They quickly helped Lucilla to bed, laying her back on the soft pillows and tucking the covers about her. Once installed, she regained a little colour. She opened her eyes and regarded them ruefully. And sniffed. “This is terrible. I’ve organized it all-there are twenty-seven people on their way here. They’ll all arrive before dinner. And if the rain persists, they’ll need to be entertained for the next two days.”

“Don’t worry about anything,” Horatio said, patting her hand. But even he was frowning as the ordeal before them became clear.

“But you haven’t a hostess.” Lucilla put her handkerchief to her nose, cutting off what sounded like a tearful wail. She blinked rapidly.

Sophie straightened her shoulders. “I’m sure I can manage, with Uncle Horatio and Great Aunt Evangeline behind me. It’s not as if you were not in the house-I can check any details with you. And it’s not as if there were no chaperons. You told me yourself you’ve invited a number of matrons.”

Lucilla’s woeful expression lightened. Her frown turned pensive. “I suppose.” For a moment, all was silent. Then, “Yes,” she finally announced, and nodded. “It just might work. But,” she said, raising rueful eyes to Sophie’s face, “I’m awfully afraid, my dear, that it will be no simple matter.”

Relieved to have averted immediate catastrophe, for if Lucilla broke down, that would certainly follow, Sophie smiled with totally false confidence. “You’ll see, we’ll contrive.”

Those words seemed to have become a catchphrase of her Season, Sophie mused as, an hour later, she sat in the front parlour, off the entrance hall, the guest list in her hand.

After assuring themselves that Lucilla was settled and resigned to her bed, she and Clarissa and Horatio had gone to pay their respects to Aunt Evangeline. It had been years since Sophie had met her ageing relative; the years had not been kind to Aunt Evangeline. She was still ambulatory, but her wits were slowly deserting her. Still, she recognized Horatio, even though she was apparently ineradicably convinced that Clarissa was Lucilla and Sophie her dead mother, Maria. They had given up trying to correct the misapprehension, concentrating instead on explaining their current predicament. Whether or not they had succeeded was moot, but at least Aunt Evangeline had given them a free hand to order things as they wished.

Nevertheless, the prospect of having to keep a weather eye out for an old dear who, so the housekeeper had gently informed them, was full of curiosity and prone to wandering the corridors at all hours draped in shawls that dragged their fringes on the floor, was hardly comforting.

A sound came from outside. Sophie lifted her head, listening intently. The wind was rising, whistling about the eaves. Rain fell steadily, driving in gusts against the windows, masking other sounds. Then came the unmistakable jingle of harness. Sophie rose. The first of her aunt’s guests had arrived. Girding her loins, she tugged the bell-pull and went out into the hall.

From the very first, it was bedlam. The Billinghams-Mrs. Billingham and both of her daughters-were the first to arrive. By the time they had descended from their carriage and negotiated the steps, their carriage dresses were soaked to the knees.

“Oh, how dreadful! Mama, I’m dripping!” The younger Miss Billingham looked positively shocked.

Mrs. Billingham, if anything even damper than her daughters, was not disposed to give comfort. “Indeed, Lucy, I don’t know what you’re complaining about. We’re all wet-and now here’s a to-do with Mrs. Webb ill. I’m not at all sure we shouldn’t turn round and return to town.”

“Oh no, Mama-you couldn’t be so cruel!” The plaintive wail emanated from the elder Miss Billingham.

“Indeed, Mrs. Billingham, there’s really no need.” Smoothly, Sophie cut in, clinging to her usual calm. “Everything’s organized and I’m sure my aunt would not wish you to withdraw purely on account of her indisposition.”

Mrs. Billingham humphed. “Well, I suppose with your uncle present and myself and the other ladies, there’s really no impropriety.”

“I seriously doubt my aunt would ever countenance any,” Sophie replied, her smile a trifle strained.

