“How could you possibly know that?”
Her mother caught hold of her shoulders and turned her. “My darling daughter. My precious late bloomer. The brilliant child fathered by the love of my life. Do you not understand how I noticed your suffering? Your sweet antics to get young Bromley’s attention? Your efforts to get him to take the slightest notice of you? I silently watched over you at night from the darkest corners of your room because I was so afraid you would try something foolish you might not recover from.”
“I did think of sneaking into his room once,” Sophie softly admitted.
Maman nodded. “I know. Why do you think I hastened his training so he could leave?”
Sophie stared down at her fists clenched against her middle. “That was the past. I am a great deal wiser than that awkward girl of almost ten and six. I intend to find a way to either avoid or change this command from the queen.”
“You know that cannot be done, my girl. We owe Her Majesty a great deal for all she did for us after you were born. It wouldbe most rude, and also very unbecoming of genuine friends, to ignore her wishes or go against them.”
“But—”
“Do you wish Queen Charlotte publicly shamed, or for her to suffer something possibly even worse because you defied her, and the blackmailer got the upper hand?”
Sophie wanted to scream. This was so unfair. So damned unfair. She pulled in a deep breath, held it to the count of five, then allowed it to ease out. “No, Maman. You know I would never wish Her Majesty to suffer because of us.”
A light tapping came from the library door, and then it opened. “Your things, Lady Sophie,” Thornton said from the doorway.
“Running away, child?” her mother asked, sarcasm dripping from every word.
“I need to speak with Celia.” She curtsied and rushed out before Maman shared an observation regarding that.
After donning her gloves and cloak, she stepped out onto the front step and opened her umbrella. At least it was just drizzling enough to make everything unpleasantly damp. She gathered up her skirts and gingerly crossed the way to Celia’s townhouse. As soon as she clacked the bronze knocker, the door swung open. “Good afternoon, Gransdon. Is Her Grace receiving today?” she asked before the butler could formally greet her.
The older man hurried her inside with one of his rare smiles. “Her Grace will always receive you, Lady Sophie. Do come in.” He took her cloak and umbrella and handed them off to a cheerful maid. “Properly attend to the dampness of Lady Sophie’s things, Miss Anna.”
The maid dipped a quick curtsy. “Yes, Mr. Gransdon.”
He turned back to Sophie and led her toward the library. She wasn’t at all surprised. At this hour, Celia was probablyreviewing her business ledgers. He tapped on the door, then quietly opened it. “Lady Sophie to see you, Your Grace.”
“Sophie! Thank goodness. These columns have grown quite wearisome today.” Celia, more formally known as the Duchess of Hasterton, rose from behind a desk littered with papers, ink-stained quills, and open ledgers. She rounded the desk while reaching for both of Sophie’s hands. After catching hold of them, she turned and nodded to the butler. “A lovely tea, if you please, Gransdon. Here in the library.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” He excused himself with the barest tip of his head.
“I was so hoping you would come straight away and tell me what happened.” Celia tugged her deeper into the library, leading her to a pair of wingback chairs in front of the hearth. “Was it terribly awful? How was the queen?” Her dark brows arched higher over her ever-widening eyes. “And how is your mother now? Is everything all right? Do tell me all will be well. I am so worried about the both of you, what with those terrible threats.”
Sophie waited for her cherished friend to calm down and allow her to get in a word. She folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head while waiting.
“Sorry,” Celia said. “I am going on a bit. Aren’t I?”
“Just a bit.”
“Shall we need brandy with our tea?” The duchess went to the bookcase behind the desk and opened the cabinet to display several decanters.
“Most definitely.” Sophie sagged into the depths of the sumptuous leather chair and blew out a very unladylike huff. “Queen Charlotte did not receive us at Kew. She met with us at her private cottage.”
“Oh dear.” Celia hurried over with a glass of brandy for each of them, then returned to the cabinet and fetched the decanter, setting it on the low, bandy-legged table in front of them.
Sophie fortified herself with a sip, then unleashed another frustrated huff. “Her Majesty has commanded that I marry Sir Nash Bromley by special license. She has also commanded that the fourth earl be proclaimed dead without an heir, and has sworn to order Prinny to bestow the Rydleshire title upon Sir Nash—thereby giving him all the fruits of Maman’s and my twenty-five years of endeavors.”
“Oh my.” Celia stared at her in open-mouthed dismay, then her astonishment shifted to bewilderment. “Sir Nash Bromley. Why do I know that name?”
“Ten years ago,” Sophie replied. “When I wrote to you about that insufferable cove who refused to acknowledge my existence.”
“Oh dear,” Celia repeated.
“Is that all you can say?Oh my. Oh dear.I came here for your help! How can I avoid marrying that infuriating whore bird?”
