She went to the hall to deliver instructions to the butler about the guests’ departures but found herself pausing just outside of Pierre’s guest chamber door. The silence in the house did not go unnoticed. She stared curiously at his door, wishing there was some way she could learn something about him—anything that would help her convince Marion to confide in James. If they were ever going to grow close as a family, they all needed to trust each other.
But that was Sophia’s problem. She wanted to tell James what was afoot, but she had promised Marion that she would not, and her relationship with the dowager was precarious, at best. She could not betray her now, or all hope for a deep, personal alliance would be lost.
She gazed at the doorknob to Pierre’s room. Could there be a clue in there about what he knew or what his intentions were? A diary perhaps?
A diary. That was hoping for too much.
Nevertheless, if she was going to convince Marion to trust James with the truth, Sophia needed to know what that truth was. She could not keep this nebulous secret from him forever, especially when she was working so hard to help him open up to her and trust her and love her.
Sophia listened for sounds in the corridor and knew this was an opportunity that would not come again. Perhaps she could just take a quick peek.
She checked over her shoulder, then quietly pushed open Pierre’s door.
The bed was made, the fireplace swept clean. His traveling case sat open on the floor beneath the window. His razor and brushes were placed neatly upon the dresser.
Sophia tiptoed toward the traveling case, but there was nothing inside. She moved to the wardrobe and pulled open the doors. A few expensive suit jackets and shirts were hanging there. With a terrible rush of guilt, she stuck her hands into the pockets, looking for God knew what....
All the pockets were empty.
She shut the doors and moved to the dressing table where she found a travel book about London. Her eyes perused the room, but there appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary.
Not wanting to risk being caught, she decided it would be best to leave. She went to the door and opened it a crack, peered out into the hall and made sure no one was about. All seemed quiet, so she sneaked out.
She barely made it halfway down the hall when she heard James’s voice. “Darling....”
Halting fast, she felt her cheeks flush. She forced a smile and swung around.
Her husband was walking toward her. “Do you have a moment?”
Had he seen where she was, she wondered frantically. “Of course.”
He caught up with her and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re overwhelmed with hostess duties I suppose.”
“Overwhelmed, yes. Everyone will be leaving after luncheon, and I’m still scrambling to get the carriages organized at the right times. Some of the guests will be catching the early train, while others are catching the late one.... It is an organizational nightmare.”
“May I do anything to assist?”
“No, truly, I have it all in hand.”
He glanced at Pierre’s door. “I noticed you coming out of Monsieur Billaud’s bedchamber just now. He is finding his visit satisfactory, I hope.”
The beating of her heart resonated to a full cacophony. “Yes. I was just checking the ink jars in all the rooms, to make sure they were full.”
“And were they?”
Her eyebrows flew up. “Yes.”
He gazed at her for a long moment. She did her best to smile and appear relaxed, for she did not wish him to know that she was keeping anything from him. That would put them back at square one.
He kissed her on the cheek again. “You’re busy. I won’t keep you, but I will look forward to a quiet dinner this evening. It will be pleasant to have the house to ourselves again.” With an appealing glimmer in his eye, he turned and walked in the other direction down the hall.
Sophia continued on, immediately worrying over what she had just done. Maybe she should have confessed everything to James. If only she could have had a moment to think on it, rather than staring up at him and being forced to reply to an accusation (and she wasn’t even sure it was an accusation) that she did not wish to acknowledge just yet.
Soon, she promised herself. Soon he would know everything, and with luck, they would all work together to bring an end to this disturbing situation.
Ten minutes later, James was gazing pensively out his study window. Had Sophia truly been checking ink jars?
What was it that made him suspect otherwise? The color in her cheeks? The tone of her voice?
He sat down in the chair in front of the unlit fireplace, rubbing his chin with his thumb. It didn’t matter what it was. He had known there was something wrong, and he was sure he was not being irrational or excessively suspicious. His wife had just lied to him, and he knew it.
The fact was, something about Billaud rubbed James the wrong way, ever since the first moment he’d laid eyes on him. He didn’t trust the man, and that had nothing to do with Sophia.
But why was she skulking around in Billaud’s room while the man was out walking in the garden? Was there something going on between them?
Bloody hell. James rose from his chair and returned to the window. He hated that he could even entertain such a thought. Sophia had been nothing but caring and dutiful since the first moment she’d agreed to be his wife, even when she was faced with the cruel reality of the personal torments that he had hidden from her. To suspect her of anything surreptitious would be absurd. He should not be jumping to ridiculous, melodramatic conclusions about something he had no good reason to suspect.
He hoped this was not the beginning of a slow descent into hell….
James tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. Perhaps he should go to Pierre’s room and end this curiosity. He could check the ink jars for himself.
