Page 6 of A Stranger’s Gamble

Her father stared into the fire. “I fear Sophie’s marriage to that ne’er do well has wounded her.”

Wounded her? Her heart softened. What made her father think she was wounded? Women had a right not to want to marry. Why should she give up her freedom a second time?

“Shall was toast the future Marchioness of Monthemer?” Lord Blair asked.

Her father nodded and lifted his glass. “The Marchioness Monthemer.”

He and Lord Blair clinked glasses, then drank.

Sophie resisted the urge to burst into the room and vow she would marry no one, marquess or not. Instead, she eased the door closed. With measured steps, she headed down the hall then up the stairs to her room where she sat on the bed, hands on her lap. She imagined a doddering man in at least his late sixties who wanted a pretty young wife to remind him he was still a virile man. She’d seen such unions often enough to know the old men made prisoners of their young wives, who they feared—and with good reason—would take lovers.

How hard could it be to avoid an ancient marquess? She would attend parties in the oyster cellars, receive ball invitations, and go riding in the country. She longed for the general hustle and bustle of the city. Matthew had claimed he hated the big city, but Sophie had deduced that he didn’t want to compete with the more sophisticated men in places like Edinburgh. Byron’s lost cousin, they called him, and some still insisted that he’d died too young. She wouldn’t mind getting away from the talk of her poisoning her husband. Worse than the gossip, were the men who thought they would bed a wealthy widow in hopes of charming her—or perhaps forcing her—into marriage. These days, she couldn’t attend even a simple soiree without a gentleman—no, they weren’t gentlemen—trying to seduce her.

Sophie thought back to the last time she’d been in Edinburgh. Her father used to take her and her mother every year in the autumn. She’d been twelve and had spent many of the days with her best friend Imogen Rose. When Sophie’s mother died, they hadn’t gone again to Edinburgh, and Imogen’s new stepfather had shipped her off to France to attend school. Imogen had written three times, then the letters stopped. Sophie had been hurt at first but, as she grew up, she realized people simply went on with their lives.

A murmur of voices in the front drive below her window drew her attention. She rose and crossed to the bay window, then sank onto the seat. Below, Lord Blair spoke with her father beside the earls’ crest-emblazoned carriage. Her father had taught her that a wise person always made a deal that put him—or her—in a better position than the one in which they currently resided. A husband was definitely a step down from her current situation.

She eyed the splendid bays harnessed to the carriage. She would insist that her father allow her to take her fine dappled mare Ophelia to Edinburgh. She smiled at the thought of cantering across the countryside surrounding the city. She would have a grand time in Town—then inform her father she wanted no part of his scheme.

Worry niggled. What if he insisted she marry the marquess? Widows usually enjoyed more freedom than an unmarried miss. She and Matthew had been almost completely dependent upon her father. Then, when Matthew died, her father had gotten their marriage annulled. He had said the annulment was to free her from Matthew’s cloying family, but they were little more than an occasional nuisance. Sophie had the suspicion her father had gotten the annulment because he felt guilty that he hadn’t been able to prevent the marriage. If Matthew had of turned out to be a better husband, her father would no doubt have accepted that she was happy. But she hadn’t been happy. Father would have taken care of her not matter what, but his overindulgence to Matthew’s demands meant she had never truly left her father’s protection. Did that mean he had the right to dictate who she married?

The two men shook hands, then Lord Blair vaulted into the carriage and pulled the door shut. A flash of sunlight caught the polished brass trim of the carriage as it lurched forward and started down the drive. She watched as the coach grew smaller. Why was Lord Blair matchmaking? He was a friend of her father’s, but not a close friend. She wasn’t aware they had conducted business together. Had this Marquess of Monthemer engaged Lord Blair to facilitate a marriage for him? Usually, attorneys facilitated marriage contracts. The carriage disappeared around a stand of trees.

“Is it true, Miss Sophie?”

Sophie shifted to face her lady’s companion and good friend Beatrice. She hovered near the door.

“Beatrice, I swear, I have told you a thousand times not to do that.” The woman made as much noise as a cat stalking prey.

“Are you to be married?” Worry lines etched deeper than usual between Beatrice’s brows.

Sophie grimaced. “Good Lord, news travels faster in this house than does a wildfire.” She waved a hand. “’Tis nothing to fret about. I will…”

An idea—a wild idea—struck. She and Beatrice shared the same build, height, and hair color. Sophie had met her Aunt Maddie as a toddler, so the woman didn’t actually know her.

Sophie grinned. “Bea, you are coming with me to Edinburgh.”

Beatrice’s scowl deepened.

“Sophie?” Her father’s voice rang in the hall. “Come to the study, lass. At once.”

The plan would work. All she had to do was fool an old woman who had never met her and talk their faithful driver into keeping quiet. The latter would prove easy. The old driver was already an accomplice to other schemes.