by Julia London
The viscount was looking directly at the imposter.
The extraordinary conclusion to the picnic was matched only by the ton’s extraordinary ability to spread gossip. It was so astoundingly efficient and swift that it once again took Sophie’s breath away.
She first heard the titillation surrounding the altercation in the park the very next day from the most unlikely source of Lucie Cowplain, who, having ascertained from Honorine that Lord Hamilton himself would be joining them for afternoon tea on Thursday, asked, “Just the old man, then? Or will he be accompanied by any of his sons, legitimate or otherwise?”
“Lucie Cowplain! What in heavens do you think to mean by that?” Sophie had immediately chastised her.
Lucie Cowplain merely shrugged and began her crooked walk out of the morning room. “It ain’t as if it’s a secret. He’s even setting up house just a stone’s throw from the old man.”
Sophie stared at Lucie Cowplain’s retreating back; the mere mention of his house reminded her of the kiss she had shared with Caleb and made her blush like a virgin. She slowly turned her gaze from the door through which Lucie Cowplain had disappeared, and inadvertently looked at Honorine.
Honorine looked back with one brow cocked high above the other.
Sophie unconsciously lifted a hand to her neck and quickly looked down at the table.
“Umm,” was all Honorine said. But it was enough.
Sophie stood abruptly and looked at the door. “I’ve some correspondence I must finish,” she muttered, and quickened her step at the sound of Honorine’s quiet chuckle.
As there really was no correspondence, and she was in desperate need of something to occupy her time and her hands, she made her way to the kitchen, and finding it deserted, rooted about until she found a large porcelain bowl, some flour, a few eggs, and some freshly churned butter. Without having any idea of what she might do with it all, Sophie donned an apron, pushed up the sleeves of her morning dress, and dumped the flour into the bowl.
She was pulling the first batch of fig tartlets from the oven when Ann found her. “I thought you’d gone out!” she exclaimed, pausing to look around as if seeing the kitchen for the first time. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Baking fig tartlets.”
Ann looked at the tartlets as if she were surprised to see they actually came from a kitchen. She blinked, looked at Sophie again. “Well then?” she asked breathlessly, the tartlets apparently forgotten. “Is it true what they say? The imposter showed himself at your picnic yesterday?”
Sophie nodded.
The sparkle in Ann’s eyes was instantaneous. “I had it from Lady Paddington directly, just this morning! Do tell! It’s all so titillating!”
Her zeal was a little unnerving; Sophie gave her the briefest sketch of what had occurred in Regent’s Park yesterday.
When she had finished, Ann sank onto a stool, picked up a tartlet, and munched thoughtfully. “Lady Paddington believes his claim to be true, you know.”
Now Ann had Sophie’s undivided attention. “Does she?” she asked anxiously, trying very hard to appear nonchalant.
Ann nodded, went on to say that Lady Paddington—who, by all accounts, was the chief purveyor of gossip among the ton—believed Lord Hamilton to be rather attached to his illegitimate son and had desired to leave a sizable portion of his estate to him.
“Indeed?” asked a skeptical Sophie. “Lord Hamilton confided all this in her?”
Ann shrugged, helped herself to another tartlet. “I suppose. She has called the viscount friend for many years now.”
“But what of Trevor?”
“I don’t rightly know. But I rather imagine Lord Hamilton has quite enough to provide rather handsomely for all his offspring.”
“Oh really, Ann,” Sophie said, laughing. “How could you possibly know such things?”
Her sister’s spine stiffened. “I know such things,” she said indignantly, “because I listen. But enough of that! Come on then, tell me everything about Trevor Hamilton! Did he say anything to indicate his feelings? Anything a’tall?”
Sophie tried to bite back the truth, but Ann saw the evidence of it on her face. With a squeal of delight, she lunged across the table and grabbed Sophie’s arms, jostling her in her enthusiasm. “Ooh, but this is marvelous! Sophie, Sophie, do you realize what this means? We had so hoped and oh Lord, how we prayed you would be accepted! This is more than we even dared dream!”
