A Holiday by Gaslight Read online

  “Oh, do stop going on,” Sophie said, exasperated. “It’s Mr. Sharpe’s office, for heaven’s sake, not a den of waterfront thieves. If I can’t find a carriage, I daresay he’ll see me home himself.”

  Annie stood wide-eyed next to Emily. The young maid had a perpetual expression of pale-faced terror. As if she’d just seen a ghost. Or, far worse, as if she were one step away from being cast off without a reference. “Miss? If Lady Appersett were to find out—”

  “Quite,” Emily said. “I’m going home. I should never have agreed to come. The risk to my reputation—”

  “Yes, yes,” Sophie interrupted. “Go if you must. You need say no more.”

  Emily nodded once. “If Mama asks, I shall tell her you’re visiting Lady Dawlish.”

  The tightness in Sophie’s chest eased a little. Emily was spoiled and selfish, it was true, but she could be rather a good sport on occasion. “See that my sister goes straight home, Annie. No stopping at the shops.”

  “Yes, miss.” Annie hesitated only a moment before following Emily down the steps and back into the carriage.

  The coachman gave the horses the office to start and the carriage set off down Fleet Street. Sophie watched it until it disappeared from sight.

  And then she rang the bell again.

  Visiting a gentleman’s place of business—especially when that gentleman was not related by blood or marriage—was the height of impropriety. The less time she spent lingering on the front steps the better.

  She tucked her hands into her muff and waited.

  And waited.

  At last, the sound of footsteps thumping down the stairs could be heard. The front door rattled as someone disengaged the locks at top, bottom, and center. Sophie’s heart thumped high in her chest, making a creditable effort to leap into her throat. She swallowed hard as the door was flung open, revealing an irritated-looking man with a shock of carroty hair.

  It was Mr. Murray, Mr. Sharpe’s business partner and friend. She’d met him several times before, though never under such dubious circumstances as this.

  “Miss Appersett!” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Good day to you, Mr. Murray. I’ve come to see, Mr. Sharpe. Is he here?”

  “Er…yes. But I don’t think—”

  “May I come in?”

  “That may not be the wisest—” Mr. Murray broke off, appearing to collect himself. “Forgive me. Yes. Do come in, ma’am.” He opened the door wide and took a step back for her to enter, then shut and bolted it behind her. “Is Mr. Sharpe expecting you? He hasn’t mentioned—”

  “I’m not expected.”

  “And you’ve, er, come here alone?”

  “I brought my sister—”

  “Your sister!”

  “And my maid, but they’ve both abandoned me, as you see.” Sophie strived to sound as if she had the matter well in hand. “I saw no reason to insist they stay. The street is deserted. My presence can hardly have been remarked.”

  Mr. Murray’s mouth quirked briefly. “My dear Miss Appersett, I’ve no doubt curtains have been twitching up and down Fleet Street from the moment of your arrival.”

  Sophie suppressed a grimace. This visit—she was beginning to realize—was not one of her better ideas. Quite the reverse, in fact.

  Mr. Murray seemed sympathetic. “Come. I’d best take you to Sharpe.” He gestured for her to precede him up the stairs. The rickety steps creaked under her booted feet. She caught up her heavy skirts in her hands as she climbed, mindful not to crease the fabric.

  She’d dressed carefully for this visit, choosing to wear one of her most elegant afternoon gowns. Only two seasons old, it was made of rich claret-colored silk trimmed in embossed velvet ribbon. It was ridiculously flattering to her complexion and figure.

  And it was as ill-suited to the premises of Sharpe and Murray as a wire crinoline was to a lightning storm.

  She supposed she should feel rather silly to have put so much effort into her appearance. Then again, a lady must always don her strongest armor when going into battle.

  “Forgive the state of things,” Mr. Murray said. “Our clerk doesn’t come in on Wednesdays.”

  An image of Mr. Cratchit, hunched over a tiny desk, entering figures in a ledger by the light of a guttering tallow candle, sprung fully formed into Sophie’s mind.

