Lady Sophia's Lover Page 7

  “What about Ernest?”

  Morgan spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “Ernest is delivering the latest edition of the Hue and Cry to the printer.”

  Ross returned his attention to Sophia. “You will wait until Ernest returns, and he will accompany you to market.”

  “That won’t be until midmorning,” she said indignantly. “I can’t wait that long—all the best goods will be gone by then. In fact, the stalls are being picked over right now.”

  “That is a pity,” Ross said without a shred of remorse. “Because you are not going alone. That is my final word on the subject.”

  Sophia leaned over his desk. For the first time in two days, she met his gaze directly. Ross was conscious of a deep delight curling through him as he saw the sparks of challenge in her blue eyes. “Sir Ross, when we first met, I wondered if you had any flaws. Now I have discovered that you do.”

  “Oh?” He arched one brow. “What are my flaws?”

  “You are overbearing, and you are unreasonably stubborn.”

  Morgan interrupted with a snicker. “It has taken you a full month of working here to reach that conclusion, Miss Sydney?”

  “I am not overbearing,” Ross countered evenly. “I merely happen to know what is best for everyone.”

  Sophia laughed and considered him thoughtfully in the silence that followed. Ross waited for her next move, fascinated by the little pucker that appeared between her fine brows. Then her forehead cleared as she appeared to reach a satisfying conclusion. “Very well, Sir Ross, I will not go to market alone. I will take the only available escort—which appears to be you. You may meet me at the front door in ten minutes.”

  Robbed of any reply, Ross watched as Sophia left the office. He was being managed, he thought with a twinge of annoyance, and damned adroitly, too. On the other hand, it had been a long time since any woman had tried to manage him, much less had succeeded, and for some reason he was enjoying it immensely.

  As the door closed smartly behind Sophia, Morgan turned to look at Ross. His shrewd eyes were filled with speculation.

  “Why are you staring like that?” Ross muttered.

  “I’ve never seen you bicker like that before.”

  “I wasn’t bickering. I was having a discussion.”

  “You were bickering,” Morgan insisted, “in a way that could be construed as flirtation.”

  Ross scowled. “I was discussing an issue of safety, Morgan, which is vastly different from flirtation.”

  Morgan smiled wryly. “Whatever you say, sir.”

  Deliberately Ross lifted his mug of coffee and drained half of it in one swallow. Rising from his chair, he picked up his coat and put it on.

  Morgan viewed him with surprise. “Where are you going, Cannon?”

  Ross pushed a pile of documents across the desk to him. “To market, of course. Look over these warrants for me, will you?”

  “But… but…” For the first time in Ross’s memory, Morgan seemed bereft of speech. “I have to prepare for court!”

  “It won’t start for a quarter hour,” Ross pointed out. “For God’s sake, how much time do you need?” He suppressed a grin as he left the office, feeling strangely light-hearted.

  Having accompanied Eliza to the Covent Garden market on a few occasions, Sophia was familiar with the famous square, two sides of which were lined with arcades called piazzas. The best flower, fruit, and vegetable stalls were located beneath these piazzas, where nobility, thieves, theater folk, writers, and strumpets mingled freely. All class distinctions seemed to vanish at Covent Garden, creating a jovial carnivallike atmosphere as business of various kinds was conducted.

  Today a troupe of street entertainers wandered about the square—a pair of jugglers, a clown-faced tumbler, even a sword-swallower. Sophia watched aghast as the man slid a sword down his throat and extracted it skillfully. She flinched, expecting him to expire on the spot of internal wounds. Instead he grinned and bowed to her, deftly using his hat to catch the coin that Sir Ross tossed to him.

  “How does he do it?” Sophia asked the Chief Magistrate.

  He smiled into her wide eyes. “Most of the time they have previously swallowed a length of tubing that acts as a scabbard once the sword is inserted.”

  “Ugh.” She shuddered and took his arm, tugging him toward the fruit stalls. “Let’s hurry—I will be surprised if any apples are left by now.”

