And then it was to begin.
After eating, as designed, Harold rose to his feet and began shuffling around. He looked so very natural, but Sophia knew better.
He threw a few rocks off the edge of the cliff in something of a restless manner.
She was supposed to tell him to please be careful. “Stay back from the cliff, Harold,” she was supposed to say.
But she was unable to speak because once she said those words she knew, she knew, the sequence of events would be set into motion.
Once spoken, she could not take back the words that were to be Harold’s cue.
“Stay back from the cliff, Lord Harold!” It was Rhoda, not Sophia, who set things in motion.
But Harold acted upon them as though Sophia had given the order. He walked up to the edge.
“It is not so steep,” he said. And then he made some silly falling motions with his arms.
“Don’t scare the ladies, Harold,” Mr. White admonished him. “It isn’t kind to give your new wife such a fright.
And then Mr. White glanced over at Sophia and winked. He was a kind and attractive gentleman.
But St. John goaded his brother. “Harold won’t go near the edge. He’s always been afraid of heights.”
St. John knew!
Of course, he would have to know.
He’d jumped off the cliff with them long ago. Dev and Harold had not had a choice but to bring Prescott’s heir into the plan.
And he was goading his brother. As though he really would have Harold fall to his death. As though he really did wish Harold gone from his life.
Her dear, dear friend looked over at her and then began walking backwards.
She would remember his sweet face.
The challenges he’d endured.
“Heights be damned!” he shouted. And then he looked as though he lost his footing, and a flicker of true horror seemed to sweep over his features. Was he changing his mind? Did he wish to change his mind?
And then he was gone.
Sophia jumped to her feet and tried to scamper toward the cliff. Mr. White, however, acted quickly and grasped her from behind, keeping her from the edge.
“Good God, St. John! Is he all right? Good God!” Mr. White’s voice vibrated harshly behind her.
Sophia could not wrench herself out of the vicar’s arms, and then Rhoda was there, holding her as well. Sophia wanted to look down into the water. She knew she would not see anything. For he would have dove by now and found the tunnel.
But she still had the urge to look for him.
To know that he was safe.
This was such a nightmare. Had Harold changed his mind?
Had he jumped safely?
“Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.” She did not realize it at first, but she was saying the words aloud. “Oh, God, Harold.” Her face was now pressed into Mr. White’s jacket.
To make matters worse, Sophia could not block out the screaming. An incessant screaming had emerged from Lady Caroline the moment Harold disappeared.
St. John abandoned the hysterical lady to look over the edge. “I don’t see him.” His voice was stoic, emotionless. He sent Lady Caroline an irritated frown and then turned again to peer off the edge of the cliff. “Justin,” he said, his voice breaking now, for all of a split second. “It’s impossible… the rocks…the tide… And there is no way up… no way for him to save himself.”
Perhaps the danger of Harold’s actions had affected him, even for only a moment. They were brothers, for God’s sake!
Sophia could not break free, even when Mr. White loosened his grip slightly. “Hold her.” He pushed Sophia into Rhoda’s arms. “I’ll see if I can climb down.”
“No!” Both Sophia and St. John shouted the words at the same time.
It was then that Sophia was able to drop to her hands and knees and crawl to the edge. “Harold!” she called, “Harold!” Her tears were not feigned. Her cries were not forced.
“It is too steep,” St. John said even as the vicar removed his jacket.
“Please, don’t. Oh, please do not!” This from Rhoda.
Mr. White stood beside Sophia and studied the water and then crouched down beside her. “Don’t give up hope, my lady,” he said. “We will bring out some ropes, more men. We can go down and see if he has perhaps found some safe place to swim to. Perhaps he can swim around to the beach.” His hand landed on her shoulder. “Please, don’t give up hope.”
But she heard the hopelessness in his voice.
Sophia was then led back to the castle by Rhoda and Lady Caroline, who’d finally stopped her constant screaming. Mr. White provided escort while St. John went in seek of help.
The vicar was adamant a search begin as quickly as possible. St. John agreed, but seemed to do so reluctantly. He maintained that Harold could never have survived the fall.
A virtual army went out shortly after that, of servants, relatives and neighbors.
Sophia was taken to her room.
* * *
They wanted Sophia to take a dose of laudanum, and although she’d refused at first, Penny finally convinced her to drink some of the distinctive-tasting liquid.
Already she regretted it.
And so now, here she sat, fighting sleep and waiting to hear from Dev.
Waiting to hear if her dead husband had made it out of the county safely.
They’d done it. They’d managed to fool everybody so far.
She was absolutely disgusted with herself.
She wondered if Harold was as well.
And Dev.
* * *
Less than twenty-four hours had passed since she’d last sat alone in this room, the eve before the accident. Even less time had passed since Dev had taken her to the brink of heaven and breathed new life into her.
Nothing was the same.
It was quiet, yes, the same as it had been last night, but even Peaches seemed to sense the sadness within the household.
Sophia felt as though somebody, somebody dear, truly had died. She’d had to watch as sorrow swept over her grace’s face, into her shoulders, and gradually throughout her entire body when St. John delivered the news.
