The Secret Lover

by Julia London

  A quarter of an hour passed, perhaps more, before he was convinced by the silence beyond his door that Trevor would not return. Slowly, he lifted himself, shoved his legs off the bed, then with some difficulty, came to his feet. Struggling for equilibrium—the hours spent in that damned wheeled chair had taken that away from him—he strained to put one foot in front of the other. Then again. And again and again until he was walking the length of his room, back and forth.

  It was, he thought with some satisfaction, only a matter of time now.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  CALEB, SOPHIE, AND Miss Brillhart took the cabriolet to the village of Kettering early the next morning, coming to a stop in front of the livery at Miss Brillhart’s instruction. She climbed down from the carriage, adjusted her hat and smoothed the front of her gown, then glanced nervously at Sophie. “No need for you to wait, mu’um. I’ll take the walk home as I am accustomed to doing.”

  “Of course we will wait,” Caleb said emphatically.

  Miss Brillhart stole a glance at the livery where the parish constable worked and cleared her throat. “That’s right kind, sir, but it is not necessary. Really.”

  Caleb opened his mouth to argue, but Sophie put a hand on his arm. “Really,” she said quietly. Miss Brillhart was blushing furiously now; she fussed with her reticule, avoiding their gazes, and bid them a quick “good morning” before turning and darting into the livery like a rabbit.

  As he watched her disappear inside, a light of understanding washed over Caleb and with a snort, he smiled sheepishly at Sophie. “I suppose I’m so caught up in my own good fortune, I do not think to look around me.”

  She laughed softly, squeezed his hand. “This means, of course, that we are left quite to our own devices.”

  “Then may I suggest we find the parish pastor,” he responded, and flicked the reins to send the horse trotting.

  As it turned out, the pastor, a young man from Coventry, had just received his post and therefore had never heard the name Sophie Dane, much less Caleb Hamilton. He was more than happy to issue a license for their marriage, and even waxed sentimentally about his own desire to marry and father children one day.

  Sophie and Caleb had decided, after a whispered discussion in bed the night before, that their wedding would be a very simple and expedient thing, with only the required number of witnesses. They would marry in the chapel at Kettering Hall; the same place Sophie’s mother had married her father. They debated whether or not they should tell Miss Brillhart, lest she send word to Julian, but seeing the lunacy in trying to keep something like a wedding from the housekeeper, Sophie decided she would send word to Julian.

  When Honorine demanded to know, upon their return from the village, where they had gone so early that morning, Sophie confided in her. For once in her life, Honorine was speechless; her eyes welled, her bottom lip trembled, and she impetuously threw her arms around Sophie, then Caleb, proclaiming she could not be happier.

  She was not, however, content with the notion of a simple wedding. She envisioned something much more memorable, such as a garden wedding with dancing and delicious chocolate cakes. Arguing was futile—Honorine was determined and rather certain Lord Hamilton would want it so. And, she added in a supercilious French speech, it kept her mind occupied while they waited for word of Lord Hamilton.

  That would, apparently, take some time. Miss Brillhart returned—midafternoon, Sophie noticed with a smile—with the good news that the constable was quite keen to look into the matter. However, he had explained to her that he could not possibly leave for Hamilton House before the morrow, and the journey would take two days. His plan was to call on the parish sheriff there, hoping that they would venture out to the estate together. All in all, he told Miss Brillhart, she should not expect word before the end of the week at the very earliest.

  Frustrated that he could not do more, Caleb stalked about the house, complaining of his inability. Honorine, too, was despondent. She moped about and took to wearing very drab colors and her hair in an austere bun. She would sit for what seemed hours, gazing out over the expansive back lawn of Kettering Hall, lost in thought. It was so unlike her, so very opposite of what she had been, that Sophie worried. The only thing that seemed to spark a light in her at all was the subject of Sophie and Caleb’s wedding. On that topic, she offered many opinions, whether they wanted them or not. And, she insisted, it would not do without Fabrice and Roland in attendance.

