Never Dare a Wicked Earl

by Renee Ann Miller

  She turned to Hawthorne. “Will you start serving, please?”

  “I’m sure his lordship will be here shortly,” the butler replied.

  Celia’s stomach rumbled.

  “I believe we are past the point of waiting. There seems to be a hungry beast in Lady Celia’s stomach.”

  Celia giggled.

  The butler nodded, and within ten minutes, an army of footmen entered the room carrying silver serving dishes.

  As they ate, Sophia continued to glance at the door. Unease crept up her spine. Had Hayden forgotten they were to eat an early dinner, so they could attend a play at Royal Albert Hall—their first public venue together?

  “Papa promised to read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland to me before you and he went out tonight.”

  Sophia pushed her bowl of raspberries away and stood. “If you wish, I will read it to you.”

  “Do you know how to do all the voices?” Celia asked.

  “The voices?”

  “Yes, the Queen of Hearts and the March Hare?”

  “I can try.” Sophia took Celia’s hand and led her up the stairs to the nursery.

  After Celia washed and slipped on her nightgown, they settled on the bed, and Sophia read. Near the end of the book, she glanced up from the page.

  Hayden stood in the doorway. A raw tension emanated from him. He looked as tightly wound as a boxed devil about to spring. Did he blame her for her earlier mishap? Or, like Great-Uncle Charles, did he now think her clumsy and less refined than the women in his social circle? Or did he fear, as she did, she’d become a magnet for mayhem?

  “Papa!” Celia exclaimed as he stepped fully into the bedchamber. “Where have you been? You promised to read to me before you and Sophia went out.”

  His gaze slid to Sophia’s face, and a sharp pain lanced her heart. He’d clearly forgotten their plans.

  “I’m sorry, Celia,” he said. “A business meeting kept me longer than expected.”

  A lie. She’d checked his appointment book earlier, and he’d cleared his schedule.

  “That’s fine, Papa. Sophia does the Queen of Hearts’s voice even better than you.”

  The tautness edging his face eased a little. “Ah, does she now?” He set his hand on Sophia’s shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze before taking the book from her. “How are you feeling, Sophia?”

  “I am well.”

  “You look exhausted. Why don’t you retire early? I shall finish the book.”

  She gave Celia a kiss and headed for the door.

  “Sophia,” he called after her.

  She turned back.

  “I’m sorry we missed the play.”

  Are you? She wanted to ask, but she would not do so in front of Celia. She acknowledged his apology with a brief nod and left the room.

  In their bedchamber, Sophia dressed for bed, then paced the floor. She would confront him. Ask him why he’d not accompanied her to the theater. Was he ashamed of her because she wasn’t a member of the nobility?

  An hour passed.

  Sophia slipped her wrapper over her nightgown and went to the nursery. Celia slept soundly.

  She ventured downstairs. Light streamed from beneath Hayden’s study door. Stiffening her spine, she stepped into the room.

  Not here.

  “He’s gone out, madam,” Hawthorne said, striding toward her.

  Where did a man go at night? Was he out with his rakehell friends? Up to no good? She pulled her robe tighter around her body.

  “Thank you, Hawthorne.” She dashed back upstairs and crawled between the bedding. Arms folded across her chest, she leaned against the headboard. When her husband returned, she would ask him where he’d gone off to.

  * * *

  Sophia awoke to a cold, empty bed. Rolling onto her back, she slipped her hands over her abdomen.

  Curse Hayden for making her love him. And curse him for lying. Business meeting her foot. What had she expected from such a man? God knew what time he’d returned home last night. She’d fallen asleep before she could confront him.

  Thomas’s words about how Hayden abandoned his first wife only weeks after Celia’s birth and acted the rogue drifted through her mind. Was history now repeating itself? Well, she wouldn’t play the martyr, if he’d gone back to his wicked ways. She would return to Chelsea. Mrs. MacLean and the dailies, tasked with boxing and packing her belongings, were still there. When they were finished, Hayden had offered them employment, even Mrs. MacLean. She would send a note, telling them to unpack everything. She’d return to her home on Cheyne Walk.

