Wallflower Most Wanted--A Studies in Scandal Novel Page 3

  “Thank you so much for the invitation, ma’am,” he told her sincerely. “I am always grateful for the chance to get out in the evening.”

  Mrs. Morgan smiled at him. “You are quite welcome, my lord. I’m sure our little home isn’t what you’re used to, but I hope you will be comfortable.”

  The description of what must be thirty rooms at the least, as a “little home” might have had Ben spraying his beverage, if he’d been unlucky enough to be drinking at that moment. As it was, he had to tamp down his natural response for the easygoing expression he’d perfected over the years of being the recipient of odd confidences from his flock. “I’m quite sure I will be most comfortable, Mrs. Morgan. But let us discuss the most important thing. I hope you’ll reserve a set for me?”

  The bit of flirtation did the trick and she blushed. “You rogue,” she said without heat as she batted him on the arm with her fan. “You know I’m past the age for dancing, but if I were not, you may be assured I would not be able to turn down the most handsome man in the village. Aside from my Peter, of course.”

  “What’s this?” said the man himself as he turned from Mr. Almond, who was moving along the line to the younger Morgans. “I hope you’re not trying to lure my wife away, Vicar.”

  There was no menace in the man’s tone, but Ben could hear a slight thread of pique, as if he didn’t take the matter seriously but couldn’t help but be a little annoyed. Whether because Ben was younger, or higher born, he couldn’t say.

  “Of course not, Mr. Morgan,” said Ben smoothly. “Only inquiring if your dear wife was dancing this evening. But alas, she has informed me that she is not.”

  “She would make all the young ladies green with envy if she did,” Morgan said putting a proprietary arm around his wife. “I don’t blame you a bit for asking.”

  Then, obviously considering that matter behind them, he changed the subject. “What do you think of Morgan Manor, eh? I don’t mind telling you I’m quite proud of it. Designed the place m’self, did you know that? From the ceilings to the floors. No expense spared, I can tell you. I wanted it to be a jewel on the coast, and so it is.”

  Ben blinked at the boast. “It’s quite a sight to see,” he said truthfully. “And I can tell that you put a lot of thought into every detail.”

  Morgan beamed. “I knew you’d understand. I’ll bet it rivals your father’s place in the country, eh? Of course it does. His place must be a hundred years old at least. And has none of the modern conveniences we’ve got here.”

  The Duke of Pemberton had actually had modern plumbing installed several years ago, but Ben wasn’t about to get into a competition with Morgan over whose home was better. “It is indeed over a hundred years old,” he confirmed. “And nowhere near as modern as this. You are to be congratulated.”

  Before Morgan could use the pause to add more comparisons to his father, Ben continued, “I was just telling Mrs. Morgan how thankful I was for the invitation. I’m looking forward to this evening’s entertainment. Thank you, sir.”

  The industrialist looked a bit frustrated at being unable to continue his explanation of how he had bested the Duke of Pemberton, but the person behind Ben diverted his attention then, and with an over-hearty handshake, he sent the vicar on his way.

  After exchanging greetings with the Morgan sons, who were typical young men, with shirt points and hair that were higher than advisable, Ben stepped into the ballroom, which was already teeming with guests.

  To his surprise, however, his eye was captured by a familiar head of auburn-tinged dark hair amongst the chaperones and wallflowers.

  He couldn’t see the lady’s face, as she was at the moment surrounded by a circle of young men, but it was most certainly Miss Sophia Hastings, holding court. No doubt having taken to the side of the ballroom thanks to her ankle injury, but here at the Morgan ball nonetheless.

  “Evening, Vicar,” said a male voice from beside him. He looked up and the Duke of Maitland handed Ben a cup of watery-looking punch. So much for Mr. Almond’s hopes for lavish food and drink, he thought wryly. “It tastes better than it looks.”

  Since Ben had performed the duke’s marriage ceremony not long after his arrival in Little Seaford, he and the other man had become friendly.

