by Wendy Vella
Sitting her on his bed, he quickly lit several candles and pulled on his dressing gown. Finding a blanket, he wrapped it around her. Lifting her back into his arms, Patrick sat on the edge of the bed and settled her on his lap. She threw her arms around his body and buried her face in his chest as if she would never let him go.
He had not seen Sophie since Lord and Lady Shubert’s garden party. His guilt had steadily risen as she had not attended any of the social events the ton frequented over the past few evenings, and he had decided that tomorrow he would seek her out and apologize, explain why he had kept silent after their lovemaking.
He let her cry, just holding her close, giving her his strength. She was so cold, shivers racked her body. Pushing the folds of her cloak aside, he noticed she still wore her nightclothes. What the hell was going on?
Soon her cries eased to sniffles. Unclasping her hands from his waist, Patrick lifted her chin and brushed a kiss on her chilled lips. “Speak to me, Sophie.” Seeing the terror written deep in the depths of her beautiful eyes made his gut clench. Her breath came in gasps intermingled with small pitiful sobs. If he did not know better, he would have said she had run from halfway across London to reach him.
“Please, sweetheart,” he urged gently stroking one cold cheek. “I cannot help you if you do not tell me what has happened,” Patrick said, and this time he put more force into his voice.
“T-Timmy is g-gone, Patrick.”
“Gone where?”
“S-someone has taken him, and it is my fault,” Sophie whispered. “I-I should have kn-known, anticipated … I have put him in danger. I kn … knew it was wrong, I-I …”
Patrick waited for her to continue, knowing that what she was about to tell him was what had driven him to pursue her when he had first laid eyes on her. Her secrets were about to be revealed.
“I-I have lied to you, Patrick,” Sophie confessed, looking up at him. Everything would change now. He would help her find Timmy, she never doubted that, but he would never look at her the same, never want to hold her again.
“From the beginning, Sophie. I want to hear everything, every detail,” Patrick said, pulling her closer as she tried to slip from his lap.
“Whoever has taken Timmy knows about my past,” Sophie said, and then she began to tell him the story of Sophie Beams.
“My father was a-a man who found his money by whatever means he could, legal or illegal, and my mother took in sewing.”
Patrick handed her a handkerchief as she sniffed. She took it and blew her nose loudly, then attempted a wobbly smile as she handed it back to him. Even disheveled, pale-faced, with her hair falling all over the place, she was still beautiful to him.
“I was a maid for the Earl of Monmouth and Letty. I-I could read; my mother did the cleaning and sewing for a lady who had retired from society and that lady taught me to read and write, and the basics of etiquette as payment. My mother had hopes that this would elevate my station in life,” Sophie said with a small sigh.
“I often read the newspaper to the earl when his man was busy, and sometimes a story from one of his favorite books. We became friends of a sort,” she said. “He would confide in me about his concerns for Letty after his death and his doubts in Myles’s ability to become the Earl of Monmouth. I never ventured an opinion,” Sophie rushed to add, shooting Patrick another look. She tried once again to slip off his lap before he threw her off in disgust, but his arms held her firmly against his chest.
“I found Letty crying one day. She had often spoken to me, and sometimes I was her maid when hers was sick or away. She said that Myles was to inherit shortly and she would never see her beloved Monmouth again. She would be forced to leave society because Myles would hold the purse strings.”
Sophie swallowed several times. She had to finish her story; Patrick needed to know everything if he were to have any chance of getting Timmy back. He was so quiet, never questioning her, just holding her in his arms. Surely he must now loathe her, a mere servant who had fooled society?
“All of it, Sophie,” Patrick said when she grew quiet.
“Two days later, my father took ill with fever. My mother urged me to get Timmy out of the house, so I asked Letty if I could bring him to Monmouth just for a short period of time, and she said yes.”
Patrick watched the memories come and go across Sophie’s face.
“They both died, my mother and father, and I was left with Timmy to care for.”