More than they dared dream? Putting aside, for the moment, that her family was apparently quite mortified that she might remain on the shelf all her natural days, Sophie wasn’t entirely certain there was anything to “dare dream” just yet. And she could not help her laughter as Ann began to regale her with how wonderful life would be as a Hamilton, wondering what her proper older sister might think if she knew it was Caleb Hamilton who invaded her mind’s eye as she spoke, not Trevor, or Caleb Hamilton who had melted her all over the floor of the house he was building with a single kiss. Or that Caleb Hamilton was the subject of her wanton, risqué dreams, he who filled her every waking moment, particularly since the extraordinary events of yesterday. There was something about the way he had looked at Lord Hamilton, something poignant in his expression that made Sophie believe he was telling the truth—he was Lord Hamilton’s son.
It was that image that filled her mind long after Ann had taken her leave and long after she had finished making more than four dozen fig tartlets.
There had been quite a lot of figs.
Standing in the dressing room of her suite later, she surveyed her wardrobe, wishing that she possessed a gown in some bright color. Claudia was right—she could stand to add some color to her wardrobe. Any color. Her clothing reminded her of her life—drab and dull. But in the last few weeks, something different was fluttering to life within her, desperate for release. It was as if her blood had started to flow again, stirring feelings that had been dead for so long that she hardly recognized them.
And those feelings required color.
The best that she had at the moment, however, was a rose-colored gown devoid of any ornamentation. Making a mental note to see a modiste straightaway, Sophie donned the thing. She then critically assessed her few bonnets. Very practical. Very nondescript. Honestly, her bonnets were as tediously uninteresting as her gowns. She might as well walk about wearing a box on her head.
None of them would do.
Her next thought was so astounding that she wondered briefly if she shouldn’t send for a physician, but marched out of her dressing room nonetheless, turned right in the corridor, and proceeded purposefully to the far end, to Honorine’s suite of rooms.
She paused at the door.
No. This could not be right. She was anxious, all right, but was she insane? Had she gone so far round the bend she would actually consider…bloody hell. Sophie shoved open Honorine’s door with gusto.
A half-hour later, with the tamest of Honorine’s bonnets tucked securely beneath her arm, Sophie descended to the main foyer. She knew a moment of panic when she saw Fabrice there, holding an umbrella as he struck various poses in front of the large mirror, in spite of the day being brilliantly sunny and blue. This felt dangerously familiar, as if she were sneaking about when she knew she should not. Well she was sneaking about, not unlike she had eight years ago in her frantic efforts to meet William Stanwood in some clandestine place. But this was different. This time, she at least knew how to go about it, she thought with a wry smile—but more than that, she was not the naive young girl she was then. This time, she knew what she was doing…she was almost 95 percent certain that she did.
Drawing a deep breath and holding it, Sophie sailed right past Fabrice, calling out a cheerful “Good day!” Fabrice was too quick for her, however, and whipped around, immediately spotting the bonnet. Sophie sprinted for the portico landing, ignoring his warning that the bonnet was not the appropriate color for her gown, and she kept walking, right through the gates of the house, not stop
ping until she was in Bedford Square, where she paused to don the thing.
One look at the bonnet and the enormous blue flower it sported made Sophie wrinkle her nose and fit it firmly on her head. She spent a few moments trying to adjust the overly large flower, but impatience made her leave it to flop about as she continued her march across Bedford Square, her only worry now, of course, that Caleb would not come, proving, once and for all, that she was indeed a fool.
But Caleb did come. In fact, he had been waiting three quarters of an hour for her at the pond feeling particularly anxious after what had happened yesterday.
He came instantly to his feet when he saw her on the main path, the flower flopping over the brim of her bonnet. Hat in hand, he walked quickly forward to meet her, reaching for and grasping her hand tightly in his. “I thought you would not come,” he said earnestly, his eyes roaming her face.