  “But they have gone to France,” Sophie tried to explain. “We agreed we should meet at Château de Segries in Burgundy.”

  Honorine waved a dismissive hand at her. “You should not believe they have gone from here, Sofia. These two men, they cannot attend their own funeral without me,” she said emphatically, and picked up pen and paper to send for them.

  Likewise, Sophie found a sheet of parchment with the Kettering seal on it, and sat to write Julian, closeting herself in her old dressing room while she struggled with what exactly to say. In the end, her letter was too simple and hardly relayed all the emotion that filled her. But, she finally conceded, it relayed the most important message—that she had made her own decision.

  Dearest Julian,

  Please accept my humblest apology for having left London as I did. I believed, and still believe, I had no choice, as time was of the essence, and I feared that you would attempt to stop me. As it happened, my decision was the right one for reasons that I cannot fully explain here. I am now at Kettering Hall, as I had nowhere else to turn.

  I pray that you will understand when I tell you that I have taken a license to marry and plan to do so by week’s end. The man I will marry is not Mr. Trevor Hamilton as you and the family had hoped, but rather, his half-brother, Mr. Caleb Hamilton. In truth, he has been my secret love for many weeks now. I know you believe him to be an imposter and a swindler, but I fervently hope you will trust me when I tell you that he is none of those things. He is the loving son of Lord Hamilton and a man with more integrity in the tip of his finger than Trevor Hamilton possesses in his entire body. He is gentle and kind, he loves me dearly, and he vows to be faithful always.

  I do not know where fate may take us; indeed we are struggling with the decision of where we are to go from here. But no matter where we may find ourselves, I know in my heart of hearts that we will love each other madly until we are exhausted and ancient and it is time to sleep. I cannot help but believe, given the course of my life thus far, that the depth of the love we share is the most important reason for which we are placed on this earth.

  I hope you will understand my decision and agree that it is, in the end, my decision to make. I do not mean to hurt you or bring dishonor on the family, but I cannot help my feelings or ignore my instinct. I will pray that you find it in your heart to forgive me. Ever yours,

  Sophie.

  She read the letter several times over before finally sealing it, convinced there was nothing else she could say to ease the blow. She returned to the main salon then, where Caleb had taken it upon himself to inform Miss Brillhart of their decision, with Honorine’s help.

  Caleb looked strong and secure as she entered the room, striding forward to meet her, grasping her hand and squeezing it reassuringly as only he could do. She looked up into his pale green eyes, saw his conviction shining brightly. He smiled, winked slyly. “It’s all right,” he murmured as he kissed her temple. “Everything will be all right.”

  Sophie nodded mutely, shifted her gaze to Miss Brillhart, who was looking at her with an expression of remorse. She immediately went to the elderly woman and put her hand on the two Miss Brillhart held tightly at her waist.

  The moment Sophie touched her, she shook her head, and a tear dislodged from the corner of her eye. “It’s not right, my lady,” she said. “It’s not right.”

  “No, Miss Brillhart, it wasn’t right the first time,” Sophie said softly, “but this is right. I am a woman now. I was a child then. The love Caleb and I share is as real as the love you a
nd I share.”

  Miss Brillhart looked up then, wiped a tear from beneath her eye. “I do love you, mu’um, I have loved all you girls as if you were my own.”

  “Then be happy for me, Miss Brillhart! Be happy that I have found someone as wonderful and kind as Mr. Hamilton!”

  The housekeeper looked at Caleb from the corner of her eye; a bit of a smile tipped the corner of her mouth upward. “Well…I suppose he is a rather bonny lad,” she admitted.

  “Terribly so,” Sophie readily agreed.

  “And I suppose a lady could do worse,” she said, holding her head a little higher.

  “I have done worse,” Sophie reminded her with a little laugh.

  Miss Brillhart smiled then. “Indeed you have, my lady, indeed you have. Oh drat it all then, I must agree with Madame Fortier. If there is to be a wedding, it ought to be done right.”

