I think Hitchen. A team feels a little profligate and we are in no rush.”

Hitchen retreated to prepare the chaise for departure and Charles returned Sophy to his embrace, eager to gauge how receptive she continued to be towards his ongoing attentions.

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It was, perhaps, the most unprepossessing equipage Hitchen had ever yet presented to his master. Two sluggish job horses matched to a worn and shabby chaise. Mr Rivenhall raised no demure as he handed Sophy into this second-rate conveyance. Miss Stanton-Lacy, accustomed to the vagaries of Peninsula travel, was not a woman to be over-particular about the deficiencies of an ageing post-chaise. She could not, however, fail to notice the inadequacy of the springs, as the carriage jolted violently over the ruts and mud of the inn yard.

“I am afraid,” she murmured, as she grasped the door strap to prevent a tumble from the threadbare seat, “that we have exchanged a good deal of comfort for the benefit of a solid roof.”

Charles grinned at her, rather roguishly, “Then you may need to avail yourself of what comfort you can find then.”

He opened his arms, Sophy laughed gaily and slid along the worn seat into Charles awaiting embrace.

The young couple had been far too preoccupied to pay much attention to events on the road, so were wholly unaware that the pair of slugs had been surrendered after only seven miles, with an early change at Chessington, a sleepy hamlet devoid of adventure, excitement and post houses able to supply horses capable of a 10 mile stage. Their next stop, at Wimbledon, did cause Charles to pause momentarily, in tracing the line of kisses from Sophy’s enchanting earlobe to her even more enchanting décolletage, and wonder aloud if they were to stop at every damned posting house on the road to London. But Sophy silenced his grumbling with a kiss that soon recalled him to his original purpose and the outside scene occasioned no further remark, until the carriage reached the smooth cobbles of Mayfair.

It was approaching midnight when the tired equipage pulled up outside Berkley Square. Despite the advanced hour, the house was still ablaze. it was Dasset, in all his foreboding splendour, who opened the front door, rather than the night porter, who might be expected to be patrolling the entrance hall awaiting Lord Ombersley’s return at an uncertain hour of the morning. With imposing solemnity, the butler announced that Lady Ombersley was taking tea with her guests in the drawing room.

“Her Ladyship’s guests”, intoned Dasset, as he proceeded, at a measured pace, across the hall, “include Lord Chalbury, who arrived earlier this evening with Miss Cecilia; but Sir Horace is no longer one of the party. Sir Horace departed for his club an hour ago”.

Dasset’s tone betrayed his opinion of so casual a parent who, on discovering his only child had absconded to the country, bent on apparent ruin, chose to saunter casually round to his club, rather than wait to clasp his errant child to his anxious paternal bosom.

Charles, no stranger himself to paternal indifference, might have had some secret sympathy with Dasset’s condemnation of Sir Horace’s apparent unconcern. But relief outweighed his judgement. Charles was by no means over awed by his prospective father-in-law, but he would prefer to have the inevitably probing conversation with Sir Horace at a time when his emotions – and appearance – were a little less disordered. He glanced over towards the radiant looking Sophy, whose eyes gleamed with something more than their usual mischief, curls in windswept disarray, lips plump and cheeks flushed. His heart lept with bewildered thankfulness that he was – incomprehensibly – the source of her joy, but his head acknowledged that her appearance might prompt an astute father to ask searching questions.

As it was, the exclamations and questions that greeted them as they entered the drawing room in Dasset’s imperious wake, were directly largely at Sophie. Lady Ombersley, all her habitual languor forgotten, exclaimed, “Oh Sophy, you poor child, tell me you didn’t really feel like you must run away? Cecelia assures me it was all a clever plan on your part, but I have been so worried that you might have really felt that you couldn’t remain her. You know we quite depend on you and I wouldn’t have you upset for the world, whatever Charles might say.”

Lady Ombersley directed a sideways look at her eldest son and was quite taken aback to see the furious hauteur, that usually spread over his countenance whenever Sophie was discussed, had been replaced by a smiling affection. Indeed, as she saw the warmth with which Charles looked at her niece, a new fear struck her maternal breast.

“Dear Aunt Lizzie,” cried Sophie, “How infamously I have treated you! But it was with the best of intentions, for how else could I allow Cecilia to admit she really loved Charlbury?” Turning to Cecilia, Sophie asked, “You have told Aunt Lizzie about your engagement?”

“Of course”. Replied Cecilia, “Oh Sophy, what a shocking day this has been. I was so mortified. And am so happy.” This last was said with a soulful glance up at Lord Charlbury, who sat beside her on the sofa. “But dearest Sophy, what an age you have been! Where is Eugenia? And Lord Bromford? Don’t tell me you have left them all at Lacey Manor?”

“Don’t worry Cecillia, we left a perfectly happy house party.” Charles interjected, with some of his habitual satire returning. “Lord Bromford and Miss Wraxton, in particular, seemed to be enjoying profound domestic felicity.”

Cecilia looked at her brother, a little uncertainly, “Have you and Eugenia quarrelled, Charles? Are you very vexed?”

Charles grinned at her, a little ruefully, “Yes we did quarrel, yes… no, I am not vexed, not really. Ceccy, I will be taking two notices to the Morning Post tomorrow. Eugenia has decided we would not suit and has terminated our engagement.”

Both Cecilia and Lady Ombersley exclaimed at this and Charlbury made to leap to his feet and offer Charles his congratulations when a quelling glance from Sophy stopped him and he subsided into the sofa.

Lady Ombersley, feeling a little guilty about the relief she felt at this news, probed gently. “Are you very disappointed Charles?”

“Not at all mama.” Returned Charles, with a smile. “I think it is fair to say that now that we know each other a little better, Eugenia and I would definitely not suit. It has been a salutary lesson to me. If I should offer for the hand of another lady in the future, I will wait until I am sure that Lady has seen me in the worst of my tempers and could tolerate me nonetheless, before contemplating a betrothal.”

“Well Charles, I hardly think that is the best way to court a young lady,” began Lady Ombersley. But Sophy interjected at this point by saying, with a merry laugh, “No, the best way is to ride off with her cousin, get shot and then present her with a hatfull of ducklings, isn’t it, Charlbury?”

Lord Charlbury picked up his cue and the conversation veered once more to Cecilia and her betrothal. Lady Ombersley exclaiming once again over the audacity of Sophy’s plans, the happy outcome, how thrilled Lord Ombersley would be when he heard the news and the eligibility of an Autumn wedding.

The sonorous single tolling of the grandfather clock in the Hall, combined with the stealthy removal of the tea tray by the suddenly ubiquitous Dasset, awoke Lady Ombersley to her responsibilities. It was no part of her maternal plan to have Cecilia begin the first day of her much-anticipated betrothal too tired to sustain the round of visits Lady Ombersley was already beginning to sketch out in her mind. So she announced it was time all the ladies took their leave and made their way to bed.

Cecilia was happy enough to comply with this dictum, being both elated and exhausted in equal measure. Lady Ombersley rang the bell to summon her maid, whilst Ombersley and Cecilia withdrew discretely to the hall, for an affecting leave taking under the avuncular chaperonage of Dasset. Between Sophy and Charles there was no such display, Sophy instead focused her efforts on attending her Aunt to her chambers, where she was handed over to the brisk ministrations of her dresser. Charles, joining Dasset in his chaperonage, granted his sister a brief embrace and a whispered “Well done Ceccy, he will make you very happy,” before dismissing her to the upper floor.

He then turned to Charlbury with a brief nod towards the library door, and queried, “Brandy, Everard?”