  As Sophia moved from one stall to another, Sir Ross accompanied her obligingly. He did not interfere with her transactions, only waited patiently as she bargained for the best prices and quality. He hefted the considerable weight of the market basket with ease, while she filled it with an ever-growing assortment of fruit and vegetables, a round of cheese, and a fine turbot wrapped in brown paper.

  The moment the market crowd realized that the celebrated Chief Magistrate of Bow Street was present, chattering Cockney voices rose in a cheerful cacophony. The stall-holders and marketgoers held Sir Ross in high esteem, calling to him, reaching out to touch the sleeve of his coat. They all seemed to know him personally, or at least pretended to, and Sophia found many small gifts being pushed at her—an extra apple, a bundle of kippers, a sprig of sage.

  “Sir Ross… ‘ere’s a relish fer ye!” was an oft-repeated phrase, and Sophia finally asked him what the cant words meant.

  “A relish is a small gift, usually considered to be a luxury, as a return for a favor.”

  “You have done favors for all of these people?” she asked.

  “Many of them,” he admitted.

  “Such as?”

  His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “A few of them have sons or nephews who have run afoul of the law—thievery, vandalism, and the like. The usual punishment for such offenses is to flog a boy, hang him, or send him to a prison where he will be even further corrupted. But I had the notion to send some of these boys to the navy or merchant service, to train as officers’ servants.”

  “And thereby give them a chance at a new kind of life,” Sophia said. “What a splendid plan.”

  “It has worked well so far,” he said offhandedly, and sought to change the subject. “Look at that table of smoked fish—do you know how to make kedgeree?”

  “Certainly I do,” Sophia replied. “But you haven’t finished telling me about your good deeds.”

  “I’ve done nothing all that praiseworthy. I’ve just used a bit of common sense. It is obvious that putting a mischief-making boy in prison with hardened criminals will result in his corruption. And that even if the law makes no distinction between the crimes of adults and juveniles, some consideration must be given to those of tender age.”

  Sophia turned away, pretending to look over the row of stalls while blind rage consumed her. She felt almost sick with it, choking on suppressed fury and tears. So he had found a way to avoid sending young boys to prison—he no longer condemned them to the torture of the prison hulks. Too damned late, she thought with freshly spiking hatred. Had Sir Ross come to this realization earlier, her brother would still be alive. She wanted to scream and rail at him, at the unfairness of it. She wanted John back; she wanted to erase every excruciating moment on the prison ship that had led to his death. Instead he was gone. And she was alone. And Sir Ross was responsible.

  Averting her anger-hardened face, Sophia went to a flower cart filled with a variety of blooms, including pink primroses, purple lilies, blue spired delphiniums, and fragile white camellias. She breathed in the perfumed air and forced herself to relax. Someday, she comforted herself silently, Sir Ross would have his comeuppance—and she would deliver it personally.

  “Tell me,” she said, bending over the fragrant blossoms, “how did a man who was born into a distinguished family come to serve as a chief magistrate?”

  Sir Ross’s gaze touched her profile as he replied. “My father insisted that I train for a profession, rather than lead a life of indolence. To please him, I studied the law. In the midst of my education, my father di
ed in a hunting accident, and I left my studies to act as the head of the family. My interest in the law did not fade, however. It had become clear to me that there was much to be done in the areas of policing and judicial methods. Eventually I accepted an appointment at the Great Marlboro Street office, and soon thereafter I was asked to transfer to the Bow Street office and take over the leadership of the runners.”

  The old woman who stood at the head of the flower cart regarded Sophia with a smile partitioning the leathery terrain of her face.

  “Good morning, dearie.” She extended a little bunch of violets to Sophia and spoke to Sir Ross. “A pretty tart, she. Ye should make ‘er yer trouble ’n‘ strife.”

  Sophia tucked the tiny bunch of violets in the side of her bonnet and fumbled at the little purse tied to her waist, intending to pay the wizened little woman.

  Sir Ross stopped Sophia with a light touch on her arm and gave the flower seller some coins from his own pocket. “I want a perfect rose,” he told her. “Pink.”

  “Aye, Sir Ross.” Grinning to reveal a row of broken brown teeth, the flower seller handed him a lovely, half-blooming pink rose, its petals still sparkling with morning dew.