  “Why aren’t you dancing with your bride?” Ben asked, taking the cup and sipping. It did indeed taste better than it looked. Perhaps Mr. Almond wasn’t to be disappointed after all.

  “She’s over there lecturing the schoolmaster, Mr. Pinter, about something having to do with maths,” Maitland said with a shrug. “I don’t pretend to understand half of what she says about all that business. But it makes her happy, and that’s enough for me.”

  Ben had known as soon as he met the couple that they were fond of one another, despite the circumstances that had led to their hasty marriage. And though they seemed on the surface to be a mismatch, given that the duchess was one of the most gifted mathematicians in the nation, and the duke … was not, they made it work. And Maitland had even agreed to live the rest of the year in Little Seaford, away from his own properties, so that his wife might fulfill the requirements of her inheritance at Beauchamp House. Of course, the duke was also the nephew of the former owner of the home, Lady Celeste Beauchamp, so he already felt at home in Little Seaford. But Ben didn’t know many men who would adjust their lives in such a way simply to please their wives. And considering that Maitland’s cousin, the Marquess of Kerr, had done the same thing, it was clear that the men in that family doted on their wives.

  Ben looked across the room to where the blond duchess did indeed seem to be explaining something to Pinter, using her hands to sketch figures in the air. “Pinter looks a bit nonplussed,” he said to the duke.

  “Probably because she knows more about the subject than he’ll ever forget,” Maitland said with a shrug. “But he’ll be all right. He likes her. And is far better at accepting a woman as his superior in an academic subject than most men in his position would be. He’s a good fellow, Pinter.”

  The two men were quiet for a moment as the musicians began warming up, and the buzz of conversation around them picked up. It was unusual for Ben to remain unmolested by the female population for so long, but he supposed it was because they were slightly afraid of the duchess, and he was currently standing next to her husband.

  “Heard you rescued Miss Hastings from the shore this morning,” Maitland said, turning to give Ben a curious look. “I didn’t know you were in the business of rescuing damsels in distress. Though I suppose being a vicar and all, it’s part of the job.”

  He felt his ears redden at the other man’s teasing tone. “I’m sure if anyone else had come upon Miss Hastings, he too would have done what he could to help her.”

  “But how many men would have carried her a quarter of a mile—up treacherous sea stairs no less—to help her?” Maitland asked. “I’m quite fond of the chit, but I don’t even think I’d have tried it.”

  “I couldn’t leave her there,” Ben argued. He didn’t add that they’d just overheard a man threatening murder, so leaving Sophia on the shore would have been dangerous in more ways than one. “And it wasn’t as difficult as all that.”

  His aching biceps told him differently, but he wasn’t going to admit to it here and now. The less emphasis he put on the physical exertion it had taken to get Sophia from the shore to the house, the better. He didn’t want the duke or anyone else at Beauchamp House thinking he’d helped her out of some sort of tendre. As lovely as Miss Hastings was, she was not the sort of lady he should be associating with. He would need to, when the time came, marry someone who would make a good vicar’s wife. Nothing he’d seen of Miss Hastings had indicated that she was so disposed.

  “You do know there’s a secret passageway from the shore that leads into the house, don’t you?” Maitland asked with a raised brow. “I should have thought Sophia would have told you. It has stairs as well, but it’s a damned sight shorter than all the way up the outer st
airs, across the lawn and through the garden.”

  Ben blinked, not sure what he was hearing. “Are you telling me Miss Hastings might have saved my back by telling me of a shorter route? Why didn’t she tell me?” He thought back to the long trek from the beach to the house. He had a sudden inclination to give Miss Hastings a lecture—complete with gesticulations rivaling those of the Duchess of Maitland.

  “I daresay she was too overset by pain to remember it,” Maitland said thoughtfully. “She’s not the sort to keep something like that to herself on purpose. She’s a good ’un, is Sophia.”

