by Laurel McKee
“My mother?” Sophia was dizzy with the sudden change in subject.
“Yes. She thought I might run into you here in Paris. She had heard you were traveling again.”
“I am quite sure she did not send her love,” Sophia said with a wry laugh.
“Oh, you are wrong, cousin. Your mother misses you a great deal.”
That was even more surprising. For an instant, Sophia remembered when she was a child, and the echo of her mother’s rare laughter as she walked through the gardens of their country home with Sophia and Edward, chasing them around the flowerbeds and through the old maze. The smell of her lily of the valley perfume in the air when she knelt and hugged them. Such moments had seldom lasted long—Sophia’s father disliked the noise of children playing, and her mother was very busy with her social obligations. But they had been sweet moments nonetheless.
And then when Sophia’s father had cast her out when she wanted to marry Jack, her mother had cried but done nothing. The family always came first with her, even above her daughter.
But Elizabeth said her mother was asking about her now. Against her better judgment, Sophia felt a rush of hope. Could this be what she had been waiting for?
“What did she write to you?” Sophia said carefully, stirring her tea.
“Merely that she thought perhaps you might have married again.”
“I have hardly had time to think of such things.”
“I know. Neither of us has been widowed long, and really who would want to jump back into the matrimonial state when it has barely been escaped? But your mother…” Elizabeth hesitated.
“My mother what?”
“She asked me to see if you had any new suitors. Anyone—well, I believe her word was ‘suitable.’ ”
Sophia had to laugh. Her mother, who had abandoned her, was worried about her suitors? “Mama asked you to spy on my love life?”
A touch of pink bloomed in Elizabeth’s pale cheeks. “Not spy! Just find out how you are doing. Since we are family.”
“And did she have any candidates in mind?”
“Not at all. She merely hinted that a husband who was acceptable to your father might—facilitate your return home. She does miss you, Sophia, I am sure of it. And I have missed you, too. With you and Aidan gone, life in the family is very quiet.”
“I see,” Sophia murmured, though in truth she didn’t see at all. Was this some sort of olive branch being extended, however obliquely, through her cousin? The possibility of a return home, to her old life, no longer alone in the world—if she married properly and mended her ways. If she caused no more trouble.
“I miss you as well, Elizabeth,” Sophia said carefully. “I miss how things once were. But I fear I have no suitors, respectable or otherwise, at the moment. And even if I did, it is probably much too late for me to change my ways.”
Elizabeth nodded, a sad smile on her lips. “I have done what I told your mother I would do, and I have given you her message. But if I were you, Sophia, I would not go back. What you have here is quite extraordinary. You shouldn’t trade it for something cold and airless. It would suffocate you.”
Before Sophia could ask Elizabeth what she meant and demand to know what had happened to her cousin, Elizabeth suddenly put down her teacup and rose to her feet. She leaned over to kiss Sophia’s cheek.
“I must go now,” she said. “But I hope we will see each other again before I leave Paris. You don’t need to see me out. I remember the way.”
She lowered the veil on her bonnet and hurried out of the room, leaving only a trace of violet perfume in the air. Sophia went to the window and glanced out to see Elizabeth being handed into her carriage on the street below.
For a moment, Sophia wondered if she had imagined the whole encounter. It had been so long since she saw any member of her family. Now there was the hint that she could be welcomed back as she had hoped, if only she did what a Huntington should. If she found a staid, dull husband and settled down.
But staid and dull never seemed to be interested in her. All she seemed to find were men as complicated and difficult as Jack, Lord Hammond—and Dominic.
Dominic St. Claire was definitely not staid. And a St. Claire would be the last person her family would consider acceptable. Aidan had left the family when he married Lily St. Claire, and Sophia envied him. He had found himself, found happiness, when he found love. But she would never be so lucky as Aidan. Surely it was better to take this opening and find a way to return to her family, as she had hoped.
