Willingly could Sophy have boxed Mr. Rivenhall’s ears. To remain adamant when opposition could only strengthen his sister’s resolve had been bad enough; to withdraw his opposition at a moment when Charlbury was in a fair way to ousting the poet from her affections was an act of such insanity that it put Sophy out of all patience with him. Thanks to Alfred Wraxton’s predilection for gossip, Cecilia’s secret engagement to Mr. Fawnhope was widely known. She had, moreover, been at some pains to display to Society her determination to wed him. It would need something very drastic indeed to induce so gently bred a girl to fly in the face of all convention.
If Mr. Rivenhall had agreed to the match, Sophy could not suppose that the official announcement would be long delayed; once this had appeared in the Gazette nothing, she thought, would prevail upon Cecilia to brand herself a jilt. It was even doubtful if she could be induced to cry off before the announcement had been made, for she presumably had a greater dependence on the strength of Mr. Fawnhope’s attachment than her shrewder cousin could share; and her tender heart would shrink from giving such pain to one who had been so faithful a lover.
As for Mr. Rivenhall’s extraordinary change of face, this was not perhaps so inexplicable to Sophy as to his sister; but although the sentiments which had prompted it could not but gratify her, she was unable to deceive herself into thinking that he had any intention of terminating his engagement to Miss Wraxton. It was not to be expected of him; careless of appearances he might be, but no man of his breeding could offer such an affront to a lady. Nor could Sophy suppose that Miss Wraxton, surely aware of the tepid nature of his regard for her, would herself put an end to an alliance that held so little prospect of future happiness for either of the contracting parties. Miss Wraxton’s talk was all of her approaching nuptials, and it was quite evident that marriage to a man with whom she scarcely shared a thought was preferable to her than a continued existence as a spinster.
Sophy, cupping her chin in her hands, sat weaving her toils, undismayed by a situation which would certainly have daunted a less ruthless female than herself. Those who knew her best would have taken instant alarm, knowing that, her determination once taken, no consideration of propriety would deter her from embarking on schemes that might well prove to be as outrageous as they were original.
“Surprise is the essence of attack.”
The phrase, once uttered by a general in her presence, came into her head. She pondered it and found it good. Nothing short of surprise would wrench Charles or Cecilia from the paths of convention, so surprise they should have, in full measure..
The immediate outcome of all this cogitation was an interview with Lord Ombersley, caught on his return to Berkeley Square from a day at the races. His lordship, firmly led into his own sanctum, scented danger, and made haste to inform his niece that he was pressed for time, having a dinner engagement that must be kept within the hour.
“Never mind that!” said Sophy. “Have you seen Charles this day, sir?”
“Of course I have seen Charles!” replied his lordship testily. “I saw him this morning!”
“But not since then? He has not spoken to you of Cecilia’s affairs?”