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“So,” began Charles, setting down the decanter and passing a full tumbler of Lord Ombersley's excellent brandy to Charlbury. “How exactly did my cousin inveigle you into eloping with her?”

“I was summoned,” replied Charlbury, simply, “and she informed me at Kennington that she was kidnapping me. It seemed churlish not to co-operate.”

“And the injury?” Charles nodded brusquely towards Charlbury’s bandaged arm.

“Sophy shot me.” returned Charlbury, blandly.

Charles stared, penetratingly. “Any particular reason why?” He asked, with forced casualness.

“She said it was to prevent you either calling me out, or milling me down.” Said Charlbury, “neither of which I have any particular desire to avoid if that would suit you best.”

Charlbury continued, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice. “But really Charles, we are to be brothers and I would expect that you of all people would know that Sophy and I entertain nothing but the friendliest affection for once another. I am fond of Sophy – and dashed grateful – but I have never entertained any design...” Charlbury glanced at Charles, a gleam in his eye as mischievous as any his preceptress could muster, “my regard for her has always been, positively fraternal.”

There was a questioning note on his last word and Charles relaxed, releasing a short bark of laughter. “Indeed Everard, provided she really will have me, you should be able to claim the privilege of calling Sophy sister. But say nothing for now. I need to get her father’s consent and I must limit the level of insult that this situation will give to Miss Wraxton.

“I don’t think you need to worry too much about Miss Wraxton, Charles. Sophy was keen to see her provided for. I expect she and Bromford will be quick to make a match.”

“Indeed,” returned Charles, in somewhat clipped tones, “I left Eugenia embroiled in a most affecting domestic scene with that blockhead. It is to be hoped that the Marquesa..."

"You mean Lady Talgarth". interjected Charlbury, helpfully.

"Indeed. Lady Talgarth," continued Charles, "will perform the office of duenna with the anticipated zeal. But Sophy is adamant that Eugenia must be allowed to declare her betrothal first.” He took a deep draught and surveyed the empty glass thoughtfully, “And of, course, nothing can be said publicly until the notice is in the Gazette. I can’t really, in all good conscience, approach Sir Horace until my betrothal to Miss Wraxton is known to be at an end.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much on that score, old boy,” said Charlbury, striding languidly across the room to take up the decanter and replenish their glasses, “I reckon Sophy’s father has a pretty good notion of your intentions.”

“Well I never indicated anything in that line,” retorted Charles, taking a deep gulp of the amber fluid presented to him, “when he asked what I intended to do with Sophy once I got to Ashtead I told him I was going to wring her neck. I hardly think he will bestow her hand upon me unquestioningly in grateful thanks for leaving her neck intact.”

Charles coloured and shifted in his seat a little, taking another deep gulp of brandy.

“Well, Sir Horace left for Limmer’s not long after Cecilia and I got back. Seemed mighty confident that you were going to bring his daughter back in one piece. Very cool about the whole thing. He clearly knows his “Little Sophy” better than you think.”

Charlbury chuckled and continued, “Charles you idiot, anyone with eyes in their head can see that you are smitten. It’s been obvious for months.”

Charles brought his head up sharply and made as if to interject, but Charlbury pressed on.

“I’ve known you for what, five, six years? Never seen a woman get you so agitated. Goodness Charles, did you never stop to reflect on why she made you so furious?”

Charles leaned back and closed his eyes. “I couldn’t know, Everard, I wasn’t free, I couldn’t even think…” he exhaled a gusty sigh, “to have wanted her for so long, knowing I couldn’t. Good God Everard, to think that now, suddenly now she is going to be mine when for months I didn’t dare even think it. And one ridiculous evening and everything is suddenly reversed, well, it’s a lot to take in.”

Charlbury strode over with the decanter and gave both glasses a generous refill. “Charles,” he said solemnly, raising his glass. “I know exactly how you feel.”

The two men sat in reflective silence. Broken only by the loud ticking of the mantle clock and the occasional hissing of the fire. A couple of additional forays were made on the decanter before the somnolent and meditative atmosphere was disrupted by a commotion in the hall.

Dasset, who had, apparently decided that it was his duty to attend to the family personally until the last withdrawal bed-wards, slid majestically across the hall and divested his master of his hat and gloves.

“Ah Dasset!” Exclaimed Lord Ombersley, “Just the fellow. Bumped into Sir Horace Stanton-Lacey in White’s. The fellow is back from Brazil.”

“We had the pleasure of receiving Sir Horace this afternoon, my Lord.” Murmured Dasset. Unfortunately, he was unable to stay and greet Miss Sophy, on her return from the country. We have been quite busy with visitors today.” Dasset paused and, seeing his insouciant master showing no signs of interest in the movements of his household, delivered what he was sure would be compelling news. “Mr Charles and Lord Charlbury are in the library, would you be wishful to join them?”

“Charlbury, by gad!” His Lordship responded, “That must be why Sir Horace bade me hurry home!”

“My understanding sir, is that Lord Charlbury is most wishful of an interview with your Lordship,” intoned Dasset, with an impressive appearance of passivity, “Most wishful.”

“Then the lucky devil can have his wish come true!” declared his Lordship, genially, “Lead on Dasset.”

Dasset floated towards the library door, intoning firmly, as he entered, “Lord Ombersley.”

The two occupants of the fireside chairs jerked into alertness. Charlbury sprang to his feet, Charles setting his glass deliberately down before nodding to his sire and saying a cool “Good evening sir,” Charles glanced at the mantle click, showing the hour a little advanced beyond 1am. “An early night?”

“Play devilish slow tonight.” Returned Lord Ombersley, ignoring his son’s satire. “Met Sir Horace in Whites. Advised there had been plentiful movement on the domestic front. Good time to review the troops.”

Charlbury, perceiving Charles impatience with his parent’s adoption of the fashionable predilection for the employment of military language for non-military endeavours, interjected, keen to steer the conversation to his purpose. “Indeed, Lord Ombersley, your return is most fortunate, I am delighted to tell you that I have renewed my addresses and Cecilia has accepted my suit.”

Lord Ombersley gaped slightly and then strode across the room, taking Charlbury’s outstretched hand and shaking it vigorously.

“Delighted to hear it dear boy,” he said, with warmth, “but how comes this about, I thought she was fixed upon the poet.”

“Cecilia and young Fawnhope have agreed they will not suit and Cecilia has expressed a most gratifying preference for my suit.” sai Charlbury, with the ghost of a smile, as he lingered on a private recollection that immediately drew Charles’s suspicious attention.

“Well, well, you have been busy!” Exclaimed Lord Ombersley, “I was convinced she was committed to that idiot poet of hers! This is dashed good news.” Lord Ombersley made a beeline for the decanter on the sideboard and swiftly poured a glass which he then raised. “To Charlbury and Cecilia, the triumph of a good match over a damned disastrous one! My felicitations!”

Charlbury raised his glass also. “I thank you. I am delighted to have won your daughter’s regard, sir, this is a happy outcome I too had not entirely foreseen.”

“Proposed to her by accident did you?” Lord Ombersley let out a bark of laughter at his mild witticism.

“No, I believe it was by design.” Continued Charlbury, with a somewhat rueful grin, “I merely took the opportunity that was presented to me. I am grateful to your niece for providing the circumstances in which the opportunity arose.”

“Sophy, eh?” Chuckled his Lordship, “I knew something was afoot when she told me to make sure I didn’t withdraw my opposition to Cecilia's entanglement with that ridiculous puppy. As if I would ever let her marry that nincompoop! Charles I am surprised at you wanting her to, I never took you for a sentimental fool. Though you were a supporter of Charlbury here.”