The salon door opened and Camille hurried in amid a rustle of feathers and ruffles. “Sophie, did you have a caller?” she asked as she unpinned her hat. “I saw a grand carriage pulling away. It must have been someone terribly interesting.”
“Yes, but I am sorry to disappoint you and your matchmaking, Camille,” Sophia said with a laugh. “It was not a gentleman admirer, but my cousin Elizabeth, Lady Severn.”
“Ah, so sad! I was sure it was a fascinating man. But I thought you said you were estranged from your family now?” Camille went to examine the tea tray and nibbled at one of the untouched sandwiches.
“I am. I haven’t see Elizabeth in ages, but she happened to catch a glimpse of me at the theater.”
“Oh, yes, the theater.” Camille gave her a mischievous smile. “You quite vanished there for a while, Sophie. As did the handsome Monsieur Dominic.”
“I got lost amid all the scenery backstage,” Sophia said, trying to sound careless. Trying not to remember what had really happened there on the walkway. “He helped me find my way.”
“Did he indeed?” Camille said, much too innocently. “How kind of him.”
“Yes. Very kind.”
“Well, then, c’est vrai. At least you are not still wandering around lost backstage, or you could not attend our little al fresco luncheon tomorrow.”
“Al fresco luncheon?” Sophia said, glad of the change of subject. She left the window and went to see if there was any tea left. “Are we having a party?”
“We are not, but my friend Madame Dumas is. I saw her while I was out shopping, and she invited us to accompany a group to Montmartre for a little country outing. Count Danilov, that Russian who has been courting me so charmingly, will be there, and he is bringing friends. And I think the fresh air would do you good.”
“Who else will be there?” Sophia asked suspiciously. Camille had let the topic of Dominic drop a bit too easily.
Camille shrugged. “No one in particular, I suppose. Just some friends. Do say you will come, Sophie! It will be such fun.”
Sophia laughed. Such fun—like when she indulged in too much champagne last night, trying to forget what had happened with Dominic? But she had to admit a country picnic did sound lovely. She had been in the city for too long. “Very well, then, I will go. But I warn you, no matchmaking…”
“Is everything all right, my lady?”
Elizabeth smiled wearily at her maid as she handed her the veiled bonnet. Meg had been with her for a long time, through all the painful years with Severn, and she seemed to have a sense for when Elizabeth was feeling low.
For when the evil lure of the opium called to her again.
But this was not one of those times. “Quite all right, Meg. I am just a bit tired.”
“Were you shopping today?”
“No, I had a better errand than that. I called on a family member I have not seen in a long while.”
“A family member, my lady? Here in Paris?”
“Yes. Perhaps you remember her? Lady Sophia. She is Mrs. Westman now.” As the maid bustled around putting things into wardrobes, Elizabeth sat down at her vanity and drew the pins from her hair. She sighed as the heavy mass tumbled down, easing her headache.
“Lady Sophia? Of course I remember her,” Meg exclaimed. “Why, the two of you used to run wild over the duke’s estate. It has been ever so long since you saw her, my lady.”
“Yes. Much too long.” Elizabeth closed her eyes agains
t the image in her mirror, and for a moment she was sixteen again, riding across her uncle’s land with Sophia. The two of them laughing as their horses hurtled over jumps and they raced each other through the woods, as if they hadn’t a care in the world.
And back then they hadn’t. They were young, spoiled, free, the best of friends, as they giggled together over romantic poetry. Before the real world closed in on them, the expectations and obligations of being Huntingtons. Before her parents arranged her disastrous marriage to Severn.
Before she lost the man she really loved, Brendan St. Claire, in such a horrible way.
Elizabeth opened her eyes and found herself staring back from the glass. That all seemed so very long ago, and yet sometimes it seemed only a brief moment back in time. She could see his face so clearly, feel his kiss. But Brendan was gone completely from her life. Surely she would never see him again except from a distance.
