by Fran Baker
“Come, come,” Jonathan said, the light from the fire glowing in his eyes. “You must stop thinking about the past, if it makes you unhappy. You must concentrate on the future—on cheerful things. Lord Reginald would have wished it. Think of the delightful times you’re going to have in town.”
“Yes,” she agreed, straightening her shoulders. “It is going to be wonderful. I shall see Jeanette again. I hope to call on her tomorrow and let her know I am here. She has written so many delightful letters to me since her visit at the Priory—not recently, I am sorry to say—but I am confident that we shall be the greatest of bosom bows again while I am in town. Do you remember her, Jonathan? Such a beautiful girl!”
“I do indeed,” he said. “But she was no horsewoman. Do you remember the time old Rafferty ran away with her?”
Sophie sniffed. “Jeanette was never in any danger while you were nearby. You rescued her long before Rafferty was anywhere near the cliff.”
“He wouldn’t have gone over the cliff,” Jonathan said, one side of his mouth tugging up in amusement. “He was much too sensible. And he’d have stopped running much sooner if Jeanette had not screamed and carried on so hysterically.”
“But she gave you all the credit for saving her,” Sophie said, smiling. “Jeanette fell hopelessly in love with you that day.”
Jonathan laughed, a sound that was rusty from disuse. “Nonsense.”
“Indeed, it is true. She could speak of no one else from that moment on. And every time she mentioned your name, her eyes sparkled in a very special way.”
“I’m sure no one has ever fallen in love with me—unless you did so, Sophie, when you were very small.”
He watched her expectantly, but she was cutting another slice of cake for him and replenishing his tea. And as she passed the lemon slices again, it was apparent that her thoughts were far away.
Lady Biskup brushed some crumbs from her skirt. “I shall be curious to see how her brother, Nicholas, has turned out. I have often worried about him, poor child—the way he pretended to know everything. And he had such an unfortunate way of lecturing everyone.”
“But, Aunt Ruth,” Sophie said, “I discovered that he was remarkably well informed and quite accomplished. Johnnie Aysgarth told me not long ago that Nicky is the finest shot in England. I believe it, too, for when he taught me to shoot, he hit the target every time he aimed at it.”
“What!” Lady Biskup cried, starting so violently that she sloshed tea into her lap. “You did not actually fire a gun!”
“Yes,” Sophie admitted, her cheeks flushing pinker. “It was dreadfully loud, but so exciting. And I hit the target the first time I fired. After that, unfortunately, I was unable to do so again. I missed three times in a row. Nicky said it was because of overconfidence.”
Lady Biskup set her teacup on a side table and dabbed at her gown with a napkin. “Well, indeed, child, I never know what shocking revelation you will impart to me next. Shooting a firearm! I have never been so horrified! That is certainly the most unladylike activity in which one can participate. And if I had realized that Nicholas was encouraging you in such pursuits, I should have given his mother the most thorough tongue lashing of her entire life—silly creature that she is with all her airs and pretensions.”
Jonathan was smiling. “Where are your dogs, Sophie? You are not bringing thirty or forty to London to keep you company?”
She shook her head unhappily. “I am confident I shall miss them dreadfully, but Aunt Ruth explained how uncomfortable the poor creatures would be in town. Dogs require exercise to remain healthy—fields to race over and walls to jump. Their condition would suffer here, as I would not be able to take them for a romp in the square.”
“Good God, no!” he agreed.
She sighed. “It is going to be difficult enough to keep my horses healthy, I fear. I understand that a good fast gallop through the park is not permitted, either.”
“That is correct,” he said. “You must be thoroughly circumspect while you’re in town. That will be difficult for you, poor Sophie. You’ll have to derive all your excitement from the simple pleasures of the ton—balls and routs and the theater and such.” He chuckled. “Simply put, you’ll be obliged to shift your interest from animals to people.”
She set her teacup and saucer on the table and, tilting her head, glanced at him shyly. “Perhaps that will not be so difficult. Do you remember Albert de Lisle?”
