The Secret Lover

by Julia London

  “You make it sound as if he seeks a nursemaid,” Sophie said as she took the eggs from her.

  Lucie Cowplain snorted disdainfully. “Why in God’s name do ye think he’d marry? It ain’t for position or money, obviously.”

  “Mon Dieu!” Honorine exclaimed hotly, roused from her concentration on a plate of delectable pastries. “You do not say such things, Lucie Cowplain!”

  The woman rolled her eyes and pivoted on her twisted leg. “I ain’t saying there’s anything wrong with Lady Sophie, I ain’t. But she’s got the burden of her past, you cannot deny it,” she said, and lurched through the servant’s door.

  Clearly stunned, Honorine tried to smooth it over, but what she said came out in a mishmash of French and English. It hardly would have mattered had she managed to say something in flawless English, because Sophie knew that the old cook was quite right.

  Everyone knew it.

  Everyone except Honorine, that was, and unfortunately, Honorine could not seem to grasp any of the nuances of the latest gossip surrounding Sophie and Trevor, or worse, herself and Lord Hamilton. On those occasions when Sophie tried to make her understand the furor she was creating, Honorine would cluck her tongue. “These Anglaises, they know nothing of life,” she would say, and refuse to hear any argument Sophie tried to put forth regarding English propriety.

  Honorine’s nonchalance and Sophie’s frustration collided with fury one afternoon when Honorine announced her very disastrous notion to have a ball in the orangery.

  “Ooh, oui, oui!” clapped Fabrice.

  “Why on earth would you want to host a ball?” Sophie demanded.

  “Why not?” Honorine asked nonchalantly as she exchanged cards with Roland in the course of a game. “London, she is very good to us. Very nice, non? We should give this ball. Will likes it.”

  “Honestly, Honorine! Have you no idea what is being said about us? All of us?”

  Honorine looked up from her card game and smiled. “Oui. You they speak about, and Monsieur Trevor Hamilton…but I like this other son,” she said, looking pointedly at Sophie.

  “Ooh, oui, this other son, he is very nice,” Fabrice said dreamily, earning an impatient glare from Roland.

  “Oh no, you can’t invite them both!” Sophie cried with alarm.

  “Non, I do not do this!” Honorine said indignantly, as if she were suddenly the queen of society protocol. “You think only you are concerned for these things? For Caleb,” she said matter-of-factly, “I will be concerned, too!” Fabrice and Roland paused at that and looked at Sophie.

  That sort of remark usually sealed her lips—but Sophie was beside herself. “I am not concerned, Honorine, but I think you do not understand. These people, the society here, they are not sincere. They will come to your house to gawk.”

  “Gawk? What is this gawk?” Honorine demanded. Fabrice quickly translated for her, and Honorine laughed. “At what do they gawk? ‘she asked as Lucie Cowplain entered the room carrying a vase of freshly cut flowers.

  “At you! And them!” Sophie cried, motioning impatiently to Fabrice and Roland.

  A collective gasp went up among them; they all gaped at her as if she had spoken blasphemy. Even Lucie Cowplain seemed taken aback. Honorine carefully placed her cards aside and stood from the table, pausing to look down at her with all superiority. “I do not care what they will think, Sofia,” she said haughtily. “I will have this ball. They do not come, c’est la vie!” she added, and sailed out of the morning room to discuss the ball with the winsome trio of Lucie Cowplain, Fabrice, and Roland on her heels.

  Fine then, bloody-well fine. The whole Hamilton debacle was at least absurd, not to mention calamitous. Having had enough with the lot of it, Sophie donned her bonnet in a huff, grabbed her reticule, and set out to do something more productive than mull over the latest gossip and Honorine’s insistence on disaster, or moon over Caleb for endless hours.

  It seemed to her an excellent time to speak with Julian about leasing a booth at Covent Garden.