And Severn was gone, too, the long nightmare of their marriage over at last. She hadn’t touched a drop of opium in months, and she was beginning to make a new start in her life. A good first step would be to renew her lost friendship with Sophia, so she had leaped at the chance to intercede when Sophia’s mother asked for her help.
Not that being in the smothering embrace of the Huntington fold was always such a good thing. Maybe Sophia was happy to have escaped. But at least they could be together again, as they were when they were girls. Elizabeth wanted to make amends for not being there when Sophia needed her.
Meg finished putting the clothes away and came to take up the brush to run it through Elizabeth’s hair. “How is Lady Sophia? She must have been happy to see you, my lady.”
Elizabeth hoped she was, yet all she could sense from Sophia had been wariness. “I hope so. I only wish I could be of some help to her.”
“Help, my lady?”
“I’d like for her to come back to England with me, but I’m not sure she will.” If only Sophia would just let her try, she was sure that she could be of help. That they could be friends again.
“I hope she will, my lady. It would be good for you to have a friend like Lady Sophia again.”
Elizabeth nodded, but she was afraid it was all much too late.
From the Diary of Mary St. Claire Huntington
The preparations for the duke’s visit have been a wonderful distraction for me, and everything seems to be going well. I have ordered most of the provisions, and the house is being scoured from the attics to the root cellars. At last the grand state bed John’s parents ordered so long ago will be used. John seems to think this visit means new favors for us at Court, though I fear that will mean he will be gone from me even more.
My brother is also coming to visit in the next few days, and I am sure I can persuade him to stay for the royal visit. I want to help my family any way I can, and Nick declares he has some fine news for me. I cannot wait to see him again. This is surely a new, better day in my life…
Chapter Thirteen
Monsieur Dominic! Monsieur Brendan! You must come quickly.”
Dominic glanced up from the script he was studying with a flash of irritation at the interruption. A quiet evening with no performances or engagements was rare indeed, and he needed the chance to get caught up on reviewing plays for next season at the Majestic. He had spent too much time thinking about Sophia and their conversation at the café. But he took one look at the red-faced actor who had just run up the stairs, and he knew it wasn’t a frivolous interruption. The man looked truly frantic.
Brendan pushed himself up from the sofa where he had been lounging and reading. “What is it, Marcel?” he asked tightly. “Has there been an accident? Is someone hurt?”
Marcel shook his head, struggling to catch his breath. Dominic noticed that the man looked as if he had been through a storm, his clothes pulled askew and his hair standing on end. A bruise stood out on his cheek. “No, no, but someone will be very soon if you don’t hurry! It is Monsieur James. He came with us to Madame Brancusi’s establishment tonight and has been drinking. There was this man, he said Monsieur James was cheating at cards…”
Dominic exchanged alarmed glances with Brendan. James and brothels were a dangerous combination. He seemed to find trouble lurking every time he entered one, and he was ripe for fights and cons. And when one added in drink…
“Let’s go,” Dominic said, and snatched up his coat from the back of his chair.
They had visited Madame Brancusi’s when they first arrived in Paris. It had a reputation even in London as a place of luxury and elegance. But tonight it looked as if a dockside brawl had suddenly been transported to a gilt and brocade haven. When Dominic ducked through the door and saw the havoc of Madame Brancusi’s salon, he almost laughed at the farcical scene. Girls stood on velvet sofas and atop marble tables, shrieking, sobbing, or calling out encouragement to the men fighting on the fine silk carpets. One of the whores threw a glass at the velvet-covered wall. It cracked and splattered amber liquid down a marble sculpture of a couple entwined in anal coitus, but it didn’t deter the fighting one bit.
The air, thick with the scents of cigar smoke, expensive perfumes, and brandy, rang with shouts and grunts and the sounds of fists connecting with flesh. Bodies clad in fashionable black evening coats, now torn and ripped, rolled atop overturned card tables.
“The world has obviously gone mad,” Brendan shouted.