And then she’d endured his mother’s embrace.
Harold had become something of a prodigal son over the past two weeks.
New hope had blossomed for him, for his life.
For the family that Sophia and he would supposedly have.
And now the prodigal son had been ripped away.
The duchess had not wept at first. Instead, she’d comforted Sophia. And Sophia had not had to feign tears.
This was horrible!
Tragic!
So very wrong!
She’d been unable to stifle a sob. And this had released her grace’s tears.
But along with the sadness, the deep, heart-wrenching sadness, overwhelming guilt covered her. It almost felt as though she’d killed him herself.
When Harold’s adjoining door opened, Sophia glanced up hopefully. It would be Dev — or Harold.
No, it would not be Harold. The laudanum’s effects had befuddled her already.
But Dev perhaps… he would have news and encouragement for her.
Only it was not.
She should not have stopped locking her doors.
Dudley walked in.
“Where is everybody?” he demanded in a snide tone. He wore traveling clothes. “What’s this? The servants are speaking of an accident? Have you killed off your husband already, Sophia? I never would have thought you had it in you.”
Sophia was glad Peaches was not present. She’d gone outside with Penny for a constitutional. Hopefully, their errand would be quick, though. Hopefully, Penny would return any minute.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. Her tongue felt thick and fuzzy. And then she sniffed. “Get out of my room, Dudley.”
Penny sometimes dawdled with Peaches. She would often stop and flirt with a house boy or chat with the cook until she could
weasel a treat.
Sophia knew she was not safe. She was never safe alone with Dudley.
She needed to do something, anything to protect herself, but her limbs felt lethargic and heavy. She blinked, unable to summon any resistance. This was not good. Why was her stepbrother here? When had he arrived at Priory Point? She ought to scream, shout for help, but her mouth seemed disconnected from her brain.
“Your mother said the invitation had been extended to the Scofield family. Am I not your brother, Sophia? Oh, but no, you are Lady Harold now, are you not? But I am still your brother.” He went to the door to the foyer, she assumed to lock it, but before he could do so, a light tap preceded Rhoda’s head peaking in.
Rhoda had been devastated along with Sophia and had spent much of the afternoon comforting her.
What would she have done without her friend?
The instant Rhoda caught sight of Dudley, Sophia knew she would be safe. Rhoda knew of Dudley’s treachery and would make him go away.
“Mr. Scofield. I am so glad to have found you,” she gushed. “The gentlemen are searching yet for Lord Harold. There is still hope. You are needed at the cliffs. All able-bodied gentlemen must assist in the search.”
Dudley shrugged dismissively. “I can be of no help, Miss Mossant. I wouldn’t know where to go.”
But Rhoda was adamant. “I will show you.” She extended her hand, as though she would guide him physically, if necessary.
Looking rebellious, but then apparently realizing he could not protest the request for his assistance, Dudley acquiesced reluctantly.
“I’ll return shortly,” Rhoda told Sophia, looking over her shoulder as she led Dudley away.
With a watery smile, Sophia nodded.
Oh, thank God! Oh, thank God!
Summoning the last vestiges of wakefulness inside of her, she managed to stumble to the door and lock it behind her friend. As she returned to the bed, she glanced out the window and barely caught sight of Rhoda leading Dudley toward the cliffs, along the path they’d taken earlier. The sun had begun to set, and shadows were already long and dark. It did not take long for them to disappear. An edge of fear for Rhoda touched her, but Dudley would not attack her friend out in the open with so many gentlemen nearby.
Thank you, Rhoda. Oh, thank you.
She stumbled back toward the bed.
She would lie down for a moment. When Dev came back, she would unlock the door for him.
But her will was not stronger than the drug she’d been given, and sleep overcame her within moments.
* * *
After assuring himself of Harold’s safe escape, Dev returned to discover a full-out search in effect. Several of the estate’s manservants as well as gentlemen neighbors had climbed down as far as they could safely do so, and others were discussing taking a small craft into the cove.
Dev would kick himself if he could, for not considering this aspect of their plan.
This accident they’d pulled off would become all the more deplorable if someone attempting a rescue were to be hurt… or worse.
St. John was in his shirtsleeves and had already climbed down twice. He was doing his best to keep the vicar from doing so from a different angle.
The two of them had a fine line to walk. Making efforts to rescue Harold without allowing anyone else to put themselves at risk unnecessarily. The only way Dev could do this, as St. John had already done, was to take on the most dangerous aspects of the recovery effort himself.
And so, the rest of the afternoon was spent in a small craft, maneuvering himself and St. John around some deadly rocks in an attempt to find Harold… or, as many now conceded… Harold’s body.
Sophia would be in turmoil if she knew of this.
They’d been unable to keep Justin from climbing partially down the cliff from various points, until only a little while ago. He’d finally been convinced by St. John that the family needed him back at the castle — for spiritual and emotional guidance.
He’d reluctantly acquiesced to their wishes.
He’d not been unaffected by the loss of their cousin. Many of those who’d come out to search for Harold grieved. Seeing this warmed Dev’s heart, but it mostly made him ill at the deception of it.