Patrick took the small square of linen and mopped up her tears.
“The Earl of Monmouth had grown weaker, we were told he would not last the week, and it was then that he and Letty put their heads together.”
She was talking faster now, rushing through the last part of her story, and Patrick listened intently.
“We were married two hours before he died,” Sophie said and Patrick felt another warm tear hit his hand.
“Letty taught me to be a lady and then we came to London,” she finished in a whisper.
“Tell me of Timmy now,” Patrick asked.
“I got the first letter and my old apron over a month ago, then Timmy’s small bonnet came next,” Sophie said, her voice husky after her tears. Without thought, she reached for one of his hands and gripped it tightly with both of her own.
“I am here, sweetheart,” Patrick said, then brushed a kiss through her hair.
“Why are y-you being so nice, now that you kn-know? N-now that all your earlier f-fears are confirmed.”
“Finish your story, Sophie. We will have plenty of time to talk later.”
“The notes never ask for anything, no money or jewelry,” Sophie said, a small line appearing between her brows as she frowned.
“I woke up suddenly tonight, something had disturbed me, and I rushed to look out of my window. There was a carriage and I could hear a woman yelling and a child’s cry.” She looked at Patrick then. “It was Timmy and his nanny, Patrick. And he was crying for me,” she added.
Holding her shoulders, Patrick forced her to face him.
“Who do you believe has him, Sophie? I know you must have some idea.”
“I-I can think of only one man,” she whispered. “I thought about it as I ran here.”
“You ran here!” Patrick closed his eyes. “In your nightclothes?” Visions of her being abducted and dragged into some seedy alleyway, where she could have been raped and murdered, filled his head. He might never have seen her again, and that thought alone scared the breath from his body. “Never ever do that again, is that understood, Sophie?” he said in a tightly controlled voice. Although he was now resigned to the multitude of emotions this woman made him feel, he was disgusted to note that his hands were trembling.
“Yes.” Sophie nodded her head several times so he would know she understood. Climbing off his lap she regained her feet and turned to look at him.
“Hell, anything could have happened to you and I would never have known,” he added, although this time his voice was calmer.
“I had no other choice.”
“It’s called a carriage, Sophie.”
“It would have taken too long, waiting for it to be prepared.”
He knew she was right, but that didn’t ease the feeling of dread over what might have been. Breathing deeply, he stood and drew her close to his chest, needing to feel her body against his. She was here; she was safe. She was brave, his Sophie, fierce in her protection of Timmy. Not for one second had she given her own danger a thought as she ran through the streets of London. Patrick did not have time to analyze how good he felt about her turning instinctively to him when she needed help.
“Come, we will go downstairs and speak with Stephen,” he said, once he had himself back under control. Taking her hand in his, he led her from the room.
Stephen was also dressed in his robe and trousers, although his was bright blue with burgundy trim.
Fletcher brought in tea and Sophie gave him a small smile as she walked toward him. He had straightened
his clothes and his hair was now brushed flat.
“Please accept my apologies, Fletcher. I am afraid I had no other choice but to force my way into Lord Coulter’s house.” She touched his hand briefly.
Patrick gave Stephen a wry look as Fletcher flushed to the roots of his gray hair and mumbled his thanks, then tripped over the rug as he left the room. He knew what it was like to be the recipient of one of Sophie’s smiles.
“Amazing,” Stephen said. “Fletcher has never shown that sort of reaction to my apologies.”
Patrick snorted, then ushered Sophie into a seat before the fire.
“Tell Stephen your story, sweetheart,” Patrick said.
“But …”
Patrick knew what she asked of him, saw the question in her eyes.
“I would trust him with my life. Plus I would break all his limbs if he said a word of what you are about to tell him to anyone,” he added and was pleased to see her smile.
“We have been through this before, Patrick.” Stephen sighed, then he winked at Sophie. “It would behoove you to remember who handed out the last thrashing to whom.”
