Page 6 of Dukes for Dessert

“No wish to cause a scandal?” Uncle Lucas asked Mr. Fleming in surprise. Uncle took a hearty bite of his eggs and toast, which made Mr. Fleming go a bit green. “You mean one different from the others you’ve caused in your lifetime?”

“Miss Tierney is unchaperoned.” Mr. Fleming’s admonition, like a maiden aunt’s, was so out of place that Sophie’s amusement grew.

“I am her chaperone,” Uncle Lucas said emphatically. “Besides, she’s a married woman. Also seeking sanctuary.”

“Why?” Mr. Fleming at last got the teacup to his mouth. He took a gulp of the contents and swallowed, the green tinge leaving his skin. “Is her husband a boor?”

He truly hadn’t heard of her. Sophie sent her uncle a warning look before she rose from her chair. “If you’ll excuse me one moment, I’ll bring you something to soothe your ills, Mr. Fleming.”

Mr. Fleming realized she was standing and hauled himself to his feet.

He was tall. Very tall. Laurie stood shorter than Sophie by a good inch, which always made her feel awkward and others titter. She made certain never to wear high-heeled slippers near him. Mr. Fleming would not make his lady feel awkward, and she could wear as high a heel as she wished.

At the moment, his height didn’t agree with him. Mr. Fleming swayed mightily, and Sophie skimmed from the room so the poor man could sit down again.

She bustled to the kitchen and through it to the larder beyond. Mrs. Corcoran, the cook and housekeeper, gave Sophie a nod, asking if she could be of any help. The lady was used to Sophie running in and out to mix her herbal concoctions or ask for a recipe.

Sophie’s happiest times in girlhood had been her visits to her uncle in Shropshire. Uncle Lucas, a lifelong bachelor, lived a simple life tending his parish, writing sermons, and researching Britain’s deep past.

Sanctuary indeed. Here, the intervening years fell away—the giddiness of Sophie’s debutante days, the strange excitement of her grand wedding, the disillusionment that married life brought. Next had come the disappointment when she didn’t conceive, and finally anguish when Laurie decided to exchange her for a new wife.

The divorce case had yet to commence—the solicitors were putting arguments together for the long and complicated process. Laurie had decided to blame everything on Sophie and drag her through the mud.

Unable to take the betrayal in her own household, Sophie had fled to Uncle’s vicarage, to the one place she could find peace. Even visiting her parents brought no relief, as they were sorrowful and upset about the whole turn of events. Uncle, upon her unexpected arrival, had merely said, “Ah there you are, my dear. Have a look at this map—a survey from the seventeenth century. It plots the old Roman settlements excellently.”

Mr. Fleming appeared as though he’d been dragged through the mud, quite literally. As Sophie mixed her potion, making certain to put in plenty of cayenne, she realized that for the first time in a long while, Mr. Fleming had made her interested in another person. She’d been so sunk in her own defeat that even conversing on the weather had been a chore, and she’d avoided her friends—the ones still speaking to her, that is.

She shook the herbs, egg, and spices together, poured the concoction into a glass, and carried it out, thanking Mrs. Corcoran as she went.

“There.” Sophie set the glass in front of Mr. Fleming as he struggled to rise upon her entrance. “No, please do not get up. I believe it would be quite dangerous for you.”

Mr. Fleming sank from the half-standing position he’d managed and eyed the gray-green mixture in the glass with suspicion. “What the devil is that?”

“A cure for your condition. Or at least a palliative. You’ll feel much better once it’s down.”

Sophie resumed her seat and finished her last piece of toast—loaded with butter, the way she liked it.

“I’d take her advice,” Uncle Lucas said. “Her little potions do amazing things for me when I take cold.”

Mr. Fleming tapped the glass. “It looks like sick. Smells like it too.”

“Perhaps Uncle should hold your nose while I pour it into your mouth,” Sophie said as she munched.

Mr. Fleming glared at her. “Did you raise your niece to be so cheeky, Pierson? Or does it run in the family?”

“Drink the potion,” Uncle Lucas ordered. “As you are staying in my house, I would like you to be less bearlike and more amenable to bathing.”

Mr. Fleming looked hurt. “I told you I’d take myself off.”

“And I know you have nowhere to go, else you’d have gone there instead. You only seek me when you’re at the end of your tether.” Uncle gave him a severe look. “Drink.”

Mr. Fleming eyed Sophie again. She took a noisy sip of tea, meeting his gaze squarely.

Mr. Fleming heaved a long sigh. He held his own nose and took a large swallow from the glass.

He had to let go of both nose and glass to cough. He fumbled for a handkerchief and didn’t find one, so he coughed into the sleeve of Uncle’s dressing gown. But the potion stayed down.

“What did you put into this?” he rasped at Sophie. “Oil of vitriol?”

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