It took Sophia a while to notice that Lord Elfingham appeared at the same entertainments as the Belvoir sisters; not just occasionally, but all the time, until she fell into the habit of looking for him wherever they went.
If there was dancing, he always solicited one dance from each of them. He sat near them at musical entertainments, fetched them supper at soirees, walked his beautiful horse next to their carriage in the park, and contrived to stroll with them at picnics.
The sense of connection she had felt in the village strengthened, and she began to dream of weddings and babies, though, except for an extra warmth when he looked at her—which she might be imagining—Lord Elfingham made no more of Sophia than he did of Felicity, or of any other single lady. That was entirely proper, of course. Lord Elfingham behaved in every way like an English gentleman, which she would point out to Hythe if this courtship, if courtship it was, came to anything.
The Season was nearly over. Perhaps Lord Elfingham was waiting for the feud between his family and the Duke of Haverford to be resolved? If so, he had some time to wait. The Duke of Haverford sponsored a claim in the House of Lords that, if proven, would declare Lord Sutton’s marriage invalid and Lord Elfingham not a viscount and in a direct line to inherit a duchy, but merely the base-born son of Sutton’s Persian mistress.
The success or failure of the challenge remained to be seen. Meanwhile, Winshire’s family behaved as if it, and the Haverfords, did not exist.
Hythe might have objected to Lord Elfingham’s very polite expressions of interest, but he considered his duty done after attending Felicity's first few excursions into society. He had returned to his own pursuits, and was, indeed, often out of town unless it was a day that Parliament was sitting. He did not enjoy the events his sisters attended, calling them tame and a risk to his safety as a single man.
A pity Mr Wilfred Winderfield was not of the same mind. The distant cousin of the Duke of Winshire, he was Haverford's choice to replace Lord Elfingham as next in line to the duchy. This was the first year he’d gone into polite society. He’d been in London the previous year, so Charlotte and Sarah told Felicity, but not where she could ever have met him. This year, guided by Haverford no doubt, he was seen everywhere.
When he began to show Felicity a decided partiality, Sophia found herself spending more time in the man's company than she wished.
He had surface charm and a reputation as a wit for his clever commentary on those around him; those and the notoriety of his lost expectations won him entrée to even the more exclusive events. Sophia found his comments and quips unkind and mean-hearted. She quickly noticed he could be charming to a person's face and immediately shred their character, appearance and morals as soon as they were out of earshot. The nickname ‘Weasel’ suited him well, though she rebuked Felicity for always calling the man that when she referred to him.
“What if you forget and use that name to his face?” she asked, but Felicity just laughed.
Felicity roundly disliked the man and lamented the good manners that required her to accept his compliments and other attentions with a polite reserve that did nothing to discourage him.
Society’s hostesses held their breath the first time he and Sutton's two sons were in the same room, but the hoped-for explosion did not occur.
They bowed distantly, and walked on.
In Sophia's private opinion, the incident showed the dignity and good grace of Lord Elfingham and Mr Andrew Winderfield and the cowardice of Mr Wilfred Winderfield, who would not directly challenge men who could swat him aside like an annoying insect. Society’s hostesses, however, decided that all three young men had shown great good manners and could safely be entertained in the same ballroom.
Had they decided otherwise, Sophia had little doubt that Weasel would have been the one to see his invitations disappear. Sutton’s two sons had money, looks, and manners. Even if the questions over their birth were resolved in the negative, they would still be welcomed as spare partners in most of London’s ballrooms. And if the new Earl of Sutton had, indeed, sired his offspring within the bonds of holy matrimony, as he claimed? Then the sons of the next Duke of Winshire, whatever questions might hang over their foreign origins, would be valuable quarry in the marriage hunt.
Late in the Season, at the Laughton ball, Sophia stood watching Mr Drew Winderfield escort Felicity back towards her. Lord Hamner had been Sophia’s partner in the most recent dance, and stood with her. "Your sister is very lovely," said Hamner, with a note in his voice Sophia had heard before, from other men. “Has Hythe received many offers?”
Sophia glanced sideways, assessing his intent gaze at the approaching couple. Was he beginning to consider marriage? He had been a reliable partner at Society events these past three years, but she had never regarded him with romantic interest. Still, she could not deny a twinge when she realised he might find in her beautiful sister something clearly lacking in herself.
Foolishness. She would not be a dog in the manger. In fairness, she would warn the man.
"Hythe has not referred any offers to me or Felicity. He would, if he considered them worth our attention. However, Felicity has made it clear that she has no wish to consider marriage this Season."