“I was ten,” Patrick drawled.
Sophie could not imagine having such a close friend, and for so many years. These two cared for each other deeply, and she was suddenly pleased that Patrick had someone like that in his life.
“Tell him your story, Sophie,” Patrick said again as he moved to take the seat beside her. First, though, he forced her to drink several mouthfuls of brandy, which burned like firewater and made her cough and splutter.
Stephen watched as Patrick tended to Sophie, noticed the fierce tender look in his friend’s eyes and the loving glances she threw him. He wondered if they were aware of this love that they so obviously shared. Remaining silent, he turned his attentions to Sophie, Countess of Monmouth, and her story.
She told Stephen everything. Her voice was still husky and her tears close to the surface, and Patrick could see the cost of repeating the story as she drew to an end. Her fingers clenched around the cup, knuckles white, strain etched on her face.
He had been surprised by her revelations, yet in truth they did not change his feelings for Sophie, whatever they were, Patrick thought, giving his head a small shake. He wanted to hold her again. Sitting this close and seeing her distress made him want to slay something. He wanted to wipe away her pain, see her smile, and hear the small giggles she let slip when her guard was down. Looking at her now, huddled deep in his chair, her nose red from crying, face pale, hair falling in tangles past her shoulders, Patrick knew he was lost. Sophie had made him feel and for that reason alone he knew there would be no other woman for him. Somehow she had broken through the barrier he had placed around his emotions, something he had erected as a child when countless attempts at seeking affection had failed and he had locked everything away—until now, it seemed.
As her story stumbled to a halt, Patrick listened while Stephen questioned her. He had no censure in his eyes, only genuine interest in Sophie’s plight, and for that Patrick was thankful. He knew, however, that if word got out, not everyone would be as forgiving. A servant masquerading as a countess, even if she was a real one, would not sit well with many of his peers.
“Can you give us names, Sophie?” Stephen queried as he took a sip of his tea.
“J-Jack Spode,” Sophie stuttered, then took a large gulp from her own cup.
“We will find him, sweetheart, I promise.” Patrick took the saucer from her trembling hands before she dropped it. Obviously this Jack Spode was someone from her past, Patrick thought, as he watched what little color Sophie had left in her cheeks drain away.
“Tell us about him, Sophie,” Patrick said, rising and walking toward the fire. Moving away from her would stop him from reaching for her.
“He was someone from my village, a man my father had worked for over the years when he needed a few extra men on any of his jobs,” Sophie said, shooting both Stephen and Patrick a nervous look. She kept waiting for disdain to cloud their eyes. Surely it would only be a matter of time before these two noblemen would turn their backs on her and walk away. She would lay no blame at their feet if that were to be their reaction, but dear lord it would hurt, Sophie thought, as she looked at Patrick beneath her lashes.
“Why would he have taken Timmy, Sophie?” Patrick asked, trying to meet her eyes, but once again she looked away.
“I was to be his woman,” Sophie said. She hated talking of that time in her life, but knew she must tell them everything about her relationship with Jack, or they would not know the sort of man they were dealing with. “He was the richest man in our small village, he owned everything that was corrupt and underhanded.” Just speaking of that time in her life thrust Sophie back there. Every day had started at sunrise and finished well after sunset. Her memories were of a mother who’d cried constantly and a father who drank away every coin they had.
“Jack started coming to my house when I turned thirteen.” Sophie shuddered as she remembered how his eyes had followed her and how he would touch her if he got the opportunity.
Patrick saw the fear in Sophie’s face as she talked of her old life. Saw the terror as she spoke of this bastard Spode. He started forward, wanting to ease her anguish, but Stephen stopped him with a raised hand and a slight shake of his blond head.
“We must have it all, Colt,” Stephen whispered.
Patrick gave a curt nod and stayed by the fireplace with his eyes on Sophie.