His smile faded.
Sophie straightened up, peering at him curiously. “Don’t you like him, Jonathan? I had thought that you and I would always agree on everything.”
He sat in silence for several seconds. Finally he said, “All I remember of him is that he was quite the scalawag. But I’ve been out of the country for five years. A great deal can change in that time.”
“The summer after Lord Reginald bought you your colors and you went away to war, Albert and his father spent some weeks at Vaile Priory.” Looking down, Sophie concentrated on her napkin, pleating and unpleating it with her fingers. “It was then that Albert and I swore to be true to each other forever.” She glanced up at Jonathan now. “And I have been.”
“For four years?” he said, his eyebrows rising.
She nodded.
“And what of Albert?” he asked, frowning. “Has he been true forever, also?”
She turned away. “I am a bit uncertain . . .”
Lady Biskup set her cup into her saucer with an impatient click. “We have heard nothing from him in that time. I have told Sophie that the boy is unworthy of her. He has coaxed her into pledging herself and has given her nothing in return.”
Jonathan tipped his head consideringly. “But certainly he has written to you, Aunt.”
Lady Biskup shook her head.
Sophie turned back to Jonathan, her expression pleading. “There may have been something which prevented him, despite his desire to do so.”
Jonathan and Lady Biskup exchanged sour glances.
“It is common knowledge that Albert must marry an heiress,” Lady Biskup reminded them. “After the reckless way in which his father has conducted his affairs, that rocky island and drafty old castle off the coast of Carlisle are all that is left of the family fortune.”
Sophie’s chin quivered and it was apparent that she was fighting tears. “But certainly . . . since he pledged himself to me . . . that is . . . would he not have sent word if he had suffered a change of heart?” She turned anxiously from one to the other. “What do you think, Jonathan?”
He cast a helpless glance in Lady Biskup’s direction, but her ladyship kept her eyes cast discreetly down. “I know nothing of the matter, Sophie,” he told her. “And I don’t wish to hold forth on a subject on which I am ignorant. Let’s turn our thoughts in another direction. What entertainments are we planning for the next few weeks? There’ll be enough balls and parties to keep us occupied now that the little season is in full sway. And you say you’re planning to call on Jeanette tomorrow? May I accompany you?”
“Certainly! That would be delightful.”
“Yes, indeed,” Lady Biskup agreed. “She’ll be happy to see you. And you’ll both be pleased to discover that Jeanette has lived up to her early promise and is now reputed to be quite the most beautiful girl in England. She was the Incomparable during the regular season . . . took very well. There have been rumors that she and the earl of Fairmont will make a match of it, though I’ve heard that she is reluctant to commit herself quite yet.”
“She is showing good sense,” Sophie said, rising and moving across the room to stretch her stiffened limbs. “Why should she give up the balls and parties only to lock herself away in a musty old country house and immediately become a mother?”
“Sophie!” Lady Biskup protested. “That is no way for a young lady to speak in front of a young gentleman. I must be very cross with you. It is quite unacceptable. Fortunately, you have only committed this faux pas in front of Jonathan instead of embarrassing yourself
in the presence of some young man who might be a candidate for your hand.” She forced a good-natured chuckle. “Come, come, my love. Practice polite conversation with our dear boy. He will be patient with you until you’ve acquired some town bronze.”
Sophie peered at him curiously. He was staring down at the toe of his left boot, a frown creasing his forehead. She walked over and sat down beside him, taking one of his hands between both of hers and stroking it thoughtfully.
“It is comforting to know that you’ll always be patient with me,” she told him. “You and Aunt Ruth are the only family I have.” She turned to Lady Biskup. “How are Jonathan and I related, Auntie? I have never been quite clear in my mind.”
Lady Biskup waved an impatient hand. “Oh, must we go into that at this time?”
Jonathan looked up. “I wish you would,” he said. “I know family connections are of paramount importance, but having spent so much of my youth in India and then going to war not too long after Lord Reginald brought me to England . . . frankly, I’ve lost track of the who’s and the how’s.” He leveled his gaze at Lady Biskup. “Now I too would like to have our relationship clarified.”
