The Indebted Earl

he would swoop in with aid and she would feel beholden.
Her independent streak might someday be her downfall, according to her mother, but it was sustaining her through this difficult time. Sophie couldn’t muster a smile for company, but she hoped she had at least a neutral expression. Marcus teased her often about how she should never play cards for money, because her every thought shouted from her face as loudly as a town crier. Mother said much the same thing, but without the indulgent humor.
A tall, austere-looking man in a dark cloak emerged from the coach, putting on a bicorn as he stepped to the ground. A bicorn meant navy, didn’t it? His eyes locked with hers, and she felt an odd sensation. Though she was sure they had never met, there was something familiar about him.
He paused on the bottom step, rain pelting his shoulders and hat. He had a narrow face, a longish nose, and fine blue eyes. His hair appeared to be brown, but with some gray at the temples and a touch of unruly curl. He must be her senior by a score of years or better. Older even than Marcus. His cloak parted, and she glimpsed gold braid on blue wool. Definitely naval. Was this a courtesy call or an official visit?
Sophie stepped back. “Please, sir, come in out of the rain. And tell your coachman to pull around to the carriage house. No need for him to wait in the elements. If he comes to the back door, he’ll find warmth and refreshment.”
The officer motioned to the coachman, who touched his hat brim and shook up the reins. Without a word, the navy man gained the threshold and stepped inside. With a practiced hand, he removed his bicorn and fished beneath his cloak, removing a card. “Captain Charles Wyvern, milady.”
Sophie’s fingers went numb, and she fumbled the card. It fluttered to the floor. “Oh dear. I’m sorry.” He retrieved the card, and she took the bit of stiff paper once more as a stab of pain shot through her.
Captain Charles Wyvern, who had commanded the ship on which Rich had served. Who had been billeted next to him in hospital in Portugal. No wonder she had half recognized him. Rich had described him in detail when first being posted to his ship and had mentioned him frequently. The captain looked exactly as she had imagined he would, though older and more drawn.
She gathered herself. “Please allow me to take your cloak. Do come into the parlor. We can lay a fire if you’re chilled. It’s not a pleasant day for traveling. I never expected you to call upon us here at Primrose. I hope your journey was pleasant in spite of the rain. We’ll have tea soon.” Sophie stopped short. She was babbling. The captain hadn’t moved, as if waiting for her to pause so he could speak. He glanced to where she had his card clutched to her chest, and she lowered her hands. Her nerves had been stretched taut for so long, it seemed any little thing would upset them. Even a visit from a … stranger? Was Captain Wyvern a stranger? He didn’t seem like it, and yet he was. Marcus would quiz her, if he were here, about how she could bounce from full spate to woolgathering in the same breath.
With long, tapered fingers, the captain released the frog closure at his throat and removed his cloak. Water dripped in a circle on the stone-flagged floor, and he held the garment away from himself. “I apologize for calling unannounced. It is most presumptuous of me, but I needed to speak with you.”
Mrs. Chapman’s quiet footfalls sounded, and she stopped a few feet away. “Lady Sophia, I’ll take the gentleman’s cloak. Shall I bring in tea right away?”
The captain handed the housekeeper the cloak and his hat with a small nod.
She leaned in close to Sophie. “Should I wake the mistress?”
Sophie shook her head. “Let her sleep. If you wake her, she’s liable to be upset and foggy.”
“Yes, milady.”
Sophia moved across the hall. “Please, sir, come in and be comfortable.” She led the way into the drawing room. Halfway across the rug, she realized she’d left something out. “Oh, forgive me. I’m Soph—” Her mother’s chastisements rang in her ears. “I’m Lady Sophia Haverly.”
The captain, with movements that could only be described as punctilious, bowed with a small click of his boot heels and moved to the wing chair in front of the fireplace. A jab struck Sophie’s heart. Rich’s favorite chair.
As the captain was waiting for her to take a seat before he did, Sophie adjusted her skirts and settled into the corner of the sofa.
He straightened his white breeches, his shining black Hessians gleaming and dotted with raindrops. “Lady Sophia, I came to express my condolences.” He pressed his lips together, and his Adam’s apple lurched on a swallow. “Major Richardson was an excellent marine, and an excellent officer, and an excellent friend. He served his country and his ship honorably. On behalf of myself and the crew of the HMS Dogged, you have our heartfelt sympathies.”
Pride and grief clashed in Sophie’s breast. And jealousy. This man had spent more time with Rich over the past three years than she had. They had shared meals, laughter, danger, duty. Even pain and suffering.
“Rich spoke highly of you, Captain.” Sophie clenched her fingers in her lap. “Thank you for writing to us on his behalf when he was not able to pen words himself.”
Mrs. Chapman entered, gripping the handles of a large tray. Sophie moved a stack of books on the low table between them to make room.
“Thank you, Mrs. Chapman. Have you seen to the captain’s coachman?”
“He’s eating scones as we speak. Donnie is tending the horses.” Mrs. Chapman held Sophie’s gaze. Would their guest be staying for supper? Possibly for the night? What arrangements should she make?
Sophie gave a small shrug and shake of her head.
When the housekeeper