* * *
Hayden stretched out over the blanket he’d placed atop a grassy patch of land adjacent to a small shimmering lake. Sophia lay beside him, her delicate hand clasped within his as they surveyed a squadron of geese rippling the water’s still surface.
He turned to his side to kiss her, but she vanished, and in her place stood a wayward gosling which seemed to have taken offense to his presence.
Squawking, the bird pecked insistently at his right arm. He shook the waterfowl’s beak loose and scanned the edge of the lake. Sophia remained nowhere in sight, and the bird’s cries intensified, causing his head to pound.
“Wake up, Papa!” Celia’s voice snapped from somewhere in the distance.
With great difficulty, not to mention a good deal of pain, Hayden opened one heavy-lidded eye. Celia stood by his bedside. He placed his hand on his pounding head, opened his other eye, and forced a weak smile. He tipped his head sideways and surveyed the empty whisky bottle that mocked him from the bedside table.
“Celia?” His voice reverberated loudly between his ears as though his head mimicked a great empty tower which amplified sounds to astronomic proportions. He closed his eyes and prayed the echo would cease before his head split open.
Celia pinched his arm.
Oh God, he was dying, and the child pounded the nails into his coffin with just two tiny fingers. He forced his eyes open again. “Yes, dear.” He swallowed the bitter taste coating his parched mouth.
“She is gone, Papa!”
Her voice pummeled his ears, and he winced. “Let us play a game, Celia. See who can whisper the softest. The winner shall decide what dessert Chef will prepare today. Now repeat what you said, but remember the game.”
If Celia had meant to whisper, she failed terribly. “Sophia is gone, Papa!” She dashed away the tears on her face.
Comprehension settled in his pickled brain. Hayden sat up so abruptly he feared his head would roll off his shoulders and topple to the floor. “Gone?” he repeated, forgetting his own game and setting off the reverberations again. “Where?” Then it all came flooding back to him like a deluge on the lowlands.
“I-I don’t know.” Her narrow shoulders sagged. “I overheard Mathews and Hawthorne talking.”
The emptiness in his dream returned. Gone. He had expected nothing less. It was for the best, for if Sophia had stayed he’d have begged her to forgive him, and ended up wanting her even more than he did now. And she deserved far better than him.
“My lord.”
He looked up at Mathews’s scowling face. “When did she leave?” Hayden asked.
Mathews walked over to the windows and drew the curtains open. The room filled with cruel light. Hayden squinted against the shafts cutting through the glass.
“Left near seven this morning.” Mathews strode to the side of the bed and removed a note from his inside breast pocket.
Hayden thrust out his hand.
Mathews shot him a disdainful look. “It is for Lady Celia,” he said, handing it to her.
Celia studied the paper in her hand. “Did you sack her, Papa?”
Hayden’s muscles tensed. No, he had done something much worse. “Do you wish me to read the letter to you or would you prefer to read it yourself?”
She rubbed her fingers over the slightly felted parchment before handing it to him.
He patted the mattress next to him, and Celia climbed atop the bed. Snuggling herself under the bedding, she peered expectantly at him.
He unfolded the note as though it was a public decree declaring him a grievous fiend. However, the short missive, directed solely at Celia, didn’t mention his name, not once. He cleared his throat. Then read aloud.
Dearest Celia,
I’m sorry, but I had to leave sooner than expected. I wanted you to know I shall always remember, with great fondness, the fun we had making snow angels. I wish you health, happiness, and much success in your life. Such a special girl deserves nothing less.
Fondest regards,
Sophia Camden
Feeling an overpowering wish to smash something, combined with a great deal of self-disgust, Hayden resisted the urge to crumble the paper held taut in his hand. Instead, he focused his attention on Celia’s solemn, upturned face. “I’m sorry, Celia, but Sophia couldn’t stay forever. There are those who need her care more than I.”
Without a word, Celia tucked her face into the crook of his arm and chest.
