by Julia London
She had toyed with the idea of going to Regent’s Park, if only to catch a glimpse of him. That was the only place she knew to go, for in all her brilliant maneuvering in her affair with Caleb, she had never asked him where he lived, knew only that it was generally in the area of Cheapside. Knowing the exact direction would have been too concrete for her carefully constructed fantasy, wouldn’t it?
But she could not go to Regent’s Park, at least not yet. She simply didn’t have the courage to see the look of disappointment—or disgust—on his handsome face.
She had instead come to Upper Moreland Street, the one place she felt free of scrutiny. And Nancy knew the entire story of the two brothers—she was the one person Sophie had trusted with the truth. Well, at least half of it. When she told Nancy the events of Honorine’s ball, she had left out any mention of cleaving Caleb in two.
She sat in the tiny parlor, slumped in an old and worn overstuffed armchair, watching morosely as Nancy made small repairs to the batch of gowns she would sell the following morning at Covent Garden. In its first day, the little booth Caleb had built met with astounding success—six of the seven gowns Nancy had taken had sold to women for more than she had hoped, and all of the hats and slippers had been snatched up before midday.
Nancy was quite pleased with the success of Sophie’s idea, but made it clear they were no longer in need of her help. “We’ll manage on our own, thank you,” she had said when Sophie had offered to accompany her to the booth the next morning. “We’ve scarcely room for Bette and myself, in truth. And you’ve undoubtedly more important matters than this.”
“Hardly,” snorted Sophie, and idly picked at the bit of stuffing that was peeking out of a hole on the arm of her chair. “Other than, I suppose, determining how one goes about refusing an offer of marriage made to a room full of society’s most favored people.”
“Why, you say to the bloke, ‘No thank you, milord, for my heart belongs to another,’” Nancy offered, clasping her hands dramatically over her heart, then laughed at her own jest.
Sophie frowned.
“Oh there now, luv, you mustn’t look so sad. The bloke will pick himself up by his bootstraps, you’ll see.”
“I really don’t know how he will accept it, but I rather think my family will never forgive me…”—she winced, glanced at Nancy from the corner of her eye—“or Caleb.”
That caught Nancy’s attention. “Caleb?” She put down her sewing and looked curiously at Sophie. “Our Mr. Hamilton? But he should be very pleased indeed!”
Sophie shook her head, picked even more intently at the stuffing. “He isn’t very pleased with me a’tall. Actually, I will be quite surprised if he should ever speak to me again.”
Nancy’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Why ever should he not?”
She did not want to say it aloud, did not want to hear her betrayal again. “Because I refused him, too,” she muttered.
That was met with stunned silence from Nancy. She peered hard at Sophie, as if she were trying to see what was in her mind, and a distinct look of aversion crossed her features as she slowly leaned back in her chair. “Mr. Hamilton, he loves you. You know that, do you not?”
Oh yes, she knew it. Knew it by heart.
“And you love him, it is plain to see.”
Of course she did. With all her heart. But—
“What a wonderful man he is, your Mr. Hamilton. Really, I thought you were different than the rest of that lot,” Nancy uttered irritably as she picked up her sewing. “I thought you understood that there is more to this world than the fancy parlors of high society, and their titles and servants—”
“But I do understand it!” she protested, knowing how empty that sounded. “That is why this is so very hard, because I do understand it, and all too well!”
“Apparently not as hard as doing the right thing by a body, it would seem.”
The truth of that stung. Sophie abruptly shoved to her feet and moved restlessly to the bay window. All rational thought scattered into oblivion as she sought a justification for her actions that Nancy would understand. But there was nothing, no excuse, no reason for her to turn Caleb away. She loved him; he loved her. Theirs was a meeting of the minds, a joining of spirits. How could something as simple as the manner of his birth change that?
