The Secret Lover

by Julia London

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Julia London captivated readers and critics alike with her acclaimed…

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Julia London

  Copyright

  for Liza

  Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,

  Lonely and lost to light for evermore,

  Save when to thine my heart responsive swells,

  Then trembles into silence as before.

  THE CORSAIR,

  canto 1, stanza 14, “Medora’s Song”

  Lord Byron

  Julia London captivated readers and critics alike with her acclaimed Rogues of Regent Street trilogy. Now the author Romantic Times calls “a rising star” returns with the passionate story of a man and a woman pursued by secrets, shadowed by scandal, and surprised by love….

  EIGHT YEARS AFTER fleeing England in the wake of a terrible scandal, Sophie Dane is no longer the trusting debutante betrayed by love. Now, as companion to a worldly French widow, she returns to London, where her arrival instantly sets tongues wagging…and attracts the roving eye of aristocrat Trevor Hamilton. But it is his mysterious brother, Caleb, in whom Sophie senses a kindred soul—and who captivates her as no other man has before. Reared on the Continent, Caleb has come home to his ailing father—only to be shunned by society as a fortune-hunting imposter. Sophie alone seems to believe in him. But an unexpected series of events sets them both in flight once more. As scandal pursues them to a remote ancestral estate, a man and a woman haunted by the past will defy every convention on earth for a future in each other’s arms….

  Prologue

  LONDON, ENGLAND, 1836

  SOPHIE COULD SCARCELY hear what Stella was saying; her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears and filling her throat that it was difficult to even breathe. It was bitterly cold, so cold that every bruise on her body seemed to throb with eager vengeance. But it was precisely that throbbing pain which forced her to put one foot in front of the other, to keep moving down the walkway, calmly, despite an inner voice warning her to turn back.

  Turn ’round, turn ’round, turn ’round! It’s not too late! He’ll not know you attempted to escape if you turn ’round now!

  “Ooh, milady! That’d be his lordship Allenwhite just ahead! What are we to do?” Stella whispered frantically.

  Sophie lifted her gaze, saw the portly gentleman walking briskly toward them. Instinctively, she lifted her chin, wincing at the pain in her jaw where she had been struck just that morning. “We shall say good day and keep walking,” she said low, ignoring her maid’s fearful grip of her fingers.

  “Lady Stanwood, how do you do?” the man asked, pausing to tip his hat.

  “I am very well my lord, thank you.” Stella’s grip tightened painfully. “You’ll forgive my manners for hurrying past, sir, but I am quite overdue for an appointment with my modiste, and I confess, I’m rather chilled to the bone.”

  Allenwhite seemed almost relieved, gave her a curt nod. “Yes, indeed, a nasty day to be abroad. I’ll not keep you, my lady.”

  “Good day, my lord.” She continued walking, pulling Stella along, her step quickening in time to her pounding heart. She would not allow herself to look back, would allow herself nothing but to stare straight ahead. They were almost there. It was too fantastic to believe, but they were almost there. Almost free.

  They rounded the corner onto Bond Street, felt a respite from the wind. Where was Claudia? Sophie’s heart plummeted into the pool of her fear—Claudia was not there. She had promised to meet them at the corner of Audley and Bond streets! Had something happened to her? Julian! Julian had discovered their plan and stopped Claudia from coming! The panic spread thick in Sophie’s throat. No. No! She could not come so close and be denied! It was so unfair! God!

  Frantic, she glanced furtively over her shoulder—Lord Allenwhite had continued on, his head down, oblivious to her and Stella. How long would it be before someone asked him if he had seen her? Sophie fumbled anxiously with her cloak, pushing it open so she could stare at the small watch pinned to her breast. Five minutes past two o’clock. Claudia was five minutes late.

  She was not coming.

  “By the saints, what could have become of Lady Kettering? Ooh, there’s something amiss, I feel it in me bones!” Stella squeaked, gripping Sophie’s arm tighter still.

  Unable to assure Stella they would indeed succeed, Sophie swallowed and stared at the deserted corner of Audley and Bond Street. The words simply would not come, smothered by the weight of her heart, now lodged in her throat along with the fear and the biting disappointment…and an insane sense of relief.

  It is over.

  Her little fantasy of escape was over. It was foolish to have thought she might have succeeded. There was nothing left but to turn around now, hurry home before William discovered what she had almost…No! She would not allow herself to think what he might do. She would simply hurry home now, before she was forced to imagine it.

  She would find another way out of this nightmare, surely.

  Or perhaps she would live with the consequence of her foolishness all the rest of her days.

  Tears suddenly blinded her, and Sophie looked again at her watch. Seven minutes past. Claudia was not coming.

  She should have known it was impossible. She should have realized there would be no escape from the private hell she had created for herself. Sophie blinked, felt the tears freeze on her lashes. Huddled beside her, Stella was frightened unto death. Sophie opened her mouth to tell her they would go back now, end this silly escapade, but a hack careened around the corner of Bond Street onto Audley before she could speak. Her heart swelled; Stella turned, too, just as Claudia flung open the door ahead of the coachman and leapt to the ground. She glanced quickly up the street and then down, her gaze landing on Sophie and Stella several yards away. She began walking purposefully toward them.