He ran his hand down her back and glanced at Mathews. The man eyed him with an ungracious and accusing expression etched upon his face. “Mathews, please have two breakfast trays brought to my room. Celia and I shall be spending the day together.”
* * *
After taking the omnibus to Oxford Circus, it took Sophia a mere fifteen minutes, walking at a brisk pace, to reach Thomas’s Harley Street residence.
When the housekeeper opened the large oak door, the pungent smell of freshly brewed coffee spilled forward as if under the guidance of an easterly gale.
“Good morning, Mrs. Morehouse. A beautiful day, isn’t it?” Sophia asked, feigning cheerfulness.
The slender, gray-haired woman eyed her critically before giving a resounding humph. Then without a word, she dipped her right index finger into her mouth, leaned forward, and raised said finger into the crisp morning air. “’Tis going to rain, and you without an umbrella.”
“Really?” Sophia glanced over her shoulder at the startling blue sky.
The elder woman pursed her lips as a clap of thunder exploded in the distance. It probably would rain. Sophia should know better than to doubt the woman. The old crow was like a walking barometer with the uncanny ability to predict precipitation with nothing more than her confounded finger.
“Is Dr. Trimble in his office?” Sophia inquired, stepping fully into the black-and-white-tiled entry hall and unbuttoning her coat.
Mrs. Morehouse nodded. “On his third cup of coffee.” The lines framing the housekeeper’s pencil-thin lips deepened. “I guess you’ll be wanting a cup as well?”
Sophia hung her coat and hat on the hall tree and smoothed the skirts of her serviceable navy dress. Whatever the housekeeper lacked in personality, she made up for with her coffee. And since Thomas couldn’t make it through the day without drinking pots of the stuff, it explained why he’d never dismissed the cantankerous woman.
“It does smell wonderful.”
“Aye,” Mrs. Morehouse replied, turning and heading toward the kitchen.
After making her way down the corridor, Sophia rapped softly on Thomas’s office door.
“Come in.” His brisk tone indicated he didn’t welcome the intrusion.
Sophia opened the door.
Thomas, dressed in his shirtsleeves, bounced up from his chair, his somber expression replaced with one of unabashed pleasure. “Sophia.”
She crossed the room, and Thomas warmly grasped her hands within his.
“I was just contemplating what time I should return to Westfield’s today to check on you, and here you are.” His right hand reached out to touch the lump on the back of her head. He frowned and motioned to one of the sturdy wooden chairs facing his large oak desk. “You are well?”
“Splendid. And I’m ready to return to work.” The coiling in her stomach twisted tighter as she sat. She had always felt so comfortable around Thomas; nevertheless, she did not relish his inquiring why she’d changed her mind about attending Westfield.
His eyebrows rose. “You are returning to work today?”
Dipping her chin, she tugged off her gloves. “You were right, Thomas. Westfield has recovered sufficiently. I’m sure the danger of infection has all but passed.”
Thomas settled against the back of his leather chair and pressed his steepled fingers to his lips. “Did you examine him this morning?”
“No, I left early.”
He nodded again and lowered his fingers. “Words cannot express my pleasure. You have been dearly missed here.”
> “How kind of you to say so.”
“It’s not kindness. It’s the truth.”
She glanced down at her gloves. She’d kept her tears at bay all morning, but they suddenly threatened like dark, ominous clouds.
“Sophia, has something upset you?”
Luckily, the appearance of the housekeeper, bearing a tray, saved her from having to reply.
She forced a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Morehouse.”
Without expression, the housekeeper set the tray, laden with a barrel-shaped mug of steaming coffee, a linen-lined basket with currant rolls, and a small porcelain fruit dish with raspberry jam, on the table adjacent to Sophia’s chair. “There’s a Mrs. Barnes asking for you, Miss Camden.”
Sophia tapped her chin. “Mrs. Barnes?”
The woman nodded. “Says she knows you from the Eastern Dispensary.”
“Oh, yes. Please tell her I’ll be there shortly.”