Dominic had to agree. He was used to tempers flaring out of control—it happened every week at the Devil’s Fancy, a potent combination of drink, money, and women. But there were ways to defuse such situations. Madame Brancusi was a professional. He was surprised she had let things get so out of hand.
“Never mind that,” Dominic shouted back to Brendan. “We need to find James and get him out of here.”
They waded into the fray, pushing heaving bodies out of the way as they searched each face for their brother’s. Dominic drove a fist into one man’s jaw. One of the girls leaped onto his back as he pushed past her table. He neatly deposited her on a sofa and ignored her screams.
Brendan was right. This was a madhouse. And he wished he had time to leap right into the fray, to lose himself in the bloodlust of a good fight. He needed to free some of the frustration he had kept locked inside him ever since he met Sophia Westman again.
But James had to be his first mission now, not brawling. James was no good in a fight, and yet he very often seemed to find himself in trouble just like this.
Dominic drove an elbow back into another assailant’s midsection as the man tried to choke him. As Dominic shoved him away, he finally glimpsed James. His brother lay in a dark corner, sprawled out on a carpet of scattered cards. His coat and cravat were gone, brandy spilled on his shirt, and there was a bruise blooming on his jaw.
Dominic glanced over his shoulder to wave at Brendan, who had a man in a headlock. Brendan calmly nodded and shoved his opponent away to wend his way across the room.
Dominic knelt and grabbed James’s arm to pull him to his feet. James groaned, and his head lolled back as his eyes fluttered open.
“Wha’ happened?” he groaned.
“That’s what we would like to know,” Dominic said. “How do you find yourself in such fixes, James? Surely a monastery would erupt in a brawl if you set foot in it.”
“Not my fault!” James cried, then moaned as if at the loud noise in his head. “I don’t even know how this started. I was just having a game of cards, and the next thing I knew there was this man…”
“And you were unconscious on the floor, covered in spilled brandy?”
“Lost all my money,” James grumbled.
“We need to get out of here,” Brendan said as he reached their corner at last. “I think I saw a back door the last time we were here.”
“You always do know all the exits,” Dominic said, trying to hold on to James as his brother listed to one side.
“One never knows,” Brendan said tightly. He looped James’s other arm around his s
houlders and led them through a doorway half-hidden behind a velvet curtain.
Dominic saw that it led to a steep, narrow flight of stairs twisting up to a dimly lit corridor. A thick carpet muffled their footsteps, and a series of small peepholes lined the dark-painted walls. Tiny points of light shone from behind them, and Dominic could hear soft groans and gasps, the crack of a whip, a shout.
So not everyone was involved in the fight downstairs.
“A spy system,” Dominic said with a grin. “Most ingenious.”
“Perhaps we should install something similar in the Devil’s Fancy when we get home,” Brendan said. “But there’s no time to examine Madame Brancusi’s interior design right now. We need to get James out of here and sobered up.”
The words were barely out of Brendan’s mouth when a door flew open at the end of the corridor. It bounced back against the wall, and Madame Brancusi herself appeared there.
The proprietress of the place was an imposing woman under any circumstances, tall and buxom, with dyed black hair piled high atop her head and an imperious glint in her eyes. Tonight she looked like a classical Fury, with a whip in her hand, her hair falling from its pins, her elaborate velvet gown the color of fresh blood.
“Allez!” she shouted to the hulking, muscle-bound guards who appeared behind her. “Get downstairs now and take care of that rabble. I won’t have such merde in my place.”
As the guards ran past, Dominic exchanged a quick glance with Brendan over James’s slumped head. They started to follow the guards back down the stairs to beat a retreat, but Madame Brancusi stopped them with a shout and a crack of her whip.
“You! Get back here,” she called. “You English are nothing but trouble. Don’t think I don’t know what happened down there.”
“Then you know more than us, chère madame,” Dominic said in his calmest, most soothing voice. “We only just arrived.”
