Wallflower Most Wanted Read online

  He was entirely unsurprised that she was already chafing at the constraints of her injury. And it had only just happened. For her sake he hoped it would heal quickly.

  “What if I promise to tell you what I learn?” he offered her. He didn’t add that this way she could remain out of the matter, which would ensure her safety. He had a sneaking suspicion that she wouldn’t give a fig for her own safety if it meant protecting someone else’s.

  Like a queen accepting a favor from a serf, she gave a regal nod. “I suppose that will have to do,” she said with a moue of distaste. “Though I do wish I could go with you. Who do you intend to question first?”

  He was saved from response by the arrival of the butler Greaves carrying a laden tea tray. “Miss Hastings,” he older man said gravely, “May I say how unhappy I am to hear of your injury?” He gave a deep bow.

  “Thank you, Mr. Greaves,” Sophia said with a sweet smile for the butler. “It is an annoyance, but these things happen in the pursuit of one’s craft.”

  Ben rather thought most artists avoided tumbling over seaside cliffs, but kept his own counsel on the matter.

  He watched in amusement as the butler, who clearly had a soft spot for Sophia, handed her a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. “Lady Serena told me to serve you, Miss. She is fetching your sister from upstairs.”

  “Thank you, Greaves,” Sophia said, sipping her tea. “You may go. Lord Benedick will keep me company while we wait for Gemma and Serena.”

  Ben wasn’t positive, but he thought he saw a flicker of disappointment cross the man’s face before he gave a brisk bow and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “He’s a sweet man,” Sophia said, “but overly solicitous at times.”

  “He certainly holds you in some affection,” Ben remarked. He might as well have been invisible for all that the butler noticed him.

  Sophia gave a slight shrug, but didn’t comment on the matter. Instead she changed the subject. “I wonder if you might do me a favor, my lord.”

  He nodded. “Of course. Whatever I can do to make you comfortable.”

  “It’s just that my canvas and easel and paints are all still on the bluff,” she said sheepishly.

  Of course. She hadn’t exactly carried them down to the beach as she fell.

  Ben stood. “I’ll go retrieve them for you.” She obviously cared about her materials and wanted them to be in good hands.

  “I could ask a footman,” she added in a low voice, “but I thought maybe you could look in the little wooded area and see if our arguing men left any traces of themselves behind.”

  Ah. Not a bad idea, actually. “I’ll be off then. I’ve got about an hour until I’m to meet with the altar guild.”

  “Oh.” She looked a little guilty. “I don’t wish to take you away from your work. I’ll send a footman.”

  But Ben was already eager to get to the copse to look around for himself. “I have the time, Miss Hastings,” he said, crouching beside the sofa where she reclined with her ankle elevated. He took her hand and squeezed it. “I will bring your things back, though I may not have time to come in and report to you. But I’ll send a note round if I find anything.”

  Her dark lashes lowered as she looked down at their joined hands. When she looked up and met his gaze, her smile was one of relief. “Thank you for keeping me apprised. I know you’d rather I stay out of this business, but I can’t help but feel responsible for whomever it was they were discussing.”

  “You can only do what’s in your power,” he said, trying to reassure her. “But I share your concern. They were rather rough customers.”

  Stroking his thumb over the back of her hand, he reluctantly let her go and stood.

  “Wish me luck,” he said with a crooked smile.

  “Just don’t tumble over the edge,” she said wryly. “I won’t be there to rescue you.”

  Chapter 2

  As it happened, Dr. Holmes was unable to come that afternoon because he was attending to another patient in the next county.

  Lady Serena was concerned, but Sophia was convinced that it was only a sprain, and once she’d been helped to her bedchamber by two sturdy footmen, she allowed her maid to tuck her into bed with ice for her ankle and agreed to rest.

  “I know you must be disappointed about missing Mr. Morgan’s ball this evening,” Ivy said, from where she perched on Sophia’s bedside. “Of all of us, you’re the lady most likely to be found dancing the night away.”

