12th March 1821
Dearest Sophie,
Alexander and I were most concerned to receive your letter detailing your current situation and plan to be in Paris within the sennight.
In the meantime, I urge you to remain where you are in as quiet a fashion as possible, for the viscount intends to call on Lord Rotherby, without delay.
Your loving sister,
Phoebe
Viscountess Damerel
Sophie eyed the second letter with misgiving, her mind in a new whirl. It was short but to the point, with several large blots conveying her sister’s anxiety better than all the words in the world. And while she’d half expected Thomas’s indifference so long as the Fairfax name was not sullied, she knew Viscount Damerel would not suffer from the same shortcomings. He took his position as new brother to the Fairfax brood very seriously, meaning there was every chance he would call Rotherby out for his behaviour.
Sophie pictured her sister’s husband measuring his paces before facing Lord Rotherby’s deadly pistols, and closed her eyes briefly. It would be a more even match than Thomas or Fred– if Fred ever challenged anyone to a duel– but hadn’t Lord Rotherby said he never missed?
And if Rotherbydidlose, what then? The viscount would be forced into exile for killing a gentleman, and Phoebe would never talk to her as long as she lived.Sophie swallowed as she drew the last letter forwards, conscious this was no longer about protecting her honour as much as protecting her family from ripples of her scandal.
Inhaling deeply, she broke open the last letter and laid the single page on the table in front of her.
Paris
16th March 1821
Dear Miss Fairfax,
Please forgive the direct nature of this letter. I am only emboldened to write by what I perceive to be the nature of your current predicament. If I have misunderstood in any way, please burn this missive and think not on it again.
As I understand it, the engagement between yourself and Lord Rotherby does not have your consent, and you are therefore labouring under the heaviest obligation. I would not usually presume to involve myself in such private matters, but I am convinced I know the true nature of the gentleman to whom you find yourself committed, and it is with no small amount of imperative that I say I empathise wholly with your caution.
I share neither Lord Rotherby’s income nor his luxurious style, but I can offer you protection from his unwanted attentions if you agree to be my wife. Once wed, I would propose travelling on to Venice for a suitable time, before a quiet return to England when the opportunity arises.
Should this proposition be of interest and comfort to you, please let me know without delay, and I will make the necessary arrangements.
Your most faithful servant,
George.
Sir George Weston
Sophie stared in silent shock at Sir Weston’s neatly penned letter, each word as carefully turned out as his person. It was the most correct offer of marriage she’d ever received, and one that undoubtedly sprang from the greatest consideration too, so why did it make her feel so very wretched?
She closed her eyes wearily and pictured the perfect Sir Weston, in his perfect morning suit, eating his perfect breakfast, before penning his perfect letter. It was a picture she’d daydreamed about before Josephine started to wax lyrical about him, but now it was accompanied by such discomfort.
She frowned, barely understanding herself.
‘Weston is not all he appears to be. You must accept my word that this is truth.’
And yet Sir Weston seemed equally as determined to convince her of Rotherby’s villainy too.
Why did two gentlemen, who shared a blood tie, detest each other so vehemently? Could their relationship have anything to do with it?
Sophie stared at Sir Weston’s offer, imagining Lord Rotherby’s reaction, and a strange heaviness crept into the pit of her stomach. He seemed to dislike him so much, and yet he was complex and unpredictable too.
She paused to recall the moment Rotherby had described his father’s treatment of his mother and unborn sister, and swallowed. His childhood had been so unlike her own, that she was no longer surprised he considered himself heartless. How could anyone wish to have one after such an ordeal? And yet… She flushed, recalling his kiss in the Tuileries gardens. It was the kind of kiss that belonged to a real flesh and blood hero, not a heartless rake with a dark past.
‘I left London because I was falsely accused of villainous behaviour that I will disprove. You must accept my word that this is truth.’