  Good ’un or not, Ben thought with a frown, he was going to have a word with her about it. If for no other reason than to assure himself that he’d not been hoodwinked into helping her. The ladies of the village had tried all sorts of machinations to get close to him. He had difficulty believing someone like Sophia, who obviously had her own ambitions, would do such a thing, but who was he to claim knowledge of the female brain?

  He was about to excuse himself to go speak to her, when Peter Morgan stepped onto a small dais at the front of the room, which he hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t unusual for a host to say a few words at the opening of a ball. But something about this felt different.

  With a gesture to the musicians, indicating they should be silent, their host began to speak.

  * * *

  From her seat at the side of the ballroom, Sophia wished for the hundredth time that she’d listened to her sister and stayed home. Her ankle was throbbing, and the circle of young men around her, rather than distracting her from her pain, were only annoying her with their competition to see who was willing to do more for her. She could only drink so many cups of punch, and she flatly refused to let them carry her about the room like a pasha. It had been lowering enough to hobble into the room with her walking stick.

  She’d had visions of holding court from her perch with the matrons and wallflowers, but hadn’t actually thought through the grueling process of getting from the carriage to said perch.

  Fortunately, the sound of the musicians warming up signaled that her suitors would have to go soon and dance with those young ladies who hadn’t fallen from the cliffside that morning. Her injury could be counted a benefit in that instance at least.

  “Your attention, ladies and gentlemen,” came the sound of their host from the front of the ballroom. And fortunately, Sophia’s young gentlemen had the sense to move so that she could see where Peter Morgan had taken a position at the dais situated near the musicians.

  Sophia wondered, a little thrill of electricity running down her spine, if as her Aunt Dahlia had predicted, Peter Morgan was going to announce his intention to run for the vacant seat in the Commons.

  “Thank you all for coming tonight,” said Morgan with a broad smile, which he made sure to beam over everyone in attendance. At least the ones in the ballroom at the moment. “It is with great pride that my wife Millie and I welcome you into our new home away from home. Our little jewel on the coast. As most of you know, I’ve made my home for most of my life in Manchester, but since our arrival in Little Seaford, we’ve been most cordially welcomed by you and the rest of the villagers. I’ve met with Mr. Givens, the mayor, and have listened to his concerns. And I’ve made it my business to become involved in local activities, like the upcoming art exhibition, the board of which I am now a member. I mean to make it clear to you, the residents of Little Seaford, that I will put as much effort and energy into the wellbeing of our village, as I have done with my businesses.”

  There was a smattering of applause from the room at large, but from one side of the room, where the two Morgan sons and their friends had gathered, came a raucous cheering. Obviously, the man had brought his own audience, which could be counted on to cheer in the right spots.

  Sophia glanced around the room, and noticed that with the exception of the cheering lads, the rest of the guests looked puzzled. And in some cases, troubled.

  When the cheering had died down—at the behest of Morgan, who gave a gesture in his sons’ direction—he continued. “It is my great pleasure to announce that I intend to run for the vacant seat in this district for the House of Commons. And I hope all of you will give me your support!”

  Once again, the cheering group erupted into huzzahs. And there was a bit more applause from the main room. It was more polite, however, than genuinely enthusiastic.

  Since she’d been forewarned by her aunt, Sophia wasn’t surprised, but she was puzzled at Morgan’s decision to make the announcement at what was ostensibly an entertainment for the upper echelon of Little Seaford society. If he had wished for a large cheering crowd, surely a more public celebration would have been far more conducive to that.

  “Now, without further ado, I shall allow you to get on with what you’ve come for,” Morgan said, beaming out over the room. “Let there be dancing.”

  He gestured to the musicians, and they began playing, and Morgan, looking as pleased as if he’d just delivered a New Year’s infant, led his rail-thin wife, Millicent, out onto the dance floor in the first dance.

  “I suppose that is what Aunt Dahlia was speaking of,” said Gemma from where she’d come to stand beside Sophia’s chair.

  “Indeed,” Sophia said. “Only I didn’t expect him to make the announcement tonight.”