Dev dreaded facing Harold’s parents.
The duchess would be the worst.
He wondered how Sophia fared.
Left a few moments alone, St. John had briefly described how she’d truly seemed devastated when Harold went over. He also admitted that bringing Lady Caroline had been a mistake.
Oh, yes, even Dev had heard the screaming from below, inside of the cave.
It had gone on forever.
Miss Mossant had been the voice of reason, St. John had admitted. She’d comforted her friend in a calm manner and somehow prevented Justin from diving in after Harold.
They waited until sundown to call off the search.
It was too dangerous, they said. If Harold had survived, he would have been found by now.
Damp from spending so much time on the water, Dev entered the castle from one of the side doors. His arms and back ached from rowing. Blisters were forming on his palms.
He would assure himself that Sophia was holding up, and then he would go to his aunt and uncle.
When he entered the foyer that led to her room, consternation filled him. Both the maid and Miss Mossant sat outside. “Is Lady Harold well?” he asked Sophia’s friend.
The protective maid glanced up at him and then toward her mistress’ chamber door, but it was Rhoda who spoke. “She’s locked the door. I think she’s asleep from the draught the doctor gave her.”
Dev did not like to think of Sophia drugged and locked inside alone. Removing a knife from his boot, he approached the lock and picked around inside of it. It was ancient and simple. It clicked open easily.
He could not go to her now, but at least she would not be alone. Glancing at Sophia’s friend, he realized that the day’s events had not been easy for anybody. The normally vibrant young woman looked pale and drawn. A haunted look lurked in her eyes. When he looked down at her hands, he realized they were shaking.
He kneeled in front of her and took both of her hands in his. They were freezing. “You must rest as well, Miss Mossant. Lady Harold will sleep. Allow me to escort you to your chamber.”
“He was there, Captain. One second he was there, and then he was gone.” Her lips looked almost bloodless. The shock of the accident must have been delayed. This was not the woman St. John had described earlier.
He assisted her to her feet. “Where is your chamber, Miss Mossant? Do you have a maid to assist you?”
She nodded but did not seem to hear him.
Penny pointed to the end of the hallway and spoke up. “Miss Mossant’s room is at the end of the foyer, Captain Brookes.” And then with a curtsey, she disappeared into Sophia’s chamber.
Dev escorted Sophia’s dearest friend to her own chamber and then turned to seek out his father and his aunt and uncle.
This devastation was not Harold’s fault.
It was not Sophia’s fault.
Dev would accept much of the blame as his own.
He had ignored the struggles Harold had endured all these years. He’d separated himself from the prejudices and not allowed himself to become involved. Perhaps, he could have done something. He could have said something…
Anything would have been better than this.
Slumped behind his desk, his uncle barely resembled himself. Tonight, he was not the Duke of Prescott, but a grieving father.
This surprised Dev.
At times, Harold had obsessed over the disappointment he’d been to his father. He had spoken of how their relationship had deteriorated to perfunctory greetings and encounters. Nonetheless, Dev should not have assumed his grace would be unaffected by his son’s death.
It had been stupid of him.
Of course, his uncle believed he’d lost a son today.
A son with whom he�
��d failed to connect, a son whom he’d all but shunned, but a son, nonetheless.
And he not only believed he’d lost his son, he had lost him.
Harold and Stewart could never return.
As Dev walked across the room, his aunt rose from her chair and stepped into his arms.
He knew that she’d wept, but also that she would attempt to keep her dignity about her. She was a warm and loving woman, but she was also a duchess. She would not wish for her close family, even, to see her lose control.
“Oh, Devlin,” she said as he embraced her, “thank you for trying to find him. But Lucas was right to call a halt to the search. It is too unsafe. These damn cliffs are too dangerous.” She pulled away and dabbed at her eyes. “Poor, dear Sophia. She was inconsolable, I think. She loved him so dearly, and Harold loved her. At least he found love in his lifetime. My sweet Harold.”
Dev swallowed hard.
“I’m so sorry, Aunt. What of you? You must be exhausted.” He led her back to the chair and assisted her as she dropped into it. She seemed frailer this evening than she had been the night before; smaller even.
His uncle rose. “I will assist you to your chamber, my dear. Arrangements can be made tomorrow. Perhaps his body will wash ashore tonight…”
There would not be a proper funeral.
Mr. White and Dev’s father remained, sitting across from one another at a table near the end of the room. Dev wondered if the other guests would stay for long. A memorial service would be in order. The entire household would fall into mourning.
His father approached him then and, without warning, wrapped him in a tight embrace.
It was nearly too much to bear. This deceit they’d all perpetrated. This involved more pain than they ever could have imagined.
They should have imagined it though.
Perhaps Sophia had. She’d shown more reluctance than any of them.
Thank God, she was upstairs, sleeping. He would do his best to shield her from some of it, if possible. But as the grieving widow…
Oh, hell, what had they done?
Chapter 21
A modiste arrived the following morning, not Madam Chantel, but a lesser-known seamstress from Dover, to make up several mourning dresses for Sophia, her grace, and a few of the family relatives who were staying on.
Hell In A Handbasket Page 21
