Page 20 of A Stranger’s Gamble

Chapter Eight

Aunt Maddie’s threat to cancel her plans for the day if Sophie didn’t sit for the fittings Maddie had arranged elicited quick agreement from Sophie. Maddie left with instructions to order anything Sophie liked for lunch—and supper—for Maddie would not return home until late. True to her promise, Sophie endured the fittings, though perhaps with less grace than her aunt would have liked, had she been there. Sophie ate a light supper in anticipation of her night at the oyster cellars and now stood in front of the mirror in her room dressed in her plainest evening gown, a lavender muslin with white satin ribbon.

“If your father finds out you have gone out at night with a gentleman—to a tavern—he will flay us both alive, Miss.” Beatrice stood from her perch on the foot of Sophie’s bed.

Sophie shrugged. Her father was miles away. “He will never know.”

She squinted into the mirror and adjusted her curls. Night had fallen. She had to hurry. In keeping with her charade as a lady’s companion, she would wear Beatrice’s worn brown spencer again—this time, with her permission.

Sophie gave her hair a final pat. “Have you the key to the back door, Bea?”

Beatrice hesitated, then pulled a large brass key from her pocket.

“I could kiss you.” Sophie took the key and tucked it into her reticule.

Beatrice knit her brow with worry. “If you must go, I should go with you, miss.”

Sophie bit back an exclamation. Beatrice standing in the corner of a dark tavern huffing in shock was unthinkable.

“That is impossible. A lady’s companion doesn’t have a companion, now does she? Do not fret. Mr. MacAlister is my escort.”

“You still have your reputation to fret over. You are matched with a marquess, and he will not want a scandalous bride—”

“Bride?” Sophie shuddered. “There is naught to fear on that score, I assure you. Once Father discovers the man is no more interested in me than I am him, it’s back home for us.” She twirled, flaring her dress around her ankles. “Really, you worry far too much. I will return at a decent hour with no one the wiser.” She flashed her most winning smile.

“If your father finds out, he will lock you in your room and dismiss me.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Hush, Beatrice. Now, off you go. It is best you don’t see me sneak away.”

The girl flared her nostrils and, for a gut-wrenching moment, Sophie feared Beatrice would refuse. At last, she turned and walked from the room. No sooner had the door clicked shut, when Sophie tossed her reticule on a nearby chair and shrugged into the spencer. Beatrice was right. Should Sophie’s father ever find out she sneaked out, he would lock her in her room. A sliver of guilt surfaced, and she paused in picking up her reticule. He wouldn’t truly turn out Beatrice. Would he? Nae. She had been with them since Sophie was thirteen. Beatrice was part of the family.

How could Sophie resist the excitement of Town—especially in the company of the tall, handsome Adam MacAlister? Butterflies skittered across the insides of her stomach at the memory of his hard chest when he’d yanked her against him on the street. There was something raw about Mr. MacAlister. Perhaps this was the difference between the refined gentlemen she associated with and the common folk? A strange sense of guilt niggled. Her father wanted to make her a lady, but common folk like her didn’t belong in Polite Society.

Sophie shook off the confusion, eased open the door and stuck her head out into the dimly lit hallway. As expected, empty. She crept from the room and down the servants’ stairs. Heart thudding, she reached the kitchen door, turned the knob, and stepped outside. Stars twinkled in a cloudless sky, and a bright moon cast long shadows over the garden as she continued toward the back gate. No sooner had she clicked the latch behind her and stepped out onto the cobblestoned lane than a shadow peeled itself from the stable wall to her right. She drew a sharp breath.

“Easy, lass.” Mr. MacAlister stepped so close she could feel his heat. “Did I frighten you?”

She heard the amusement in his voice. “You will not talk me out of this night, sir.”

He gave a low laugh. “Perish the thought.”

He winged an elbow. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, and they started down the alley.

When they reached the street, he said, “I feared your mistress would prevent you from coming.”

Sophie shook her head. “Nothing would stop me from this night, least of all Miss Shaw.”

“Is she really so harsh a mistress?” Adam asked.

Something in his tone caught her attention. His voice sounded measured, almost as if his interest was…personal?

Here was her chance to get word to the marquess how difficult a wife Miss Shaw could be. “Indeed, she is. She’s flighty and suffers from headaches. At times, she reminds me of a panicked hen.”

“Typical female,” he said in a near whisper.

“I beg your pardon. Not all women are the same, sir.”

“A woman such as you, perhaps?” he asked.