And, lest she forget, there was plenty about her Caleb could find objectionable. Yet the ugly taint of her past actions had never deterred him, had never seemed to even enter his thoughts. He genuinely loved her for who she was, and she had returned that respect by refusing him. She had been too afraid to stand up to her upbringing, to make her own decisions. Too uncertain of herself to believe she could.
Sophie had never in her entire life felt so low as she did at that very moment.
She glanced over her shoulder at Nancy. She was busy with her work, the needle flying angrily in and out of the fabric.
“If there is nothing more for me to do here, there is something I really must attend,” she said.
Nancy did not look at her; she merely shook her head.
“Well then. I’ll come again in a day or two.”
“As you wish,” Nancy said, and glanced up. Her disappointment was clearly evident, and it sliced across Sophie like a knife.
She could not escape that house or her shame quickly enough.
At Essex Street, she waited impatiently for a hack to take her to Regent’s Park. By the time a hack arrived, she knew it was too late; the sun was already beginning to slide into the western horizon. But when they reached the park, she nonetheless hurried to the little pond, hoping that by some small miracle, he would be there.
He was not.
His house stood as a silent behemoth, dark and empty. Cold.
How long she stood there, she had no idea, but she had no right to go inside without him. Yet she did, compelled by an overwhelming need to be near him—or at least, the essence of him. She found the key he always left for her beneath a flagstone and stepped carefully in the dim afternoon light, wandering from one unfinished room to the next, feeling her heart constrict with every step.
Every moment they had spent in this house came rushing back to her. She remembered each place they had picnicked—in the foyer, the ballroom, and the library. She remembered their gay conversations, where they had pored over plans and tried to imagine what the finished rooms would look like.
In the ballroom where the muslin sheets still covered the floor, they had lain on their backs and looked at the newly finished ceiling, studying the elaborate frieze like so many puffy white clouds. In the master suite, they had succumbed to their mutual desire, and he had made tender love to her there, taking his time to bring her to fulfillment, then just as tenderly taking his own…a memory that made Sophie shiver.
But it was the morning room that undid her. When she stepped into the room, she gasped lightly and stood, her mouth agape, staring at the west wall. He had planned to hang a portrait on that wall, let the light come in from the east. But the north wall looked out over the little pond, and Sophie had jokingly suggested that he put a small window there so that he might watch for her.
Caleb had chuckled at her idea, idly mentioning the expense of adding another window.
But there it was. Her window. Caleb had put it in for her.
Sophie walked slowly to the window and peered out at the little pond, felt the tear sliding from her eye down her cheek. What a mess she had made of everything!
Caleb, Caleb!
Sophie sank down on her knees in the empty morning room and covered her face with her hands, sobbing. What would she do without him? How could she live?
It was an hour or later that she finally emerged from the dark and empty house, replaced the key, and slowly made her way home, feeling the weight of her life on her shoulders. She climbed wearily up the steps and into the foyer of Maison de Fortier, pausing to deposit her bonnet.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Trevor’s voice startl
ed her; Sophie whirled around to see him standing at the edge of the corridor, in the shadows. It was funny, she thought for a single mad moment, how she had hardly spared him a thought all day, other than the need to remove any notion of marriage from his mind.
“H-how long have you been here?” she asked, despising the quiver in her voice.
“Long enough to know that Madame Fortier and my father are not here,” he said coldly. “Where has she taken him?”
“Taken him? I don’t know—have you inquired—”
“I have not had the pleasure of actually seeing a servant here, other than your housekeeper,” Trevor snapped, and walked out of the corridor into the light of the foyer. “Not that I should have any reason to hope any one of them would be particularly useful.”
The bitter edge in his tone was disquieting; she noticed that he looked ragged, with dark circles beneath his eyes. Something about his appearance caused an old spring of fear to rise in her and she unconsciously took a step backward, bumping into the entry console. “I have not seen Madame Fortier today. I would surmise they have gone picnicking as they often do. Did you not see your father this morning?”
A strange expression fell over him; Trevor planted his hand on his waist and glared at her. “I said I do not know where he is!”