  She, Daphne and Gemma had come to check on her after luncheon. Only the sisters, Sophia and Gemma, had known one another before their arrival at Beauchamp House. But since then, the four ladies had built strong friendships. They each had expertise in separate disciplines, but they all appreciated the difficulties of being a female in the arts and academe, so offered one another support not only as friends, but also as fellow pioneers. And when both Ivy and Daphne had found themselves in danger thanks to tasks given them by their benefactor, Lady Celeste Beauchamp, they’d grown even closer.

  Sophia frowned at her offending ankle. “I’d forgotten about the Morgan Ball,” she said.

  She’d been looking forward to the entertainment at the industrialist’s newly refurbished country estate, which he’d bought for what was rumored to be a ridiculously large sum from a deeply indebted nobleman. It would be the neighborhood’s first chance to see what was purported to be one of the most expensive renovations in Sussex history. According to local gossip, Morgan had chosen the south coast for his country home because he claimed to have a fondness for history and the location was near to Hastings—where William the Conqueror had claimed victory.

  No one quite knew what to make of the self-made man who had made appearances in Little Seaford and the surrounding towns occasionally over the past year or so. By all accounts he was brash and a bit rough, but Sophia wasn’t really concerned with his manners. She would really like to discuss his textile mills in the north, the conditions of which she’d learned about thanks to a letter from her Aunt Dahlia in Manchester.

  If my sources are right, Peter Morgan is in Sussex for no other reason than to buy himself a seat in the Commons without having to face a local population who has suffered from his dangerous factories. He stood by and did nothing while the women and children working in his factories fell ill from cotton lung, and what’s more, were torn limb from limb by his wicked machinery. And now he would flee from Manchester, where his perfidy is known far and wide. He seeks to whitewash his reputation in the waters of the sea.

  It can hardly be a coincidence that a little bird informs me one of the local members in that same vicinity has recently decided to give up his seat in the Commons. You must do all you can, my dear, to keep this awful man from what will be nothing less than theft. It is bad enough that the working men who give their lives and labor to make England great are kept from the vote, but to also ensure that government positions are handed out to the very industrialists who crush those same workers is monstrous.

  Be vigilant, dear Sophia! And pray urge that stubborn sister of yours to do so as well. I know I taught you both better than to sit by while the weak are bullied by the strong!

  Sophia had, of course, promised her aunt to learn all she could about the man, and if she had to miss his first entertainment, she’d lose her chance. Not to mention she was as curious as anyone else to see the spectacle of the newly embellished interiors of Morgan’s house. Aunt Dahlia would likely be disappointed in her, but she was human after all, and liked to be dazzled as much as the next person.

  She mentioned none of this to Gemma, however, who, as Aunt Dahlia had said, was stubborn and if truth be known, was far less interested in the workings of the political system than in her own pursuit of knowledge.

  “You may have forgotten the ball,” Gemma said tartly, “but I cannot imagine that your usual little coterie of admirers has. They will be cast into despair when they arrive to find you are not there. A shame, really, since it is one o
f my chief pleasures in life to watch them persist in the face of your polite indifference.”

  Tugging at one of Sophia’s locks, she added with a saucy grin, “I can’t imagine why they are so taken with you. You’ve always got paint in your hair.”

  Sophia made a face. “At least I don’t have dust from dirty old stones under my fingernails,” she retorted. “And besides, my gentleman callers can hear about my accident from me. I’m going to the ball.”

  All three of her companions gasped.

  “You can’t!” Gemma said, her mouth agape.

  “Sophia,” Ivy said with a sigh. “I don’t see how, unless you wish to bring Thomas and Walter in the carriage with us so that they might carry you around on a litter like the king in his younger days.”

  “You won’t be able to dance,” Daphne said, looking puzzled. “What would be the point?”

  “Oh ye of little faith,” Sophia said with a wave of her hand. “I will simply use the walking stick we found in the attic during our initial explorations of the house. I’m sure with the sturdy arm of some strong gentleman, and the walking stick, I’ll be able to hobble along quite nicely.”