  Celia’s sweet face floated in her mind’s eye. What would she say to the child? She’d be no better than Hayden, giving love then snatching it away. Sophia curled her fingers against her palms until her nails bit into her still raw skin. Her conscience would not permit her to abandon the child. And though Hayden left Laura after Celia’s birth, Sophia believed he would not allow her to leave with his unborn baby, perhaps his heir. She would move into the bedchamber next door. She’d been a fool to trust him—to give him her heart.

  After completing her toilette, Sophia descended the stairs, ready to confront Hayden. She noticed the tightness on Hawthorne’s face as he stood in the entry hall. His expression, along with the fact she’d awoken to the solitude of an empty bed, told her Hayden had once again vanished.

  “He has gone out?” She forced her voice to remain even.

  “Yes, madam. He left a note.” He handed her a sealed missive.

  She stared at the dark strokes that spelled out her name before inquiring about Celia’s whereabouts.

  Hawthorne’s somber expression lightened. “She went to the kitchen, not fifteen minutes ago. She wished to know if Monsieur Laurent would bake Lady Olivia some dog biscuits.”

  “Oh, my,” Sophia gasped, wondering how the Frenchman would take to such a degrading request.

  “My thoughts, exactly,” Hawthorne responded. “But there was no dissuading her.”

  With the missive still clutched in her hand, Sophia gathered up the sides of her skirts and hastily made her way belowstairs.

  She breathed a sigh of relief at the sight that greeted her.

  Celia knelt on one of the chairs that surrounded the massive wooden table, pouring water from a small ironware pitcher onto a floury mixture, while the chef graced her with a benevolent smile.

  “Just a little more, ma petite,” he instructed Celia as he enthusiastically kneaded the wet and dry ingredients together.

  Celia nodded.

  “Zees biscuits were a favorite of Emperor Napoleon zee third’s basset hounds,” the Frenchman announced proudly.

  Celia peered up at him, her eyes wide with unabashed pleasure. “Do you think the royal chef makes these biscuits for the queen’s dogs?”

  He clucked his tongue, the sound distinct and crisp. “I am zee only one who knows zis recipe.”

  She beamed. “Lady Olivia is most fortunate, Monsieur Laurent.” The chef’s chest seemed to expand with each word the child spoke. Obviously, Celia had discerned flattery was the key to the man’s heart.

  Unnoticed, Sophia turned and made her way back up the servants’ stairway. She slipped into Hayden’s study, opened the envelope, and read her husband’s bold hand.

  Sophia,

  I have an early meeting. I ask that you remain home today. I shall endeavor to return as early as possible.

  Your devoted husband,

  Hayden

  Devoted husband. Ha! She crumbled the missive with hands that shook. Why in heaven’s name should she wait about while he was . . . was . . . ? She moved to the fireplace and tossed the note atop the cooling gray ash dotted with flecks of orange embers. Smoke darkened its crisp edges before it burst to flame.

  Seething, she stalked to the desk, intent on writing a scathing retort. She pulled on the center drawer, only to find it locked.

  Her eyes surveyed the mahogany surface before settling on the French inlaid desk tray. She lifted the in
kwell, revealing a key. “Too obvious, Hayden.” She slipped it into the keyhole of the center drawer. The lock gave a soft click.

  Sophia sat and opened the drawer. An assortment of neatly placed ledgers stared up at her. She slammed the door closed, then unlocked the top right drawer and opened it. A crisp stack of parchment embossed with Hayden’s noble emblem and bound with elaborate ribbon lay in it. She lifted it and peered beneath, hoping to find plain stationery, but instead she found a small navy journal with gold-embossed lettering. HAYDEN JAMES MILTON, VISCOUNT MASON.

  She stared at it. Hayden’s journal. The lesser title dated it to an earlier time.

  Mason? The familiarity of the name hit her as soundly as if someone had conked her on the head rattling her brain into sensibility. If she inverted the initials it would read J. H. Mason—the wholesaler and the mission’s most generous benefactor. Could it be?