  Drat Emily for ever mentioning Scrooge and Marley!

  Mr. Murray led her through another door. It opened into a sort of sitting room, equipped with a round table, wooden chairs, and a small stuffed settee positioned in front of a coal fire. There was an open door to the left of it and a closed door to the right. Offices presumably. One of them belonging to Mr. Sharpe.

  “If you’ll wait a moment,” Mr. Murray said, “I’ll tell him that you’re here.”

  Sophie clasped her hands tightly together inside her muff. Doubts, heretofore kept at bay, now assailed her. They were as painfully overwhelming as a sudden shower of hailstones.

  What on earth had possessed her to call on him in this manner? Was it temporary madness of some kind? Or merely desperation? Both, she suspected. Why else would she have embarked on a course of action so careless? So stupid? So unutterably pathetic?

  Mr. Darwin said that a grain in the balance could determine the survival of an organic being. That adaptations in however slight a degree could, ultimately, shift the scales.

  She privately wished Mr. Darwin to Hades.

  Evolution was all well and good for organic beings, but for a young lady, alteration of one’s behavior simply engendered too much risk.

  What if Mr. Sharpe had been telling the truth? What if he really had found their relationship a tiresome charade? The very notion sapped her courage. She did her best to martial it. To focus on the reasons she’d come. If there was a chance she’d been wrong about him—a small possibility that, under different circumstances, they might be friends—surely it was worth the risk to her pride and reputation to find out?

  Wasn’t it?

  Wasn’t it?

  But there was no turning back now.

  Mr. Murray ducked his head in the office door and exchanged a few murmured words with the person within.

  And then Mr. Sharpe was there, his tall, broad-shouldered frame filling the doorway. He fixed her with a cool blue stare, every inch of him more imposing—more unsettlingly masculine—than she remembered.

  “Miss Appersett,” he said.

  “Mr. Sharpe. Good afternoon.”

  He looked at her for several weighted seconds, as if she were some dangerous creature escaped from the Zoological Gardens, and then he moved aside, motioning for her to join him in his office.

  Her skirts brushed against his legs as she passed him. The faint scent of lemon verbena tickled her nose. It was his shaving soap. Either that or the fragrance of his pomade. She’d never been able to tell which. It mingled with the smells of his office: fresh ink and parchment and smoke from the fire.

  He shut the door behind her with a decisive click. “Will you sit down?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” She didn’t feel much like sitting, but had little choice. If she stood, he’d be bound to remain standing as well. Such were the rules of polite society and, up to this point, Mr. Sharpe had followed them to the letter.

  She sank into one of the upholstered chairs opposite his desk, her skirts settling around her in a formidable spill of silk and velvet. His desk was a great wooden affair, well-suited to a gentleman of Mr. Sharpe’s proportions. A barrister’s desk stacked high with papers and topped with a triple inkwell, a blotter, and an oil lamp with a fluted glass shade.

  When Mr. Sharpe resumed his seat behind it, she felt all at once the weakness—the absolute insignificance—of her position. Was this how a person felt when they were petitioning him for a loan or some other favor of busi
ness?

  She reminded herself that she was doing neither. She required no money from him and she wanted no favors. She was simply clarifying her position, awkward as that may be. “Mr. Sharpe. Forgive me for intruding, but—”

  “I hadn’t thought to see you again,” he said abruptly.

  A frisson of anxiety rippled through her veins. His voice was colder than she’d ever heard it. Cold and taut with control. She moistened her lips. “Nor I you.”

  It had been a week since she’d parted ways with him. A week since she’d told him, so emphatically, that they did not suit.

  “And yet…here you are.” His gaze drifted over her face. Cool. Detached. As if he were taking a dispassionate inventory of all of her flaws. “Why are you here, Miss Appersett?”

  She untied her bonnet strings. “To speak with you, obviously.”