“I thought her affection for Augustus Fawnhope was enduring and believed her protestations of indifference to Charlbury. It appears I was mistaken.” Charles tossed back the remains of the brandy in his glass and looked squarely at his parent. “It turns out I have been mistaken about not only Cecilia's affections. My own engagement is at an end. Miss Wraxton and I have decided we should not suit.”

“Good God!” Ejaculated Lord Ombersley, reaching for the decanter. “My felicitations to you, dear boy. Whatever did you do to convince that harridan to release you from her clutches?”

“Possibly you mean, commiserations, sir,” replied Charles, drily. “Miss Wraxton and I had a frank exchange of views on a subject upon which we are unlikely to ever agree. She took strong objection to the forcefulness of my temper and asked me to place a notice advising of the termination of our betrothal in the Gazette at the earliest opportunity

“Well, well, a night of miracles indeed.” Said his Lordship “Never thought you‘d show such good sense. You want to get that announcement in print before the sour-faced creature changes her mind. Not one to let a suitor slip away due to fit of pique.”

I have every reason to assume she will be shortly to contract a more suitable alliance,” said Charles, with asperity. “I understand Lord Romford has directed his affections towards Miss Wraxton and I have every expectation of them reaching an understanding soon.”

“Good Gad! Ousted by that blockhead!” Lord Ombersley chortled. “That’s going to be a tough one to live down! Daresay the end result is worth a bit of ribbing though! What? But how does this come about?”

“Only one way it could come about,” said Lord Charlbury with a nod towards the door, through which Sophy had just slipped, unheralded by Dasset. “The Grand Sophy.” He raised his glass towards her with a twinkle.

“Sophy, would you care to explain to your Uncle the machinations by which you have made and unmade numerous matches in the course of one evening?”

Sophy smiled back at Charlbury with a warmth that had Charles reaching for the decanter again. “No, Charlbury, not at this hour, I just popped down to see if Sir Horace had accompanied Uncle Bernard or if I should wait on him tomorrow.”

“Aah, missing your father, eh?” Smiled Lord Ombersley, “Very fitting. No need to present yourself at Limmers, told me he’d call in tomorrow. Seemed to think you’d have everything in hand.”

“Indeed so, Uncle Bernard,” said Sophy with a grin, “but there’s no need to be unpicking events now. I am delighted we have reached such a happy outcome for Charlbury and Cecilia.”

“And, of course for Charles.” murmured Charlbury irrepressibly. “But you, my dear Sophy must consider yourself quite the sacrificial lamb, to have surrendered all you suitors in one evening.”

“It is of no moment,” Sophy went on, directing a quelling glance in Charlbury’s direction, “Indeed, I believe I have now won the admiration of Cecilia's forsaken poet, so all is not lost. Charlbury, when will my Aunt and cousin expect to see you tomorrow? I believe there is much to be thought of, you will be keen to get the notice in the Gazette, I am sure, and I dare say you and my Uncle will have much to discuss with regards to the settlements.”

Charlbury took the hint and, as his prospective father in law suddenly sprung to attention at the reminder of what a very advantageous alliance his most beautiful daughter had just contracted, readied himself for departure.

“Just so, just so, mustn’t keep the ladies waiting in the morning. Need to press home your advantage. Two notices for the Gazette what? That will give the gossipmongers something to chew on. Not to worry, alls well that ends well, eh? Well, what do we live for but to make sport for our neighbours, eh?”

Lord Ombersley waved Charlbury towards the door, “Capital girl Sophy, knew she would see to it. But let me hear no more talk of poets. See you tomorrow Charlbury. Bright and early. I’ll be ready to see you at mid-day.”

With that, Charlbury shook hands with a slightly frosty Mr Rivenhall, gave Sophy a hearty embrace and followed Lord Ombersley out of the library, thoughtfully closing the door behind him.

Chapter Text

As the door closed Sophy turned to look at Charles with a questioning look in her eyes.

“So Charles,” she asked, with a twinkle, “Is it to be propriety or impropriety?”

Charles looked at her in bewilderment.

“You said you would woo me with all the propriety – and impropriety – that I deserve,” whispered Sophy, the most mischievous glint twinkling in her eye, “So which is it to be now?”

Charles grinned and pulled her into his arms. “Impropriety of course, you wicked girl!” he said, bending to kiss her.

Several minutes passed in this agreeable fashion before Charles recollected his surroundings and pulled gently away, murmuring, “I think Sophy, that now might be a good time to switch to propriety.”

Sophy sighed with disappointment but allowed herself to be gently disentangled and seated herself in the chair by the fire previously occupied by Lord Charlbury. Charles retreated to his earlier position and poured another brandy.
Sophy looked at him with affection and said brightly, “If propriety is to be my lot then you'd better pour me one as well.”

Charles smiled, and raised a questioning eyebrow, but reached for the decanter nonetheless.

“Delightful as your reappearance is Sophy I thought you had gone to bed.” said Charles, as he passed her a glass of brandy.

“Oh I had one or two things to take care of before I could usefully retire for the night.” said Sophy, taking a tentative sip.

“Eurgh!” she grimaced, “try as I might I just can’t see what it is about brandy that appeals so much to gentlemen. I do want to like it but I find the idea more appealing then the actual beverage itself.”

“However,” she continued brightly, “One is not always disappointed. For example, I personally have always found the idea of being kissed somewhat distasteful and yet this evening I have discovered the actual practise is so much more pleasant than I ever envisaged.”

She took a small slip and cast a sideways look at Charles. Charles took a large gulp from his glass and tried to look forbidding.

“I won’t be drawn Sophy.” he said with resolution, “Not here and certainly not now.” He took another large gulp and smiled reflectively.

“I must confess too entertaining similar thoughts.” He said with a wry grin. “I don’t wish to sound like a complete coxcomb, but when the opportunities have presented themselves previously I have never had so strong an inclination to take them. Sophy, you must know, that I have never, ever felt for another woman what I feel for you.”

Charles shifted little and took another swig of brandy. He looked up and gazed at Sophy who was regarding him intently. He put down his glass and took a couple of swift paces across the hearth rug. Kneeling before her chair he took her hands in his and said, with unexpected huskiness,

“I love you Sophy. You have bewitched, entangled, exasperated, charmed and enticed me. I hardly dare imagine what a lifetime spent with you will do to me, but I can’t bear to imagine a lifetime without you. Sophy, I have done nothing but quarrel and criticise you since the day you arrived in this house, but you must know that I love you.” His grip on her hand tightened a little. “To destruction. Definitely beyond reason. But I love you.”

Sophy looked down at Charles with tenderness. He looked unexpectedly vulnerable gazing up at her with a look that was half embarrassed, half adoring. He shifted a little awkwardly and Sophy reached down and stroked his cheek.

She still said nothing. Charles looked down at the floor and rocked back on his heels before looking up again and meeting her gaze less directly this time.

“But what I don’t understand, dearest Sophy,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible above the faint crackling of the dying fire, “Is how you can possibly love me?”

At this Sophy reached down and took Charles’s hand in hers. she pulled him to his feet and led them both to a small sofa. They sat down together, hands clasped, knees touching and, again, Sophy ran her hand across his cheek.

“Oh Charles,” she whispered, “Did you never stop to wonder why it was that to you infuriated me? She smiled, and continued. “I am not a green girl.”