  “I never met a more stubborn person in my life,” Gemma said with a shake of her head. “You’re worse than Aunt Dahlia.”

  “It’s because of Aunt Dahlia I must go,” Sophia protested. Then, she explained what her aunt had told her about Mr. Peter Morgan and his possible political aspirations. “So, you see, I need to find out what he’s about. And what better place to do that than his first large entertainment in the neighborhood. How a man entertains says a lot about him.”

  “Why didn’t Aunt ask me to look into Morgan?” Gemma asked with a frown. “I care about women and children.”

  How to explain that one’s sister had a bit of a one-track mind? To one’s sister?

  Daphne, who was not known for either her tact or propensity for biting her tongue, saved her the trouble. “Gemma, you’d never be able to concentrate long enough. You’d start daydreaming about one of your fossils and would lose track of the conversation.”

  Gemma looked offended and looked to Ivy then Sophia for support. “Am I really that bad?” she demanded when they only gave pained shrugs in response to her questioning look. “I’m not that bad.”

  “Dearest, you were so lost in thought about some issue with your research,” Sophia said not unkindly, “that you tried to put on a hat while you were already wearing a hat.”

  “That was one time!” Gemma protested. “And it was a very thorny issue.”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Ivy assured her with a kind smile. “You’re very dedicated to your work. It’s quite admirable. But even you must admit that you aren’t precisely interested in anything quite as much as fossils and the possibility that giant lizards once roamed about the countryside.”

  Gemma shook her head, her light brown hair a little frizzy as it escaped its pins. “I don’t mean to do it. It’s just that I’ll start thinking about something and then everything disappears.”

  “It’s the same for me and maths,” Daphne said with a nod of agreement.

  “We all do it,” Sophia assured her. “I fell from the chalk cliff because I was so absorbed in my work, for heaven’s sake.”

  That diverted everyone.

  “I thought you tripped walking on the shore,” Gemma said with a frown. “You didn’t tell me you fell from the cliff. Sophia, you might have been killed.”

  She gave her sister an impulsive hug. “Thank goodness you weren’t hurt worse.”

  “How did you come to fall?” Daphne asked. “If you stay far enough from the edge, it’s safe enough.”

  Quickly Sophia explained how she’d been startled by a man’s voice behind her, and how Lord Benedick had come upon her.

  “Who was it you heard?” Ivy asked. “That’s Beauchamp House land. If there are trespassers we should let Kerr and Maitland know.” The Marquess of Kerr and the Duke of Maitland were nephews of the bluestockings’ benefactor, and more importantly, the husbands of Ivy and Daphne.

  Sophia frowned. It hadn’t occurred to her that the men they’d overheard were trespassing. But it was also possible that one or both of them had some association with Beauchamp House. The idea gave her a chill.

  Mistaking her shiver for a more general fear, Ivy tried to reassure her. “Since both Daphne and I were accosted here, Kerr is quite firm about ensuring the safety of the house. He and Mr. Greaves have made sure that all the footmen are trustworthy, and there are new locks on all the doors. Even if someone were to wander onto Beauchamp House land, there’s no way he could get into the house without someone knowing.”

  Sophia nodded. She had to tell Lord Benedick about her new insight into the quarreling men. He hadn’t sent round a note, which she assumed meant he hadn’t found anything in the copse. But she could speak to him tonight at the ball.

  To Ivy she said, “I trust Kerr. Whoever the man was, I don’t think he meant me any harm. He was speaking with someone else and they were far too involved in their own conversation to notice anything else.”

  “I’m just glad that Lord Benedick happened to be walking on the beach when you fell.” Ivy’s eyes behind her spectacles were wide with concern. “You might have been stranded there for hours.”

  “I wish I’d been there to see him carrying you from the shore up the sea stairs,” Gemma said with a wink. “It must have been quite romantic.”

  “I was far too busy trying not to cry out every time my ankle was jolted,” Sophia said wryly. Though she had noticed just how very muscular the vicar was on their journey. And she’d been tempted to snuggle her face into his neck more than once. But she wouldn’t admit that now.

