The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(9)

She sighed.

The Marquess of Eversley had no idea of how lucky he was to be blessed with the freedom that came with funds and masculinity. She imagined he was already stretched across the seat of that luxurious carriage, the portrait of aristocratic idleness, considering a nap to recover from his exertion earlier in the afternoon.

Lazy and immovable.

She had no doubt that he’d already forgotten her. She didn’t imagine he spared much room for remembering most people—there wasn’t much point, after all, with the constant stream of ladies in his life.

She doubted he even remembered his servants.

Her gaze flickered to the footman, not nearly old enough to be a footman. Likely more of a page. The boy stood on the edge of the stream of carriages, watching as drivers slowly returned to their seats and began to shift and move their charges to release the Eversley conveyance.

Her reticule grew heavy in her hand, its weight the result of the money inside. Never leave the house without enough blunt to win you a fight. Her father’s words had been drilled into the minds of all the Talbot sisters—not that aristocratic ladies often found themselves requiring assistance to escape fisticuffs.

But Sophie was no fool, and she knew that the interaction with Society she’d just had was the closest thing to a fight she was likely to ever experience. She had no doubt that her father would deem the funds in her reticule well spent on escape.

Decision made, she approached the footman.

“Excuse me, sir?”

The servant turned, surprised, no doubt, to find a young lady at his elbow, holding a gentleman’s boot. He bowed quickly. “M-my lady?”

He was as young as he’d looked. Younger than she was. Sophie sent a quick prayer of thanks to her maker. “How long before the carriage is free to leave?” she asked in a tone that she hoped was all casualness.

He seemed grateful for a question he could answer. “No more than a quarter of an hour, my lady.”

She had to work quickly, then. “And tell me, do you work for the marquess?”

He nodded, his gaze flickering to the boot in her hands. “Today.”

She shoved the boot behind her back, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. “Not for long?”

The boy shook his head. “I am headed to a new position. In the North Country.”

A shadow crossed his face—sadness, perhaps. Regret? She grasped at it, an idea forming before she could consider it from all angles. “But you wish to stay in London?”

He seemed to realize then that he absolutely should not be speaking with an aristocratic lady. He lowered his head. “I am pleased to serve the marquess however he requires, my lady.”

She nodded quickly. Underservants were shuttled from one holding to another with unfortunate regularity. She had no doubt that Eversley had never thought twice about the fact that his employees might not wish to be moved about at his whim. He did not seem the type to think of others at all.

And so it was that Sophie felt no guilt whatsoever when she put her plan in motion. “I wonder, though, if you might be willing to serve an earl?”

His wide gaze snapped to hers. “My lady?”

“My father is the Earl of Wight.”

The young man blinked.

“Here. In London.”

The boy seemed confused by the offer and, if she was honest, Sophie was not surprised. It was not every day, she imagined, that pages received employment opportunities at garden parties.

She pressed on. “He began his life in the coalfields. Like his father and his father’s father before him. He’s not an ordinary aristocrat.” Still nothing. Sophie spoke frankly. “He pays servants very well. He’ll pay you double what the marquess pays.” She paused. Increased the offer. “More.”

The boy tilted his head.

“And you can stay in London,” Sophie added.

His brow knit. “Why me?”

She smiled. “What is your name?”

“Matthew, my lady.”

“Well, Matthew, someone’s lucky star should shine today, don’t you think?”

The boy remained skeptical, but she could tell he was considering the offer when he looked over her shoulder to the Marquess of Eversley’s carriage and said, “Double, you say?”

She nodded.

“I’ve ’eard the servants’ quarters at Wight Manor are the nicest in London,” he said, and Sophie knew she had him.

She leaned in. “You can see for yourself. Tonight.”

He narrowed his gaze.

“You come round this afternoon, after the party disbands. Ask to speak to Mr. Grimes—my father’s secretary. Tell him I sent you. I shall vouch for you when you arrive.” She reached into her reticule and extracted a piece of paper and a pencil, and scribbled the direction of her family’s home in Mayfair and a quick note to ensure him entry to the house. She reached back into her purse and pulled out two coins. Handing the coins and the letter to the boy, she added, “That’s two crowns.”

The boy gaped at her. “That’s a month’s worth of blunt!”

She ignored the crass reference to the money. After all, she’d been banking on such crassness. “And my father will pay you more than that. I promise.”

His lips pressed flat together.

“You don’t believe me,” she said.