  Julian and Claudia were both at Kettering House on St. James Square, in the gold drawing room with their two young daughters. Claudia was attempting to repair Beth’s tail of ringlets that had come loose. Bridget, whose long black curls already hung loosely, romped about the room, pretending to be a knight and waving a wooden sword about fiercely. At the far end of the room, Julian looked up from his paper and removed his spectacles as Sophie was shown into the room. “Pumpkin! How good to see you!” he said, smiling warmly. “My, my, how well you look, Lady Sophie. Hamilton’s courting apparently agrees with you, hmm?”

  What, was the entire city of London following Trevor’s every move? And since when did a drab brown gown look anything but ill advised? Sophie could feel herself pinkening under his scrutiny, but her discomfiture was hidden by a collision with Beth. The darling, just freed from her mother’s attentions, flew across the room to her sister, Bridget, intent on retrieving her sword—Sophie winced at the impact of the child to her person and immediately reached for her smarting knee.

  “Pardon, Auntie Sophie,” Beth said as she skipped around her.

  “Oh dear, you haven’t gone and hurt yourself, have you?” Julian asked.

  “No,” Sophie said, biting her lip, “really I am—”

  “Must be those stars in your eyes,” he said, and laughed appreciatively at his own jest.

  “Really, Julian, I thought you above all the gossip,” she retorted pertly.

  “It’s hardly gossip!” Claudia chimed in. “Hamilton has indeed called on you a dozen times now, and that can only mean one thing—”

  “It can only mean that we are neighbors. But never mind that, please?” she asked, limping to the grouping of chairs in the center of the room. “I’ve come to speak about much more important things.”

  “Oh no,” said Julian with a playful moan. “I am always quite ill at ease when a woman wishes to speak of something ‘more important.’ Go on then, let me have the worst of it.”

  “Oh, Julian!” Claudia clucked.

  “It’s about the Upper Moreland Street House.”

  “Ooh! How wonderful!” Claudia exclaimed. “Nancy Harvey told me herself how much time you have spent helping her these last few weeks. I am so very glad you’ve taken such a keen interest in the house—Lord knows I’ve not been able to give it the attention it deserves.”

  “Upper Moreland Street?” asked Julian, clearly surprised.

  “I really haven’t been much help a’tall, but I should very much like to do more,” Sophie said eagerly.

  “More? Do you think that wise, pumpkin?” Julian asked, frowning lightly. “After all, your past association with the house—”

  “Julian, whatever do you mean?” Claudia asked indignantly. “Her past association with that house makes her all the more sensitive to the needs of the women there. I, for one, am very proud—”

  “I did not say I was not proud, Claudia. I am merely thinking of what is best for Sophie, and I cannot help but think the less reference made to her past, the better.”

  “Oh no, Julian, you really mustn’t mind; I am quite—”

  “What reference is it to her past?” Claudia demanded, interrupting Sophie.

  “An obvious reference!” Julian snorted.

  “Why should you mind so? Trevor Hamilton doesn’t seem—”

  “Stop!” Sophie exclaimed, holding up her hands to them. Startled, Julian and Claudia turned twin looks of surprise to her. “Please,” she said more calmly, lowering her hands. “Julian, no one knows I attend the house on Upper Moreland Street, and Claudia,” she said, preempting the remark of triumph Claudia was undoubtedly about to make to Julian, “I have not spent a great deal of time there. Nancy is being kind. But in the little time I have spent there, I could not help noticing they are without sufficient funding to maintain the house properly, much less clothe the women and children as they should.”

  “What? But I sent several gowns just one month past!” Claudia e
xclaimed.

  “Yes, so you have—but those gowns are too fine. The women there need garments that are more practical for their daily work. Yet there are two dozen ball gowns and accoutrements if there is one, all stowed away in a small room on the attic floor.”

  “Oh,” murmured Claudia, deflated. “I had no idea…”

  “I had a thought, however—what if we were to hire a booth in Covent Garden or a small shop on High Street and sell the gowns that have been donated?” Sophie moved to the edge of her seat, excited about her idea. “Surely there are other women in London who would appreciate the quality of clothing they might have for a fraction of what they would pay in commission to a modiste. The proceeds from the sale of the gowns could be turned over to the house, and Nancy could purchase what was necessary. You needn’t worry about a thing—Nancy and I would do everything. I have the funding necessary, but I need help in acquiring the space.”

