The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(10)

“I’m to believe a girl?”

She ignored the insult in the words, instead meeting his gaze. “How much would it take for you to believe me?”

His brows knit together and he said, more question than statement, “A quid?”

It was an enormous amount, but Sophie understood the power of money and the things it could buy—trust included—better than most. She reached back into her purse and extracted the rest of the money she carried. She didn’t hesitate in paying the boy, knowing she would replenish her stash the moment she returned home.

The boy’s hand curled around the coins tightly, and Sophie knew she’d won. “There is only one other thing,” she said slowly, a little twinge of guilt threading through her.

Her father’s newest and most loyal servant did not hesitate. “Anything you require, my lady.”

“Anything?” she asked, unable to keep the hope from her tone.

He nodded. “Anything.”

She took a deep breath, knowing that once she put this plan into motion, it would be impossible to turn back. Knowing, too, that if she were caught, she would be flatly ruined.

She looked behind her, Liverpool House rising like the gates of hell above the trees. Frustration and sadness and anger warred within her as she remembered the gardens. The party. The greenhouse. Her pig of a brother-in-law. The way all of London rallied in his support. Against her. The way they shunned her. Shamed her.

She had to leave this place. Now. Before they realized how much that shaming stung.

And there was only one way to do it.

She turned back to Matthew. “I require your livery.”

Chapter 3

SOPHIE’S FROCK FOUND!

FOUL PLAY FEARED!

It took longer than it should have for Sophie to realize that the carriage was not headed for Mayfair.

Had she realized this prior to clandestinely squeezing into Matthew’s livery and tucking her hair up under his cap, she might have had the presence of mind to turn back. She most certainly would have taken the calculated risk to sit up on the block next to the coachman instead of refusing his invitation.

Unfortunately, she did not realize it—despite the coachman’s raised brows and skeptical “Suit yourself”—instead taking her place as an outrider at the back of the coach, standing tall on the back step of the coach, clinging tightly, and quite happily, to its handles.

Nor did she realize it when the coach reached the end of the long drive of Liverpool House and turned left instead of right.

Nor did she realize it when the passing landscape became more pastoral. Instead, she took several deep breaths of what her father would call “fine fettled air,” and felt—for the first time since she and her sisters had been packed up and transported to London—rather free.

And decidedly fun.

Take that, odious Royal Rogue.

Thinking of the unknowing Marquess of Eversley, inside the very carriage upon which she stowed away, she laughed. So much for his thinking she wouldn’t get that for which she’d asked. She almost regretted that he wouldn’t know it when she leapt from the carriage and sallied home.

She’d pay good money to see his smug expression turned to shock.

She chuckled to herself, watching blue sky and green farmland pass, dotted with flocks of sheep, copses of trees, and bales of hay. And gloried in the fact that she had escaped without the aid or the attention of the aristocracy. She could never tell anyone this story, sadly. Within moments of her return to the Talbot house on Berkeley Square, she would have to dispose of Matthew’s exceedingly helpful—if ill-fitting—clothing and concoct a new tale of her return. And swear her father’s new young footman to secrecy.

But for now, until the rooftops of London appeared in the distance and reminded her that the afternoon—and her public and no doubt long-term shaming—were inescapable, she would enjoy her triumph.

And she did enjoy it, cheeks aching from the pull of her grin, until she became aware of other aches, in her legs and arms.

At first, she ignored them. She was strong enough to manage for the few miles back to Mayfair. The streets of London would require stops and starts and slow going, and all she had to do was keep her head down and hold fast, and she’d be home within the hour.

And then her feet started in, still in their silken slippers, as Matthew’s boots had been too small for her always-too-long “flippers,” as her father referred to them, refusing to accept the fact that the comparison to water creatures was not at all complimentary.

Silk slippers, it turned out, were not made for outriding.

Nor, it turned out, was Sophie.

Indeed, within half an hour, she was having a difficult time of it, her hands now aching as well, under the too-tight grip she had on the back of the carriage. She hadn’t expected her role as outrider to be quite so taxing.

She gritted her teeth, reminding herself that there were more difficult situations than this one in the world. Men had built bridges. Families had fled to the Colonies. She was daughter to a coal miner. Granddaughter to one.

Sophie Talbot could hang on to a carriage for the two miles it took to get home.

The carriage increased its speed, as though the universe itself had heard her words and desired to underscore her idiocy. She looked down and considered leaping to the ground and walking the rest of the way. Watching the road tear past, she unconsidered it.