A moment later, he was letting himself into the blue guest chamber and perusing the room. He glanced at Pierre’s empty traveling case, then checked the ink jar. It was empty. Sophia had said it was full.
He eyes turned to the bed, where a note lay on the pillow with a single red rose upon it. He immediately picked it up. It was written on the ducal stationery.
“My darling Pierre,” the author wrote in an elegant script that looked very much like his wife’s. “I enjoyed our walk in the garden together, and I only wish we could have stolen a few more moments. Please do not leave for London yet. Stay here at the castle a few more days, for I am not yet ready to say good-bye.”
James sat down upon the edge of the bed and read the note again. He did not want to believe what he was seeing, nor did he wish to feel the ice-cold chill or fury that was moving slowly and painfully through his veins.
Perhaps Pierre had begun a tendre with one of the guests, whose writing bore a resemblance to Sophia’s, he thought with a desperate, fleeting hope.
But no, the note was asking Pierre to remain at the castle. Everyone else was leaving.
A servant, perhaps?
Anger, deep and unbidden, began to simmer. This was the ducal stationery. A servant would never use it.
James squeezed his forehead between his thumb and forefinger. This was madness. He could not believe it. He would not.
What, then, should he do?
James did the only thing he could possibly do to prevent himself from losing his mind. He went all over the house, searching for Sophia, and when he found her in the dining room, checking the place settings at the luncheon table, he confronted her.
“Might I have a word with you?”
“Certainly.” She kept her eyes upon the place settings as she continued to move along the length of the table.
He could stem his impatience. “In my study, if you please.”
Chapter 24
Sophia followed James to his private study. He sat down at his large
desk and gestured for her to take the seat on the opposite side. For a second or two he said nothing while Sophia sat with her back poker-straight, squeezing her hands in her lap and feeling as if she’d just been called into the schoolmaster’s office after being caught cheating on an examination. This was very strange. She did not feel like she was looking at the husband she had come to know in the past week.
Finally, after what seemed like an interminable silence, James reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a letter. He rose from his chair and handed it across the desk to Sophia.
“I wish to know the meaning of this,” he said coolly.
Sophia read it, and her blood began to rush to her head until her temples were throbbing. “Where did you get this?”
“On Pierre Billaud’s pillow.”
“When?”
“Just now.”
She swallowed uneasily. “Why, may I ask, do you expect me to know the meaning of it?”
“It looks like your penmanship, does it not?”
What had, a moment ago, been anxiousness, exploded into outright fury. “You think I wrote this?”
“You did not?”
“No!” she shouted. “I would never write a letter like this to another man!”
He studied her expression suspiciously. “How can I be sure of that?”
This was all too familiar. It felt like that horrible night before James left for London. He had been cold and unfeeling then, just as he was cold and unfeeling now. He had the same look in his eyes—the look that told her he did not care whether she loved or hated him.
“If you do not know me well enough by now to be certain that I would not have written this, then I am disappointed in you, James.” She stood up to leave.
“Stop right there,” he said, rising also. “This discussion is not over.”
Sophia heard the note of command in his voice and halted.
After all the progress she and James had made over the past few weeks, the fact that she was afraid at this moment was completely devastating to her.
“Sit down,” he said.
Sophia returned to her chair. James waited for her to be seated before he sat down as well.
“What were you doing in his room? And please do not tell me that you were checking the ink jar. I am fully aware that you were dishonest about that.”
“You went in there to check up on me?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said flatly.
Sophia stared at him for a moment, then picked up the note and read it again. “I give you my word, I did not write this. It wasn’t on the pillow when I was in the room. I most certainly would have noticed it.”
“You have neglected, Sophia, to explain what you were doing in Monsieur Billaud’s room in the first place.”
Panic rushed at her with frightening speed. What was she to say? She had promised Marion that she could be trusted, and if she told James now, he would go to his mother in all his fury and meet her head to head. It could not end that way. Any hopes that the family could be eased into leaning upon each other would be shattered.
Sophia let out a sigh of defeat. “James, I truly do not know who wrote this letter. It could have been anyone. Yes, the penmanship resembles mine, but it was not done by my hand. I need to know that you believe me.”
“Very well, I believe you,” he said. “Now will you tell me what you were doing in Pierre’s room?” His voice was edged with steel and sent a shiver down Sophia’s spine.
Vexed by his ice-cold manner with her, but knowing she had to come clean, she raised her chin. “Fine. You’re right. I lied about the ink jar.”
“Why?”
She paused, taking a moment to consider how best to answer that question. “I know it doesn’t look good, and I will admit that I am keeping something from you, James, but it’s not what you seem to think.”
“What is it, then?”
She cleared her throat. “Someone has trusted me with a secret, but I cannot tell you what it is and betray that trust. At least not yet. I can only promise you that I will endeavor to do the right thing and find a way to tell you as soon as I can.”
