can follow his retinue, it will be safer.’ Why the King, who had only just returned to Paris after years of exile, should decide to leave it again so soon was a mystery to Sophie.
Trailing behind the new king was an exhausting business. Sometimes they travelled at breakneck speed because his aides feared ambush, sometimes they crawled because his Majesty was tired and wished to sleep, so that his coach crawled along. In Calais they had to wait about while the packet carrying the royal party set sail and then negotiate a passage on the next one. It was not until they were halfway across the Channel on The Sea Maid that Sophie began to wonder what lay ahead of her in England.
Would the Duke acknowledge her? Would his wife welcome her? There would be children and grandchildren, other cousins surely? Lying on her bunk while the ship tossed about on the rough sea of the Channel, she wondered what he would be like. Fat or thin? Proud or jovial? And his home? Her mother, in one of her rare moments of nostalgia, had said Dersingham Park in Suffolk was a huge palace with hundreds of rooms and extensive grounds, but in late April the Duke would no doubt be at his London mansion in South Audley Street. Unless, of course, he was too old to indulge in the Season’s amusements and preferred to remain in the country all the year round. Then perhaps his sons and daughters would have come to London for the Season and what would they make of her, the poor relation?
All this conjecture only served to show her how little she knew of the family and how foolish she was to expect anything from them. She was beginning to regret the letter she had sent introducing herself. She had not exactly thrown herself on his Grace’s mercy, but had told him she was alone and returning to England and would like to call on him. Had it sounded like begging? Or too proud? Tossing and turning, as the vessel tossed and turned, she could find no rest and wished herself at the bottom of the sea, a wish she expected to be granted at any moment. But she slept at last; when she woke, the sea was calm and so was she. Whatever lay ahead she would meet head-on. Her pride would sustain her.
‘Harri, do I know anyone called Sophia Langford?’ James asked his sister.
‘My dear man, you surely do not expect me to remember the names of all your little bits of muslin? They change almost daily. Why do you ask? Is some young lady importuning you? Oh, you haven’t landed yourself in a coil, have you?’
‘No, certainly not. Credit me with a little discretion, I beg you. And do you suppose I would forget the name of any lady with whom I choose to spend my time?’
James Dersingham, fifth Duke of Belfont, was neither old nor married. Yet. But when a Duke is single and very wealthy, he is bound to attract the attention of mamas with marriageable daughters; if he is also young and handsome, those same mamas will eagerly fall over themselves to make sure their daughters are noticed. He would have to be made of stone not to be flattered. This particular Duke had a string of hopeful would-be brides hanging on his every word and gesture, and it mattered not one jot that he had the reputation of being something of a rake. Money and an elevated position in society would more than compensate for that. But he was becoming very bored with it all.
‘Then why did you ask?’
‘This Sophia Langford claims to be kin. And you may be right about her importuning. I have a letter here in which she says her mother died two years ago and now her father has died too and left her without support. She is lodging with a friend of her mother’s in Naples, but she cannot continue to impose on her good will. I gather she thinks I should make myself responsible for her.’
‘Langford,’ Harriet said thoughtfully. ‘Didn’t Papa have a niece who married a Langford?’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes, now I come to think of it, he did. Do you remember Uncle Robert? He was Papa’s older brother and would have inherited if he had not died so young. He had a daughter, Louise—I think it was Louise—who married Lord Langford. He was a gambler and a wastrel and the family refused to acknowledge him. I think he ruined them and they went to live abroad.’
Lady Harriet Harley, at thirty-six, was two years older than her brother and, since the death of their mother when they were both young, had been his mentor and confidante, which continued even after her marriage to Sir Granville Harley. Their father, the fourth Duke, had died the year before and James had inherited a vast fortune, several properties and the responsibility that went with them, much sooner than he had expected to; he was finding it hard work. It was doubly so at this time because he was on the Regent’s staff, one of those responsible for his security, and, what with the celebrations attached to the victory over Napoleon and his Highness’s unpopularity, he was expected to be everywhere at once. The last thing he wanted was the added responsibility of a child. ‘That accounts for the letter coming from Italy. But what can I do about it? I am a bachelor. I don’t know anything about children…’
Harriet tilted her head on one side and smiled half-mockingly at her brother. ‘If you found yourself a wife, you might soon learn…’
He gave a bark of a laugh. Harriet was always urging him to settle down and marry, but he had never yet met a woman who came anywhere near his exacting standards. Either they were too young and foolish, too serious and stiff-rumped or too old and ugly. Besides, he was too busy and, when he wasn’t busy, was amusing himself with young ladybirds who had no ambition to be duchesses, which relieved him of the problem of having to think about it. ‘That has nothing to do with this.’ He tapped the letter in his hand. ‘I can’t have her here. And how can I be sure she is who she says she is? She might be an impostor.’
‘I have no doubt we could soon establish her credentials with a few pertinent questions.’
‘We?’
‘Of course we. As you so correctly pointed out, you are a bachelor. I could not leave the matter to you, could I? You would frighten the poor thing to death. And, I confess, I am curious. When is she arriving?’
Her referred again to the letter. ‘She doesn’t say, which only goes to prove how empty-headed she is. Does she suppose I will sit at home and wait for her arrival?’
‘No doubt she is waiting for you to reply and invite her to stay.’
‘And you think I should?’
‘James, she has lost her parents. She is alone and probably very frightened. You would give a stray puppy a home under such circumstances, so why not a child? Why, Dersingham Park is so big, you would not even notice she was there.’
This was true, but he was still reluctant. He could foresee all manner of problems. What did a girl brought up in Italy know of English life? Was he expected to provide her with a maid, a companion, a school mistress and a school room to put her in? Would he have to entertain her? Did she know how to behave in polite society? And, in the fullness of time, would he have to give her a come-out and a dowry? It was all beyond him. It was not the cost—he could bear that and not even notice it—it was the responsibility. Oh, he knew he would have to put his mind to such things when he married and had children of his own, but other people’s? Besides, he had no intention of marrying until he was good and ready, and a little waif was not going to make him change his mind about that, whatever Harriet said.
On the other hand, if she really was a relation and in dire straits… James Dersingham, fifth Duke of Belfont, man of the world, reputed rake and steadfastly single, had a compassionate heart and could readily imagine what it must be like to be alone and unprotected. He smiled at his sister; it was a smile that transformed his rather austere countenance. His grey-blue eyes twinkled and his firm mouth curved into a smile, so that his whole face lightened. ‘Very well, but you write to her. It would be much better coming from you.’ Which was a statement with