  No one said anything for a moment; Claudia and Julian both looked at her with equally dubious expressions.

  “You would sell these gowns?” Claudia asked her, the disapproval evident in her voice.

  “Yes,” Sophie said, trying to ignore the sinking of her gut. “It should not require a very big booth, really, just enough space where Nancy could display them.”

  Julian and Claudia exchanged another look; Julian frowned. Claudia shifted her gaze to her daughters, who were now fascinated with something on the Aubusson carpet.

  “Sophie, that is an admirable notion, truly,” Julian said carefully. “But you cannot think to sell the gowns women of the ton have donated to a worthy cause, particularly at Covent Garden or on High Street. That would be unseemly.”

  “Unseemly?” she echoed, uncertain how it could possibly be unseemly to sell cast-off garments to women who would truly appreciate their value. Julian cleared his throat as he withdrew his spectacles and carefully put them on. Not a good sign, that, and well Sophie knew it. “Perhaps I did not make myself entirely clear,” she quickly said, but Julian was already shaking his head.

  “Sophie, you must consider that our friends have given some very fine gowns to a worthy cause. But to take them and sell them to persons who might actually be in their employ would be indecorous. I cannot allow you to do this. I cannot allow you to be known for selling the clothing of the ton to…to—”

  “Women,” she quietly finished for him.

  Julian shrugged lightly and looked at Claudia.

  Incredible. They would seek donations to the house on Upper Moreland Street, but now they would fret if the women were of the right class to wear those things? What had happened to her brother in the eight years she had been gone? He was one of the infamous Rogues of Regent Street, a group of men who had flaunted their disdain of societal convention—and now he would protect such arcane convention?

  “I don’t understand,” she stubbornly insisted. “How could selling the gowns possibly be any different from giving them away?”

  “It’s just that it is rather base to sell them, dear.” This, practically whispered from Claudia Dane, the undisputed champion of underprivileged women.

  It was all too unbelievable. And she had thought her idea so sound, so perfect…“I cannot believe this,” she said low. “Both of you profess to believe in charity, do you not?”

  “We’ll think of another way to help them, darling,” Julian said kindly. “Is it money you need? I shall—”

  “No,” Sophie said, shaking her head. “It’s not your money they want.” That was one thing she instinctively understood, but she had no idea how to impress that on her brother. “They are proud women, all of them, and anxious to be on their feet again. They appreciate the help they receive at Upper Moreland Street, but they would prefer to make their own way.”

  They wanted to make their own way as fiercely as she wanted to at that very moment.

  “Oh darling, try not to look so cross. The house will be fine,” Julian said.

  “Yes, of course,” Claudia anxiously agreed. “And besides, you have your Mr. Hamilton to occupy your time.”

  Now the indignation was beginning to choke her. Not that she was surprised, particularly—it was the way of the ton, the values they cherished. They would dismiss her request and suggest that she occupy her thoughts with something more appropriate for a spinster like herself—the prospect of a match. Even in that, they valued someone who was possibly the most tedious creature on the face of God’s green earth merely because of his credentials. It was all about appearances, and her family was just like everyone else in that regard. Of course they were! The ordeal over her escape and divorce from Sir William had all been about appearances, had it not?

  “Yes, you are right,” she said slowly, and came to her feet. “The house will be fine.” She forced a smile to her face. “Well then, if you will excuse me—”

  “Sophie, wait—where are you going?” Julian asked as he took the spectacles from his face. “Sit down, please. We were just about to ring for tea.”

  “Thank you, no, I wouldn’t impose. I really must be on my way,” she said, backing away from her brother and sister-in-law. “Besides, I promised Honorine to help her with some, ah…painting.”

  An atrocious lie, and she could tell from their expressions that Claudia and Julian recognized it as such.

  “You won’t stay for just a moment?” Claudia asked, coming to her feet.

  “No, really, I—” Sophie jumped when she backed into a round table, jerking halfway around to catch a vase before it toppled to the floor. From across the room, Beth and Bridget giggled.

  “At least let me have a carriage brought ’round,” said Julian, who was standing now, too.