As the housekeeper exited the room, Sophia picked up the hot cup of coffee and took a sip. She peered over its rim. Thomas still stared at her. She lowered the mug. “Do you remember Mrs. Barnes?”
“Your reticence in answering my question only confirms something has distressed you. That scoundrel didn’t . . . He didn’t offend you, did he?”
She couldn’t tell him how foolish she’d been. “Of course not. Really, Thomas.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Now, I guess I should go and see what has brought Mrs. Barnes here today.”
“Sophia?”
“Yes.” She stood and placed the cup on the tray. The sting of tears pressed on her eyes.
Thomas slammed his hands down on his desk. “What did that blackguard do?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. I am fatigued, that’s all.”
He opened his mouth, and then pinched it closed.
“I am pleased to be back.” She moved to the door. With her hand on the handle, she turned back to him. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not questioning me more, and for promising me you will not have an inquisition with Lord Westfield.”
“I have made no such promise.”
“But you will, won’t you?”
An uncomfortable silence filled the room. “Of course,” he said at last. “If that is what you wish.”
She nodded and stepped from the off ice, anxious for an end to the conversation.
Chapter Eleven
Hayden glanced up from his desk as Hawthorne entered the study with a calling card centered on a silver salver.
“A Mr. Ambrus Varga is here to see you, my lord.”
“Send him in.” Hayden tossed aside the large stack of unanswered mail that had accumulated in the three weeks since Sophia left. He pinched the bridge of his nose and surveyed the ledgers and monthly reports scattered about the desk like inconsequential rubbish. If he didn’t settle his mind on his business dealings, he’d soon find his finances in a shambles.
Varga stepped into the room. Time had taken its toll on the Hungarian over the last couple of years. The lines on the older man’s face appeared etched in stone and his long moustache and muttonchops were now gray. Nevertheless, he was still the best private investigator London had to offer.
Hayden motioned toward one of the chairs facing the desk. What perversity had caused him to hire the man in the first place? And more importantly, what did he hope to accomplish? “So, tell me what you have learned.” He leaned against the back of his chair and stretched out his legs.
“Very little, as of yet, m’lord.”
“What do you have so far?”
Varga reached into his breast pocket and extracted a small journal bound in black leather. “Miss Camden resides in Chelsea. A Cheyne Walk residence.”
“A suite of rooms?”
“No, a private residence.”
“A private residence?” he echoed.
“Yes, she employs a housekeeper and several other servants, but only the housekeeper lives in.”
Hayden eyed the decanter of brandy on the sideboard. Too early to fortify himself with liquor, yet he might be tempted to drink a glass after hearing the answer to his next question. “Who holds the lease and pays the staff?” Fearing he’d hear Trimble’s name, the muscles in the back of his neck tensed.
“It’s hers, m’lord. Lock, stock, and barrel. Moved there nearly three years ago.”
It was obvious Sophia had been raised in a well-to-do home. He’d thought her brought low by financial hardship or some bitter twist of fate, but she was a woman of means.
Varga’s next sentence severed his thoughts. “Had a baby with her when she moved in.”
He sat forward and set his forearms on the desk. “A child?” His voice betrayed his disbelief.
“Her neighbors are rather closed-mouthed, but one of their maids passed on that tidbit. Looked like her, the servant said. A girl.”
Hayden would have sworn the ground beneath him shifted. A child. He found it hard to fathom. Yet, this would explain a great deal. Why she seemed removed from the society she’d been born into. “You said had. Where is the child now?”
Varga tugged on the left side of his long moustache. “The maid said the baby died, near two years past.”
Died. The word echoed in Hayden’s head. His heart grew heavy as he recalled how Sophia had bonded with Celia in such a short time. How had she coped with the loss of her own child? “Go on,” he prompted.
The man closed the journal. “That’s all I have for now. I’ll start searching the parish records tomorrow. See what else I can find.”