  “Then how on Earth will you manage to go to the ball?” Ivy asked. “You’re being stubborn to the point of lunacy, Sophia.”

  “I will manage,” Sophia assured them with a calm she didn’t feel. She was still determined to go. Though she wasn’t quite as sanguine about her ability to withstand hours on her feet as she let on. But Aunt Dahlia needed her. And she’d made a promise.

  “Now, you should all go and let me rest so I can look my best.”

  When Daphne and Ivy had gone, Gemma came and sat beside her sister on the bed.

  “You weren’t too distracted to notice the vicar’s strong arms,” she said with a sly look. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. He’s the only unmarried man in the village who doesn’t dance to your tune. And you like that.”

  “He’s a handsome man,” Sophia said blithely. “I’d hardly be human if I failed to notice. And between us, he’s quite strong.”

  “You do like him,” Gemma said with a grin.

  “Of course I like him.” Sophia refused to be baited. Whatever attraction she might feel for the vicar was not nearly as important as finding the identities of the men they’d overheard. And there was the matter of Peter Morgan and his political ambitions. She had plenty to keep her occupied without adding a tendre to the list.

  “Now, please go find some old rocks to examine so that I may rest.”

  Gemma gave her a disappointed look, but took herself off.

  * * *

  Ben had been unable to find anything in his search of the little wooded area where their mysterious arguers had been hidden. He had quite easily found Miss Hasting’s easel, canvas and supplies. The painting was still a little wet, and promised to be intriguing when it was finished. The way she’d captured the light and colors of the sunrise on the sea was impressive. He’d never been particularly artistic himself, but seeing work like this made him wish he had that sort of talent.

  He reflected on the matter that evening as he drove his gig to the country estate of Mr. Peter Morgan, where the industrialist was set to hold his first public entertainment in the neighborhood. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask Miss Hastings if she’d planned on attending, but given the state of her injury, he had little doubt that she’d have to send her regrets. Which was a sham
e. He’d enjoyed her company, and had hoped to reassure her that she shouldn’t worry overmuch about what they’d overhead. But that could wait until later.

  The line of carriages in the gently curving drive of Morgan House was impressive. Clearly the rest of the residents of Little Seaford were just as curious to see the inside of the mansion as he was. Having handed over the reins, he was greeted by a few parishioners as he made his way to the receiving line.

  “Good evening, Vicar,” said Mr. Josiah Almond, a member of the local gentry, whose estate was just on the other side of Beauchamp House. He was a widower of middle years, whose children were grown, and a regular church-goer. He was also a bit of a gossip. In a lower voice, he said with a wink, “I see you’ve come to see what this Morgan fellow is about just as the rest of us have. I don’t mind telling you I hope his refreshments live up to the promise of his taste in building materials.”

  Almond gestured to the marble beneath their feet. And if Ben’s memory served from when his mother had been refurbishing the Pemberton ducal residence, the gilt molding and fabric-lined walls of the Morgan entry hall were quite expensive.

  “I have a feeling you won’t be disappointed, Almond,” Ben assured the older man. If his assessment was correct, Morgan was intent upon impressing his neighbors. Everything about his home seemed to promote the idea that Peter Morgan was a rich, successful businessman. Was it a bit over the top? For Ben’s tastes, yes. But then, he’d grown up in a ducal household that was built for similar purposes, and had long ago come to see the finery for what it was, a show of power. He had no need for such flummery. But the powerful did. And it would be hypocritical to take his father’s show of wealth as a given while criticizing Morgan for doing the same thing.

  Further discussion was stalled when they reached the place where Morgan, his wife and sons stood greeting their guests. Morgan himself was a large man, whose large belly was as much a show of wealth as any bit of gold in his home. His wife, on the other hand, was rail thin. She was pretty enough, with guinea gold hair that was still unmarred with gray. While Morgan greeted Mr. Almond, Ben took Mrs. Morgan’s hand.