Charles made as if to interject at this point, but Sophy raised her finger to her lips kissed it and then placed it on Charles’s half open mouth.

“No my dear, you must let me finish, Or I will never say it. I not a green girl, I have been out for four years, and scarcely in before that. I have lived amongst men. I am a tolerably handsome woman with a very tolerable fortune and have been an object of gallantry, and not so gallant attention, ever since I first moved in society. I have made good friends of the most shocking rakes, particularly because their friendship is far more interesting, but mainly because it is far safer than any other attention.
Sir Horace made sure I knew what men are and how to hold them at arms length – he felt that clear knowledge of a man’s potential for perfidy was the safest way to ensure I could never been charmed by a fortune hunter. And he was right. Every man of my acquaintance, which is considerable, familiar as I am with every rattle in a scarlet coat!”

Sophy cast a mischievous look at Charles, who grimaced, but said nothing, gripping her hand a little tighter.

“Every man of my acquaintance, no matter how noble, how handsome, how kind or how very fond of them I might me; not one has made me feel like you do. I have never felt the smallest inclination to hand over the reigns of my own self-governance. I have never felt so hideously fascinated, so furious, so uncertain of my own first impressions. I thought I just wanted to save the family from Eugenia's dreadful influence, but then I realised it was you I wanted to rescue. I wanted to free you to be the man I knew you were – temper and all – rather than the humourless tyrant she would make you.”

Sophy paused, a little breathless from this flood of confidence, and swallowed before continuing, in a slightly lower tone.

“And then when I considered, I mean really considered, I knew I wasn’t so generous and disinterested as I liked to think I am. I wanted to save you for myself.”

Sohpy paused and blushed, looking first at the floor, then at Charles, then the floor again.

“Charles, I have never met a man who I felt was as capable as I am.”

She looked up and met his laughing gaze and coloured furiously.

“Oh, how dreadfully conceited that sounds! But really, ever man I know, from the Duke downwards however brilliant they might be, can never manage everything. One is always having to fill the gaps and whilst I know I have quite a managing disposition...”

She looked a little reproachfully at Charles, who had let out a short bark if laughter at this.

“I know I can be a little managing, continued Sophy, “But really Charles, I don’t actually want to be... it isn’t good for me... in short,” she continued in a rush, “I can not be married to a man who will let me manage everything. But I couldn’t love a man who would resent the fact that I can. Charles, l have suspected that you love me for some time. And that pleased me. Not just my vanity, although that is appeased, but because you have seen all of me and the things that should shock and repel, seem, I think, to attract you all the more."

“Like your wretched pistol for instance?” queried Charles, with a grin.

“Yes!” exclaimed Sophy, with a relieved smile, “exactly so. I didn’t imagine it, did I?”

“That no sooner had I blown a hole in the wall with you wretched pistol, I immediately wanted to take you in my arms and kiss you like you had never been kissed before?” Charles laughed and moved a little closer. “In the way I would do right now, were it not for the fact that I am profoundly conscious that you deserve my strictest propriety. In the way I assuredly will when we do eventually get to Ombersley for that promised shooting match?”

Charles squeezed her hand again. “Sophy, I don’t want to walk over hit coals for you. But I do want to be the man you chose to have a your side, walking over those hot coals with you. You are redoubtable, capable, more courageous than you will admit, kind and beautiful.”

“No, not beautiful,” interjected Sophy.

“Beautiful.” Reiterated Charles, firmly. “Beautiful, beguiling and staggeringly attractive.” Charles’ hand loosened his grasp on Sophy’s and his arm slid about her waist as he drew her closer. He ran his finger across her cheek and then tilted her chin towards him, bestowing a soft breathy kiss on her parted lips. He the then snaked his fingers through her curls, dropping kisses down her neck as he continued to whisper endearments.

“Sophy, you are far more than tolerably handsome. You are enchanting.”

Charles sought her mouth and kissed her fiercely. Sophy, reclining slightly on the sofa, wrapped her arms around his neck and allowed her fingers to make their own exploration of Charles disordered locks, returning his kisses with fervour.
Charles yielded to instinct and pressed his body close to hers, his hands sweeping down her back, tracking the outline of her curves. His hand lingered over her bosom and, at Sophy’s gentle gasp, stayed to caress the gentle swell. He was just about to give way to the temptation that had tortured him for weeks and drop a swift kiss on Sophie’s swelling decolletage, when he was brought to his senses by an firm knock and the sound of the door being very slowly opened.

Charles leapt up and hastily walked toward the fireplace, leaving a rather breathless Sophy to hastily smooth down her hopelessly disordered locks. Dassest paused on the threshold, cleared his throat and glided smoothly in, apparently noticing nothing.
As Charles remained staring intently at the fire, his back to the room, Dassett addressed his remarks to Sophy, who smiled brightly at him.

“I came to inform you, Miss Sophy,” that Lord Charbury has left and his Lordship has retired for the evening. That being the case, I have ordered James to lock the front door and retire. I came to ascertain if there is anything further you require before I too, retire for the evening?”

“Thank you Dassett,” smiled Sophy, “I can’t speak for Mr Rivenhall, of course, but I will be retiring myself directly. There are candles on the hall stand?”

“Of course, Miss Sophy.” Intoned Dasset. “I will bid you goodnight, Miss Sophy, Mr Rivenhall.”

Dasset bowed and glided from the room, leaving the door, pointedly, ajar.

Chapter Text

Despite keeping unusually late hours the previous evening, Dassett was presiding in person over the breakfast parlour. He had earlier supervised the ironing of the newspapers which, not withstanding the iniquitous newspaper tax, comprised all the major London periodicals.

This Thursday morning James had applied the hot iron to the Morning Post, The Times and The Racing Post. The Gazette, being a twice-weekly publication, was not included in James’s ironing pile, as the next edition was not due until Saturday.

As it turned out, it was well after 10am before any member of the Ombersley household claimed either of the daily publications laid out for their use. Charles, always an early riser, had left for the offices of the Gazette well before the breakfast covers were laid.

Lady Ombersley, never interested in news beyond that found in the pages of the Ladies Monthly Museum and the Court Circular,  took her breakfast in bed and Cecilia, who would never dream of exposing her muslins to the dangers of newsprint, had also been granted license to take breakfast in her room. Lord Ombersley,  whilst occasionally affecting interest in the price of barley, listed weekly in the Gazette,  gave his attention solely to the Racing Post, and Hubert, a fine trencherman, studied only his plate at breakfast time.

So it was Sophy who, arriving unusually tardily in the breakfast parlour, took up the Morning Post with her coffee. She turned to the family announcements and read, with a small, satisfied smile, a brief sliver of text. As James moved in with the coffee pot to replenish her cup, she looked up and smiled brightly.

“Thank you James, she said, “your little errand last night has been successful.”

James, conscious of Dassett’s forbidding eye on him, stammered a brief response before retreating to his post besides the sideboard.

Dassett,  who considered it his duty to know the nearest concerns of the entire Ombersley household, had already perused the newspapers and had read the salient paragraph three hours previously. Thus it was that, when Mr Rivenhall made his appearance in the breakfast parlour a few minutes later, Dassett had no qualms about  bowing himself and James from the  room and closing the door behind him.

**********

A few streets away, in rooms at the Albany, Mr Cyprian Wychbold was also engaged in the consumption of both breakfast and news. Despite his exquisite appearance and laconic attitude, Mr Wychbold was an avid consumer of current affairs – political  and economic, as well as social. He had already read three broadsheet pages before coming across a paragraph that made him almost overset his coffee cup. It took three further re-reads of the surprising text before he could convince himself of its veracity.