Chapter 2
Lady Biskup sat silently frowning down at her lap. Suddenly Sophie rose to her feet and began to pace back and forth across the room.
“Please understand that I have no desire to be impertinent. Indeed, everyone must know how deeply devoted I am to you, Aunt Ruth, but . . .” She bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek, then turned to Jonathan.
“I must tell you in all honesty that she will not divulge the truth of our connection. She’ll spin us a farradiddle—for our own good, of course—and why that should be so is more than I can fathom. In the end we shall remain as much in the dark as ever.”
Lady Biskup raised both hands in protest. “No, no, my love. There is no need for me to prevaricate. The facts are quite simple: We are all related through the Althorpes.”
She fixed Jonathan with a solemn gaze. “Your mother was an Althorpe, was she not?”
“So I’ve been told,” he said. “Though I must take the information on faith, as I don’t remember her. She died when I was seven months old. My earliest memories are of living somewhere in the hills near Simla after the fever epidemic wiped out most of the British garrison—my father included. I have been told many times that my mother’s name was Matilda Althorpe and my father’s name was Michael Gray.”
Lady Biskup nodded. “Your mother was a third cousin of mine, as was Sophie’s father, Timothy Althorpe.” Now she turned to her niece. “And your mother was distantly related to Lord Reginald. Her name was Rose.”
“Rose!” Sophie cried, stopping in front of her and planting her hands on her hips. “Rose, you say? You told me her name was Lily. Now I have caught you flat out, Aunt Ruth, and I know beyond any further doubt that you are hoaxing me, just as I have always suspected. I have caught her, Jonathan. Is this not the most outrageous thing? And to make it even more so, Lord Reginald always referred to my mother as Violet.”
“Oh, dear,” Lady Biskup stammered. “Violet?” She uncorked her vinaigrette and waved it under her nose. After deeply inhaling its soothing vapors, she nodded and said, “Perhaps it was Violet. It was a kind of flower, I remember.”
Sophie wrung her hands. “I am certain you are deceiving me, but for what purpose?”
“My dear child,” her aunt protested, “why should I wish to do so?”
“That is what I cannot understand.”
Sophie plopped down onto the sofa again beside Jonathan and gazed at him with an expression of such acute misery that he almost held out his arms to her. She scowled at Lady Biskup.
“Who am I, Aunt Ruth?” she pleaded. “Why can no one agree on the name of my mother? Or my father’s country seat or his title? You and Lord Reginald have told me so many different tales. What is the truth?”
Lady Biskup shook her head unhappily. “My dearest child, I have no idea.”
Sophie turned to Jonathan. “Have you often wondered why the stories about me are so baffling?”
“Yes, I have,” he admitted. “I have thought them inconsistent.”
Lady Biskup wriggled her eyebrows at him to get his attention, and then gave him a speaking look. “Perhaps you were mistaken, Jonathan,” she suggested.
“Well—” he began.
“We must accept the facts which Lord Reginald has given us,” Lady Biskup went on quickly, “because that is what he wished us to do. And Sophie . . .”
She turned to her niece and glowered at her. “I must insist that you give me your word you will never under any circumstances mention this to anyone but Jonathan and me. Before he died Lord Reginald charged me with making a decent match for you, and I cannot do so without your having an ironclad pedigree. If you allow the ton to catch even the slightest hint that you have doubts about your parentage, you will set tongues wagging furiously and we shall be undone. You must not confide in your closest friends—not even Jeanette—not in anyone, do you understand me?”
“Then you admit that there is something mysterious about my antecedents?” Sophie challenged her.
“No, I do not! You were brought to Lord Reginald by Timothy Althorpe on the eve of his departure for Russia. He had been appointed a military attaché and he was afraid the weather would be untenable for a baby. He then traveled with his wife to St. Petersburg. When he left the city, his destination was in the Crimea. Somewhere between those two points, Timothy and dear Rose . . . er, Lily . . . I mean Violet . . . disappeared. Neither of them has ever been heard from since.” She turned to Jonathan. “I shall swear you to secrecy, also.”