“I’ll expect a full dossier delivered to my residence next week.”
“Some of them parish records are in disorder, m’lord. It could take—”
Hayden raised a silencing hand. “Patience is a virtue I lack.” Standing, he shook the man’s hand, forcing an end to their conversation.
Varga nodded. “I’ll be in touch, m’lord.”
After the man exited the room, Hayden braced his palms on the desk and stared blindly down upon its surface. Sophia had borne a daughter. He wasn’t the type to make moral judgments, not after the life he’d led, but the information shocked him. She’d seemed so inexperienced when he’d kissed her.
He swept his hand across the desk. The ledgers toppled to the floor and correspondence flew in the air.
Why was he angry? Was it because some bastard had gotten her enceinte, then possibly abandoned her? Or simply the fact that she’d endured the pain of losing a child?
He sat and surveyed the mess he’d created. He doubted he’d muster even a small semblance of concentration tonight. He glanced at the brass clock perched on the desk. Simon and several chums were gathering at the Coat of Arms Pub. He stood. He’d not intended on going, but he needed a distraction. No, he needed to get drunk.
* * *
The scent of strong spirits and tobacco permeated the pub. Hayden tipped his glass to his lips and took a heavy sip of whisky. The numbness engulfing him relented to the scorching burn of alcohol trailing down his throat.
He set the near empty glass on the table and cradled it between his hands. The amber liquid pooling in the bottom absorbed the hue of the darkened wood beneath it before catching the glow of the gaslights above. The color reminded him of Sophia’s dark tear-filled eyes.
Hayden drew the glass back to his mouth and drained it dry. He surveyed the men seated at his table conversing amiably. He’d not listened to a single word they’d said over the last half hour. He’d come here to forget, yet he’d need several more drinks if he were to find any measure of solace from the single-mindedness of his thoughts. Restlessly he looked around the taproom for the serving girl.
“Westfield!” Someone hailed above the din of the crowded room.
He glanced up to see George Boswitch standing by the pub’s etched glass doors waving his hat in the air. The redheaded young man, an heir apparent fresh from Yorkshire, had relentlessly tried to ingratiate himself into their merry band of reveler
s since gaining admission to one of the clubs they all subscribed to.
Hayden acknowledged him with a quick nod. However, he refrained from inviting Boswitch to join them. The lad was ingenuous and truly out of place with their iniquitous group.
Had he ever been so callow?
Yes, how could he forget the youthful, reckless antics Simon and he had engaged in? He recalled the first time they’d taken the rail into London from Eton. They’d ventured deep into the seedier enclaves and sampled everything from fish at Three Tuns Tavern to loose women in a dirty dockside inn. They’d stumbled out of that less-than-fine establishment three sheets to the wind.
They returned to school thinking themselves worldly swells, the best of young fellows, who’d had a stunner of a time. Until Simon realized he’d not only brought back some titillating memories, but a severe case of nits in a most unfortunate place, while Hayden had spent the whole of the next day casting up his accounts. They’d been fortunate. They could have returned with the dreaded French disease or been beaten senseless by hooligans while swaying drunkenly down the streets of Wapping.
Without further deliberation, he lifted his hand and motioned Boswitch to their table. The young man eagerly made his way through the heavy throng of patrons and the thick smoke that turned the stagnant air into a cloudy shroud.
Simon, seated directly to his right, peered at him. “Hayden, you cannot be seriously considering initiating that pup into our fold?”
“I remember our exploits when younger. We could have used a benefactor to steer us in the right direction. You haven’t forgotten our visit to Wapping?”
“Christ, how could I forget? Had my bollocks swathed in mercury ointment and Persian powder till they turned nearly purple and the bloody itching drove me mad.” Simon shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Then we should take pity on the lad, for I fear his eagerness may bring him more trouble than he may wish.”
“I don’t doubt that, but what are we to do with him? He’s barely out of his nappies, and I could swear he’s got some wet nurse’s milk dried up on his chin.”
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