Scandal Wears Satin (The Dressmakers 2)

“Defiant,” Sophy said.

“Yes. But then it wasn’t like stealing a kiss at all. It was something else completely. I wasn’t sure I liked it, but it was exciting, because I knew it was wrong. But then things happened so quickly—and then there were all those people. And then Harry came, and I knew he’d kill Adderley.”

“I would have tried,” Longmore said. “But I suspect Miss Noirot would have come after me with a chair or a potted plant—or she would have shrieked and fainted.”

Clara looked from him to Sophy.

“Absolutely,” Sophy said. “I knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. Or at all. I was prepared to let him hit Lord Adderley. But that was all. If I couldn’t find something to hit him with, to get his attention, I was prepared to create a diversion.”

“I wish I’d known,” Clara said.

“Then you weren’t trying to protect him,” Sophy said. “I knew it wasn’t quite . . . true.”

“The tears were true enough,” Clara said. “I was terrified for my brother.”

“For me? Against that limp—”

“You never think of consequences. You’d lose your temper and kill him, and then you’d have to run away to the Continent. But you’d never run away, from anything. They’d try you and hang you for murdering a defenseless man.”

Longmore stared at his sister.

“You were protecting me?”

“Someone had to,” she said.

“For God’s sake, Clara.”

“How was I to know Miss Noirot understood, and knew what to do? I didn’t even know she was there.” She looked at Sophy. “Where were you?”

“It’s better not to know,” he said. “Are we done talking about our feelings? Because I’ve had enough revelations for one day. You look as though you’ve had enough, too, the pair of you. Looking seedy—”

“Harry!”

“You both look like the devil,” he said. “I recommend a dose of beauty sleep for the rest of the morning. If we leave by midday, we ought to be able to make London tonight.”

Chapter Eleven

A Cabriolet . . . is in reality a regeneration of the old One-horse Chaise . . . It carries two persons, comfortably seated, sheltered from sun and rain, yet with abundant fresh air, and with nearly as much privacy as a close carriage, if the curtains be drawn in front. It can go in and out of places where a two-horse carriage with four wheels cannot turn.

—William Bridges Adams, English Pleasure Carriages, 1837

“This is maddening,” Longmore told Sophy, as they left yet another posting inn. “We haven’t a prayer of reaching London before dawn.”

His sister drove ahead of them, and set the pace. Glaciers moved faster.

“You did say she’d travel slowly,” Sophy said. “You said she’d need a powerful horse, and the inns kept those for the stage and the Royal Mail.”

“It never dawned on me that she’d refuse to change hers,” he said. “Seventy miles and some from Portsmouth to London. I was prepared to bribe the ostlers to get her the horses she’d need. A day’s journey, I reckoned. I hadn’t reckoned on her insisting on keeping her own.”

Men took pride in being able to handle any sort of beast. But Clara didn’t fancy herself a whipster. She wanted the beast she was familiar with. That meant extended stops to give the creature refreshment and rest.

“I can understand her dragging her heels,” Sophy said. “Before, she had emotion driving her. It’s probably like being in a fight. You don’t think much, then, about getting hurt, do you?”

“Certainly not. All I care about is demolishing the other fellow.”

“She wasn’t thinking much, either, of danger or difficulties,” she said. “She swam out over her head. Now the shore looks to be a long way away. And all she sees there is trouble.”

“I know she’s unhappy,” he said tightly. “But there isn’t a bloody thing I can do about it at the moment.”

“No one can do anything at the moment,” Sophy said. “I only wish I knew how to drive. She and I could trade places now and again.”

He shook his head. “Even if you knew how, you’d hate driving the cabriolet. It’s a fine, handsome vehicle to take a lady about London, but it isn’t built for long journeys. Gets uncomfortable very quickly. Before, she might have been too wrought up to mind it, but now I reckon she’s noticing the shaking her innards and bones are getting.”

“How much farther is it?” Sophy said.

“We’re not even halfway to London,” he said. And the sun was sinking ever closer to the horizon.

“Do you think we ought to press on?” she said. “I know nothing about driving, and you know everything. I’m not concerned about traveling the entire distance this day—but from what you tell me, it’s different for your sister.”