“Good Gad! he ejaculated, “She has done it after all! Damned witchcraft that's what it is. Wouldn't take anything less! Well, well, well the Grand Sophy!”

Mr Wychbold then swiftly reviewed his appointments for the day and determined that he could, indeed fit in a morning call at Ombersley house.

*********

Another morning caller was already on route two Ombersley house. Despite the earliness of the hour,  Sir Horace Stanton Lacey claimed a father’s privilege and was on his way to meet his daughter. He always made it his business to take in the daily news at the breakfast table and, some paternal instinct had prompted him to continue reading as far as the family announcements.

Beyond a muttered, “Well, well, stands the wind in that quarter, does it? Well, I imagine she knows her own business best and its a tolerable choice.” Sir Horace envisioned little surprise. But, whilst his paternal concern was generally a little tepid, he was genuinely fond of his daughter and prepared to make moderate exertions, when required, to ensure her happiness.

***********

Meanwhile the author of this interesting news item was enjoying a tete a tete over the breakfast cups with it’s subject.

Charles was reporting the success of his mornings errand to an Interested Sophie. “Both notices will be included in Saturday’s publication,” he continued, reaching for another slice of ham, whilst Sophie poured him a cup of coffee. “Then I can consider myself at liberty to speak to your father.”

“Oh I don’t think you’ll need to wait until Saturday,” said Sophie quickly, “I am sure Sir Horace will be round to see me today.”

“I’m sure he will,” returned Charles, a little impatiently, “But I would rather approach him once he has public confirmation of my unbetrothed state rather than relying on my private assurances.”

“You need not worry about that Charles,” said Sophie, passing him the folded copy of the Morning Post and pointing him towards the salient text. “Sir Horace already has that.”

Charles’s reaction echoed that of Mr Wychbold earlier. He read, re-read and then stared at Sophy,  incredulously.

“How could you have known?” he stammered, “You must have inserted this yesterday but you couldn't have known before you left Lacey Manor that this would be the outcome, could you?”

“Of course not Charles,” responded Sophie, “I am not that prescient. I charged James with the task of carrying a notice to the offices of the Morning Post as soon as we arrived home last night. I did take the trouble to find out when the printers start running and, for an additional fee, they were persuaded to make a last minute addition to the final page.”

“I must say,  observed Sophy,  tangentially,  “I am impressed that James was able to carry the point, I was not completely sure if he could.  I  do believe he might be a suitable candidate for promotion in the near future. Should a more senior position in another household become available.”

Charles looked nonplussed at this deviation and then, as the meaning behind her words dawned on him he shook his head. “Sophy, before you start appointing staff to our non-existent townhouse, there is the small matter of securing your father’s consent to my suit.” Charles took a deep gulp of coffee and then continued, with a satirical smile, “So you don’t think we should live here?”

“No Charles,” returned Sophie, with mock severity, “I am very fond of Aunt Lizzie, and I must permit her to be mistress in her own home. As must I in mine.” She looked at Charles with a smile and the merest hint of challenge.

Charles laughed and threw up his hand, acknowledging the hit. “I think there is no risk that you won’t be, Sophy.” He smiled and reached for her hand, “Besides, I don’t want to share you with my family all the time. There will be many, many occasions when I will want you all to myself.”

Sophy blushed at this and the butterflies, that seemed to have taken permanent residence in her abdomen over the last 24 hours, fluttered again. Her fingers tightened around Charles’s and, she was just contemplating leaning over the table and stealing a kiss, when, with a fanfare of throat-clearing, the door opened and Dassett slid in, announcing “Sir Horace Stanton-Lacy.”

Hands were swiftly unclasped and Charles leapt to his feet, stammering “How do you do, Sir?” and colouring furiously.

“Sir Horace!” exclaimed Sophie, also rising and moving swiftly to embrace her father. “How lovely to see you. When did you get back to England?”

“Ah, Sophie,” said Sir Horace, pulling her into a hearty hug, “I see you are well. Neck still unwrung?”

Sir Horace looked a little quizzically at Sophie and then at Charles.

“I am glad to see her still in one piece,” continued Sir Horace, extending his arm towards Charles for a brisk, very firm, handshake. “I believe I must offer you my commiserations… I don’t recall you mentioning your broken engagement last night. Admittedly, circumstances being what they were, we had limited time to exchange news before you departed for my house with the express intention of murdering my daughter, but,” Sir Horace appeared to muse, reflectively at this point, “I am surprised Lizzie never mentioned it, bound to be a scandal you know, engagement well established, invitations about to go out. Dare say old Brinklow’s not taken it very well. Stiff old bird hates to be the subject of gossip.”

“I haven’t yet spoken to Lord Brinklow on the subject. Miss Wraxton and I decided yesterday that we shouldn’t suit and I was charged with putting a notice in the Gazette at the earliest opportunity.”

Charles paused and looked at Sophie, a hint of a smile softening his rather tight expression. “It appears that your daughter found an even earlier opportunity.”

Sir Horace levelled his quizzing glass at Sophie, “Meddling again, Sophy?”

“Not meddling, Sir Horace!” replied Sophy, with a laugh, “Just a little sorting.” Sophy slipped her arm through her father’s and steered him towards the door. “I have had plenty to keep me occupied. Things were in a sad tangle and there were some most unsuitable matches that needed to be resolved. However, all will end happily, I believe.”

They emerged into the hall and Sophy paused. “Library or Drawing Room?” She mused. Sir Horace looked towards Charles, who had exited the Breakfast Room in their wake, regarding him appraisingly. Charles, feeling that he could sustain a rigorous interview with a curious father in his own domain, more readily than his mothers, nodded towards the library.

Chapter Text

Sir Horace entered the library and took a seat in the wing back chair nearest the fireplace. Charles followed him, looking hopefully towards the sideboard, where the decanters had, under Dassett’s careful direction, been refilled. He then recollected that 11.30am was a little too soon for brandy, so checked his steps, clutching the back of an adjacent wing chair and clearing his throat.

Sir Horace, observing Charle’s thwarted intent, strode confidently to the sideboard and poured two glasses of Madeira instead. He handed one to Charles, observing as he did, “always better to leave the stronger stuff in reserve. You never know when you might have fresh cause to require it.”
He then took a chair by the fireplace, put his feet up on the adjacent stool and gestured imperiously to Charles to do likewise. Charles, a maelstrom of diffidence, anxiety and indignation, took the proffered seat without comment, taking a sharp swig from the glass clenched in his hand, as he did so.
Charles looked around and, seeing no sign of Sophie, braced himself for a tete a tete with his elusive uncle; this formidable man, with whom he already shared a tenuous bond of relationship, and was girding himself to make that bond even more binding.

Sir Horace looked all ease and affability. He took a long gulp of Madeira, regarded the half empty glass thoughtfully and observed, “Always a fine judge of wine, your father, I suppose he still chooses what is laid in his cellars?”

Charles coloured and coughed and returned, “Of course, sir! I would never… well .” He coughed and rubbed his hand across his damp forehead.
“My father remains in control of his household, as much as he ever was and, this, at least is an area where his experience and expertise far outweighs mine.” Charles smiled, rather ruefully. “I my not always show the tact and deference that is required, and indeed due to my father, but he does remain master in his own home. And will ever do so.”

He smiled again and looked up, regarding Sir Horace with a penetrating gaze. “Possibly even more than I may be in mine. But, indeed sir, you are best placed to advise me in that regard.”