  “I’m not sure anyone did,” Gemma said with a nod to the guests, who were slowly making their way onto the dance floor. But there were several small groups of gentlemen who seemed to be in deep conversation. “It seems to have set some of the local tongues wagging, that’s certain.”

  One thing their host had mentioned, however, had caught Sophia’s attention and it was far more personal for her than her aunt’s request to keep an eye on Morgan. “What do you suppose he intends, getting himself a seat on the art exhibition board?” she asked her sister. “What can he possibly know about art?”

  But Gemma gave her a speaking look. “What does anyone in this village know about art, excepting you and the Primbles with their group of artists at Primrose Green? Isn’t the owner of the livery stable on the board?”

  “Yes, but Mr. Essex has a very keen eye,” Sophia argued. The man had chosen very complimentary colors for the exterior of his establishment, after all. “And besides, I know that all of the board members—Mr. Morgan excepted—have the best interests of the village at heart. And they will judge impartially. We don’t know what sort of motives Mr. Morgan has for affiliating himself with the art board.”

  “One would imagine he simply wishes to ingratiate himself with the local populace,” Gemma said. “Though it is difficult to know what any man will do. They are fickle creatures to be sure.”

  Sophia supposed her sister was close to the truth. Still, since she intended to enter the exhibition this year, she was concerned that the entry of Morgan onto the board of directors would affect her chances of having her pieces shown. “You’re likely right. He will simply sit on the board and let the others take charge. It is no doubt his intention to use the meetings to solicit support from the other business owners in the group.”

  “Are you afraid that he will try to keep you out of the show?” Gemma asked, her eyes narrowing. “Sophia, your work can be a bit controversial, but no one in Little Seaford is the least bit interested in censoring you. This is hardly the wilds of Yorkshire. Most of the gentry hereabouts spend their springs in London and summers on the road between here and Brighton. They are quite sophisticated.”

  But Sophia wasn’t sure that Morgan had the purest of motives. Her aunt had seemed to think he was going to run his campaign with a view toward capitalizing on the populism that had grown stronger in the years since the Peterloo massacre, where fifteen people had been killed when cavalrymen stormed into a crowd demanding parliamentary reform in St. Peter’s Fields, Manchester. For many years now, a growing contingent of the population had been protesting the inequities of the voting system, the cutting—by industrialists like Morgan—of wages when the ma
rket shifted, and the Corn Laws, which imposed a tariff on foreign grain, and meant the people were forced to buy more expensive British grain. It was quite canny actually, Sophia thought, for Morgan to choose to run for his seat in Sussex, where he was relatively unknown, as opposed to in Manchester, where his reputation as a factory owner would hardly do him any good.

  “He could make quite a name for himself as a reformer if he were to come out against the scandalous paintings of an upstart young lady who would do better to stay at home embroidering,” Sophia told her sister. “It’s what I’d do if I were in his position.”

  “Well, I think you’re being far too suspicious,” Gemma said with a shake of her head. “You’re seeing plots where none are there.”

  Before Sophia could respond, she spotted a couple of her usual cadre of admirers headed their way.

  “Don’t go,” she hissed to Gemma, as her sister gave her a pat on the arm, then hurried away to where Daphne was speaking to the local schoolmaster.

  But it was too late.

  “Ah, Mr. Walsh, Mr. Ellis,” she said with more enthusiasm than she felt. “What a delight to see you again.”

  Chapter 3

  A few minutes later, she was wishing desperately that Gemma would return.

  Or Daphne.

  Or anyone who could get her away from the utterly tedious pair of young men who were currently monopolizing her attention.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Hastings,” said the Honorable Mr. Toby Walsh, handing Sophia a glass of punch, “you aren’t at all what I expected when the mater told me about the bluestockings up at Beauchamp House back when you first arrived.”

  “Nor me,” said his friend Walter Ellis, making use of the quizzing glass that looked ridiculous in the hand of such a young man. “I never knew it was possible for pretty chits to be smart.” Perhaps realizing his words were not exactly flattering, he colored a little and added, “That is to say, I’d never…”