Lady Sophia's Lover (Bow Street Runners #2)(52)

The series of rooms beyond the drawing room were filled with guests who played cards or billiards, drank champagne, and partook of small delicacies such as oyster pate, lobster tarts, and cakes soaked in rum. Thinking of the meal to come, Sophia decided to return to the kitchen and make certain that everything was going according to schedule. Discreetly she slipped outside to a walk that skirted the side of the house. The night air was cool and springlike, and she sighed in relief, pulling at the snug collar of her dark gown.

Passing an open conservatory lined with columns, Sophia was surprised to note that it was occupied by the elderly Mr. Cannon, positioned in his wheeled chair to view the ball through a large window. A footman waited nearby, evidently having been recruited to attend the crusty old gentleman.

Sophia approached him with a hesitant smile. “Good evening, Mr. Cannon. May I ask why you are sitting out here alone?”

“Too much noise and bother in there,” he replied. “Moreover, the fireworks will start at midnight, and this is the best place from which to view them.” He eyed her speculatively. “In fact, you shall watch them with me.” Turning to the footman, he said brusquely, “Go fetch some champagne. Two glasses.”

“Sir,” Sophia said, “I’m afraid I cannot—”

“Yes, I know. You have responsibilities. But this is my birthday, and therefore I must be humored.”

Sophia smiled wryly as she sat on the stone bench beside his chair. “If I am seen drinking champagne and watching fireworks with you, I will probably be dismissed.”

“Then I will hire you as my companion.”

Still smiling, Sophia folded her hands in her lap. “Are you not going to wear a mask, sir?”

“Why would I wear a mask? I’m hardly going to deceive anyone, sitting in this contraption.” Viewing the dancers through the window, Cannon snorted derisively. “I didn’t like masked balls when they were in fashion forty years ago, and I like them even less now.”

“I wish I had a mask,” she mused with a thoughtful smile. “I could do or say whatever I liked, and no one would know me.”

The old gentleman’s gaze moved over her. “Why are you wearing plain broadcloth on such an evening?” he asked abruptly.

“There is no need for me to wear a fine gown.”

He made a scoffing sound. “Nonsense. Even Mrs. Bridgewell wore a good black satin on special occasions.”

“I have no gowns more elegant than this, sir.”

“Why not? Isn’t my grandson providing a decent salary?”

Their conversation was interrupted as the footman reappeared with a tray of champagne. “Ah, good,” Cannon said. “Is that the Rheims? Leave the bottle here, and go be of use to someone inside. Miss Sydney will keep me company.”

The footman complied with a submissive bow. Sophia accepted the glass of champagne from Mr. Cannon, holding it by the stem and regarding the light amber liquid curiously.

“Have you drunk champagne before?” the old man asked.

“Once,” Sophia admitted. “When I lived with my cousin in Shropshire, a neighbor gave me a bottle of champagne that was not quite finished. It had gone flat by then, and I was disappointed by the taste. I expected it to be sweet.”

“This is French champagne—you will like it. See how the bubbles rise in vertical lines? That is the sign of a good vintage.”

Sophia brought the shallow glass to her face and enjoyed the cool, tickling sensation as the bubbles burst near her nose. “What makes it sparkle?” she asked almost dreamily. “It must be magic.”

“Actually, it is a process of double fermentation,” he informed her, his tone so flat and dry that he reminded her of Ross. “The ‘devil’s wine,’ it is called, because of its explosive nature.”

Sophia took an experimental sip of the dry, effervescent vintage and wrinkled her nose. “I still don’t like it,” she said, and the old man chuckled.

“Try it again. You will acquire the taste for it eventually.”

Although she was tempted to point out that she would never have the opportunity to acquire such a taste, Sophia nodded obediently and drank. “I like the shape of the glass,” she commented while the champagne trickled down her throat.

“Do you?” A mischievous sparkle entered his eyes. “That style is called the coupe. It was modeled after Marie Antoinette’s breast.”

Sophia gave him a reproving glance. “You are wicked, Mr. Cannon,” she said, and he cackled in delight.

A new voice entered the conversation. “It was not modeled after Marie Antoinette’s breast. Grandfather is trying to shock you.” The speaker was Ross, austerely handsome in his evening clothes, a black mask dangling in his fingers. His teeth flashed in a smile so easy and charming that Sophia’s breath caught. There was no man who could equal him tonight, no one who possessed his mixture of elegance and rugged masculinity.

Trying to conceal her reaction to him, Sophia took a deep swallow of cold champagne, and choked on the icy burn. “Good evening, Sir Ross,” she said hoarsely, her eyes watering. She stood awkwardly, looking for a place to deposit her half-filled glass.

“Well, Grandfather,” Ross continued, “I should have known you would be doing your best to corrupt Miss Sydney.”

“I would hardly call a good bottle of Rheims corruption,” Cannon replied defensively. “Why, it is a health tonic! As the French say, champagne is the universal medicine.”