“Completely different,” he said. “The cabriolet is made for short jaunts about Town, not for long-distance work.” He went on to explain the vehicle’s design, its advantages and drawbacks, concluding with, “I bought it for her to drive herself about London. I never meant for her to take off across the country—and without her tiger, of all things!”

“She managed,” Sophy said.

“I’m amazed, I must say,” he said. “I didn’t think Clara even knew how to put on her own stockings.”

“I don’t think she does,” Sophy said.

“Did she tell you how she managed it?” he said.

“No.”

Clara had shared Sophy’s room. They’d slept in the same bed. Like sisters.

So strange. But Clara trusted her. Or was charmed by her.

Not that it made any difference.

“Did she happen to say anything more coherent than what she told us this morning?” he said.

“I thought it was coherent enough,” Sophy said. “I don’t need to know any more. I understand perfectly now. In any case, I thought rest would do her more good than talking. She seemed in better spirits after she slept.”

“And you?” he said. “Are you in better spirits?”

She’d seemed a trifle blue-deviled.

“I’m relieved we’ve found her,” she said. “I’m relieved she came to no harm. I’m only waiting for a brilliant solution to her problem.”

No brilliant solution had presented itself by the time they stopped at the King’s Arms at Godalming. By then, the sky was darkening, and they were, according to Lady Clara’s road book, thirty-three and a half miles from London.

“We’ll stop in Guildford,” Longmore told them. “It’s well supplied with inns, and I know we can count on a good dinner and decent rooms at any one of several.” He eyed his sister, who looked worn out and deeply unhappy. ‘It’s only four miles, Clara. We’ll find better lodging there than here. Thence it’s a shorter drive to London tomorrow. Can you manage?”

She lifted her chin. “Of course I can. I drove to Portsmouth, didn’t I? I can jolly well drive h-home.”

The wobble at the end told Sophy all she needed to know. It must have told Longmore something, too, because his brow furrowed. But he said, briskly enough, “I’ll take the lead this time. If you encounter any difficulties or feel unwell, signal to Fenwick, and he’ll tell us.”

He turned away to tell the boy he’d have to sit facing backward, to keep a sharp eye for trouble with the cabriolet. “And you’re not to be sick with traveling backward,” Longmore said.

“Sick?” Fenwick said scornfully. “From a little thing like that?”

Sophy didn’t doubt he’d have a fine time amusing the women by pulling faces and attempting various tricks liable to land him on his head in the road.

That, at least, would give Lady Clara some distraction from her misery.

A little while later, when they were on their way again, Longmore said, “When we reach Guildford, I’d better send an express to Valentine. That way the family won’t be up all hours, waiting for her. They’ll know she’s safe, and they can go to bed and rest easy.”

Sophy lo

oked at him.

“What now?” he said.

“She’s lucky to have you for a brother, and your parents are lucky to have you for a son,” she said.

He laughed.

“It’s true,” she said. “To a point.”

“To a point.”

“So many other men would not be understanding at all,” she said.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “I don’t understand anything about it.”

Yet he was kind, unexpectedly kind. Men weren’t, always. They didn’t necessarily mean to be unkind. But they were so accustomed to the world rolling on according to their desires that they never noticed when it rolled over women and crushed them.

“You understand that your sister needs help, not judging,” she said. “That’s a great deal.”

He laughed. “What a joke. Who am I to judge anybody, I wonder? If not for Clevedon, I should have been ejected from school a hundred times. As the eldest son and heir, I make a deuced poor show.”

She thought he made a fine and exciting show, but she wasn’t like the members of his class. She was a Noirot, and drawn to daring and rule-breaking. By the standards of his world, he was primitive, she knew.

“I abhor politics,” he said. “Philanthropy means a lot of tedious dinners with bad food and pompous speeches. No fun there. You’d think the military would be promising, since it offers so many happy opportunities for fighting. But no. Even an officer must follow orders. Intolerable.”

“The church isn’t appropriate for the eldest son, I know,” she said. “Otherwise, it would be perfect for you, would it not?”

He stared at her.

“Yes, let me think about it,” she said. “Lord Longmore in holy orders. Now there’s a picture.”