Just One Season in London by Leigh Michaels Page A

change her clothes seemed to have vanished. “What do you do as a banker, exactly? Do you have to sit and count money all day? How perfectly dull.”
    Wellingham smiled. Under other circumstances, Miranda might have thought it a charming smile, but in her current frame of mind, it appeared more predatory than amused. “Not usually, Miss Ryecroft.”
    â€œDo you ever lose your place when you’re counting and have to begin all over again? I do. Not when I’m counting my pin money, because I haven’t that much. But just yesterday, when I was counting towels for Mama…” Sophie settled herself on a couch. “Do sit down, Mama, so poor Mr. Wellingham can too.”
    â€œWhy are you here, Mr. Wellingham?” Miranda blurted. “What is it you want from us?”
    His face hardened. “I have told you my errand, Lady Ryecroft. I have private business to discuss with Lord Ryecroft, whom I expected to have returned home by now. I am sorry to have troubled you.” He turned to Sophie. “It seems we must discuss my profession at another time, Miss Ryecroft.” He bowed once more and departed, his step firm and unhurried.
    Miranda sank down onto the sofa. Her head was buzzing. Had Rye lost a fortune at the gambling tables while trying to win a stake to take Sophie to London? Would a banker even loan money if it was to settle a debt of honor? And if he did, what would he demand as security?
    Where was Rye? Was he ashamed to tell her what he’d done?
    In the same moment Sophie bounced up again. “Beg pardon, Mama—I’m going to see what’s keeping Carstairs with my tray,” she announced, and before Miranda could draw a breath to scold her, the thoughtless child had gone.
    ***
    As she rounded the corner from drawing room to hallway, Sophie heard the rattle of Wellingham’s curricle pulling away from the manor. Carstairs began to speak, but she raised her finger to her lips, cautioning silence, and slipped past him through the still-open front door.
    She could never catch up with the curricle if she tried to chase it down the drive, but if she took the shortcut to the gate, she might—with luck—get there in time to intercept him.
    She had no idea what she’d do then, but she wanted some answers. What had this stranger said to her mother that had made Lady Ryecroft nearly faint? Why had he avoided a simple question about his reason for coming? What sort of business did he have with the Ryecrofts?
    And why, Sophie asked herself wryly, was there never a horse saddled and waiting by the front door at the moment when she needed one? The boots she wore for riding were not intended for this sort of hurried cross-country walking.
    The carriageway wound and turned for more than a mile from the manor before it reached the gate, but the distance was not nearly so long by the footpath Sophie took. She was panting, however, when she reached the last turn in the carriageway, still several hundred yards from the gate, just as Wellingham’s horses came into view around the last bend.
    She strode out into the center of the path and faced the team, with her head up, shoulders back, and arms outstretched.
    The team came to a gentle halt just a few feet away from her, and he looked down at her from the driving seat with polite inquiry.
    â€œI need to speak with you, sir,” Sophie said. “Kindly come down from there so I do not have to shout.”
    He didn’t move. “The word please would not come amiss.”
    â€œPlease, Mr. Wellingham. I would like to speak with you.” There was the slightest breathlessness in her voice, but that must be from walking so far and so fast.
    â€œTake them, Henry.” His groom climbed down from the back of the curricle to take the horses’ heads, and once they were controlled, Wellingham leaped lightly down from the carriage and came toward Sophie.
    She hadn’t realized how tall he was. Or