“Certainly,” he said.
“And you, Sophie? Do you swear to forget this nonsense and be content to enjoy the entertainments that London has to offer you, without probing and prying? For if you continue to meddle and search in this manner, I shall be obliged to return you to Vaile Priory immediately.”
Sophie frowned. “I promise not to speak of it, but I cannot swear that I will never wonder what is the truth. I am confident that this story is a fabrication—whose, I do not know, nor why it is being perpetuated—and I cannot keep myself from aching to discover the true identity of my parents and the reasons which prevent them from stepping forward and claiming their daughter. I have wondered . . .” She glanced shyly at Jonathan. “I may even be the child of the Prince Regent himself.”
“Nonsense!” Lady Biskup exclaimed. “You are not, I assure you.”
“Then who am I? That’s all I want to know.” She turned to Jonathan. “Don’t you also wonder about your parents? If you have no memory of your mother and father, don’t you sometimes suspect that you may actually be someone else?”
He considered for a moment and then shook his head. “No, there is no doubt that I’m the son of Michael and Matilda Gray.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“I’m told I bear a striking resemblance to Michael—so much so that I was recognized as his son when I was in a crowd of Indians in a little village not far from Calcutta. And certainly, at the time, I must have looked very much like a native, with my sun-browned skin and black hair. But Colonel Tobin, the regimental commander, took one look at me and said, ‘You must be Michael Gray’s son!’ And he dragged me back to the army post where I belonged. And there I stayed until Lord Reginald sent for me.”
“What were you doing in a little village with a crowd of Indians?” Sophie asked.
He grinned. “Learning to charm cobras.”
Lady Biskup shuddered.
But Sophie tilted her head to one side and clasped her hands. “Is that true? And did you learn?”
“Not really,” he admitted. “They do not teach children the art, as they wish the population to believe that it requires wisdom and magic to manipulate the wretched things. I learned, primarily, to avoid them.”
“Oh, Jonathan!” she exclaimed, pressing one hand over her heart. “I should love above all
things to have such a skill. Could you teach me? I’ve heard that snake charmers are never bitten.”
He shook his head. “They’re bitten all too frequently.”
“Are they not immune?”
“No, they die. Cobra venom is quite deadly.”
Again Lady Biskup shuddered. “I shall not remain here another instant if you intend to dwell on this dreadful subject. It is altogether too ghastly and I am too weak to bear the horror of it after the suffering I have endured these last few days traveling inside that wretched coach. I shall go to my room and sink into the loving arms of Morpheus for a time, and I do not wish my dreams to be of writhing serpents.”
She rose to her feet and tugged at a bell pull. “And Jonathan, my love, I suggest that you also take advantage of this time to enjoy a small nap before dinner. You look thoroughly fagged.”
“I do?” he said, rising in surprise.
The butler appeared in the doorway.
“Master Jonathan is staying with us, Leeds,” she told him. “Please have a room prepared for him.”
“Yes, m’lady,” he said.
She swept past him and disappeared across the vestibule. With halting steps, the old man followed her. As soon as they had both departed, Sophie rose and, slipping a hand through Jonathan’s arm, drew him across the room to a far corner.
“Do you believe her?” she whispered. “So fanciful, all these tales! Russia is a vast country, I grant you, but how can anyone of importance disappear without a trace? Surely, if there had been an accident—even foul play—someone in that country would have discovered it and sent word to the family.”
He nodded. “I agree that there is probably more to the story. But Sophie . . .”
He put a hand under her chin and raised her face to his. As he looked deep into her eyes, he felt himself so lost in their velvety brown depths, in the cream of her cheeks, the soft pink of her lips that he forgot for a moment what he had meant to say. Then her brows rose expectantly, and he struggled back to reality, marshaling his thoughts.