“I am sure there is no cause for worry—”
“No cause for worry, indeed? And what would you know of worry, Sophie? My father requires medicine for his condition, and I shudder to think what might happen if he doesn’t receive it.”
Frantically trying to think when she had seen Honorine last—the ball, but when?—Sophie shook her head. “Surely they will return very soon, Trevor—they always do.”
He made a guttural sound of disagreement and stalked past Sophie toward the door. “I pray that you are right,” he said, and reached for the door. “Father is unwell.”
“Trevor, wait! I…I—”
“What?” he demanded sharply.
“I thought we should speak of last night.”
That seemed to stun him as much as it apparently aggravated him. “I beg your pardon, but this is hardly the best moment for that. I shall call in the morning.” He yanked the door open. “Good evening.”
He disappeared through the open door without another word, closing it loudly behind him. Hardly the sort of exit a gentleman ought to make—Trevor did not seem himself. But who did? Certainly not her.
With a weary sigh, Sophie turned from the door and glanced around. Someone had picked up the debris from yesterday’s ball. She assumed Fabrice and Roland had somehow managed to survive, and with Lucie Cowplain’s rather obnoxious prodding, had gone about the business of cleaning up.
Where was Honorine? It really wasn’t like her to be gone so long. Sophie walked to the curving staircase, trudging up to her suite of rooms as she pondered the question. Certainly wherever Honorine had thought to take Lord Hamilton, she would return this evening. She always did. And please, God, let her be fast asleep when Honorine did come blustering in, for Sophie was in no mood to discuss the events of last evening or today with anyone.
She went through the motions of her evening toilette and sneered at the early evening sky, wishing the sun would go ahead and slip behind the earth so that full night would come. After brushing her hair and braiding it, Sophie read for an hour. When she glanced at the window, she groaned with dismay. The sky was a slate gray; the sun had not yet taken its leave. In a fit of pique, she stood abruptly, marched to the window, and drew the shutters tightly closed.
When she at last laid her head down—after taking her great frustration out on her pillow—she offered up one more prayer, begging God for a few hours of complete respite, a few hours of a sleep so deep that nothing could find its way up from the dark pool of her conscience to torture her in her dreams.
Apparently she got what she had hoped, for the next thing Sophie knew, someone was banging on something quite loudly.
With a moan, she pushed herself out of bed and padded over to the windows. Pulling open the heavy shutters, she blinked at the morning sky and pushed open the heavy counterpane window. Below her, Roland was toiling away in the garden; Fabrice was sitting nearby, his legs casually crossed, a book open in his lap. He glanced up when Sophie leaned out over the sill and waved cheerfully.
The banging persisted—it was coming from the front door. “The door!” she called down to Fabrice, but he merely waved again, pretending not to hear her.
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” she muttered irritably, and hurried to her dressing room, where she donned a simple day gown, passing up the petticoats and crinolines in favor of tackling the dozen or more buttons as she rushed out of her room.
As she stepped onto the staircase, the banging got louder—it sounded as if a king’s army wanted entry. She flew down the staircase—where was Lucie Cowplain? Honorine? Honestly, had she not hired a host of servants?
She reached the door, yanked it open, expecting to see at least a troop. But the army consisted of only Trevor and Ian.
“Trevor!” she exclaimed, surprised. “When you said you would call, I—”
He startled her by pushing past her into the foyer, dragging his son behind him. “Do you know what she has done?” he demanded, his hard gaze sweeping the length of her.
“Who?” she asked stupidly.
His eyes narrowed menacingly. “Madame Fortier.”
Sophie’s gut twisted; she mindlessly fingered the end of her long braid as she quickly ran through a mental list of all the things Honorine might have done. “W-what?” she finally asked, quite certain she did not want to hear it.
“Kidnapped him!” Trevor all but shouted, and clamped a hand down so hard on Ian’s shoulder that the boy winced.