  Sophie’s heart filled to almost bursting.

  Freedom!

  For the first time in several months, she could taste the sweetness of freedom mix with the acidity of fear.

  Chapter One

  1844

  LILLEHALLEN

  THE HILLS ABOVE CHRISTIANIA, NORWAY

  IT HAD BEEN eight years since she had fled England and had forced the memory of that life from her mind like a bad dream. Eight years.

  Sophie shook her head, continued slicing carrots. It was impossible to conceive of going back. Impossible. She glanced at Arnaud Bastian again, disbelieving. “You must be mistaken,” she said simply.

  “I mistake nothing, ma chérie,” the insufferable Frenchman crooned as he sidled even closer to the rough, knife-marked table on which Sophie was working. “My heart, it is but tiny pieces when you return to England.” He reached for a slice of carrot, snatching it
just ahead of Sophie’s knife.

  “You’ve obviously drunk too much wine again, Arnaud.”

  “Non, no wine. Vodka.” He reached again, but this time Sophie stopped him with a solid whack of her knife against the tabletop just a fraction of an inch from his fingers.

  Arnaud jerked his hand back, stared at her with a look of horror. “Ow! You are cruel to wound me so!”

  “Honestly, monsieur, you should consider a theatrical career,” she said, and raised her knife again when he attempted to pilfer a mushroom.

  His hand wavered uncertainly. “Non?”

  “Non.”

  Arnaud sighed. “C’est la vie,” he said cheerfully. “What is this you prepare?”

  “Fish stew. All right, Monsieur Bastian, truthfully if you please, did Honorine say she would sail for England?”

  Arnaud clucked, adjusted his rumpled, expensive waistcoat just so, and smoothed the curl of what had been, hours earlier, a meticulously styled coif. “Oui,” he sniffed in belated response to Sophie’s question, and paused to study the contents of her kettle. “I think this is so. Je ne rappel pas.”

  Of course he would not recall. That would require ability beyond the capacity of what Sophie believed was a pea-sized brain. She put the carrots and mushrooms into the kettle, swatted Arnaud’s hand from her bum. “Then perhaps it was just another of your attempts to seduce me.”

  Arnaud gasped, his hand fluttered to the neckcloth at his throat. “Mademoiselle! Do you accuse me of lying?” he demanded indignantly.

  “I do indeed.”

  “Ieee, how could I lie, ma chérie? My eyes, my ears, my mouth, all of them, filled with dreams of sweet Sofia!”

  Filled with dreams of sweet rolls was more like it. Since Arnaud had discovered her ability to cook—something that was valued almost as highly as royal lineage among the French expatriates living in Norway—he had sought her out daily, sometimes begging marriage, sometimes simply demanding salmon in crème sauce. Today his poetic wailing earned him nothing more than an exasperated snort as she put the lid on the kettle.

  It certainly wasn’t the first time Sophie had been the recipient of such false ardor from one of Honorine’s discarded lovers. Really, it seemed that a man’s self-esteem was awfully large and fragile, and when Honorine refused to succumb to a man’s unwanted attentions, they all seemed compelled to look to the nearest female on whom they might test their charm and assure themselves it was still intact. More often than not, that female was her, seeing as how they were practically on the edge of the world here.

  She turned away from the kettle to see Arnaud sniffing about the bread she had baked earlier. “Monsieur, be so good as to keep your hands in your pockets, s’il vous plaît,” she warned him. Arnaud frowned and walked petulantly to the window. He stood pouting and staring out beyond the old walls of Lillehallen as she finished putting the cooking implements away.

  “Why do you keep yourself here, away from everyone?” he asked after a few moments, still staring absently out the window. “Look at them now skating. Why do you not join them?”

  Because she had joined them last evening, had even enjoyed herself until the early hours of the morning. But as she had never developed the stamina a full night of revelry required—particularly if said revelry was to stretch into the following morning—she had at last retired, exhausted.

  That, and she didn’t know how to skate.

  “Ach, what foolishness,” Arnaud said, seeming to read her mind. “Come now, let us attend this skating. This sun, it will make a smile on your face.” He very gallantly offered his arm.

  Sophie eyed it warily.

  Arnaud chuckled. “Mademoiselle! I am a gentleman!”

  That was highly debatable, but the stew was under way, and what little remained Hulda would see to when she returned from the Christiania market. Besides, Sophie would delight in hearing the jest from Honorine’s lips at the same moment as Arnaud. This silliness, this insanity of sailing to England was just that, a jest, said simply to annoy Arnaud, because the man quite feared being left alone in Norway for reasons that were entirely unclear to Sophie.