“Are you asking me for housekeeping advice or my daughters hand in marriage? Best be frank, boy. As I am sure you have already discerned, we Stanton-Lacey’s prefer pound dealing.” Sir Horace laughed. “You can be master, should you chose to be, but give her her head, my boy. Not an ounce of vice in her.”

“Is that consent, Sir?” Asked Charles, a little surprised at the ease with which the conversation was progressing.

Sir Horace stood up and walked towards the decanter, replenishing his own and Charles’ empty glasses with brandy. “No. But it’s a beginning. Now tell me exactly why I should allow you to marry my daughter and how you intend to maintain her.”

Charles blanched a little at the unaccustomed steel in Sir Horace’s voice and relaxed only slightly when, as he settled back into his armchair and took an appreciative sip of Lord Ombersley’s best brandy, with which the decanters had been freshly filled on Dassett’s orders this morning, his uncle added, “And if you could offer me some assurance that she will remain un-murdered before the honeymoon is ended, that would afford a father some measure of peace.”

Sophy had not followed her parent and erstwhile fiancé into the library. Instead setting off to harry her Aunt and Cecilia into making their way to the morning room. She needed no sixth sense to predict that morning calls at Ombersley House would be early, frequent and often today. And, whilst it was far too soon to reasonably expect morning callers, she had every expectation that the bounds of propriety may be stretched a little today.
Her expectations were soon met. No sooner had the hall clock rung the hour, than Dassett could be observed making stately progress towards the front door where he was able to greet in person the eager paramour, Lord Charbury.

The lover was tenderly divested of his hat and cane, the flowers for Miss Rivenhall, held by a swiftly summoned footman, during this operation. Dassett then intoned. “I believe Miss Rivenhall and Miss Stanton-Lacy are in the morning room.” He bowed his head in gracious invitation, leading Lord Charlbury, his floral tribute restored to him, up the stairs to the morning room, with the interested footman bringing up the rear.

Lord Charlbury was announced with grave formality, but the sight of Cecilia, blushing adorably, standing to greet him, hands held out in uncertain invitation, spurred Charlbury swiftly over the threshold. His flowers were preferred, exclaimed over and then gently removed by Sophy, allowing the lovers to clasp hands and gaze adoringly and largely silently at one another. Sophy presented the bouquet to the footman, who reluctantly obeyed the intimation from Dassett to depart, bearing a rather thorny cluster of roses to the house keepers room, where they would be arranged for display, Dassett judging that neither of the two young ladies present would have time for flower arranging today.

Sophy, seeing that Charlbury in particular, would benefit from a little unchaperoned time with his betrothed, left the morning room, with the stated intent of going to summon Aunt Lizzie.

Dassett also withdrew, bestowing a fatherly glance towards the acknowledged lovers, drawing the doors softly together, but with still enough daylight between them to ensure no one could accuse him of having shut the door behind him. He proceeded slowly to the baize door at the end of the hall. Adjourning to his pantry for a quick snifter of the brandy he had decanted earlier that morning, and keeping alert for the anticipated ringing of the door bell.

Sophie, having updated an interested Selina with news of the current callers in Berkley Square and reminded Lady Ombersley of her duty to her visitors, which was spurring that indolent dame into leaving her boudoir at an unusually forward point in the day, then departed to check on progress in the library. Finding her father and Charles in the midst of what looked like being a lengthy and particularly detailed conversation of a financial nature, conducted with good-natured forcefulness on both sides, she determined her ongoing absence was the best aid to a successful resolution. Any tweaks that might need to be made to whatever settlement was arrived at could be done discretely at a later date.

In matters such as this the best course was to leave Sir Horace to his pronouncements and adjust as required later. Sir Horace always had a finer eye for detail at the planning stage, rather than the execution. Sophy suspected her husband would be rather more clearer eyed for longer but, having an equal partner in her decision-making was something she rather looked forward to. And so, she determined brightly, would Charles.

Some time later, with Lady Ombersley now presiding over the morning room and Charles and Sir Horace still ensconced in the library, a new visitor was announced. Mr Wychbold proceeded in state up to the morning room, where he was met by a radiant Sophy.

“So, you witch,” he exclaimed without preamble. How did you do it?” He checked himself as he crossed the threshold and saw the room’s occupants. “My apologies Lady Ombersley, your very obedient.” He made an elegant little bow towards Lady Ombersley and then turned to greet Charlbury and Cecilia. Noting their intimate posture on the sofa, he raised a quizzical eyebrow towards Sophie.

Having not been formally announced, Cecilia’s betrothal could not be publicly severed, and whilst Charlbury had arrived at the offices of the Morning Post before Charles that morning, he had not beaten Sophy’s speed. But he was happy to offer Mr Wychbold all the clarification he sought.
“You may congratulate me, Cyprian, Miss Rivenhall has accepted my offer of marriage. There will be an announcement out tomorrow, but we are happy for all our friends to know the glad news as soon as possible.”

“My heartiest congratulations Everard! Miss Rivenhall, you have made this old dog here a very happy man already, I hope he will do likewise by you.”
Cecilia blushed prettily and stammered something about being so happy, but what would people think.

“Nothing to worry about there,” said Mr Wychbold, perceiving at once what what tying Cecillia in knots, “nothing announced, childish infatuation, easily done. Beautiful young man..” here Cyprian paused, thoughtfully, yes, a very beautiful young man, he thought to himself, anyone might lose their head.

But he left that thought unspoken, instead shaking Cecilia’s hand rather vigorously, accepting a seat and allowing Lady Ombersley to pour him a cup of tea.

The party in the morning room was joined shortly by Charles, who, having finally satisfied is uncle of his solvency, and struck a delicate balance of confirming his father was incapable of reducing the family to penury, whilst still maintaining an imposture that Lord Ombersley was still fulfilling his role as head of his family. It was, Charles reflected rather ruefully, a performance worthy of a candidate for son-in-law to the famous diplomatist. But here, as in so many things, Sophy out-gunned him.

He made straight for Sophy, acknowledging Mr Wychbold and Lord Charlbury by perfunctory nods, and relayed her father’s wish that she join him in the library. Sophy slipped out, whilst Charles allowed himself to be handed a thin porcelain cup and saucer and submitted to the natural questions that his gathered friends and family still demanded answers to. He was unable to satisfy Mr Wychbold’s questions as to Sophy’s brand of alchemy, that had ended a betrothal that his friend now felt free to castigate as the stupidest hole Charles had ever got himself into.

He remarked simply, as the pair moved away from the tea tray and towards the side board, that he knew not how Sophy spun her toils, he just knew that he would rather be caught in every web of her spinning than without.

Sophy returned some time later, without her father, who was apparently, in conference with his man of business now in the Library and would join them presently. Charles, whilst resentful of the fact that Sir Horace was treating the library as his own, reminded himself that it was his father’s library. He retreated to a small window seat, from where he could watch Sophy as she went about quietly issuing discrete instructions to Dassett, ordering a fresh tea tray and gently steering the conversation away from her doings of the previous day and focusing instead on the build up to Cecillia’s wedding day. Her own engagement she wouldn’t allow to be exclaimed over, saying simply that all must be private for now, as she would not want to offer Miss Wraxton any insult.

At this point, Mr Wychbold, who had already lacerated his own finely tuned sense of propriety by making a morning call at least two hours in advance of the usual time and was, even now, unheeding of the convention that morning calls should last no longer than half an hour, made as if to take his leave. Before he could offer his felicitations and adieus to his hostess, however, the door opened and Dassett intoned, solemnly, “Sir Vincent Talgarth.”