That was ridiculous. Patently absurd! Honorine might have taken Lord Hamilton somewhere, but she most certainly had not kidnapped him. “Trevor, you are overwrought,” she tried, but he was quick to interrupt her.
“Very astute, Sophie, I am overwrought, for it is not every day that one’s father is kidnapped!”
“Your father has not been kidnapped! I am certain—”
“You might hear this before you go off defending her,” he said, and roughly shook Ian. “Tell her. Tell her what she’s done!”
The boy looked up at his father in fear—an expression Sophie knew very well, knew as her own, having experienced it so many times herself. When William Stanwood was in a black mood, the entire house feared for their safety, and she saw the same look of terror on Ian’s face. She instinctively reached for the boy, but Trevor jerked him backward, beyond her reach. “Trevor, please—”
“Tell her!” he demanded.
“M-madame Fortier, she and Papa w-went on a holiday,” he stammered uncertainly.
Impossible. The child was obviously lying. “I don’t believe you,” Sophie said instantly. “Honorine would not leave without saying something…at least to someone.”
But Ian was nodding his head furiously. “They did!” he insisted. “She came and took Papa’s little carriage,” he said, and looked up hopefully at his father.
Trevor, however, ignored him—he was staring daggers through Sophie. “There you have it,” he said low. “What have you to say for your Frenchwoman now?
How she despised the tone of his voice! “I do not believe it!” But did she believe it? It was so unlike Honorine—then again, Honorine never ceased to surprise her.
Sophie suddenly picked up her skirts and pivoted about, determined to have the truth from Fabrice and Roland.
“Where are you going?” Trevor demanded hotly.
She did not respond; she was too intent on speaking with the pair of Frenchmen. If Honorine hadn’t said anything to her, she would have at least said it to the two men who had followed her around the world all these years.
She hurried down the corridor and through the doors leading onto the terrace, Trevor on her heels, Ian struggling in his father’s grip. From there, she ran down the steps
, picking up her skirts higher still to better run across the dewy grass. Trevor strode across, dragging Ian behind him. Sophie reached the wrought iron gate that marked the gardens before Trevor and sailed through, marching to where Fabrice was still sitting. Roland hardly looked up from his work.
“Where is Honorine?” she demanded.
Fabrice shrugged.
Oh no, she would not have this now. Hands on hips, Sophie leaned over him, just inches from his face. “You will tell me where she is, mon frère, or Mr. Hamilton will certainly call the authorities to have it from you!”
Fabrice lifted one brow, casually glanced around her to where Trevor stood, and after contemplating him for a moment, shrugged again. “Je ne sais pas. We do not see madame for more than two days,” he said, and as if that were a perfectly normal state of affairs, picked up his book and continued to read.
Chapter Eighteen
THANKS TO TREVOR, word spread with amazing celerity among the ton that the Frenchwoman had kidnapped poor Lord Hamilton.
Trevor apparently railed at anyone who would listen, alternating between his poignant concern for the fact that his father did not have, in his possession, the very medicine he needed to live, and an increasingly public rage at “the Frenchwoman.”
The Bobbies were summoned to Maison de Fortier; Sophie was questioned with strained civility in deference to her status as the sister of the Earl of Kettering, but Fabrice and Roland were interrogated as criminals. Although no amount of bullying by the London authorities could force the two Frenchmen to know what they clearly did not know—the whereabouts of Honorine—it left them feeling terribly vulnerable. The two men began frantically packing to leave for France, taking hysteric turns to watch Bedford Square for signs of any more would-be interrogators.
Two days after the strange disappearance of Honorine and Lord Hamilton, Lucie Cowplain nonchalantly informed Sophie that the entire ton was suddenly speaking of Honorine as if she were some sort of strumpet-turned-felon. “They call her Madame Miscreant, I’ll have ye know. Say her depravity comes from the beatings she used to receive from Monsieur Fortier.”