  Mr. Sharpe regarded her from beneath lowered brows as she slowly removed her bonnet, her muff, and her gloves. “I haven’t much time to spare you, ma’am. I have a dinner engagement at six.”

  “Do you?” Sophie placed her belongings on the empty chair beside her, unable to conceal a flash of chagrin. Who in the world dined at six?

  “Promptly at six,” he said.

  “Hmm.” She believed him, but only just. “It seems that, when it comes to you, I have uniformly bad timing.”

  “I can’t imagine this will take long.”

  Well, that certainly told her. He expected her to be quick and to the point. Not only did he have better things to do, he had more important people to do them with. More important than her, anyway.

  “You’re not making this easy, Mr. Sharpe.”

  “And what is this, Miss Appersett? Apart from being entirely irregular.”

  Sophie frowned. She’d long desired him to show some emotion, but this wasn’t what she’d had in mind. “I beg your pardon, sir. Are you angry with me?”

  His expression hardened at the very suggestion. “You’ve taken me by surprise, ma’am. And you’ve put me in a devil of a position.”

  “My apologies. I didn’t realize—”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “I believed I was being discreet.”

  “On Fleet Street? In broad daylight?”

  Sophie privately conceded his point. Perhaps she should have worn a veil? She’d considered it, naturally, but when standing in front of the pier glass in her bedroom, it had seemed altogether too dramatic a choice. She hadn’t wanted to look like she was engaging in some pantomime of a Gothic novel.

  “I’ve instructed Murray to call for a hansom to take you home. It should arrive directly. If you have something important to say to me, I suggest you do so within” —he withdrew his pocket watch from his waistcoat and gave it a cursory glance— “the next five minutes.”

  Her frown deepened. “That was my intention.” She certainly hadn’t traveled all the way to Fleet Street to bombard her former beau with garden-variety chitter-chatter. “Although…I’m afraid it’s rather complicated.”

  “Shall I simplify the matter? You’re clearly here as a matter of duty. I might have predicted as much.” His mouth curved into a humorless smile. “You’re nothing if not a dutiful daughter.”

  “I hope I am, sir, but I don’t see—”

  “I gather your parents aren’t pleased that our…association…has come to an end.”

  She didn’t deny it.

  “And they’ve instructed you to repair the breach, have they?” He moved as if to rise.

  Sophie anticipated him, standing in a rustle of starched petticoats. She wasn’t about to let any man loom over her and read her a lecture, least of all Mr. Edward Sharpe.

  “Let me set your mind at ease, ma’am.” He stood to his full and not inconsiderable height. “There’s nothing between us to repair. There never was.”

  She swallowed back an acute spasm of disappointment. “In other words—”

  “In other words, Miss Appersett, I was as amenable to putting an end to our courtship as you were.” He came out from behind his desk, moving as if to escort her to the door. “If you require me to explain such to your parents, I’d be delighted to do so. Now, if you would be so kind as to gather your things—”

  “You’re wrong. My parents didn’t instruct me to make amends with you. Quite the opposite. They may not be happy with my decision to end our courtship, but they fully support it.”

  “Ah.”

  “It’s the truth. Whatever their failings, my mother and father would never force me to marry a gentleman I didn’t like.”

  Mr. Sharpe went still. He gave her a look that was hard to read. “You have me at a disadvantage, ma’am. I don’t recall having asked you to marry me.”

  Sophie blushed to the roots of her hair. She opened her mouth to make a sharp retort, but the words, once summoned, wouldn’t come. Something in his face stopped her. It was just a flicker. She might well have imagined it. Nevertheless…

  She took a step toward him, brows knitting with concern. “I hurt you, didn’t I?”

  He failed to conceal a flinch before turning back to his desk. He straightened a stack of papers that didn’t need straightening. “You assume a great deal.”

  “I didn’t know I had the power to hurt you.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Nothing else could have provoked you to say something so ungentlemanly.”

