A Rogue Meets a Scandalous Lady: Mackenzies, Book 11 Page 3

  Thus, three mad folk trudged forth to dig up the past. At least, one mad Englishman and two people who humored him.

  Unlike society ladies David did his best to avoid, Sophie didn’t fill in the space with inane chatter. No inquiries about his family, how his country estate fared, what he thought about gardening, or Gilbert and Sullivan. She was refreshingly quiet.

  Of course, this meant he learned nothing about her. Who was this husband she avoided, why had she decided to hide with Dr. Pierson, why hadn’t Pierson mentioned she was breathtakingly beautiful?

  He tried not to watch the way she walked, head up, back straight, her skirt swaying. She was a married woman, and not the sort of married woman with whom David had liaisons. That was to say—she was respectable.

  Pierson’s strides grew longer and more animated as they neared the mounds, he as eager as ever. What he claimed were Roman ruins were little more than lumps in the middle of a pasture. The squire who owned the field, one of Pierson’s parishioners, was a patient gentleman who let Pierson dig up his land as much as he pleased, as long as the sheep didn’t mind.

  The sheep in question, a flock that looked remarkably the same to David year after year, nibbled grass some distance away. Only a few ever strayed to the long mounds, as lusher foliage lay elsewhere.

  “Furrows,” David said as Pierson squatted down to examine the long heap of dirt that hadn’t changed much since the last time David had been here. “Ancient ones perhaps, but hardly a villa.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” Pierson returned. “I found a stone here the other day.”

  “My, my.” David surveyed the vast green land, which smelled of sheep and mud, not the smoke and refuse of London. “A stone. In a pasture. How extraordinary. I ought to have placed a wager with my bookmaker.”

  “He has a point, Uncle,” Sophie broke in.

  David tried to hide his pleasure that Sophie agreed with him. “Ah, wisdom speaks.”

  Pierson creaked to his feet and surveyed them both with pity. “A stone with Latin writing on it.”

  “Oh.” Sophie sounded more interested. “What did it say?”

  Pierson spread his arms to make his grand pronouncement. “It said: Left. Bottom.”

  David raised his brows. “Hardly Cicero, my friend.”

  More pity from Pierson. “They are builders’ marks. The blocks were marked according to the plan so the builders would know which way the walls were put together. The inscription didn’t actually spell out the words left and bottom, but had letters indicating that.”

  Sounded slightly more promising, but it was David’s policy to tease Pierson whenever he could.

  “You know those could be stones from a pig’s bier or a sheep pen from medieval times. Disappointing to a classicist, I know, but possible.”

  “Have you ever paid any attention to my lectures?” Pierson asked. “A Roman stone and handwriting is vastly different from the medieval. In the middle ages, a builder was more likely illiterate. They still made marks, but often in pictures or simple symbols.”

  “I beg your pardon,” David said, giving him a bow. “I concede your expertise. You found a stone with Latin letters on it. Excellent.”

  “Quite excellent,” Sophie said. “Exciting, even. I am willing to believe in the villa, even if Mr. Fleming does not.”

  “Did I ever say I didn’t believe?” David said, widening his eyes. “I am merely skeptical. Pierson wants to find this villa so much he sees things others do not.”

  “It only means he is keenly observant,” Sophie said. “Where do you wish me to start, Uncle?”

  “In that corner, if you’d like.” Pierson pointed to earth that had already been raked back. “Don’t tire yourself unduly, my dear.”

  “Do not worry. I am quite robust.”

  Pierson had taken over a deserted small byre nearby where he stored tools so he would not have to lug them back and forth from the vicarage, and had set up trays for his finds and a table where he could examine them. He unlocked its door, and Sophie dove in, choosing a trowel from the shelves.

  Pierson retrieved two spades and held one out to David. “There you are. Have at it, my friend.”

  David stared at the shovel. “You expect me to dig? Are you mad?”

  Sophie was already on her knees, happily jabbing her trowel into the earth. “Perhaps he fears spoiling his work clothes. He seems to prefer to ruin his evening dress instead.”