He rose from his chair and walked to the fireplace, stared down at the empty grate. Keeping his back to her, he spoke in a low voice. “The person with the secret.... Is this her letter?”
She shrugged. “I honestly don’t know who wrote that.”
“Frankly, I don’t care who wrote it,” he said, shaking his head, “as long as it wasn’t you.”
Sophia might have found comfort in his words if his voice had not been hard as stone and weighted with a warning. He seemed to be telling her that she belonged to him and no other, and if she was an intelligent woman, she would not test those boundaries.
She remembered the story about the duchess who had thrown herself out her window. That woman had been in mental shackles. Was that what awaited Sophia, if she continued to displease her husband?
Without turning around, he added, “You may go now.”
“Very well then. I will see you at dinner.” Rising from her chair, she feared that their glorious, pleasure-filled nights were at an end, and James might not forgive her easily when the truth finally came out—waking like the sleeping giant it was.
By four o’clock, all the guests were gone, including Pierre Billaud. The family dined together as usual, with the added company of Martin, who was quiet but not rudely so. In Sophia’s opinion, Martin was not unlike most of the young men she had known when she was that age—cool and reticent, only beginning to learn the charm that would inevitably come more easily as they matured.
James was also quiet, but she could not dismiss his silence to such a simple origin. Yes, he had made some light conversation about the success of the party, but it was all very aloof and polite. It was as if he were making sure she knew that he was not angry with her—the more relevant point being this: He did not care at all.
Nevertheless, Sophia put on a bright smile as she always did and listened to Lily talk about how much she enjoyed the shooting party and especially the games in the evenings. All the while, Sophia was wound up tighter than a tin clock, lamenting over how she had handled everything since Marion had confided in her. She wished she could go back and not have pushed to know what was bothering her mother-in-law, for this knowledge that Sophia now possessed was threatening to ruin her marriage, when it was already so fragile to begin with.
Late that night, Sophia waited in bed, hoping James would come, but he chose to stay away. She was not surprised, given the tone and outcome of their conversation that day.
Briefly, she considered going to his room to try and patch things up, but how could she? She couldn’t tell James the truth, not yet, so how could she ever fix what was broken?
She would have to talk to Marion first. Sophia turned the key in the lamp and lay in the darkness, finally deciding that first thing in the morning, she would go and see the dowager. Somehow, Sophia would come up with a way to convince Marion to trust her son with her secret.
A number of knocks in quick succession startled Sophia awake. Heart pounding, she sat up in bed and clutched the covers to her chest. “Who is it?”
“It’s Lily!” the voice on the other side of the door whispered. “May I come in?”
Sophia climbed out of bed and opened the door. “What’s wrong? It’s the middle of the night.”
“I know, but I couldn’t sleep, and you’re the only person I can talk to.”
Sophia invited Lily in, then lit the lamp. They both climbed onto the bed.
“Oh, Sophia, thank goodness you’re here. I could not possibly trust anyone else with this secret. Promise me you will keep it just between us.”
Another secret? Sophia had already promised to keep one, and it had driven a wedge between her and James. She couldn’t possibly make this promise again....
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br /> “Lily, maybe I’m not the best person to—”
“But you’re the only person, Sophia. I can’t live with this painful longing any longer. I feel like I’m going to die from it!”
Sophia stared numbly at her sister-in-law. “What do you mean...longing?”
Lily flopped backward onto the bed. “I’m in love.”
Oh, please no… “With whom?” Sophia asked.
Lily sat up again. “Whom do you think? Pierre! Couldn’t you see that we were mad for each other?”
Suddenly, the walls seemed to be closing in around Sophia. If what Marion had told her about Pierre was true, then Pierre was Lily’s half-brother.
She tried to keep from stammering. “Are you sure? I mean, does he feel the same way? I hardly saw you speak more than a few words to him.”
Oh, pray that this was simply one of Lily’s childish romantic fantasies!
“He feels it, too, Sophia. That’s why I am so unhappy now that he’s gone. How will I ever survive being away from him?”
The letter. It had come from Lily....
“How do you know he’s in love with you? Did he say so?”
“He didn’t have to say it in words,” she replied. “We communicate with our eyes and our hearts. It’s magical. I had no idea love could feel like this.”
Sophia shook her head, still hoping that Lily was imagining any romantic feelings on Pierre’s side. “Did anything happen between you?”
“Nothing you need to worry about, though I don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t left when he did. We took walks together while the gentlemen were out with the guns, and please don’t tell Mother, we sneaked off alone sometimes when we could. Don’t worry, he was a complete gentleman, which only makes me love him more!”
Sophia cleared her throat. “Love is a strong word, Lily. Don’t be too quick to use it. I know Pierre is a handsome man, but we really know very little about him.”
To Marry the Duke (American Heiress Trilogy Book 1) Page 22