  “We’re not in a drawing room in Mayfair, Miss Appersett.” He paused before adding gruffly, “But if I’ve offended you, I beg your pardon. Now, if you’ll gather your things. I see no reason to continue—”

  “Please. Please, don’t apologize. I could do with a little plain speaking between us. Indeed, it’s the sole reason I’ve come here.” She took another step in his direction. “You see, Mr. Sharpe…I have a proposition for you.”

  Ned’s gaze jerked to hers. A proposition?

  What the devil?

  His breath stopped at the various implications of her words. None of them were good.

  He wished it were otherwise. That she’d come here for— What? To tell him she was sorry she’d ended their courtship? That she’d made a mistake? Sentimental nonsense. He’d learned long ago that there was no point indulging such thinking. No purpose in sticking his head in the sand. It was better to face reality. Even if that reality was bleak and painful and deeply disappointing. Even if that reality wounded his pride.

  So, Sophia Appersett was as mercenary in her own way as her parents were. As mercenary as she’d accused him of being himself.

  Did she need money? Is that what this was? A ploy to gain some manner of compensation? He hadn’t offered marriage to her, it was true, but that was no reason her father couldn’t threaten a breach of promise suit.

  The very idea made his blood pump hot with outrage. Good God, but he was no untried youth to be manipulated thus.

  “A proposition,” he repeated in a voice of dangerous calm.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Ned’s heart hardened into an unforgiving lump in his chest. “And the terms?”

  Miss Appersett stared at him blankly. And then realization lit in her eyes. She gave a soft huff of annoyance. “Not a business proposition. A proposition about how we might deal better together. What I’m proposing is…honesty.”

  His already heated blood simmered to a boil. “If you’re implying I’ve been anything less—”

  “Perhaps candor would be a better word,” she said hastily.

  He glowered at her. “Go on.”

  “When we met in the park last Monday, I told you we had nothing at all in common. Do you remember?”

  “I’m not likely to forget.”

  “Yes, well, my point is that, upon reflection, I realized I’ve no way of ascertaining the truth of that statement. Not when we’ve never even talked to each othe
r.”

  “We’ve never talked to each other?” He made no effort to conceal his impatience. “And how, pray, have we been communicating these past two months if not by talking? Through smoke signals?”

  “We haven’t talked. Not in any meaningful way. Indeed, I scarcely know a thing about you. Least of all why a gentleman of your disposition should ever wish to court a girl like me.”

  A gentleman of his disposition.

  Was that a carefully coded way of saying that he was crass? Vulgar? Unable to appreciate fine things? He stifled the urge to tell her that even a common working man could recognize quality when he saw it.

  “There’s no great mystery to it,” he said. “You’re a beautiful creature.”

  Miss Appersett’s lips compressed into a thin line. She didn’t look pleased by the compliment. Rather the opposite. She gathered her things from the chair by his desk. “My sister is the acknowledged beauty of the family. Far more beautiful than I.”

  Ned refrained from stating the obvious. There was no comparison. How could there be? Miss Emily was a chit of barely nineteen. A vacuous, overdelicate girl—rather like a hollow porcelain ornament one might place on a mantelshelf.

  Miss Appersett had a delicacy to her countenance as well, but there was nothing anemic about her beauty. There was a depth to her. A certain sensible pragmatism which—on occasion—had given way to a merry laugh or a smile of genuine warmth. He’d never been on the receiving end of such smiles, but until their ill-fated meeting in Hyde Park, he’d had every reason to hope.

  No, Sophia Appersett was no porcelain figure to be placed on a shelf. He’d recognized it from the first moment he saw her. If hardship came, she wouldn’t shatter into a million useless pieces. To the lucky gentleman who won her, she’d be a friend. A partner.

  “Your sister has many admirable qualities, I’m sure,” he said.

  “She’s the belle of Derbyshire.” Miss Appersett tugged on her worn leather gloves. “A beauty of some repute.”

  “Is she indeed.”

  “If that was your only requirement, you would have done better to court her.”

  He gave a derisive snort. “I doubt she’d have had me.”