  “Of course,” David said. “Silk and cashmere are far better for landing on the grass. Actually, when I sought refuge here, I envisioned spending my days in the cozy sitting room with a pipe. Perhaps a brandy at my elbow.”

  “That wouldn’t clear your head.” Pierson shoved the spade at him, and David closed reluctant fingers around the handle. “Good hard work is what you need. And if we find the villa, your name and Sophie’s will feature prominently in my monograph on the matter.”

  “Just the sort of literature my friends peruse,” David said, straight-faced. “I’ll be famous.”

  “I would be honored,” Sophie gestured with her trowel. “Can you turn over this bit for me, Mr. Fleming? Or would you rather pontificate on why you don’t wish to soil your working gloves?”

  David growled, then drove the spade into the area she indicated with more emphasis than necessary.

  Sophie had obviously decided David was a lily-handed dandy who couldn’t lift a finger to manual labor. Embarrassing and annoying. David had played rugby at school and still rode and boxed with the best of them. He admitted he affected the lazy persona in order to make people lower their guard with him—politics had turned him into a heinous creature. But there was more to David than met the eye. He was certain of this.

  “I begin to understand why your husband suggested you take a holiday from him,” he said as he rammed the spade into the soil. “You do have pointed ways of putting things.”

  Sophie jerked her head up. David regretted the words instantly, and even more when Sophie gave him a fleeting look of naked pain.

  Before he could utter an apology, she swiftly turned her attention to the earth and began digging hard, her silence deafening.

  Chapter 3

  David gazed down at Sophie, his heart banging, realizing he’d just ruined the camaraderie he’d begun with her.

  Pierson had moved off and was no help. David knew damn well he’d put his foot into it, but it was hardly his fault. Pierson really ought to send out bulletins on his family members, required reading before visits.

  “My apologies, dear lady,” David said in his gentlest voice. “I did not mean to give offense. My tongue gets away from me sometimes.”

  Sophie threw him a glance over her shoulder that was too neutral to be true. “Please dig just there.” She continued to jab at the ground, doing no good David could see.

  Feeling the invigorating concoction rapidly wearing off, David began to dig, her obedient servant.

  * * *

  Sophie’s breath came fast, her hurt too sharp. She shouldn’t mind—it didn’t matter—everyone was saying such things. But she hadn’t wanted Mr. Fleming to think the worst of her.

  She didn’t know why his opinion mattered so much—she barely knew the man—but perhaps she wanted her uncle’s friends to take her side.

  Mr. Fleming began to dig in earnest after his apology, which was abject, she had to concede. Her tongue sometimes ran away with her too.

  And why, when she thought about his tongue, did she grow warm inside?

  Sophie was finished with men. Once her marriage finally ended, she’d retreat here or to her father’s house and live out her life in solitude, perhaps raising sheep or digging up artifacts. Or she’d move to France and join a convent—she hadn’t quite decided.

  Mr. Fleming’s shovel halted. Leather creaked as he sank next to her, the gaiters he’d donned to protect his trousers folding around powerful calves.

  “I truly do sincerely and humbly apologize.” His voice was deep, full, and his
warm breath touched her cold cheek. “I have no business dabbling in other people’s marriages. I’ve come to grief that way before—you’d think I’d have learned.”

  Against her wishes, faint amusement cut through her misery. Mr. Fleming could drawl an insult one moment and entirely undercut its sting the next by throwing the insult back on himself.

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Fleming.” Sophie resumed turning over rich loam.

  “I’m an unmitigated ass.” David put his hand on her wrist, stilling its movement. “I will be in agony until you forgive me.”

  Sophie raised her head. Her hat caused him to lean out of her way, which he did in a comical fashion.

  But what was in his eyes stunned her. She saw anger, intense and heartbreaking, not at Sophie, but at himself. He hated that he’d hurt her, unhappy that he’d given offense to the niece of his friend.

  His eyes were that intriguing blue-gray she’d noted before, even more fascinating now that the bloodshot tinge had gone from them. They were eyes that saw much and processed knowledge quickly. A dangerous man … and a captivating one.

  Mr. Fleming was also very handsome. He didn’t have the conventional looks her female friends prized—no golden hair or Adonis profile. He was dark-haired with the red highlight she’d noticed before, his pale skin brushed with freckles.