“And Hythe will indulge her in that?" Hamner asked.
Sophia considered him narrowly. Was he a closet tyrant? “Of course,” she said. “Hythe is not a mediaeval patriarch. Felicity will not be married against her will, or at all, if she so chooses.”
A voice spoke from behind them, making her start. "I trust, however, Hythe's liberal attitude would not extend to allowing her to make such a mismatch as that.” It was Weasel Winderfield, and he was staring across the ballroom at the approaching couple.
Hamner stiffened, but showed no other sign of his irritation at the interruption.
Sophia ignored that Hythe would probably agree with Winderfield, and pointed out, “The matrons do not appear to consider the man a mismatch. He is the son of a wealthy earl who will soon be a duke.”
Winderfield sneered. “The base-born brat of an oriental whore and only a fourth son,” he declaimed, louder than he intended, perhaps, for Drew Winderfield took two swift paces ahead of Felicity to loom over him, crowding so close their chests were almost touching.
“Repeat that to my face, if you dare,” he demanded.
Weasel blanched, but lifted his chin and puffed out his chest. “I would not expect you to know, but in England we consider it rude to interrupt someone else’s conversation.”
Sophia raised her eyebrows at the sheer hypocrisy of the man, but anything she said would inflame an already tense situation. Felicity came to her side and slipped an arm around her waist. “Was he talking about Drew?” she asked. “We just heard the last few words.”
Sophia breathed a sigh of relief. Without knowing for sure that his mother had been insulted, Drew would be able to step away from a direct fight. She had already seen him and his brother ignore many slights and insults that would have had lesser gentlemen meeting at dawn.
Then Hamner spoilt the chance, saying, with a slight smile, “He called you a fourth son, and the base-born brat of an oriental whore.” He gave Sophia a slight bow as if she might congratulate him on his intervention. Her hand itched with the urge to slap him.
Weasel was now so white, Sophia thought he might faint, which might be a good thing. Drew’s eyes blazed, and he took a deep breath.
“Lady Sophia, Lady Felicity.” It was Lord Elfingham, gently easing his way through the circle of avid onlookers. He nodded and smiled, but his watchful eyes missed nothing of the tension between his brother and Weasel.
Behind him, the words Hamner had spoken were being whispered one person to another, until the phrase ‘oriental whore’ appeared to echo to the chandeliers. Elfingham sighed. “Drew?”
“You cannot expect me to—” Drew began hotly.
Weasel began to sidle away, but Lord Elfingham shot out a hand and grasped his arm. “Not so fast. You began this, cousin, and will see it through.” He touched his brother’s gloved hand. “Drew?” he said again. “Your move.”
Drew lifted his chin in acknowledgement and stripped off a glove as the entire ballroom hushed. He brushed the glove gently across Weasel’s cheek. His voice, too, was gentle, almost meditative, as he said, “Name your seconds,” then, over his shoulder to Lord Elfingham, “Jamie? You will act for me?”
“Of course.” Letting Weasel’s arm go and turning from him as if he were beneath contempt, Lord Elfingham bowed to Sophia and Felicity. He spoke only to them, but his voice was pitched to carry as he said, “Ladies, I apologise for the need to respond to this fool and his loud mouth. Only a lackwit or a cad would allow an insult to his lady mother go unchallenged, but I regret that this farce has been enacted before you.”
Sophia regarded him thoughtfully. No one had ever said that Weasel had any skill with weapons, and she was sure that Drew and Lord Elfingham intended to silence Weasel and not to kill him. The duel would be all anyone spoke of for a week, of course, but she anticipated no injuries. Perhaps Weasel would be embarrassed enough to stay out of Society and leave her and Felicity alone!
“You may make amends, my lord,” she said, “by sending me word of what happens.”
“Good shooting, brother,” James said, clapping Drew on the shoulder.
“Idiot would have been fine if he hadn’t moved,” Drew grumbled. Weasel had shot before the final count and missed. When Drew had taken his turn, he had announced his intention of removing Weasel’s watch fob from the chain that drooped across his waist, and ordered the man to stand still.
At the other end of the field, Weasel was carrying on as if death were imminent. His second, the Marquis of Aldridge, after a brief examination, sent the Winderfield men a thumbs up before leaving Weasel to the ministrations of the doctor. Aldridge was now giving orders to the servants by the carriage that had brought him and Weasel to the duelling grounds.
“Breakfast?” James suggested.