  Woodenly Sophia accepted the rose from Sir Ross and lifted it to her nose. The rich, powdery fragrance filled her nostrils. “It’s lovely,” she said stiffly. “Thank you.”

  As they walked away from the flower cart, Sophia picked her way carefully across a patch of broken pavement. She felt Sir Ross’s steadying hand on her upper arm, and it took all her will to keep from shaking him off.

  “Did that woman call me a tart?” she asked, wondering if she should have taken offense.

  Sir Ross smiled slightly. “In street cant, that is considered a compliment. They attach no negative meaning to the word.”

  “I see. There was something else she said… what does ‘trouble and strife’ mean?”

  “It’s the Cockney term for ‘wife.’ ”

  “Oh.” Uncomfortably she focused on the ground before them as they walked. “The Cockney way of speaking is quite fascinating, isn’t it?” she babbled, trying to fill the silence. “Almost like a foreign language, really. I must confess, I don’t understand half the things I hear at market.”

  “That,” came his dry rejoinder, “is probably a good thing.”

  When they returned to the kitchen of Bow Street No. 4, Eliza was waiting, a sheepish smile on her face. “Thank you, Miss Sophia. I am sorry that I couldn’t go to market.”

  “That’s perfectly all right” Sophia said evenly. “You must take care of your knee so that it will heal properly.”

  Eliza’s eyes widened when she saw that Sir Ross had accompanied Sophia. “Oh, sir… how very kind of you! I am very sorry to make so much trouble!”

  “No trouble at all,” he said.

  Eliza’s gaze locked onto the pink rose in Sophia’s hand with keen attention. Although the cook-maid forbore to comment, the speculation in her eyes was obvious. Carefully Eliza lifted a few objects from the market basket and hobbled toward the dry larder. Her voice floated behind her. “Did they have all the ingredients for the seed cake, Miss Sophia? The caraway and rye, and the currants for the top?”

  “Yes,” Sophia replied as the cook-maid disappeared into the larder. “But we could find no red currants, and—”

  Suddenly her words were smothered into silence as Sir Ross pulled her into his arms. His lips descended to hers in a kiss so tender and carnal that she could not help responding. Stunned, she struggled to retain her hatred of him, to remember the wrongs of the past, but his lips were utterly warm and compelling, and her thoughts scattered crazily. The pink rose dropped from her nerveless fingers. Sophia swayed against him, groping for his hard shoulders in a futile bid for balance. His tongue searched her mouth… delicious… sweetly intimate. Sophia inhaled sharply and tilted her head back in utter surrender, her entire existence distilled to this one burning moment.

  Through the pounding heartbeat in her ears she dimly heard Eliza’s concerned voice echoing from the larder. “No red currants? But what will we top the seed cake with?”

  Sir Ross released Sophia’s mouth, leaving her lips moist and kiss-softened. His face remained close to hers, and Sophia felt as if she were drowning in the silver pools of his eyes. His hand came to the side of her face, his fingers curving over her cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. Somehow Sophia managed to answer Eliza. “We f-found golden currants instead—”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, Sir Ross kissed her again, his tongue exploring, teasing. Her groping fingers touched the back of his neck, where the thick black hair curled against his nape. Sensation rustled through her, spurring her pulse to an intemperate pace. Taking advantage of her surrender, he kissed her more aggressively, hunting for the deepest, sweetest taste of her. As her knees weakened, his arms wrapped securely around her, supporting her body as he continued to ravish her mouth.

  “Golden currants?” came Eliza’s dissatisfied voice. “Well, the flavor won’t be quite the same, but they will be better than nothing.”

  Sir Ross released Sophia and steadied her with his hands at her waist. While she stared at him blankly, he gave her a brief smile and left the kitchen just as Eliza reemerged from the larder.

  “Miss Sophia, where is the sack of caster sugar? I thought I had carried it into the larder, but…” Eliza paused and glanced around the kitchen. “Where is Sir Ross?”

  “He…” Sophia bent to retrieve the fallen rose. “He left.”

  Her pulse throbbed in all the vulnerable places of her body. She felt feverish, hungering for the kisses and caresses of a man she hated. She was a hypocrite, a wanton.