  With a sigh of relief, Sophie embraced her. Miss Brillhart hugged her back, squeezing hard, then abruptly let go. “Leave me be now,” she said, flustered. “I’ve enough to do without all this commotion.” With a sad smile, she walked away from Sophie, toward the door.

  “Thank you, Miss Brillhart,” Caleb said as she passed. “It does a man good to know he is considered bonny.”

  “Ah now, there you go, Mr. Hamilton,” she said, waggling a finger at him. “It’s small wonder you’ve enjoyed a reputation as a lover,” she teased, laughing to herself as she went out the door.

  Surprised, Sophie asked, “How on earth could she know that?”

  Caleb enveloped her in his arms and kissed her before answering. “I had a bit of help from Madame Fortier in breaking the news to Miss Brillhart. She left no detail unsaid,” he said, chuckling. “Frankly, I must confess I did not know I had such a randy reputation.”

  “I do not know of this randy, but it is known you enjoy the mesdames,” Honorine muttered from her perch on the window seat, where she held her letter to Roland and Fabrice in her lap.

  “All right then, let’s have your letter,” Sophie said, as she slipped out of Caleb’s embrace. “We might as well send these on their way so we can begin the business of finding suitable wedding attire.”

  Honorine looked around at that, eyed Sophie suspiciously. “What do you mean, wedding attire?”

  Sophie shrugged, stole a look at Caleb. “You didn’t think I’d be married in drab old gray, did you? I was rather hoping you would help me look through the trunks in the attic.”

  Honorine frowned. “Qu’est-ce que c’est? You mean to marry in these?” she asked, gesturing limply at her gown.

  “I certainly hope not,” Sophie laughed. “There are so many trunks up there, I am quite certain we could find something suitable. Will you come then? I would welcome a trained eye.”

  With a weary sigh, Honorine stood, walked slowly to the door, pausing only to shove her letter at Caleb. “Oui, my help you need very much,” she said, and dragged herself out the door as Sophie exchanged a silent laugh with Caleb, then trailed behind her.

  At Hamilton House, in the master suite of rooms, Will strained to hear Trevor’s footfall. After a quarter of an hour, he was convinced his son was not coming back. Darby had confirmed that he spent his evenings in the main salon, drinking whiskey and muttering to himself. Slowly, Will swung his legs over the side of the bed, put his feet to the floor, and stood easily. He began to walk, pacing the floor in front of the bed, watching the clock on the mantel and counting the minutes until Darby would arrive.

  At promptly eleven o’clock, Darby slipped through the door, pausing there to listen. After a moment, he turned toward Will and nodded. “I believe he is quite inebriated, my lord. I shouldn’t worry that he will appear.”

  “G-good,” Will said, and motioned Darby to the divan at the hearth. “N-now, where were we?” he asked as he began to walk again, moving his legs and his arms.

  “Shortly after the death of Mrs. Hamilton, my lord. You recall that she had spoken to you of Trevor’s habits?”

  “Y-yes,” said Will, nodding firmly. He had remembered, quite clearly. “Elspeth was quite c-concerned,” he said, and began to tell Darby what he remembered, pleased at how eagerly Darby confirmed his recollections.

  It was coming back to him.

  Over the course of the next few days, Caleb watched as Sophie blossomed with a new depth of confidence he had not seen in her. It seemed as if writing the letter to her brother had freed her from some invisible burden.

  Only she was strong enough to make a concerted effort to lift Madame Fortier’s spirits and keep them all buoyed. That was a difficult task—every day Miss Brillhart marched to the village, and every day she returned with no word from the constable. Caleb was little help—he was too worried about his father to be of much assistance in the plans for his wedding. So Sophie engaged Honorine in a search of dozens of trunks in the attic, finally producing several costumes for Caleb’s inspection. The clothes dated back one hundred years, but Sophie finally agreed with Honorine—a wedding in the dress of the high court of King George II seemed appropriate somehow, given the importance of the occasion. As for Caleb, he discovered there was no shortage of clothing from that era—they gave him the choice of a gold velvet coat or a pale rose, with matching high-heeled slippers, he could not help but notice. He reluctantly chose the gold.