  “Its such a glorious day, I prefer to walk.”

  “Sophie, come now,” he coaxed her, arms open. “Please don’t be cross.”

  “Oh no, you misunderstand me!” she said cheerfully. “I am not in the least cross. I am…”—lost!—“It was a silly idea, truly. I must be going—I should not keep Honorine waiting overlong.”

  And before anyone could say likewise, she called a cheerful ta-ta to her nieces, waved at Julian and Claudia, and quickly retreated from their pained expressions, stepping out of the salon and rushing down the corridor before spilling out of Kettering House onto St. James Square.

  She walked quickly across the square in the direction of St. James Park, her head down, lost in thought. How was it possible her family had become so like the ton? There was a time she believed the Danes were far too compassionate about the plight of the less privileged to care what society thought. What else had she believed of her family that was not true? They said they wanted her happiness—perhaps they wanted respectability more. Why else would they push the idea of Trevor without so much as asking her wishes?

  Because they had never asked her wishes. They had made her decisions for her from the time she was a little girl—she was always the one to be guarded, to be looked after, as if she were infirm, incapable of making the right decision. Worse, they had made her believe it, too. Wasn’t that precisely the reason she had not dared breathe a word of Caleb to anyone? He was not the right decision.

  Sophie ran quickly across the crowded thoroughfare of Pall Mall and into St. James Park, slowing her step until she was wandering idly, her disappointment growing with each step. So lost in thought was she that she almost collided with the pair walking toward her. Startled, she stepped abruptly to one side without really looking at them.

  “Sophie!”

  The voice washed over her like silk; Sophie’s heart immediately leapt to her throat, and she glanced up at Caleb with a broad, irrepressible smile. “Caleb! What a pleasure to meet you!”

  He flashed her an impossibly white grin as he tipped his hat.

  “Lady Sophie Dane—a surprise, if I do say so myself. Why, I haven’t seen you smile so brightly since the Season of your debut,” a woman said.

  Sophie’s heart sank to her feet as she forced herself to look to Caleb’s rig
ht.

  With a smirk that seemed permanently twisted, Melinda Birdwell stood on his arm.

  Chapter Eleven

  THROUGH SOME HERETOFORE undetected and miraculous will, Sophie managed to keep smiling in spite of her shock and great sense of betrayal. In fact, she beamed at Melinda as if they were long-lost sisters united at last. “Miss Birdwell!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “An even greater surprise to see you taking a turn about the park!”

  Melinda’s smirk dimmed a bit; she glanced sidelong at Caleb, but he was still smiling at Sophie.

  Ha.

  “I am a great proponent of daily walks,” Caleb said cheerfully. “I believe it keeps one feeling rather youthful, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “You must know my thoughts on the subject, sir,” Sophie said pointedly, and stepped around the pair. “And certainly I would not want to keep you from it. Good day,” she said pertly. With a passing look at Caleb, she continued briskly on, moving so quickly that within moments, she was beginning to labor a bit in her breathing. She hardly cared—an apoplectic fit wouldn’t stop her now. She would flee that park at once because she was quite certain she had never been so humiliated in her life.

  How dare he? How dare he consort with Melinda Birdwell, of all people? Oh God, oh God, how could she have been so bloody stupid? She had practically thrown herself at him.

  An ancient feeling of betrayal twisted in her gut before a thought suddenly occurred to her, and groaning, she paused, closed her eyes. She could well imagine the scene behind her now—Melinda would inquire as to how Caleb knew her, then pounce delightedly on the opportunity to tell him the whole sordid story of her past, leaving nothing unsaid. Around the park the two of them would go, whispering feverishly—

  Sophie’s eyes suddenly flew open.

  Just one blasted moment—what was Melinda doing on Caleb’s arm? She would hardly associate herself with someone rumored to be a swindler. Furthermore, even if she did believe him to be the unfortunate but illegitimate son of Lord Hamilton, she would never align herself with someone with tainted credentials. That much, Sophie knew very well—Melinda Birdwell was precisely that sort of woman. But then again, Melinda was very close to being put on the shelf permanently. It could be that she was desperate for a match…