“Good idea,” Drew said. “Let’s collect Yousef and…”
As if his name had conjured him up, their father’s lieutenant appeared from the trees and stalked towards them. Something about his posture brought James to full alert, and Drew sensed it too, stiffening beside him.
“Trouble?” James asked, as soon as Yousef was close enough.
“An assassin in the woods, armed with a pistol like these.” He gestured to the gun that Drew had replaced in its case to return to Aldridge, who had supplied them. “You were not meant to walk from this field, Andraos Bey.”
James breathed a sigh of relief that he’d asked the old warrior to arrive early, and search the area around the place appointed for the duel. “You have him secure, Abu.” It was not a question. Yousef knew his business. “What does he say for himself?”
Yousef shrugged and grinned, a quick flash of teeth. “He thinks he does not wish to talk to us. I will take him home and discuss the matter further.”
That wasn’t a question either, but Yousef would obey if James ordered him to hand the miscreant over to a magistrate. Should he do so? Taking the law into their own hands could work against them if it came out. On the other hand, they needed to know what the assassin’s orders were, and who he worked for. Was Weasel the plotter? Haverford? Did some third person want Drew dead?
At least James now knew why Weasel chose pistols rather than swords, despite Drew’s known abilities. The cur had not expected Drew to take a shot. Otherwise, it made no sense. Drew was the fourth son. Even if someone managed to kill him, Drew was not next in line after James, and Matthew and John were far out of the reach of any English plotter. Neither would be pleased to be summoned to England. If anyone made it necessary, they would arrive breathing fire, and would not rest until they punished the person who had not only killed their brother but dragged them from their own lives. If it came to it, any person who thought to pick the six Winderfield brothers off one by one would be starting a war they could not win.
“Report to me, please, on what you find,” he told Yousef. “As well,” he added, accepting that Yousef would report to Father first. It went without saying that Yousef would consider himself no longer bound by his promise not to tell Father about the duel.
Aldridge was approaching, his long-limbed prowl deceptively fast. “Excellent shooting, Winderfield. I apologise for my principal. I knew the man was an ass. I did not realise he was also a coward.”
Drew inclined his head just enough to not be openly insulting. “I told him to stand still,” he said. “Did I at least remove the fob?”
Aldridge laughed. “You did. And a shaving of shirt and skin along with it. Nothing worth bellowing over.” He nodded cautiously to James. “My lord. I will be reporting to His Grace that his pet is a disgrace. I agreed to be his second in order to see fair play, but I regret the choice.”
Fair play? With a sharpshooter hidden in the woods? Did Aldridge know?
On the whole, James thought not. By reputation, the man had the morals of a tom cat, but also was known for honesty in all his dealings. He might be the son of Sutton’s enemy, but that did not mean he was his father’s pawn.
James watched the marquis closely as he said, “Were you aware of the sharpshooter in the woods, waiting to kill my brother when my cousin took his shot?”
He could swear Aldridge’s reaction was not feigned. The man took a sharp breath and paled, his hazel eyes blazing. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous. “I was not.” He turned to Yousef and held out a hand. “I take it, sir, I owe you thanks that my honour has not been trampled by that treacherous pond scum. My father shall hear of this, too.”
Yousef turned the words over in his mind, his hesitation obvious. He must have decided, at least tentatively, in favour of Aldridge, for he met the man’s hand with his own. “Tell your father that my lords are not easy to kill, and that the least injury will be met with retribution beyond imagination.” Both men looked at James at the same moment, the expression on the dark bearded face and the visage of the fair English lord so similar as to give them an uncanny resemblance.
“You think I was the target?” James asked. Shooting him made more sense than shooting Drew, but— “Weasel would have been a pariah, had he succeeded. Drew’s death might have been passed off as an error by a nervous idiot—he was only a fraction ahead of the signal. But mine? I was on the side of the field, well out of the line of fire.”
“Which makes it more likely that the plot was Ha— someone else’s,” the marquis observed, his tone arctic.
Any thoughts James had about the man’s complicity melted in the face of his clear disgust. “It did not succeed,” he pointed out.
“Indeed.” Aldridge paused, pursing his lips. “For the sake of my nerves, Elfingham, I beg you to continue to be careful. I shall go and browbeat the Weasel. I shall send you a note if I discover anything to the purpose.”
They watched him re-cross the field to the knot of men who were loading Weasel Winderfield into his carriage.
“An interesting man,” Drew observed.
“Honest, I think,” Yousef said.
“He has that reputation,” James replied, adding, “as his father does not.”