“Did you?” she asked, and smiled softly, so softly that it permeated straight through to his heart.
“After what transpired yesterday afternoon, I thought…I must apologize, Sophie. I did not intend to ruin your picnic. But when I saw my father sitting there, I could not let the opportunity slip by.”
“Oh,” she said softly, her smile fading.
He sighed heavily, looked away for a long moment. “I owe you an apology and an explanation. Come on then, will you walk with me?”
She nodded; he put her hand protectively in the crook of his arm. They walked in silence for a few minutes, around the pond, to his house. As they climbed up the knoll on which it sat, he noticed that it was beginning to take shape, to grow and mold itself into the image he had held in his mind for so many months—a house of happiness. Perhaps even one day, a house with children, and his father.
His father.
“I have made several attempts to see him,” he said at last.
“Have you?”
He nodded solemnly. “I am unable to count the number of times I have tried. Trevor has turned me away at every opportunity. I’ve even gone so far as to follow him around the park here, but the one time I attempted to see him, the so-called footman kept me from him. I did not want to make a scene publicly, so I have kept my distance.”
“A footman kept you from him?” Sophie asked, clearly confused.
“Yes. Trevor is determined our father will not see me.”
She withdrew her hand from his, forcing him to stop, and peered up at him with wide brown eyes. “But…why should he be so determined to keep you away? You’ve no real claim to your father.”
Meaning no legitimate claim. It was funny that after thirty-five years, those words could still affect him so, make him feel somehow less a man.
Caleb sighed, took her hand in his. “There is much I would tell you, Sophie.” He began walking, led her inside, to the ballroom again, where sheets of muslin were draped over workbenches and the floor.
Sophie walked to the middle of the room and impatiently pushed the sagging flower from her temple. “The work is almost done,” she remarked, and looked at Caleb.
He tossed his hat aside, onto a workbench, and hands on his waist, returned her gaze for a long moment before speaking. “I beg your patience, Sophie, as I must start at the beginning.”
She turned so that she was facing him fully, and nodded solemnly.
What he told her was that he was the product of a true love match between a Frenchwoman—his mother having died several years ago—and Lord Hamilton. After his birth, Lord Hamilton returned to France several times to see his son; through the years, they formed a deep attachment to one another. He told her he had understood at an early age who he was, that as the illegitimate son of an English nobleman, he had no claim to his father’s wealth. He even knew there was another son, Trevor, and had even seen the miniature portraits of his half-brother through the years. And while Caleb confessed he had often envied Trevor his legitimate name, he had never begrudged him the Hamilton estate. That was because, he insisted earnestly, his mother had some wealth in her own right. They had lived comfortably—not to the degree of his father, certainly, but it was enough. He insisted that he wanted nothing more than a relationship with his father, and had exactly that up until a year or so ago, when the viscount’s visits to Caleb’s home in the Scottish borderlands had abruptly ceased.
What Caleb did not tell her was how panicked he had felt when the first letter had been returned to him under Trevor’s bold signature, unopened. How he had felt the world falling out from underneath him, for he had realized at that moment his father was the only thing he held dear in this world, and he could very well lose him. Nor did he tell her how angry it had made him, still made him, or how his anger had built into an unrelenting, helpless fury when he had endeavored to find out why his father was being taken from him, only to be blocked at every turn.
“I learned he had suffered a seizure quite by accident, from an acquaintance who happened to be in Edinburgh. I went to Hamilton House straightaway, but was escorted off the estate by a constable.”
“Oh my,” Sophie muttered, the empathy evident in her voice.
“I had no choice but to leave,” he said, looking off into the distance. “Trevor has quite a lot of power in Nottinghamshire. If he had wanted to see me locked away for good, I daresay he could have done it.”
“How awful for you!” Sophie exclaimed, and reached for his hand.
Caleb grasped her hand firmly. “Would that you had been there. I was in desperate need of a friend.” I’m still in desperate need of one…
“What happened then?”
