Decision made, she approached the footman.
“Excuse me, sir?”
The servant turned, surprised, no doubt, to find a young lady at his elbow, holding a gentleman’s boot. He bowed quickly. “M-my lady?”
He was as young as he’d looked. Younger than she was. Sophie sent a quick prayer of thanks to her maker. “How long before the carriage is free to leave?” she asked in a tone that she hoped was all casualness.
He seemed grateful for a question he could answer. “No more than a quarter of an hour, my lady.”
She had to work quickly, then. “And tell me, do you work for the marquess?”
He nodded, his gaze flickering to the boot in her hands. “Today.”
She shoved the boot behind her back, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. “Not for long?”
The boy shook his head. “I am headed to a new position. In the North Country.”
A shadow crossed his face—sadness, perhaps. Regret? She grasped at it, an idea forming before she could consider it from all angles. “But you wish to stay in London?”
He seemed to realize then that he absolutely should not be speaking with an aristocratic lady. He lowered his head. “I am pleased to serve the marquess however he requires, my lady.”
She nodded quickly. Underservants were shuttled from one holding to another with unfortunate regularity. She had no doubt that Eversley had never thought twice about the fact that his employees might not wish to be moved about at his whim. He did not seem the type to think of others at all.
And so it was that Sophie felt no guilt whatsoever when she put her plan in motion. “I wonder, though, if you might be willing to serve an earl?”
His wide gaze snapped to hers. “My lady?”
“My father is the Earl of Wight.”
The young man blinked.
“Here. In London.”
The boy seemed confused by the offer and, if she was honest, Sophie was not surprised. It was not every day, she imagined, that pages received employment opportunities at garden parties.
She pressed on. “He began his life in the coalfields. Like his father and his father’s father before him. He’s not an ordinary aristocrat.” Still nothing. Sophie spoke frankly. “He pays servants very well. He’ll pay you double what the marquess pays.” She paused. Increased the offer. “More.”
The boy tilted his head.
“And you can stay in London,” Sophie added.
His brow knit. “Why me?”
She smiled. “What is your name?”
“Matthew, my lady.”
“Well, Matthew, someone’s lucky star should shine today, don’t you think?”
The boy remained skeptical, but she could tell he was considering the offer when he looked over her shoulder to the Marquess of Eversley’s carriage and said, “Double, you say?”
She nodded.
“I’ve ’eard the servants’ quarters at Wight Manor are the nicest in London,” he said, and Sophie knew she had him.
She leaned in. “You can see for yourself. Tonight.”
He narrowed his gaze.
“You come round this afternoon, after the party disbands. Ask to speak to Mr. Grimes—my father’s secretary. Tell him I sent you. I shall vouch for you when you arrive.” She reached into her reticule and extracted a piece of paper and a pencil, and scribbled the direction of her family’s home in Mayfair and a quick note to ensure him entry to the house. She reached back into her purse and pulled out two coins. Handing the coins and the letter to the boy, she added, “That’s two crowns.”
The boy gaped at her. “That’s a month’s worth of blunt!”
She ignored the crass reference to the money. After all, she’d been banking on such crassness. “And my father will pay you more than that. I promise.”
His lips pressed flat together.
“You don’t believe me,” she said.
“I’m to believe a girl?”
She ignored the insult in the words, instead meeting his gaze. “How much would it take for you to believe me?”
His brows knit together and he said, more question than statement, “A quid?”
It was an enormous amount, but Sophie understood the power of money and the things it could buy—trust included—better than most. She reached back into her purse and extracted the rest of the money she carried. She didn’t hesitate in paying the boy, knowing she would replenish her stash the moment she returned home.
The boy’s hand curled around the coins tightly, and Sophie knew she’d won. “There is only one other thing,” she said slowly, a little twinge of guilt threading through her.
Her father’s newest and most loyal servant did not hesitate. “Anything you require, my lady.”
“Anything?” she asked, unable to keep the hope from her tone.
He nodded. “Anything.”
She took a deep breath, knowing that once she put this plan into motion, it would be impossible to turn back. Knowing, too, that if she were caught, she would be flatly ruined.
She looked behind her, Liverpool House rising like the gates of hell above the trees. Frustration and sadness and anger warred within her as she remembered the gardens. The party. The greenhouse. Her pig of a brother-in-law. The way all of London rallied in his support. Against her. The way they shunned her. Shamed her.
She had to leave this place. Now. Before they realized how much that shaming stung.
And there was only one way to do it.
She turned back to Matthew. “I require your livery.”
Chapter 3
SOPHIE’S FROCK FOUND!
FOUL PLAY FEARED!
It took longer than it should have for Sophie to realize that the carriage was not headed for Mayfair.
Had she realized this prior to clandestinely squeezing into Matthew’s livery and tucking her hair up under his cap, she might have had the presence of mind to turn back. She most certainly would have taken the calculated risk to sit up on the block next to the coachman instead of refusing his invitation.
Unfortunately, she did not realize it—despite the coachman’s raised brows and skeptical “Suit yourself”—instead taking her place as an outrider at the back of the coach, standing tall on the back step of the coach, clinging tightly, and quite happily, to its handles.
Nor did she realize it when the coach reached the end of the long drive of Liverpool House and turned left instead of right.
Nor did she realize it when the passing landscape became more pastoral. Instead, she took several deep breaths of what her father would call “fine fettled air,” and felt—for the first time since she and her sisters had been packed up and transported to London—rather free.
And decidedly fun.
Take that, odious Royal Rogue.
Thinking of the unknowing Marquess of Eversley, inside the very carriage upon which she stowed away, she laughed. So much for his thinking she wouldn’t get that for which she’d asked. She almost regretted that he wouldn’t know it when she leapt from the carriage and sallied home.
She’d pay good money to see his smug expression turned to shock.
She chuckled to herself, watching blue sky and green farmland pass, dotted with flocks of sheep, copses of trees, and bales of hay. And gloried in the fact that she had escaped without the aid or the attention of the aristocracy. She could never tell anyone this story, sadly. Within moments of her return to the Talbot house on Berkeley Square, she would have to dispose of Matthew’s exceedingly helpful—if ill-fitting—clothing and concoct a new tale of her return. And swear her father’s new young footman to secrecy.