Sir Vincent stepped lightly into the room and headed straight to Sophie. Clasping her in a light embrace that immediately had Charles fidgeting, he exclaimed, “Juno, my delightful Juno, I am ever in your service. But you have tried my loyalty sorely. What mean you by abandoning Sancia and I to that wretched house party? I have just endured a ride in a post chaise with the wretched invalid, Bromford. I warn you Sophy, I will never respond to your bugle again if you send me towards such a barrage again!”

Sophie gently extracted herself from Sir Vincent’s arms and responded with a laugh, “Indeed Sir Vincent, my summons was not intended for you. You placed yourself in the line of fire! But thank you most sincerely for attending to Lord Bromford. I was puzzled somewhat by how he was to be removed from Lacey Manor. I had visions of him staying for weeks, with the poor Claverings obliged to make gruel and send up mustard footbaths every day!”
“And with Eugenia remaining in fond attendance, no doubt!” Came the sardonic interjection from the window seat.

“O yes!” Cried Sophy, casting a hard glance at her betrothed, “And what has become of Eugenia?”

“Sancia is returning her to her family no doubt as we speak.” Returned Sir Vincent. “We decided to decide and conquer. Bromford was keen to speak to Miss Wraxton’s father, but I was able to convince him that returning home to recruit his strength first was the better plan. Also, as my bachelors quarters are no place for a lady and Talgarth House is not yet reopened, I took the opportunity to take rooms at Limmers. Sancia will be in no mood for a journey to Merton after today’s extingencies.”

“Where’s the poet?” asked Charles.

“We left him at Lacey Manor,” replied Sir Vincent, urbanely, “In the depths of composition. The Claverings will see that he doesn’t starve, but someone should go and retrieve him at some point. Sophy, my dear, as I have done enough clearing up after your abandoned house party, I believe it will fall to your lot. Give it a few days, then I am sure he will be in need of reinvigoration by his latest muse.”

“I will expel the poet!” returned Charles, bristling at Sir Vincent’s casual caress of Sophy’s chin as he addressed her.

“Of course you will.” returned Sir Vincent. “Am I to congratulate you yet? Is the task of clearing up the after effects of Sophy’s grand schemes to be permanently yours, Rivenhall?”

Charles unbridled slightly, taking Sir Vincent’s outstretched hand and shaking it firmly. There is to be no announcement at this stage, he confessed, “but yes, I have offered for Sophy and, God help me, she has accepted.”

“My felicitations!” Exclaimed Sir Vincent. He raised the glass that Dassett, sidling unobtrusively from the sideboard during this fascinating exchange, had placed in his hand. “To your good health, and enduring peace and tranquillity. May the memory of such keep your equilibrium steady in the years to come.”

He tossed back the amber contents and was gratified to look up and see Dassett again at his elbow with the decanter. He raised the glass again, in a deprecating salute, that belied the note of sincerity of in his next words.

“I presume you embark on this course with your eyes open, Rivenhall, but I hope you know you have gained a prize. Sophy is a remarkable woman. It’s been an object of some curiosity to see who would meet her exacting standards. I was a little surprised when it became apparent that she had chosen you. But I see it will do. And if it doesn’t. Well, know that Sophy has never and will never lack for protectors. Yes, yes, I know you think that is your role, foolish sap!” Sir Vincent raised a hand to remove the sting for this barb, “but know that Sophy will always have a regiment of old allies at her command.” He leaned in a little closed and continued, in a low tone, “should she ever need them.”

He paused, shook his head and patted Charles lightly on the arm. “But I am sure such circumstances would never arrive.” He Continued bracingly, “well well, conjugal bliss all the way I have no doubt! And I can highly recommend the married state, old married man that I am!”

As if on cue the door opened and Dassett intoned ponderously, “Lady Talgarth, Ma’am.”

Sancia sailed imperiously into the room.

“Oh Sophie Sophie Sophie!” She exclaimed, sinking expansively into the soft sofa besides Lady Ombersley. “ I Begrudge you not the smallest exertion, not the tiniest effort, but oh my dear, what a task what an immenso, enormous, fatiguing task you have given to me. I am exhausted, my spirits all beyond repair, what efforts have I gone to, what challenge? And what thanks? What thanks Sophy?”

Sancia rounded on Sophy with a level of animation that none of her audience had hitherto witnessed.

“ Sophie, am I to blame for that wretched woman calling off her engagement at this stage? Am I the one who inserts announcements in newspapers I don’t even read? Am I the one who sets that ridiculous Lord Bromford up in place of the less ridiculous, but much more conniving Mr Rivenhall?”

Scancia dismissed Charles’ startled interjection with an imperious wave of the hand and continued.

“Who is not yet Lord Ombersley and might not be for many years yet, a baronet under the hand is worth a viscount upon the shrubbery, as I tried to tell Lady Brinklow, but there was such a wailing, such a to do. All these complaints about the scandal, the short notice, as if her lanky, miserable daughter were back on the shelf, not immediately planning a far more advantageous match. I was prepared to be sorry for her, for to have one’s betrothed plucked from one’s grasp at almost the church door is not kind, Sophy, it is not convenient. But I have endured, Sophy and I see you have been most generous.”

Sancia paused, and smiled beatifically at Sophy, before casting a hopeful glance in the direction of the sideboard. James the footman, who had been observing this performance in goggle-eyed wonder, leapt forward at this stage to proffer a glass of ratafia to the afflicted lady. He had observed Dassett performing a similar function for Lady Ombersley and was preening himself on having anticipated a similar need, in advance of his formidable mentor.

Lady Talgarth grasped the glass like a man in the dessert reaches for water and continued her invective.

“That Lady Brinklow, she looks at me like I am el insecto in her medicine, As if it were my doing, Sophy, as if I were the source of this fatigue and not yet another victim of your imbroglio. What yet do you do to me? What I endure for your sake!”

She took a long drought from the glass in her hand, spluttering slightly then regarding the glass in her hand with puzzled dejection. Dassett sidled imperceptibly over and gently replaced the fragile glass in her hand with a more substantial tumbler filled with Lord Ombersley’s ever excellent brandy. He shimmered back to his self-appointed station by the sideboard, with only the merest flicker of a glance in James’s direction.

Sophy, who had been grinning appreciatively during this onslaught, sprang to action. Seating herself on a stool by Sancia’s sofa and offering profuse apologies.

“Indeed, Sancia, I have abused you entirely. I only ever expected you to need to act as my duenna, not to have to chaperone Miss Wraxton, who has, I am afraid, been guilty of a gross breach of propriety regarding Lord Bromford. But we must blame the extingencies of the situation. Indeed, I never planned for you to have to do so much.”

“Really, Juno?” Came the laconic interjection from Sir Vincent.

“Well, my need for a chaperone was the only outcome I could plan for. There were so many other imponderables. And I never accounted for the presence of Eugenia and Lord Bromford. But that has resolved most satisfactorily, owing to the good offices of yourself and Scancia.”
Sophy turned, cajolingly to Scancia, who leaned back, muttering “Oh Sophy, you know I can never refuse you. Which is why God, save me, I could never be your mamma”.

“We’ll, you need not fear that now, for I am to be married myself, Sancia and you…”

Sophy stopped at this point as the door creaked open and Sir Horace Stanton-Lacy stepped, unannounced, into the room and, seeing his supposed betrothed, took an involuntary step back. So engrossed had he been in the affairs of his potential son-in-law and the mechanics for setting in train plans for his daughters wedding, that he had not realised that with Sophy’s marriage the remaining obstacle to his own marriage was removed.

