One couple pranced down between the lines, while the dancers who formed those lines clapped vigorously in time to the music. It all looked very jolly. Sophia found that one of her feet was tapping out the rhythm.
It was not easy to see Viscount Darleigh, but it was very obvious that he had arrived. There was a particularly dense crowd of people just to the left of the door, mostly ladies, all focused happily upon someone who was lost in their midst. Sir Clarence was one of the few gentlemen there, and both Aunt Martha and Henrietta were doing their share of fawning. Who else would they be fawning over than the viscount? And she was quite right. After Sophia had been watching for several minutes, the set of country dances came to an end, the dancers drifted off the floor, the dense cluster by the door opened as if it were yet another door, and Henrietta emerged triumphant, on the arm of Viscount Darleigh, whom she proceeded to maneuver in a promenade about the perimeter of the assembly room.
Henrietta was looking resplendent in another of her London ball gowns.
The dancing resumed, a set of more stately dances this time, and Henrietta and the viscount promenaded until their steps brought them to the door and they disappeared through it. Since everyone, with the possible exception of the dancers, had had their eyes riveted upon Viscount Darleigh since his arrival, and no one could fail to follow the progress of Henrietta’s shimmering ball gown, their exit was hardly discreet.
Sophia lifted one hand to her mouth and bit the knuckle of her forefinger. There must be a number of other people outside the inn. There had been when she arrived, and people had been coming and going ever since. As Aunt Martha had predicted, the assembly rooms were stuffy. There was nothing improper about their being out there. But between them, Aunt Martha and Sir Clarence on the inside and Henrietta on the outside would find a way of making it seem improper. There could be little doubt about that.
Sophia sat where she was and gnawed on her knuckle for ten minutes before doing anything. It was still not too, too long for a couple to be absent from the room. Except that everyone was almost openly watching for their reappearance, and Sir Clarence and Aunt Martha were talking to people they must have deigned worthy of their notice, and all turned to watch the doorway. They were undoubtedly fanning the flames of speculation.
Sophia got to her feet and slipped outside. As she went, she picked up a woolen shawl from the back of a chair. She had no idea whose it was and hoped the owner would not dash after her yelling stop, thief, or something equally alarming. It was unlikely, though. It was unlikely anyone had noticed her leave the room—or even noticed her in the room, for that matter.
There was no sign of Henrietta and Lord Darleigh among the small clusters of people standing outside. A few couples were strolling farther along the street, where they were in full view from the inn, but the two people she was looking for were not among them. Where would Henrietta have taken him to be more private, and therefore more indiscreet?
Fortunately, Sophia’s first guess was the right one. They were strolling along the back alley behind the buildings on the main street, walking on the grassy verge to avoid the deep ruts made by carts along the middle. She could hear Henrietta’s trilling laugh as she hurried up behind them, and the low voice of the viscount.
“Oh, Henrietta,” Sophia called as she drew close, “you forgot your shawl.”
The two of them turned, and even in the faint light of the moon and stars Sophia could see that Henrietta’s eyes were wide with shock and … fury. Viscount Darleigh’s eyebrows were raised.
“I forgot no such thing,” Henrietta said as Sophia held the shawl aloft and waved it in one hand. “And that is not even mine. Take it back to the inn immediately before its owner misses it.”
The viscount had cocked his head to one side.
“You are the lady from last evening,” he said. “The one who fetched Miss March’s music from upstairs. I am sorry—I do not know your name.”
“Sophia Fry,” she said.
“Miss Fry.” He smiled—and, oh, in the near darkness she would swear he was gazing right back into her eyes. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance. How kind of you to bring Miss March’s shawl, even if it has turned out to be the wrong one. I have been concerned that she might be chilly. She has denied it, but I do believe she is merely being polite, since I agreed that a breath of fresh air would be very welcome. I must return her—and you—to the assembly rooms without further delay.”
And he held out his other arm for Sophia to take.
She gazed at it in wonder and astonishment. And she looked at Henrietta, whose eyes were positively burning with fury and hate.
“I would far prefer to remain out here where it is cool and peaceful,” Henrietta said, her voice sweet and quite at variance with her facial expression. “Do let us continue, my lord.”
“By all means, if it is your wish,” he said. “Miss Fry, will you walk with us?”
He was still offering his arm.
It was the last thing Sophia wanted to do. Henrietta would slay her. More important, Sophia found him beautiful to behold from afar but almost impossibly intimidating from close to. But she had come outside to prevent the jaws of the trap from snapping shut.
She took a few steps toward him and slid her hand through his arm. And—oh, goodness—he was all warmth and solidity, and he smelled of some lovely musky and very male cologne. Sophia had never been more uncomfortable in her whole life. It felt as if the very air had been sucked out of the alley.