  A fool.

  “Miss Sydney,” Ernest said, bringing a paper-wrapped package to the kitchen, “a man brought this for you not ten minutes back.”

  Sophia, who was sitting at the table for a midmorning cup of tea, received the large package with an exclamation of surprise. She had not made any purchases, nor had she ordered anything for the household. And the distant cousin who had taken her in sometime after her parents’ death was not the kind who would send unexpected gifts. “I wonder what it could be,” she murmured aloud, studying the package. Her name and the Bow Street address were written on the brown-paper surface, but there was no indication as to the sender.

  “Was there a note attached?” Sophia asked Ernest. She picked up a knife and sawed at the rough twine that had been knotted around the parcel.

  He shook his head. “P’rhaps there is one inside. May I open it for ye, miss? That string looks awful tough. The knife could slip, and ye might slice yer finger off. I’ll ‘elp ye.”

  Sophia smiled into his eager face. “Thank you, Ernest, that is very kind. But if I am not mistaken, didn’t Sir Grant ask you to fetch the bottles of ink he ordered at the chemist’s shop?”

  “Yes, ‘e did.” Ernest heaved a world-weary sigh, as if he had been greatly put upon that day. “I’d best ’ave it ‘ere when Sir Grant comes back from court.”

  Sophia’s smile deepened as she bade him farewell. Returning her attention to the mysterious package, she expertly severed the rest of the twine and unwrapped the parcel. Layers of thin white tissue enveloped something soft and rustling. Curious, Sophia folded them back.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld a gown—not a plain, serviceable one like the others she owned, but made of silk and lace. It was suitable for a ball. But why would someone send such a garment to her? Her hands shook with a sudden tremor as she clawed past the gown for a note. The sender had either forgotten to include one or deliberately had not done so. She shook out the gown and stared at it in confusion. There was something familiar and disturbing about it, something that reached into the farthest corners of her memory…

  Why, it reminded her of a gown of her mother’s! As a little girl, Sophia had loved to try on her mother’s dresses and shoes and jewelry, and had played princess for hours. Her favorite dress had
been made of an unusual color, a gleaming silk that looked lavender in some lights, shimmering silver in others. This gown was the same rare shade, with the same low, scooped neckline and puffed sleeves trimmed with delicate white lace. However, this was not her mother’s gown; it was a copy, made over in a modern style with a slightly lower waist and fuller skirts.

  Profoundly troubled, Sophia folded the garment in the brown paper and rewrapped it. Who could have sent such a gift to her, and why, and was it merely a strange coincidence that the dress resembled her mother’s?

  Instinctively she left the kitchen and took the parcel with her, heading for the one person she trusted most. Later she would come to wonder why she had turned to Sir Ross without even thinking, when she had relied only on herself for so many years. It was a sign of some significant change in her, one that made her too uncomfortable to dwell on for long.

  Sir Ross’s door was closed, and the sound of voices indicated that he was in the midst of a meeting. Crestfallen, Sophia hesitated outside the door.

  Just then Mr. Vickery happened to walk by. “Good morning, Miss Sydney,” the court clerk said. “I don’t think Sir Ross is ready to start depositions yet.”

  “I—I wished to speak with him on a personal matter.” Sophia clutched the package tightly to her chest. “But I see that he is occupied, and I certainly do not wish to disturb him.”

  Vickery frowned and gave her a reflective glance. “Miss Sydney, Sir Ross has made it clear that if you ever have any concerns, he wishes to know immediately.”

  “It can wait,” she said firmly. “It is a trivial matter. I will return later when Sir Ross is available. No, no, Mr. Vickery, please do not knock at that door.” She groaned with distress as the clerk ignored her protests and rapped decisively at the portal.

  To Sophia’s consternation, the door opened to reveal Sir Ross accompanying a visitor to the threshold. The gray-haired gentleman was small of stature but imposing nonetheless, dressed in fine clothes with an elaborate white cravat tied over a lace-bedecked shirt. His sharp dark eyes focused on Sophia, and he turned to smile wryly at Sir Ross.