  After placing the journal on the desk, she reopened the center drawer. She pulled the ledgers out and read them. Wincombe Manor, Westfield Hall, River Spey Distillery, Magniess Brewery.

  Magniess Brewery? Did Hayden own Magniess Brewery? The writing was unfamiliar, yet the bold notations scratched into the margins were his.

  How inane he must have thought her when she’d questioned if he teetered near financial straits. Pubs across Great Britain and beyond sold Magniess Ale. It shipped as far as Africa.

  She looked at the next ledger. J. H. Mason. Her heartbeat escalated as she opened it and flipped through the pages containing her husband’s writing in the notations. She closed it and ran her fingers over its leather binding. Why had he acted with such disdain toward Mason, when it appeared they were one and the same person?

  Was Edith responsible for the donations? Had she coerced Hayden into giving them?

  Her mind still dancing about, Sophia looked down at the near empty drawer. A small leather hinged case peered up at her. Slowly she lifted it. Her already tumultuous stomach leapt as she opened it, exposing a gold-framed miniature portrait of a woman one could only describe as breathtaking. Sophia’s finger traced the filigreed edge of the frame, while she studied the woman’s flaxen hair, blue eyes, and her pink bow-shaped mouth.

  Sophia touched her own wide mouth, so different from the subject’s delicate one. Great-Uncle Charles would have deemed the young woman the perfect example of English beauty.

  Bang! The front door slammed, rattling the sturdy walls of the ground floor.

  Hayden?

  Of course. No one else would have the audacity to shut the door with such violence. Sophia quickly returned the portrait and ledgers, slid the drawers shut, and locked them. She placed the key beneath the inkwell.

  Footfalls approached. She stepped around the desk and froze when the glint from the golden letters of Hayden’s journal brazenly reflected the light from the desk lamp. Heart pounding, she turned her back to the door and slipped the little navy book into the side pocket of her skirt.

  The study door swung open.

  Sophia spun around.

  Hayden entered the room, his expression dark and ominous.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Hayden stepped into his study and froze at the sight of Sophia standing before his desk. He forced a smile. Difficult to do, since his visit to Newgate had offered no answers.

  After arriving at the gaol, the warder informed him that yesterday Beckett attacked a guard in the exercise yard. For his imprudence, the man received a severe flogging. Too severe. This morning Beckett’s body lay cold and hard. A day ago, the miscreant’s demise would have pleased him, but not now, not when he sought answers.

  “Sophia?”

  She stepped away from the desk. “Hawthorne gave me your note. I slipped in here to read it.”

  The paleness of Sophia’s cheeks unsettled him. “Are you unwell?”

  “No, you startled me.”

  He nodded and closed the door. For a moment, he could do nothing more than drink her in. The thought of holding her lightened his dark mood.

  “Might I ask where you went so early this morning?” She smoothed a hand down her blue day dress.

  Best to tell her the truth. And what would that be? That he’d gone to the prison to ask the man who’d abducted Sophia if Adele Fontaine hired him. That the deranged woman, an ex-lover of his, might have pushed Sophia in front of the carriage on Piccadilly. That Adele was the same lunatic who’d shot him.

  He’d found no proof Adele hid in Town, and Kent was adamant his sister remained on the Continent under the watchful eye of Finnegan. Simon was probably mistaken. But to ensure Sophia’s safety, Hayden had hired Varga to help him locate Adele and keep surveillance on Hayden’s residence. Right now, the investigator’s men guarded both the front and rear of the house. Sophia was safe as long as she remained home. He’d not frighten her unnecessarily. “A business meeting.”

  “Another meeting? So early?” She frowned.

  “Hmmm,” he mumbled, drawing her into his arms, shaping his mouth to hers, and silencing her questions that made him feel no better than a lying slug. He noted her resistance, an unmistakable tautness in her body.

  Was she still angry he’d forgotten their engagement yesterday? Yes, of course. He would make it up to her. Take her to every bloody play London offered, if she desired. But first, he needed to confirm Adele’s whereabouts.

  “You have reason to be angry with me,” he whispered, trailing kisses down her neck while his hands traveled over her waist and hips. He touched something hard in her pocket—a small book.