  He also had a presence she couldn’t grow used to. She had the feeling Mr. Fleming would command her attention whether they were in a ballroom, on a public road, or digging in the mud. That presence sent tingles across her skin and made breathing difficult.

  “I said it was nothing,” she managed. “I assumed everyone knew of my … situation.”

  Mr. Fleming’s gaze intensified. “Why? Who is your husband?”

  Sophie let out a little sigh. Ah, well, he’d find out sooner or later. “The Earl of Devonport.” The name lay thickly on her tongue.

  Mr. Fleming blinked once, twice. “Good Lord, you married Lackwit Laurie? That damnable little tick?”

  Sophie’s face grew unbearably hot. “Unfortunately.”

  “I knew him at school. Unfortunately. Hang on, that means you’re the Countess of Devonport. The wife he’s divorcing.”

  Sophie swallowed, trying to make her nod nonchalant. “As you see me.”

  Mr. Fleming peered at her in the blatant way so many gentlemen had once Laurie had destroyed her reputation, no more polite curiosity.

  “He wants rid of you?” he demanded. “What the devil is wrong with him? Is he blind? Barking mad? Oh, wait, of course he is. He didn’t gain the name Lackwit Laurie for nothing.”

  Mr. Fleming’s reaction was more flattering than most, but Sophie tried not to warm to it. She could trust so very few these days.

  “According to his solicitors, I am an adulteress—many times over.” If she said it quickly, like a joke, it didn’t gall so much—almost. “I protested my innocence, but of course, I am a liar as well.”

  “What does that matter?” Mr. Fleming said with admiring astonishment. “If you’d paraded an entire acrobat team through his house and amused yourself with each member, he’d still be a damned fool for putting you aside. If I were married to such a lovely woman, I’d look the other away so hard that my head would be on backwards. What sort of poxy bastard would do this to you?” He cut off with an exasperated noise. “Forgive my language—again. I’m not used to guarding my tongue.”

  “Obviously,” Sophie said shakily.

  Mr. Fleming grabbed Sophie’s trowel and stabbed the dirt repeatedly. “I will just have to speak to Lackwit Laurie.”

  “No.”

  The word came out more sharply than she meant it. Mr. Fleming stared at her—he hovered too close.

  “I mean, please, do not,” Sophie made herself say in a quieter tone. “My name is already in every newspaper, and I’m certain a gentleman dashing in to defend me, however kindly meant, will only make things worse. I would rather remain here at Uncle’s until the divorce is finished.”

  “Hiding away?”

  “Yes.” Sophie met his gaze. “As you apparently are.”

  “Touché.” Mr. Fleming’s lips parted, as though he meant to say more, but he shook his head. “I should have taken him to Regent’s Park,” he muttered.

  “Pardon?” Sophie asked, blinking at the non sequitur.

  “Nothing.” Mr. Fleming dropped the trowel and climbed to his feet, grabbing the spade. “Shall we give up on this furrow and try the next one?”

  * * *

  David decided to say nothing more to Sophie or Pierson about Sophie’s marriage and apparently insane husband the rest of the morning, but thoughts spun in his head. And schemes. He couldn’t help himself—scheming was his nature.

  The day warmed slightly, but not much. The exertion of digging, scrambling up and down mounds, and arguing with Pierson heated David’s blood and burned out the rest of the alcohol. His body wanted more, but he decided to give it tea instead. Mac Mackenzie had managed to clear himself of all drink, and now imbibed fine-tasting teas he had specially blended for him. Perhaps David would take up his habits.

  Easy to have grand intentions when the fit first struck. By the time he sat in Pierson’s study that night, Sophie retiring soon after supper, David was happy to accept a goblet of brandy and drink of it deeply.

  He regretted the large sip, however, as the sour liquid burned his mouth and choked him on the way to his belly.

  “This is foul,” he said to Pierson with a gasp. “You ought to let me send you better.”

  “It is good enough for a poor vicar of a country parish,” Pierson answered, taking a modest sip. “Which I am. I like living humbly. A little humility would not go amiss for you, my friend.”

