Despite keeping unusually late hours the previous evening, Dassett was presiding in person over the breakfast parlour. He had earlier supervised the ironing of the newspapers which, not withstanding the iniquitous newspaper tax, comprised all the major London periodicals.
This Thursday morning James had applied the hot iron to the Morning Post, The Times and The Racing Post. The Gazette, being a twice-weekly publication, was not included in James's ironing pile, as the next edition was not due until Saturday.
As it turned out, it was well after 10am before any member of the Ombersley household claimed either of the daily publications laid out for their use. Charles, always an early riser, had left for the offices of the Gazette well before the breakfast covers were laid.
Lady Ombersley, never interested in news beyond that found in the pages of the Ladies Monthly Museum and the Court Circular, took her breakfast in bed and Cecilia, who would never dream of exposing her muslins to the dangers of newsprint, had also been granted license to take breakfast in her room.
Lord Ombersley, whilst occasionally affecting interest in the price of barley, listed weekly in the Gazette, gave his attention solely to the Racing Post, and Hubert, a fine trencherman, studied only his plate at breakfast time.
So it was Sophy who, arriving unusually tardily in the breakfast parlour, took up the Morning Post with her coffee. She turned to the family announcements and read, with a small, satisfied smile, a brief sliver of text. As James moved in with the coffee pot to replenish her cup, she looked up and smiled brightly.
"Thank you James, she said, "your little errand last night has been successful."
James, conscious of Dassett's forbidding eye on him, stammered a brief response before retreating to his post besides the sideboard.
Dassett, who considered it his duty to know the nearest concerns of the entire Ombersley household, had already perused the newspapers and had read the salient paragraph three hours previously. Thus it was that, when Mr Rivenhall made his appearance in the breakfast parlour a few minutes later, Dassett had no qualms about bowing himself and James from the room and closing the door behind him.
A few streets away, in rooms at the Albany, Mr Cyprian Wychbold was also engaged in the consumption of both breakfast and news. Despite his exquisite appearance and laconic attitude, Mr Wychbold was an avid consumer of current affairs – political and economic, as well as social. He hadalready read three broadsheet pages before coming across a paragraph that made him almost overset his coffee cup. It took three further re-reads of the surprising text before he could convince himself of its veracity.
"Good Gad! he ejaculated, "She has done it after all! Damned witchcraft that's what it is. Wouldn't take anything less! Well, well, well the Grand Sophy!"
Mr Wychbold then swiftly reviewed his appointments for the day and determined that he could, indeed fit in a morning call at Ombersley house.
Another morning caller was already on route two Ombersley house. Despite the earliness of the hour, Sir Horace Stanton Lacey claimed a father's privilege and was on his way to meet his daughter.
He always made it his business to take in the daily news at the breakfast table and, some paternal instinct had prompted him to continue reading as far as the family announcements.
Beyond a muttered, "Well, well, stands the wind in that quarter, does it? Well, I imagine she knows her own business best and its a tolerable choice." Sir Horace envisioned little surprise. But, whilst his paternal concern was generally a little tepid, he was genuinely fond of his daughter and prepared to make moderate exertions, when required, to ensure her happiness.
Meanwhile the author of this interesting news item was enjoying a tete a tete over the breakfast cups with it's subject.
Charles was reporting the success of his mornings errand to an Interested Sophie. "Both notices will be included in Saturday's publication," he continued, reaching for another slice of ham, whilst Sophie poured him a cup of coffee. "Then I can consider myself at liberty to speak to your father."
"Oh I don't think you'll need to wait until Saturday," said Sophie quickly, "I am sure Sir Horace will be round to see me today."
"I'm sure he will," returned Charles, a little impatiently, "But I would rather approach him once he has public confirmation of my unbetrothed state rather than relying on my private assurances."
"You need not worry about that Charles," said Sophie, passing him the folded copy of the Morning Post and pointing him towards the salient text. "Sir Horace already has that."