  Abruptly she took a step back. “Why would you think me displeased?” The clipped tone of her voice belied the calm expression on her face.

  “I acted thoughtlessly yesterday. I should have sent word that my meeting would detain me, not only for dinner but for most of the evening.”

  “And last night?”

  Blast it all. He should have made sure she’d fallen asleep before going out to search Adele’s haunts again.

  “Hayden?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

  Damnation, he could not continue lying to her. Secrets had destroyed his first marriage. He’d not allow them to destroy this one. “Sophia, I need to tell you something.”

  As if weak, she grasped the back of a chair. Her knuckles turned white and the color drained from her face.

  His gut clenched. Holding her waist, he steadied her. “Are you going to faint? Is it the baby?”

  “No, I-I didn’t sleep well . . . that’s all. What do you wish to tell me?”

  He should wait one more day to tell her what Simon thought he saw. Sophia looked too pale. His mother had miscarried two children. No, he would not terrify her when she appeared so fragile. He would protect her. “We’ll talk later.”

  “If you have something you wish to say, Hayden, please do so now.”

  “It can wait. You should lie down.”

  “No, I have agreed to accompany Edith on a few calls. She wishes society to see her acceptance of me.”

  Hayden strode to the stand-mounted globe and slowly spun it. He couldn’t allow her to gallivant about with Edith, not when even the slightest possibility remained Adele had tried to harm her. “I have cleared my schedule. I thought you and I might spend the day together. Please send Edith your regrets.”

  “But I have already told Edith I would go.”

  He walked to his desk and snatched up his pen. “If you won’t write her, I shall, dear.”

  “First you tell me I cannot got to Whitechapel. Now you insist I not accompany Edith.” With a disgruntled noise, she pivoted and headed to the door.

  Better she be agitated with him and safe. He moved to stand before her. A nearly palpable anger radiated from her, warming her skin, filling his nostrils with her lavender scent. “I wish you to remain home and rest because you are pale. I am concerned about you.”

  She averted her gaze.

  “Look at me,” he whispered. When she didn’t comply, he embraced her, nibbled the sensitive skin of her
neck while he captured the weight of her breast and drew his thumb over its peak. Her nipple hardened into a sweet bud. She may be vexed, but her body was not immune to his touch.

  “Please, let me go.”

  Reluctantly he released her.

  She turned away and left the room. He took a step to go after her, but Hawthorne appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Ambrus Varga is here, my lord.”

  Hayden raked a hand through his hair. “Send him in.”

  The butler nodded.

  “Hawthorne,” he called after the man. “Should my wife ask for her carriage to be harnessed, inform her the axle is in need of repair.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Hayden walked around his desk and sat.

  The private investigator’s normally unfathomable expression conveyed apprehension as he entered the room. “I’ve been unable to gather any information on Mrs. Fontaine’s whereabouts, m’lord.”

  “Then what the bloody hell are you doing here, man?” Hayden gritted his teeth.

  Varga combed his fingers through his left muttonchop. “I wished to make you aware I’ve sent several men to the ports, most to Dover, to scour passenger lists and check hotel registries, and a man to Calais to confirm Mrs. Fontaine is still in the French city with her caretaker.”

  “If you haven’t done so, I want continuous surveillance outside her brother’s residence.”

  “Already done, m’lord. I shall keep you updated.” The man moved to the door.

  Hayden scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Varga.”

  The investigator pivoted on his heels. “Yes, m’lord.”

  “What’s the name of your man stationed in front of my house?”

  “Dillard, m’lord.”

  “Proficient with a pistol?”

  “Of course. Dillard is one of my best men, as is Higgins, who is guarding the rear of the residence.”

  “Good. I’m starting to think Lord Adler was mistaken, but my mind is eased knowing they are here.”

  “Understandable, m’lord. Understandable. Your wife is well protected under the watchful eye of my men.”

  * * *

  Hayden sighed. Sophia talked amiably to Celia as they completed their luncheon. His wife had spoken barely three words to him, and if looks were lethal, he’d be lying in a silk-lined box.