“Oh,” he said, flashing a wry smile. “Trevor thought to move Father to London, presumably to seek better medical treatment.” He did not add that he suspected Trevor wanted the world to see his father infirm, for reasons that still escaped him. “The moment I heard he had brought him to London, I followed. And again, I have made several attempts to see him, but Trevor refuses me entry. I must see for myself that he is receiving the proper care—I don’t trust my brother.”
That admission clearly surprised Sophie. “I beg your pardon?”
Caleb gazed at her sweet face—she didn’t understand the cruelty of man, how could she? “I don’t trust him,” he said again. “My father seems to have gotten worse in his care from what little I have seen, not better.”
“Surely you are not implying—”
“I don’t know what I would imply, truly,” he interrupted, feeling the exasperation of his situation. He was a bastard—to some, that equated to blackguard, swindler. “All I know is that my father’s health seems to have deteriorated, and Trevor refuses to allow me access to him. What can I think?” He looked at Sophie again. “What must I think?” he muttered again. What could he think yesterday, seeing her with him, realizing that she had declined his offer for Trevor? “Do you understand me?”
“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully.
As much as he had wanted her to say yes, she understood, her candid answer was another one of the many things he loved about her. Caleb smiled, reached up to push the flower from her temple. “Lovely bonnet, Miss Dane,” he said, chuckling when Sophie blushed. “You are lovely…far lovelier than I have a right to want. I will not lie. When I saw you with him, I was envious. Deeply envious.”
Her blush deepened to a dark rose; she nervously fidgeted with her glove. “Really?” she asked shyly.
His smile faded; his gaze caught hers and held it. “Really,” he said softly. “I’ve come to understand how mad my passion is for you, Sophie. I think you beautiful and charming and—”
“I am divorced.”
Her words stunned him; it was the last thing he had expected to hear, the last thing he would have suspected of her. He tried to speak, but no words would come. It was so unheard of—
Sophie’s face fell—she abruptly turned on her heel and walked purposefully for the door.
Chapter Nine
THE DOOR SUDDENLY seemed miles away. Why, why had she said it? She should h
ave known how he would receive such news, and it was humiliating.
But Caleb’s quick reaction startled her; he caught her before she reached the door, his hand clamping firmly on her arm. “Just a moment, where are you going?” he demanded.
“I have obviously offended you,” she said tightly.
“Offended me? You have surprised me, Sophie, but you could never offend me.” His answer astonished her—she was so sure…Caleb relaxed the pressure of his grip on her arm, but he did not let go. “I want to know, Sophie. I want to know what happened to you.”
The tenor of his voice was sincere. It was almost unearthly, but he seemed to know instinctively that something terrible had happened to her, that hers had not been a match of convenience that had become inconvenient for her husband. Cowering from his intent gaze, Sophie looked down. She had said the worst of it, hadn’t she? Admitted she was a pariah? Could she bring herself to say more than that? She had not spoken of it to anyone in years.
He slipped his arm around her shoulder, and the comfort of it was almost more than she could bear. She wanted to bury her face in his collar, cry one last time at the ancient events that had ruined her, cry for the damage done to her life.
“Come on then,” he said soothingly. “I’ll make a pallet. We can sit there.” He led her to a spot just below the windows of the ballroom, took several muslin cloths, and bunched them up to make a sort of padding on the polished wood floor. They sat, Sophie’s legs crossed under her skirts, Caleb’s legs stretched out in front of him, his back propped against the wall.
Unable, at first, to speak her shame in more than a whisper, she began softly. But as she spoke, as the memories tumbled out of her mouth and soul, her voice grew stronger. She told him how she had met William Stanwood, how he had courted her in earnest and convinced her that her brother Julian was her enemy. It had been an easy charge to believe when Julian had taken her to Kettering Hall and left her there. And when William had come, she had thought him so terribly gallant—she told Caleb how she had fled Kettering Hall with him, how they had run to Gretna Green and married there.