Charles's reaction echoed that of Mr Wychbold earlier. He read, re-read and then stared at Sophy, incredulously.
"How could you have known?" he stammered, "You must have inserted this yesterday but you couldn't have known before you left Lacey Manor that this would be the outcome, could you?"
"Of course not Charles," responded Sophie, "I am not that prescient. I charged James with the task of carrying a notice to the offices of the Morning Post as soon as we arrived home last night. I did take the trouble to find out when the printers start running and, for an additional fee, they were persuaded to make a last minute addition to the final page."
"I must say, observed Sophy, tangentially, "I am impressed that James was able to carry the point, I was not completely sure if he could. I do believe he might be a suitable candidate for promotion in the near future. Should a more senior position in another household become available."
Charles looked nonplussed at this deviation and then, as the meaning behind her words dawned on him he shook his head. "Sophy, before you start appointing staff to our non-existent townhouse, there is the small matter of securing your father's consent to my suit." Charles took a deep gulp of coffee and then continued, with a satirical smile, "So you don't think we should live here?"
" No Charles," returned Sophie, with mock severity, "I am very fond of Aunt Lizzie, and I must permither to be mistress in her own home. As must I in mine." She looked at Charles with a smile and the merest hint of challenge.
Charles laughed and threw up his hand, acknowledging the hit. "I think there is no risk that you won't be, Sophy." He smiled and reached for her hand, "Besides, I don't want to share you with my family all the time. There will be many, many occasions when I will want you all to myself."
Sophy blushed at this and the butterflies, that seemed to have taken permanent residence in her abdomen over the last 24 hours, fluttered again. Her fingers tightened around Charles's and, she was just contemplating leaning over the table and stealing a kiss, when, with a fanfare of throat clearing, the door opened and Dassett slid in, announcing "Sir Horace Stanton-Lacy."
Hands were swiftly unclasped and Charles leapt to his feet, stammering "How do you do, Sir?" and colouring furiously.
"Sir Horace!" exclaimed Sophie, also rising and moving swiftly to embrace her father. "How lovely to see you. When did you get back to England?"
"Ah, Sophie," said Sir Horace, pulling her into a hearty hug, "I see you are well. Neck still unwrung?"
Sir Horace looked a little quizzically at Sophie and then at Charles.
"I am glad to see her still in one piece," continued Sir Horace, extending his arm towards Charles for a brisk, very firm, handshake. "I believe I must offer you my commiserations… I don't recall you mentioning your broken engagement last night. Admittedly, circumstances being what they were, we had limited time to exchange news before you departed for my house with the express intention of murdering my daughter, but," Sir Horace appeared to muse, reflectively at this point, "I am surprised Lizzie never mentioned it, bound to be a scandal you know, engagement well established, invitations about to go out. Dare say old Brinklow's not taken it very well. Stiff old bird hates to be the subject of gossip."
"I haven't yet spoken to Lord Brinklow on the subject. Miss Wraxton and I decided yesterday that we shouldn't suit and I was charged with putting a notice in the Gazette at the earliest opportunity."
Charles paused and looked at Sophie, a hint of a smile softening his rather tight expression. "It appears that your daughter found an even earlier opportunity."
Sir Horace levelled his quizzing glass at Sophie, "Meddling again, Sophy?"
"Not meddling, Sir Horace!" replied Sophy, with a laugh, "Just a little sorting." Sophy slipped her arm through her father's and steered him towards the door. "I have had plenty to keep me occupied. Things were in a sad tangle and there were some most unsuitable matches that needed to be resolved. However, all will end happily, I believe."
They emerged into the hall and Sophy paused. "Library or Drawing Room?" She mused. Sir Horace looked towards Charles, who had exited the Breakfast Room in their wake, regarding him appraisingly. Charles, feeling that he could sustain a rigorous interview with a curious father in his own domain, more readily than his mothers, nodded towards the library.