“My mother sent me away to Monmouth as soon as a position came available. She had realized Jack’s intentions toward me were not honorable. Jack was not pleased when he found out,” Sophie whispered. “Even though Monmouth was but a short distance from my home, I was only able to visit once a month. It was on one of my last visits, just as my mother fell sick, that Jack found me at home.”
Sophie didn’t want to tell Patrick her story. It made her feel unclean, as if Jack had actually violated her as he had intended.
“He told me that my father owed him several hundred pounds and that I was to be his woman if my father could not pay the debt.”
Patrick clenched his fists as Sophie shuddered; he vowed to kill Jack Spode with his bare hands.
“My father was close to death. I ran to where he lay and begged him to tell me that Jack’s words were lies, but he just shook his head and said that he was sorry.” Sophie found the handkerchief Patrick had given her and wiped her nose before she continued. This last part was always the hardest to think about, but to say it out loud would be terrible. Taking a deep breath she finished her story. “Jack was waiting for me as I left the house. He … he grabbed me and threw me to the ground. I … I fought and just when I thought it was over and that he w-would … I found a rock and hit him with it.”
“Enough,” Patrick said, pulling Sophie to her feet and into his arms. She clung to him but this time she did not cry; she just shook. “We have enough information, Stephen,” he added.
Stephen almost felt sorry for this Jack Spode. He had only seen that particular dangerous look in Patrick’s eyes twice, and both incidents were etched in his memory.
“I ran to Monmouth and Jack sent me a note,” Sophie said from the depths of Patrick’s chest. “It said that one day I would pay for what I had done to him, and now it is Timmy who is paying for my past.”
“We will find him, Sophie,” Stephen said, getting to his feet. “I’ll call the carriage, Colt,” he added, walking from the room.
When he had left, Patrick forced Sophie to finish the rest of the brandy and then settled her back into the chair before the fire.
“I need to get dressed and gather a few things, sweetheart. Stay here until I come back for you.” Patrick waited until she nodded, then placing a kiss on her lips he, too, left the room.
* * *
As the carriage carried them back through the dark London streets a short while later, Sophie wondered what Patrick and Lord Sumner could do to find Timmy. Surely they could ne
ver track down a man such as Jack Spode—a man who lived his life in the sleaziest places with people of questionable morals?
“You must go straight to Lady Carstairs, Sophie, and tell her of Timmy’s abduction,” said Patrick, who was seated beside Sophie. “We will come to you as soon as we have either Timmy or news of him.”
“But how will you find him?” questioned Sophie, her eyes desperately seeking both men in the darkened carriage.
“As you have entrusted us with your secrets, perhaps it is time we shared one of ours, Sophie,” Lord Sumner said from the opposite seat.
“Patrick and I did not just fight for our country, my dear; we infiltrated our enemies and often spent months behind enemy lines. We’re experienced in getting information from people, and finding Jack Spode should not prove too difficult with the contacts we know here in London.”
Patrick could just see Sophie’s silhouette in the faint moonlight. Leaning over, he placed a finger under her jaw and pushed it shut, then lifting one of the hands she had clenched in the folds of her cloak, he pried it open and held it in one of his own.
“So now we are even, Sophie,” Stephen said. “We each have a secret that if shared would cause a scandal of some proportions. I suggest we have a pact of sorts.”
“A pact, Lord Sumner?”
“Patrick and I will carry your secret in here, Countess,” Stephen said tapping his head. “If you promise to carry ours the same way. You are the only person we have shared this with besides a few old cronies at the War Office.”
Sophie didn’t know what to say; she was humbled by Lord Sumner’s words. “I will of course carry your secret safely, my lords,” she said, looking first at Stephen, then Patrick. “But surely what I have told you is far worse, and once it is common knowledge that I was a servant, you will wish to distance yourself …”
“Friends do not abandon friends, Sophie,” Stephen said firmly, “and I would have you call me Stephen if you please.”
Patrick had remained silent, letting Stephen talk, and he was never more proud of his friend than at this moment.
