Page 33 of The Fortune Hunter’s Gamble

Sophronia changed her gown five times before she settled on an appropriate dress to wear to the Albion. She had already switched up her costume several times that day, from a morning gown to receive callers with Lily and Aunt Dobbs, then a walking gown as she went out to run a few errands, one of which included an interview with her solicitor.

The exchange had not left her in spirits. Mr. Elkins agreed that Bint was being obstinate in not releasing to Sophronia the funds that were clearly due her, but he admitted his own means of action were limited aside from bringing a suit in court and making her private nuisance a matter of public complaint. He suggested instead that he would drop a hint to Mr. Bint in private, one gentleman to another, and see if he could not nudge the partners of Hinton’s into a more benevolent course.

So that was the way of it. Her income when she was married had come with strings held by her husband, and now in his death the strings of the purse were held even more tightly by the men who regarded themselves as his successors. How was a woman to make her way in the world, in such circumstances?

This was why she must find means to produce income of her own, Sophronia decided as she readied herself for the evening’s excursion. And she could establish an income were she to found her boarding school with or without Mr. Bint’s assistance.

Sophronia had one skill: managing, whether it was managing people, a household, or a party. She would put her talents to use by the means available to her, and she would relish the look on Bint’s face when she brought him the proceeds from her school and asked him to invest the funds.

She turned to Lily, who sat in a small upholstered chair against the wall of their bedchamber. “The diamond aigrette seems too ostentatious for a gambling den. It begs to be stolen. The ostrich plumes, I think?”

Lily nodded and watched as their shared maid, Sims, a nimble-handed city girl, attached the plumes to the net anchoring the profusion of gleaming curls she had made of Sophronia’s hair.

The fashion was for short hair these days, and Sophronia considered cutting hers, as soon as there was a moment of time in the day to arrange it. What with catching up on the morning papers and taking calls, paying calls, arranging their social excursions so Lily and Giles might be thrown together, and defusing Rowden’s continual efforts to put forward Miss Kemp, Sophronia’s daily schedule was quite full. During their evening entertainments of the theater, dinners, card parties, or pleasure gardens, her remaining energy was expended in endeavoring not to fall under Rowden’s spell.

Rowden was making her mind feel over-occupied, and that was a problem. Sophronia frowned as she pulled on her elbow length evening gloves. She still did not know what to make of him.

In one respect, it was a fight not to slide back into the old, easy rhythms of their friendship, telling him everything that was on her mind and knowing he would see her perspective, even if he would argue strenuously that she was wrong. He was there every morning when she wanted to ride, holding Dulcinea and linking his hands to throw her into the saddle, his firm shoulder beneath her hand a jar to her senses, his wry smile and easy masculine grace a complete distraction.

He prowled after her to the breakfast table where they joined Giles and Lily, throwing out his own remarks whenever Sophronia commented on the news while she enjoyed her chocolate and toast. She must not buy that high perch phaeton for fifteen guineas as she would be sure to topple it over and break her neck. The estate advertised to let in Surrey had changed hands three times in the last two years, and he advised her to look elsewhere if she wanted to acquire more properties.

When she noted the advertisement for India muslins, he asked the address, then carelessly said he supposed he could escort the ladies as he had business in the area. Giles, lacking other amusement, invited himself along, and no one objected to being squeezed into the barouche as they all, in their own ways, wished to coax Giles out of doors and circulating in society.

Of the Maidstone treason trials, Rowden made few remarks. The Roman Catholic priest Father James O’Coigley, fervent member of the United Irishmen, had been indicted for attempts to correspond with the French Directory and invite another invasion of British soil, in the ultimate hopes of convulsing Britain with revolution and doing away with English rule in Ireland. The papers were full of admiration for the dress and deportment of the handsome priest, if harboring less praise for his fellow compatriots to whom he kept shifting the blame.

