Rousing herself from her thoughts, Sophie conjured a smile and beamed at the marquess. “Do you intend to make one of the shooting party tomorrow, my lord?”
Once the covers were removed, Sophie led the ladies back to the drawing-roo
m. The gentlemen were disposed to linger over their port, yet there was still an hour before the tea trolley was due when they strolled back into the room.
As ladies and gentlemen merged, then fractured into the inevitable smaller groups, Sophie wondered how to keep them amused. She hadn’t had time to organize any of the fashionable little games that were so much a part of country-house parties. She was cudgelling her brains for inspiration when Ned stopped by her chair.
“We thought we might try charades, Sophie. Jack mentioned it was all the thing for the younger crowd.”
Relieved, Sophie smiled. “By all means; that’s an excellent idea.”
She watched as Ned and Clarissa rounded up the younger members of the party and cleared an area of the large room. Many of the matrons seemed disposed to look on indulgently. Rising, Sophie glanced about—and found her uncle approaching.
Horatio beamed and took her hand. “You’re doing magnificently, my dear.” He squeezed her fingers, then released them. “Lester’s taken Huntly, Ainsley and Annerby off to try their luck at billiards. I’ll just go and have a word with Marston.” Horatio glanced about the drawing-room. “The rest I fear I’ll have to leave to you—but I’m sure you can manage.”
With Mr. Marston off her hands, Sophie was sure of it, too. Belle Chessington seemed reluctant to let Mr. Somercote escape, which left only Mr. Chartwell, Miss Billingham and a few relaxed matrons for her to take under her wing. Sophie smiled. “Indeed, Uncle, it seems we’ve contrived amazingly well.”
“Indeed.” Horatio grinned. “Your aunt will be delighted.”
* * *
TO SOPHIE’S RELIEF, the rain cleared overnight. The morning was damp and dismal, but sufficiently clement to allow the shooting party to proceed. By the time the ladies descended to the breakfast parlour, the gentlemen had taken themselves off. Even Mr. Marston had seized the opportunity to stretch his legs.
The ladies were content to stroll the gardens. Sophie went up to check on the twins and Amy. She eventually ran them to earth in the attics; their nurse, who had been with the Webbs for many years, had had the bright idea of turning them loose in such relatively safe surrounds. The trio were engaged in constructing a castle, later to be stormed. Great-Aunt Evangeline was with them. Sophie left them to it and went to look in on her aunt. She found Lucilla sleeping, which of itself spoke volumes. Mimms confirmed that her aunt’s indisposition had eased, but she was still very weak.
The gentlemen returned in time for luncheon, an informal meal at which their prowess with their guns was discussed and admired, the ladies smiling good-naturedly at claims of prizes flushed from coverts or taken on the wing.
Listening to the genial chatter, Sophie spared a thought for Lucilla’s expertise. Her aunt had selected her guests with a knowing hand; they had melded into a comfortable party despite the presence of such difficult elements as Mr. Marston and Mr. Somercote.
But by the end of the meal, the rain had returned, gusting in from the east in leaden sheets. By unvoiced consensus, the gentlemen retired to the library or billiard room, while the ladies took possession of the morning-room and parlour, to chat in little groups ensconced in the comfortable armchairs or wander in the adjoining conservatory.
With everyone settled, Sophie went to the kitchens to confer with Cook. Belowstairs, she stumbled on an army, the depleted ranks of Aunt Evangeline’s aged servitors swelled beyond imagining by the maids, coachmen and valets of the guests, as well as the doyens of the Webb household. But all seemed to be cheery, the bulk of the men gathered about the huge fire in the kitchen. Minton, beaming, assured her all was well.
Climbing back up the stairs, her chores completed, Sophie decided she could justifiably seize a moment for herself. The conservatory had proved a most amazing discovery; it was huge and packed with ferns and flowering creepers, many of kinds Sophie had not before seen. She had had time for no more than a glimpse; now, she pushed open the glass door and slipped into the first avenue, half an hour of peace before her.
As the greenery surrounded her, Sophie closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The humid scent of rich earth and green leaves, of growing things, tinged with the faint perfume of exotic flowers, filled her senses. A smile hovered on her lips.
“There you are, Miss Winterton.”
Sophie’s eyes flew open; her smile vanished. Swallowing a most unladylike curse, she swung round to see Mr. Marston advancing purposefully upon her. As usual, he was frowning.
“Really, Miss Winterton, I cannot tell you how very displeased I am to find you here.”
Sophie blinked; one of her brows rose haughtily. “Indeed, sir?”
“As you should know, Miss Winterton.” Mr. Marston came to a halt before her, giving Sophie an excellent view of his grim expression. “I do not see how your uncle can reconcile this with his conscience. I knew from the first that continuing with this affair was unwise in the extreme. Unconscionable folly.”
Sophie straightened her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I fear, sir, that I cannot allow you to malign my uncle, who, as everyone knows, takes exceptional care of me. In truth, I cannot follow your reasoning at all.”
Mr. Marston appeared to have difficulty restraining himself. “What I mean, Miss Winterton,” he finally replied, his tones glacially condemnatory, “is that I am shocked to find you—a young lady whom I consider of sound and elevated mind and a naturally genteel manner—here.” He paused to gesture about them. “Quite alone, unattended, where any gentleman might come upon you.”
Sophie hung on to her patience. “Mr. Marston, may I point out that I am in my great-aunt’s house, within easy call not only of servants but many others whom I consider friends? Is it not all the same thing as if I had chosen to walk the pavements of Covent Garden unattended?”
Mr. Marston’s grey eyes narrowed; his lips were set in a thin line. “You are mistaken, Miss Winterton. No lady can afford to play fast and loose with her reputation by courting—”
“Really, Marston. No need to bore Miss Winterton to tears by reciting the Young Ladies’ Catechism. They all have to learn it by heart before being admitted to Almack’s, you know.” Jack strolled forward, green leaves brushing his shoulders. His expression was easy and open, but Sophie saw a glint of something harder in his eyes.
The sudden rush of mixed emotions—relief, nervousness and anticipation among them—on top of her rising temper, left her momentarily giddy. But she turned back to Mr. Marston, lifting her chin challengingly. “Mr. Lester is correct, sir. I assure you I need no lectures on such topics.”