I had better do something about my wardrobe. Everything I had before I went into the army is far too tight.’
‘That’s hardly surprising,’ Martin said laconically. ‘You were little more than a boy when you left and a man when you returned.’ He looked critically at his friend’s large frame. ‘Not a small one, either. Do you wish me to accompany you?’
‘No, of course not, I am perfectly able to choose clothes. I’ll meet you at Jackson’s at four. There will just be time for a short bout before dinner at five.’
Martin laughed. ‘Do you expect to have to fight for your lady’s hand?’
Richard smiled. ‘No, but it is always a good thing to maintain one’s ability to defend oneself.’
‘Oh, come, Dick, you have no enemies, a more affable man I have yet to meet.’
‘It would be a fortunate man who managed to go through life without acquiring a few enemies,’ Richard said.
‘Name me one.’
Richard needed time to consider. He was indeed fortunate that he was popular and well-liked by his peers and the men he had commanded, except for those who had flouted the tight discipline he maintained as an officer. ‘There was Sergeant Dawkins,’ he said, remembering the man he had had courtmar-tialled for looting, something Wellington had expressly forbidden.
The offence had been exacerbated by the fact that the goods the man had stolen had come from a Portuguese family who were allies. His defence, which had not been upheld, was that the family had been consorting with the enemy. The sergeant had been flogged and dishonourably discharged. Left to find his own way home from Lisbon, he had threatened Richard with revenge.
‘That threat was made two years ago and in the heat of the moment,’ Martin said. ‘You surely do not think he meant it?’
‘No, of course not, the poor fellow likely never made it back to England. He probably settled down in the Peninsula with a Spanish señorita. You asked for an example and I gave you one.’
‘Point taken. But I hope you will rid yourself of your aggression and ill humour against Gentleman Jackson in the boxing ring this afternoon and present yourself in my mother’s drawing room at seven this evening, in a sweet temper, ready to act the agreeable.’
‘Have no fear, my friend,’ Richard said, as both men left the table. ‘I shall be a model of the man about town.’
Sophie and Charlotte had arrived at Lady Gosport’s in Denmark Place a few minutes after seven to find her drawing room already buzzing with conversation. Most of the company seemed to be of Lady Fitzpatrick’s generation and Sophie’s spirits sank. This was not her idea of London Society at all. She looked across at Charlotte and exchanged a rueful grimace, before their hostess caught sight of them and hurried over to greet them.
‘Harriet, my dear, so glad you could come.’ She kissed Lady Fitzpatrick on both cheeks and then looked at the girls, taking careful note of Charlotte’s white crepe open gown trimmed with silk forget-me-nots over a pale blue slip, and moving on to examine Sophie’s cambric high gown with its overskirt of pale green jaconet, which her ladyship considered more suitable for day than evening wear. ‘So, these are your charges.’
‘Good evening, Beth.’ She took Charlotte’s arm and drew her forward. ‘May I present Miss Charlotte Roswell. The Earl of Peterborough’s niece. God rest his soul.’
‘Indeed, yes. My commiserations, Miss Roswell.’ Reminded of her superior station by a dig in the ribs from Sophie, Charlotte executed a small polite bob, not the deep curtsy she had intended. ‘Thank you, my lady.’
‘You are fully recovered from your ordeal?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ It was obvious that the girl was painfully shy and would have to be brought out of her shell if she were to take well. Her ladyship turned to Sophie. ‘Then you must be Miss Hundon. Miss Roswell’s companion, I collect.’
‘Oh, no,’ Charlotte put in. ‘Sophie is my cousin and friend, not a paid companion. We share everything.’
‘That is to your credit, my dear,’ Lady Gosport said. ‘But you will find that the possession of an estate and great wealth, as I believe you have, will make your advance in Society very unequal.’ Then to Sophie, ‘I do hope, dear Miss Hundon, you have not been led to expect the same attention as your more illustrious cousin?’
‘No, indeed,’ Sophie said, though she longed to bring the lady down to size with some cutting remark. Only the thought of their masquerade being exposed stilled her tongue.
‘Come, let me introduce you to the company.’ There were a few young ladies present, they realised, as they were conducted round the room, and one or two young men, who stood about posing in tight coats and impossibly high pointed cravats, twirling their quizzing glasses in their hands and speaking in affected voices which made the girls want to laugh aloud. Instead, they bowed politely and exchanged greetings and longed to escape.
‘This is quite dreadful,’ Sophie murmured to her cousin when they had done the rounds. ‘If the whole Season is to be like this, I shudder to think how we shall go on.’
‘It is early in the year,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘The Season is not yet under way.’
‘I hope you are right.’
Just then a commotion by the door heralded the arrival of latecomers. ‘Why, it is Martin,’ Lady Gosport cried, hurrying over to drag her son into the room. ‘You are very late. I had quite given you up.’
He gently removed her hand from the sleeve of his green superfine coat and smiled at her. ‘I am sorry, Mama. Pressing business delayed me. May I present my friend, Richard, Viscount Braybrooke?’
The man behind Mr Gosport stepped forward and the whole roomful of people gave a combined sigh, including Sophie, who had told herself she was immune to masculine vanity. If vanity it was. He seemed unaware of the impression he had created, and yet, as she looked more closely she realised he did know, for there was a twinkle of amusement in his brown eyes and a slight twitch to the corners of his mouth.
He was clad in a blue satin coat which fitted him so closely the muscles of his broad shoulders could be detected as he bowed over her ladyship’s hand. His waistcoat was of cream figured brocade and his blue kerseymere trousers, in the latest fashion, reached his shoes and were held down by straps under the instep, making his legs seem impossibly long. His cravat, though nothing like as high and pointed as those she had noticed on the other young men, was so skilfully tied, it drew exclamations of admiration from them.
His dark hair, cut short so that it curled about his ears, was the only slightly dishevelled part of him, but Sophie knew it was a style much favoured among the gentleman of the ton, called Windswept. Here was a tulip of the first order, and tulips were very definitely not what she was looking for, but beneath all that finery she sensed a man of great strength and power. She had a sudden vision of him unclothed, all rippling muscle, and a flood of colour suffused her cheeks.
She turned away to scrabble in her reticule for a handkerchief in order to compose herself. Whatever was the matter with her? She had never ever thought about a man’s nakedness before. Had he deliberately set out to have that effect? It was disgraceful in him if he had and even more disgraceful in her to succumb.
Charlotte, beside her, was openly staring. ‘My, would you look at that peacock,’ she murmured. ‘Oh, goodness, Lady Fitzpatrick is bringing them both over.’
Sophie, struggling to regain her usual serenity, was aware of Lady Fitzpatrick presenting the two men to her cousin. ‘Miss Roswell is the niece and ward of the late Earl of Peterborough,’ she was saying. ‘Being abroad, you will not have heard of the tragedy two years ago which left poor Miss Roswell all alone in the world.’
‘Not quite alone,’ Charlotte said, determined to include Sophie, not only because she felt overwhelmed, but because it wasn’t fair on her cousin to shut her out, as Lady Gosport seemed