Sophronia wondered if Rowden held silent on debates about the trials, which more or less consumed their breakfast table each time a new report was published, because he himself had a part in government intrigues. He was not a traitor—she did not think—but the work carried a risk to his neck nonetheless. He might agree to the wish of his friend in the Foreign Office to send Rowden to Russia, and then when would she see him again?

She couldn’t guess what he would decide, because she didn’t know this Rowden. He was a man who’d had experiences she couldn’t fathom. He’d been both roughened and smoothed by the life he’d led since they parted. He was wiser and more informed, having seen so much of the world. To his peers, he played the part of the polished man about town with a hint of charming rakehell. It was a potent combination.

But there was something sharper about him from the boy she’d known. Some darkness had settled within him; some taste for danger had been whetted, the wildness that always lay within him given rein. She wanted to reach the boy she had known, but she wanted to know the man, too. She had come to London determined to ignore him, and he had quickly become the center of her thoughts and attention.

Which is why she was sneaking, without his knowledge or permission, into his club.

The gown she’d settled on was, in the bottom layer, a fine white muslin with green knots of ivy embroidered along the hem. The open robe arranged over it was a thick silk dyed the deep emerald green called Spanish fly, which offered a startling contrast with her hair. The bodice of the robe cut away to a slender ribbon that fastened at her waist, emphasizing the fullness of her bosom, while the full-length sleeves, fitted back, and skirt descending to a slight train gave her a dramatic silhouette. With the dyed ostrich plumes in place, she looked exactly as she wished: like a rich widow set on amusements, one who did not count her coins nor know the value of her estate down to the last shilling and pence.

“I almost wish I might go with you,” Lily said. “It seems it would be great fun.”

“When you are a married lady, my dear, and if Giles permits it. There are some high sticklers—Miss Kemp’s relations, for one—who would catch wind if an unaffianced maid like you visited a club, and they would not like it.”

“I do not see why I must conciliate Miss Kemp, if you are so certain I have won Giles.” A pretty primrose touched Lily’s cheek; she seemed to blush every time Giles was mentioned. Also when he was in the room, when he looked around a room for her, when he came to her side during a promenade or entertainment, and when he placed her hand on his arm and left it there for the duration of an event.

“I never had any doubt that you would enchant Giles, my dear, but I do hope to remain on good terms with Miss Kemp and her kin despite the disappointment. Do your best to encourage Mr. Gibbs to make her an offer, won’t you?”

Lily’s blush deepened. “That is hardly seemly.”

“Of course it is seemly to see that your competition is well-bestowed elsewhere.” Sophronia tugged her gloves into place and patted the soft kid. “All you need do is praise her when you and Mr. Gibbs converse. How charming she is, how docile and discreet. The picture of perfect manners and possessing all admirable qualities. Mr. Gibbs is an ambitious man, and he has an eye for beauty. Miss Kemp would serve him well as a wife, and I think he would adore her. ’Twould be a happy outcome for them both.”

“You do enjoy playing matchmaker, don’t you?” Lily observed.

Sophronia selected her fan, a delicate instrument with ivory sticks and the folding parchment painted with a charming pastoral scene. She attached her watch to the fob at the high waist of her robe and pressed one last daub of powder to her cheeks. She was as fit for display as she would ever be.

She turned to Lily. “Am I wrong in thinking your affections lie that way? I will not push you toward Giles if you do not like him.”

This time, Lily did not blush. Instead, she inspected her hands, as if imagining a betrothal ring adorning her finger. “I like him better than I expected. It is encouraging that his health seems to be returning.”

“I think you have had something to do with that, my dear.”

The girl simply nodded. For all her sweet manner, she was no longer the same helpless maid Sophronia had known in Hungerford, the delicate bloom who was quite prepared to let everyone else decide things for her. In the week and more they had been in London, apart from her father and familiar routines, Lily had begun to become acquainted with her own mind. Sophronia credited her own influence for this development, and she meant to encourage it.