  “Not my fault I was born into the gentry and inherited my father’s estates and money.” David took another sip, decided it wasn’t worth it, and set the brandy aside. His cigar, from the case he always carried with him, was of the finest stock, so he lit that instead.

  Dr. Pierson deigned to accept a cigar from him, and soon both men were puffing in contented silence.

  “Now then,” David said when he couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Your niece. Why didn’t you tell me she was married to Lackwit Laurie Devonport?”

  Pierson gave him a sidelong look. “You never asked. Nor was it your business. He’s an earl, so I assumed you knew Devonport. You aristocrats stick together.”

  “I’m not a peer, only distantly related to one.” David sat up straighter and laid his cigar in a bowl. “I did go to school with Devonport, when he was the Honorable Mr. Laurie Whitfield, and I loathed him. Most of my circle did. You should have seen the things Hart Mackenzie did to him, or caused to have done to him. Hart ruled a band of reprobates who’d do anything he commanded. I was one them, naturally.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Pierson gave him a disapproving frown. “I never liked Devonport, and I did voice objection to the match. But Sophie wanted the marriage, as did her mother and father, and so I kept my peace. I’m not certain Sophie was ever truly in love with the man, but she was young and excited, and in love with the hullabaloo that surrounds weddings. So many get caught up in the wedding plans and the gowns and flowers and all the nonsense that they forget what marriage means. That the vows are just that—vows. Promises that you’ll be true to the other person, their partner in all ways, no betrayals—”

  “Yes, yes,” David said hastily. Pierson was apt to go on about the lofty meaning of marriage if one didn’t stop him, an amusing trait in a bachelor. “What happened? Why isn’t Lackwit ecstatically happy that he has a beautiful woman with a saucy tongue and an intellect nurtured by you to go to bed with every night? He objects to her lovers, does he? What reason is that to put aside such a marvelous lady?”

  Pierson’s eyes took on a glint of anger. “Sophie has no lovers. She is an honorable young woman. The lovers are an invention of Devonport’s so he can bring a charge of criminal conversation. He’s even persuaded a few of his toa
dy friends to testify in court that they had …” He broke off and cleared his throat. “You know …”

  “Carnal knowledge of her? Don’t be delicate—plain speech is best.” David lifted his cigar and took a brusque puff. “Now I am convinced that Devonport’s barking mad. For what reason is he so unhappy with that beautiful young woman that he invents her adultery? Does she snore? Sing horribly when he’s attempting to sleep? Did she try to poison him? Wouldn’t blame her there. I’m sorry, but I cannot imagine what sin she has committed to cause a man to want to put her aside.”

  “You believe me that the charges are lies?” Pierson asked in surprise.

  “Why wouldn’t I? You are the most truthful man I know. And you are not naive about the world, no matter how you hide yourself away in this corner of it. If you say Sophie is innocent, then she is. Besides, I know plenty of women who stray, and you are right—she is not the sort. What I cannot fathom is why Devonport wants rid of her. The concoction she made me drink was foul, true, but she was right. It made me feel much better, very quickly. That is no reason to turn a woman out of doors.”

  “Money.” Pierson held his cigar loosely and looked sad. “That is why he is ruining Sophie’s life.”

  David frowned. “Ah. I begin to see a glimmer.”

  “Sophie had a large dowry, and an inheritance that went to her husband when she married. My sister and her husband were dazzled by Devonport’s title and did not make the wisest choices in the marriage settlements.”

  “And Devonport went through the inheritance,” David guessed. “He is extravagant.”

  “Exactly. The dowry, the money, and the property Sophie held are gone. Now Devonport has his eye on another lady, a widow who is sumptuously wealthy.”

  “What woman would marry him after what he’s doing to his first wife?” David asked in amazement.

  “Devonport has cultivated public sympathy for himself at Sophie’s expense. They listen to him, not Sophie. He is much higher born than she is, and his word carries weight, especially with those who do not know him well. Likely this widow believes she’ll soothe him from all his hurts—ladies do like to think they’ll be the nurturing angel who heals the misunderstood hero. Plus she’ll become the Countess of Devonport and a grand hostess, which must be too enticing to turn her back on.”