  Yet it was impossible for even Sophie to conceive of a formal wedding, much less a feast, with their worry about Lord Hamilton weighing on them. Miss Brillhart did the best she could for them in that regard, plotting a meal appropriate to the occasion when no more than a handful would attend.

  It seemed to Caleb that they all waited for disaster. It was hard to add a wedding to the feeling of doom, yet he could hardly continue on with their secret love affair. It was imperative that he honor Sophie, and soon. Nonetheless, there were moments, though infrequent, that he rather wondered if he was doing the right thing. But then he need only look at Sophie and know how devastatingly true his feelings were. There was nothing that could compare to the depth of passion he felt for her. At night, when they made love, her natural, heartfelt response shattered him. In the course of their day, the touch of her hand, the whisper of her lips against his skin made him long for her with the force of ten thousand men.

  He loved everything about her—the way she watched over Honorine, or seemed to let class distinctions melt away and embrace Miss Brillhart as a true friend. Her periods of reflection, when he would see her looking pensively at the fire, no doubt considering the various facets of her life as it had evolved. She was thoughtful and considerate, kind and loving, and secretly, he could hardly wait for the moment she would put her hand in his, take the plain gold band that had been his mother’s, and become his wife, his companion, his love for the rest of his life.

  Nothing could douse the sense of wonder he felt when he was with her, not even the nagging concern for his father’s welfare. But he continued to bemoan the fact that his father would not be in attendance, that he would marry with his father perhaps in imminent danger.

  Unfortunately, there was no news by the end of the week.

  Miss Brillhart and Caleb fretted equally on this point. Together, they reviewed the time it would take to reach the parish in which Hamilton House sat. Miss Brillhart was convinced the constable had met with some misfortune. Caleb wondered if he hadn’t simply taken another route to combine other business with this. But they both agreed—if the constable had not returned by their wedding day, something must be very wrong.

  Caleb discussed that with Sophie and they decided that if the constable had not returned by the time they were wed, they would return once again to Nottinghamshire. It was risky, but far too important. They figured that between his insistence and Sophie’s name, which wielded considerable authority in many parts of England, the parish sheriff there would not refuse to see after Lord Hamilton’s welfare. Further, it was Honorine they wanted, not Caleb. If she remained at Kettering Hall, Caleb believed he had a decent chance of seeing his
father, if even for the last time.

  That was a persistent worry. He knew Trevor would continue to accuse him of attempting to swindle his father, and while there was no evidence to support such a claim, there was certainly the preponderance of such an assumption based solely on the fact that he was the bastard son. There was nothing he could do to change the way society viewed him, nothing at all.

  Which was why he and Sophie had determined they would reside in France. It meant leaving his budding rail endeavors behind, of course, but there was no hope that the two of them would be accepted anywhere within the British Isles. In France, at least, no one need know who they were, much less their histories.

  “The work on the rails is only starting there,” he said one night as they lay in each other’s arms, watching the fire turn to embers. “Perhaps this is a good opportunity.”

  “What of the house in Regent’s Park?” she asked, tracing a pattern on his bare chest.

  What of the house into which he had put so much of himself? It seemed so distant now, something of a pipe dream he had once held dear. “I’ll keep it, I suppose. Perhaps one day, we will feel free to come to London.”

  Sophie frowned lightly. “I rather think we will not,” she said sadly.

  Caleb stroked her hair, said nothing. In truth, he had no idea what they might expect. He had seen enough of the ton’s antics to know that it was probable her family would never openly accept her in their fold again. Still, it seemed impossible to him that anyone who knew Sophie could possibly turn his back on her, regardless of what perceived injustice she might have done.

  “I could perhaps open a patisserie,” she said idly.

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked, surprised.

  “A patisserie. We could live above it.” She lifted her lashes to look at him and smiled. “Would you like that, Mr. Hamilton? Living above a patisserie?”