A Holiday by Gaslight(2)

“As you say.” Mr. Sharpe withdrew his gold pocket watch from his waistcoat to look at the time. It was a singularly dismissive gesture.

Sophie stopped. The chill breeze rustled her heavy woolen skirts around her legs. “Am I keeping you from an appointment, sir?”

He stopped as well, turning to face her. His expression remained unreadable, but she detected a slight hardening along the firm line of his jaw. As if he were irritated—or even angry. “You are, Miss Appersett.”

An embarrassed flush crept into her cheeks. Here she was attempting to sever their relationship in the most delicate manner possible, and all he could think about was his next meeting! He didn’t even care. The past two months had been as nothing to him. It was what she’d always suspected, but still…

It hurt. She had so wanted him to like her.

She clenched her fingers within the confines of her muff. “I will not detain you. If all is settled between us—”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “We don’t suit.”

“Then you agree—”

“Perfectly. There’s no reason to continue this charade.”

Sophie inwardly winced. A charade? Is that what he thought of their courtship? How utterly lowering. “No reason at all.” She withdrew her hand from her muff and extended it to him. “I wish you well, Mr. Sharpe.”

Mr. Sharpe’s gaze dropped to her outstretched hand. It was encased in a red kid glove, slightly worn at the thumb. After a moment of hesitation, his much larger hand engulfed hers, clasping it just a heartbeat longer than was strictly necessary. “And I you, Miss Appersett,” he said.

And then he let her go.




Ned threw his hat and gloves onto the upholstered settee in his office with such force that his tall beaver hat ricocheted against the cushions and onto the floor. He didn’t pick it up. Instead, he raked both hands through his hair until it stood half on end. He had a cowlick near his forehead, an infuriating feature which made his thick black locks impossible to tame. Even a liberal application of Macassar oil couldn’t civilize them for long.

Well, there was no more point in civilizing his hair, nor in civilizing himself. Miss Appersett was gone from his life. Their courtship was over. And any hopes of something more were at an end.

After a long moment, he shrugged off his topcoat and tossed it over a chair. His frock coat followed. He rolled up his shirtsleeves as he made his way to the enormous mahogany barrister’s desk by the window. Stacks of carefully organized papers covered the surface, a marble paperweight securing the financial statements he’d been perusing when Miss Appersett’s note had arrived. The note itself was folded inside an inner pocket of his coat, the scrawled words emblazoned on his brain.

Dear Mr. Sharpe,

Will you do me the courtesy of meeting me at the entrance to Hyde Park at 10 o’clock? There is something of importance I need to discuss with you.

Sincerely,

S.A.

God knows what he’d expected to happen. This entire affair had been the equivalent of walking blindfolded along a cliff’s edge. The only way he’d managed to navigate was by going at a snail’s pace. Even then, he’d often hemmed and halted and hesitated—never knowing when he might put a foot wrong and plummet straight down over the side.

Courtship among the upper classes was a delicate business governed by more rules than a Chancery suit. He’d been completely out of his depth, forced to rely on the rather vague advice administered in the Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette.

Rule No. 1: When you see a lady who impresses you favorably, do not be in any rash haste to make advances.

“What bollocks,” he muttered.

It would have been so much easier if Miss Appersett had asked him for money or a gift of some sort. He’d have happily given her anything she wanted. He’d already spent a small fortune on her engagement ring. It was a flawless brilliant-cut diamond, presently residing in the bottommost drawer of his desk. He’d intended to give it to her next month. Her parents had invited him to their Derbyshire estate for the Christmas holiday. Sir William and Lady Appersett had made no secret that they expected him to propose marriage to their daughter during his stay.

Not that he’d felt obligated in any way. If he’d wanted to put an end to his relationship with Miss Appersett, he’d have done so without hesitation. But he hadn’t wanted to end things. He’d been besotted with Sophia Appersett since almost the first moment he laid eyes on her.

It had been mid-June at the opening of the new Horticultural Gardens at South Kensington. Prince Albert himself had been presiding over the occasion. Ned saw Miss Appersett standing with another lady on the terrace at the top of the arcade. He passed behind them along the rock asphalt promenade.

“Mr. Sharpe! Is that you?”

He stopped to respond, recognizing the lady as the wife of Vincent Carstairs, heir to the Carstairs shipping fortune. Vincent was a casual acquaintance of his. A man who, like Ned, was not strictly a gentleman, but had earned a measure of acceptance in polite society by virtue of his good looks, good manners, and sizeable bank balance. And, of course, it didn’t hurt that Vincent had managed to marry the daughter of a viscount.

Ned greeted her with civility, if not warmth. “Mrs. Carstairs.”

She motioned to her companion. “Allow me to introduce my friend, Miss Sophia Appersett.”