“Oh, er hello Sancia.” Mumbled Sir Horace, “Sophy been keeping you busy, I see.” There was a snort of laughter from both Charles and Talgarth at this understatement. Sir Horace, noticing Sir Vincent , gave him a stiff nod and a Curt “Talgarth, didn’t realise you were in town.”

“Just come up,” said Sir Vincent with a delighted gleam, “with my new wife.”

“Oh, err, congratulations,” said Sir Horace, looking rather distractedly around the room. It was quite full now, with Lord Charlbury and Cecilia ensconced on one sofa and Lady Ombersley and Sancia on another, with Sophy at Sancia’s knee. Mr Wynchbold sat, an exquisite leg crossed over the other, in a stiff, high-backed chair, enjoying both the spectacle and the brandy. Charles was perched on a window seat and Talgarth lounged against a wall.

There was no other lady in the room excepting a rather breathless Selena who, having received news from Cecilia of her engagement to Charlbury, and the extraordinary circumstances of its creation, read the morning papers and observed the preponderance of visitors to Ombersley House; had evaded Miss Addersbury and slipped into the morning room, under cover of displaying the flowers Charlbury brought, in their hastily wrought arrangement.

Sir Horace was left to wonder no longer, as Scancia, began imperiously. “Horace, you have neglected me. Sophy, she makes me busy, active, I must rush here, go there. I must entertain endlessly the English visitors, I must come to town, I must go to balls, I must be convenable to that gross Prince Regent.” Scancia pulled and expressive face at mention of the boorish Prinny. “And you, you do nothing! I hear nothing. Well, I am not a woman who sits around and does nothing but wait.”

There was an appreciative splutter from Chalbury at this point.

“I wait and wait and wait for you, Sir Horace, but then I too have a better offer. I can leave my bird in his Brazilian shrubbery and take the new bird who swoops in here in London. I am no longer the Marcessa du Villas Cannas. I am now Lady Talgarth. It will not be so fatiguing. Sir Vincent is no longer in the army, I will not be marching behind the drum or having the ambassadors for receptions, or being mamma to Sophy. I will be reposeful and quiet.”

She took a gulp of brandy and leaned back in her chair, Sir Horace, closed his agape mouth, swallowed and then tried to look disappointed as he began a mild expostulation.

“See here, Sancia, I know I ain’t always the most thorough of correspondents, but marrying, out of hand, just cos I wasn’t here, when you always knew I would come back. Well, it’s not quite the thing, Sancia.”

Sir Horace attempted to look stern, but it was hard to disguise the relief that was flooding through him. Along with mild chagrin that she had chosen Talgarth, of all people, over him.

Sancia looked up at Sir Horace through eye lids that were already wanting to close. “Don’t be a nonsense Sir Horace, you didn’t want to marry, you would also find it fatiguing. And Vincent, he is handsome, he has position, and now he has fortune to match. It is for the best.”

“And Sophy will be married, which is what we never thought would happen, and the oh so English Mr Rivenhall will find news ways to keep her busy,”
This generated a blush from Sophy , a titter from Mr Wynchbold and a barely constrained guffaw from Charlbury, silenced only by the fierceness of the glare from Charles.

At this point Sir Vincent thought it politic to intervene. He strode over and offered his hand to Sir Horace.

“I think you will find my wife is right, it is all for the best. I accept your congratulations most heartily. And May I give you mine in return. Having a daughter married. So advantageously to all concerned. You must be very happy. Or,” he continued, signalling to Dassett, who pressed a glass into Sir Horace’s unprotesting hand, “you very soon will be.”

“Juno,” he continued, turning to Sophy and handing her to her feet. “I am sure every possible outcome from yesterday’s debacle was considered. I hope you have got what you desired. And allow me to offer you my sincere congratulations.”

He drew her into an embrace that made Charles visibly bristle.

“Rivenhall, my congratulations again. Keep her busy eh?” This last with a wink. He then turned to Lady Ombersley. “My dear Lady Ombersley, my wife is, as you see much fatigued. We must trespass on your hospitality no longer.”

This signalled the end of the visit. Although it was some time before Sir Vincent had taken a voluble leave of every occupant of the room. By which time his wife had delighted Lord Charlbury by closing her eyes and lightly dozing on the sofa.

It was an attitude in which Lady Ombersley was discovered, some hours later, by her forceful niece. Sophy had been correct in her conjecture that they would be busy with morning calls for, no sooner had Sancia been shaken awake and escorted to her waiting carriage, then the next of a series of callers arrived, keen for gossip about the breaking off of Charles Rivenhall’s engagement, given the Brinklow were firmly not at home today.
Sophy was able to parry curious enquiries with the bigger news that Lord Charlbury had finally secured Miss Rivenhall’s hand. The arrival of Lord Ombersley, only three hours late for his midday appointment with his prospective son-in-law had saved Charlbury and Cecilia from too much scrutiny by the curious. Cecilia having escorted Charlbury to the library, then escaped to the school room, where Miss Adderbury, Selina and the rest of the school room party provided a much more comfortable audience for the tentative first articulation of her bridal hopes.

Sophy bore the sly expressions of regret at her supposed disappointment, easily. Her only concern being Charles’ blatant attempts at leaping to her defence. Eventually she dispatched him to pay an short visit to the Brinklow townhouse, where he endured a brief audience with Lord Brinklow, but was thankfully denied access to Lady Brinklow and Eugenia. From there he adjourned to his club, there to confirm, to the exclamations of the incredulous, that the notice in the Post was entirely accurate. This this was an outcome that only a few hardy punters had bet on, he found himself deeply popular with this select brethren.

Sophy, shaking her aunt awake, had already instructed Dassett to declare them no longer at home to any late callers, and summoned Lady Ombersley’s maid to escort her to her room, there to response herself before dressing for dinner.
Dinner that evening was an extended family party, including Sir Horace, Charlbury of course, and Lord and Lady Talgarth, who Sophie had felt obliged to invite in view of the very great service they had recently performed. In an effort to ensure as harmonious a dinner table as possible in the circumstances, Sophie had invited the ever interested Mr Wychbold; padded out the group with a last minute summons to Lord Francis Wolsey and a couple more regimental friends; and backed up Selena’s plea to be allowed to dine with the family, charging Hubert with the task of stamping on her foot should Selena say anything indiscreet.

Thus the party sat down 16 to dinner, presided over by a beneficent Lord Ombersley, in as benign a humour as his family had ever seen him. The acknowledged lovers sparkled and glowed and Cecelia blushed continuously over the very gentle ribbing meted out by her family. But no one who saw how she gazed adoringly at Charlbury could doubt her very real affection for a suitor whose fortune was undeniably more handsome than his features.
The unacknowledged lovers, separated by five leaves, exchanged not a word and hardly a glance. Sophie was not quite her sparkling best, a fact the unknowing Lord Francis attributed to a noble attempt to hide her disappointment at Charlbury’s deflection. Sir Vincent briefly wondered if she was regretting her choice. The thrill of the chase, he reflected, was often more exhilarating than the capture of the prize.

But the look he observed passing between Sophie and Charles later that evening, as Sophy, presiding indefatigably over the tea tray, passed Charles a cup, assuaged all doubts. Juno, he observed, was at her most radiant. The gleam he had witnessed in Sophy as she made matches, resolved disputes and saw her schemes prosper, was as nothing to the glow of happiness that surrounded her now she had finally made the recipient of her munificence herself.