“We’ll stay at least until the morning.” Mrs. Billingham cast a darkling glance out of the open door. “Perhaps by then the weather will have eased. I’ll make a decision then.”

With that declaration, Mrs. Billingham allowed herself to be shown to her chamber.

Hard on the Billinghams’ heels came Lord Ainsley. His lordship had unwisely driven out in his curricle, and he was soaked to the skin. He tried hard to smile, but his chattering teeth made it difficult.

Sophie was horrified, visions of guests catching their deaths whirling through her mind. Issuing orders left and right-for hot baths and mustard to ward off chills, for the staff to make sure all the fires were blazing-she turned from the sight of Lord Ainsley’s back disappearing up the stairs to behold a bedraggled Lord Annerby on the doorstep.

And so it went, on through the afternoon, while outside a preternatural darkness descended.

Belle Chessington and her equally cheery mother were amongst the last to arrive.

“What a perfectly appalling afternoon,” Mrs. Chessington remarked as she came forward with a smile, hand outstretched.

Sophie heaved an inward sigh of relief. The Marquess of Huntly, another who had unwisely opted to drive himself, was dripping all over the hall flags. Her little speech now well rehearsed, Sophie quickly made Lucilla’s indisposition known, then smoothed away their exclamations with assurances of their welcome. Horatio had retreated to the main parlour to play host to those gentlemen who had already descended, looking for something to warm themselves while they waited for the dinner gong.

The Chessingtons and the marquess took the news in their stride. They were about to head upstairs when a tremendous sneeze had them all turning to the door.

Mr. Somercote stood on the threshold, a pitiful sight with water running in great rivers from his coattails.

“My dear sir!” Belle Chessington swept back along the hall to drag the poor gentleman in.

His place in the doorway was immediately filled by Miss Ellis and her mother, closely followed by Mr. Marston, Lord Swindon and Lord Thurstow. Of them all, only Mr. Marston, clad in a heavy, old-fashioned travelling cloak, was less than drenched. Sophie left the marquess; she tugged the bell-pull twice, vigorously, then hurried forward to help the others out of their soaked coats.

Mentally reviewing the guest list, she thought most had now arrived.

Mr. Marston moved to intercept her, unwrapping his cloak as he came. He was frowning. “What’s this, Miss Winterton? Where is your aunt?”

His question, uttered in a stern and reproving tone, silenced all other conversation. The latest arrivals glanced about, noting Lucilla’s absence. Suppressing a curse, Sophie launched into her explanation. Mr. Marston did not, however, allow her to get to her reassurances. He cut across her smooth delivery to announce, “A sad mischance indeed. Well-there’s nothing for it-we’ll all have to return to town. Can’t possibly impose on the family with your aunt so gravely ill. And, of course, there are the proprieties to consider.”

For an instant, silence held sway. The others all looked to Sophie.

With an effort, Sophie kept her smile in place. “I assure you, Mr. Marston, that my aunt has nothing more than a cold. She would be most unhappy if such a trifling indisposition were to cause the cancellation of this party. And with my great-aunt, my uncle and Mrs. Chessington and the other matrons all present, I really don’t think the proprieties are in any danger of being breached. Now,” she went on, smiling around at the others, “if you would like to retire to your chambers and get dry-”

“You’ll pardon me, Miss Winterton, but I must insist that you fetch your uncle. I cannot be easy in my mind over this most peculiar suggestion that the party proceed as planned.” Supercilious as ever, Phillip Marston drew himself up. “I really must insist that Mr. Webb be consulted at once. It is hardly a minor matter.”

An utterly stunned silence ensued.

It was broken by a stupendous thunderclap-then the night outside lit up. The blaze in the forecourt threw the shadow of a man deep into the hall.

As the brilliance beyond the door died, Sophie, along with everyone else, blinked at the newcomer.

“As usual, Marston, you’re mistaken,” Jack drawled as he strolled forward. “Mrs. Webb’s indisposition undoubtedly is, as Miss Winterton has assured us, entirely minor. Our kind hostess will hardly thank you for making an issue of it.”