  The weak sun could not take the chill from the air, and Sophie was already freezing when she arrived on the banks of the pond a dozen steps ahead of Arnaud’s wandering hands. Honorine, bundled in a bright red-and-purple cloak, her long, silver-streaked hair unbound, skated awkwardly, her arms held out, whirling furiously when she felt her balance slipping. Fabrice, her sometimes butler, skated expertly, his arms clasped behind his back as he twirled effortlessly around her. Roland, Honorine’s mysterious vintner-without-a-vineyard, skated well, too, but was more interested at the moment in racing furiously across the pond than attempting the same finesse as Fabrice. The rest of the party skated sedately, as if out on a Sunday stroll of sorts, smiling and waving at Sophie as they glided past.

  She watched them for a moment, noticed that the ice looked rather thin in some spots.

  “Sofia! Aha, you will join us again!” called one of Honorine’s more frequent guests.

  “Oui, Monsieur Fabre, for the moment.”

  Monsieur Fabre laughed before an unexpected hiccup surprised him and sent him reeling backward.

  “Sofia, bien-aimée, come and sit beside me!” urged Madame Riveau, who was, unquestionably, the largest human Sophie had ever seen. She sat on the banks with her hat cocked at an awkward angle, her fur coat a mountain around her. As she leaned over to pat the blanket beside her, she very nearly rolled onto her side like an egg. “Come!” she called brightly.

  Not on Sophie’s life—Madame Riveau had the uncommon capacity to talk until each star fell from the sky without so much as taking a breath—in French and English. “Thank you, Madame Riveau, but I must speak with Honorine. Monsieur Bastian would sit beside you and keep your company,” she said, suppressing a smile at Arnaud’s grumbling. But he fell dutifully in a heap next to Madame Riveau and reached for her wine bottle as the woman snuggled close to him.

  Sophie returned her attention to the skaters. “Honorine!” she called.

  Honorine, moving more confidently now, glided in the general direction of Sophie, but at the last moment, merely waved and went round again.

  Obstinate woman. “Honorine! Come round, would you?”

  This time Honorine simply laughed.

  With a sigh of exasperation, Sophie put her hands on her hips. “Hon-o-rine!”

  “Mon dieu! Que désirez-vous?”

  “I would like a word, if you please!”

  Honorine grumbled something loudly beneath her breath, but started forcefully toward the bank with one good push, hurtling forward, her arms held straight out.

  Thankfully, she somehow managed to stop herself before mowing Sophie down. But standing in one place on skates was something she clearly had not mastered; her feet moved backward and forward, and she shot her arms out for balance as necessary. “A word, a word! Then speak, will you?” she demanded as Fabrice sailed by, skating backward.

  “Arnaud said you intend to sail for England soon.”

  Honorine cocked her head to one side. “Does he?” She shook her head, made a clucking sound as she shifted her gaze to where he was now lying peacefully, his head propped between Madame Riveau’s enormous breasts. “Imbécile.”

  An unexpected wave of relief swept over Sophie; she laughed a little too anxiously. “Honestly, I can scarcely believe what outrageous things the man will say to gain attention.”

  “Oui, it is too much.”

  “I am so foolish to listen to him!”

  “It is he who is foolish. I did not say soon.”

  That brought Sophie up short. “I beg your pardon? What exactly does that mean?”

  Fabrice sailed by again, only with Roland this time and so close that Honorine moved suddenly, whirling her arms to keep her balance. “This means for England we sail in the late spring. This is not soon, oui? Arnaud, he embellishes too much.”

  Sophie gaped at Honorine. It was imp
ossible. Inconceivable! Yet Honorine simply stood there, looking for all the world like she had announced only that they might stroll to market. In the last seven years, she had never expressed a desire for England! Rome, Madrid, Stockholm, yes! But England? She could not possibly expect Sophie to return to England!

  Honorine smiled.

  Sophie forced herself to take a breath. A very deep breath.

  All right, all right, perhaps Honorine didn’t expect her to travel to England with her; of course she didn’t. She obviously meant to leave Sophie behind, at Château la Claire, her sister’s home. Yes, yes, of course! She intended to go for a holiday of sorts while Sophie remained with Eugenie!

  “Close your mouth, Sofia—a bird should make his nest there.”

  “You might have at least mentioned your intent to take a holiday,” she said irritably.

  “I tell you now, chérie. It is magnifique, non? Many years, they come, they go since I have seen my London.”

  My London?

  “And it is very cold here.”

  “All right. I understand. I shall go to Eugenie, of course,” Sophie said. “How long do you intend to be away?”

  Honorine laughed, whirled her arms again. “Foolish girl! I do not leave you to Louis Renault! You come to London too!”

  Oh God. Oh God oh God.

  “London!” spat Roland as he sailed past, arm-and-arm with Fabrice. “A dirty city!”

  “J’adore London,” Honorine curtly informed him over her shoulder.

  Disbelief almost choked Sophie. Honorine had not been to London in more than fifteen years; she had told Sophie this herself when she had engaged her as a companion seven years ago. “But…but you scarcely remember London!” she insisted.

  Honorine shrugged, shot one arm wide and down again. “I wish to see it again.”

  Sophie did not like this sudden change of plans—she liked it here in the hills overlooking Christiania! Norway was perfect for her—far away, obscure—“I cannot go to England, least of all London, Honorine!” she exclaimed as Fabrice and Roland twirled behind Honorine and glided away.