A most peculiar frisson frizzled its way along Sophie’s nerves. She could not drag her gaze from the tall figure advancing across the floor towards her. The long folds of his many-caped greatcoat were damp, but it was clear he, alone amongst the gentlemen invited, had been wise enough to come in a closed carriage. Beneath the greatcoat, his dark coat and breeches were dry and, as usual, immaculate.

With his usual grace, he bowed over her hand. “Good evening, Miss Winterton. I trust I see you well?”

Sophie’s mind froze. She had convinced herself he wouldn’t come, that she would never see him again. Instead, here he was, arriving like some god from the darkness outside, sweeping difficulties like Mr. Marston aside. But his expression was impassive; his eyes, as they touched her face, held no particular warmth. Sophie’s heart contracted painfully.

Glancing about, Jack bestowed a charming smile on the other, much damper, guests. “But pray don’t let me detain you from giving succour to these poor unfortunates.” His smile robbed the term of any offence.

Gently, he squeezed Sophie’s hand.

Sophie dragged in a sharp breath. She retrieved her hand and pinned a regal smile to her lips. “If you and Mr. Marston don’t mind, I shall see these others to their rooms.”

Still smiling, Jack politely inclined his head; Phillip Marston hesitated, frowning, then nodded curtly.

Determinedly calm, Sophie moved forward to deal with the last of her aunt’s guests. As she did so, Ned slipped in through the door. He grinned at her. “Shall I shut it? Jack was sure we’d be last.”

Sophie smiled and nodded. “Please.” As she helped Minton ease Lord Thurstow from his sodden coat, she wondered whether Jack Lester had purposely arrived last for greatest effect-or whether his lateness was a reflection of reluctance.

The heavy door clanged shut on the wild night; to Sophie, it’s resounding thud sounded like the knell of an inescapable doom.

CHAPTER TWELVE

SHE BARELY HAD TIME to scramble into an evening gown and brush out her curls before the dinner gong sounded, echoing hollowly through the long corridors. The meal had already been put back twice to accommodate the travellers and their recuperation.

With a last distracted glance at her mirror, Sophie hurried out. The corridor was dark and gloomy, the ubiquitous wood panelling deepening the shadows cast by the candles in the wall sconces. Feet flying over the worn carpet, Sophie turned a corner only to find a cordon, formed by two determined figures, across her path.

Jeremy frowned, threatening sulky. “We can come down to dinner, can’t we, Sophie?”

Sophie blinked.

“It’s not as if we’d cause any ruckus,” George assured her.

“It’s boring here, Sophie. Having dinner with Amy and the twins-well, it’s just not fair.” Jeremy’s jaw jutted pugnaciously.

“It’s not as if we’re children.” George fixed his blue eyes on her face and dared her to contradict him.

Sophie swallowed a groan. With all the trials of the afternoon, and those yet to come, she had precious little patience left to deal with the boys’ prickly pride. But she loved them too well to fob them off. Draping an arm about each, she gave them a quick hug. “Yes, I know, loves-but, you see, we’re a bit rushed this evening, and although the party’s informal, I don’t really think it’s quite the same as when we’re at Webb Park.”

They both turned accusing eyes on her. “I don’t see why not,” Jeremy stated.

“Ah-but if you don’t get an early night, you won’t be up in time to go shooting tomorrow.”

Sophie jumped. The deep, drawling voice brought goose-bumps to her skin. But both boys turned eagerly as Jack strolled out from the shadows.

“Shooting?”

“You mean you’ll take us?”

Jack raised a brow. “I don’t see why not. I was discussing the outing with your father earlier. If the rain eases, we should have tolerable sport.” Jack’s blue gaze flicked to Sophie, then returned to the boys’ glowing faces. “But you’d have to get an early night-and that, I fear, means dining in the nursery. Of course, if that’s beneath you…”