Your loving and remorseful brother,
Edmund
Reese’s stomach clenched and his hands trembled as he read the letter again, trying to come to grips with the words Edmund had written. He hadn’t died in a hunting accident.
Jesus, Reese should have known. The details of the day Edmund died had been sketchy at best, but the staff said his brother had ridden out that morning alone. Given that he’d been an experienced hunter and excellent marksman, an accident was highly unlikely.
But maybe Reese hadn’t really wanted to know the truth. He hated to think of how much Edmund must have suffered in his final days—and, moreover, of how much suffering he must have caused Violet. He hated that his brother had been so alone and ashamed and closed-minded that he hadn’t believed there was any way out of his predicament. That he hadn’t felt that he had any choice but to take his own life.
Reese dropped his head in his hands and cried—for Edmund, for Violet, and the babe that his brother would never meet.
Raw sobs racked his body, but for once, he didn’t bother trying to hold them back. He let the pain crash over and flow through him till some of its power diminished and all that was left was sadness.
And an unexpected, newfound sense of purpose.
Because Edmund had been wrong. His brother, for all his intellect, had failed to see the truth of his situation. He hadn’t realized that he did have another choice. That there was always another choice. And Reese knew exactly what he needed to do.
He returned to his bedchamber and rang for Gordon. When the valet appeared in the doorway, Reese gestured to the armchair across from his own. “Will you join me for a moment?”
Gordon frowned, but sat. “Is everything all right, my lord?”
“Not really.” Reese heaved a sigh and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “I’d like you to tell me everything you know about Miss Violet Darby, who, I understand, once worked here.”
“Violet?” The valet’s spine snapped straight, as though he was instantly on guard. “Why would you want to know about her?”
“I’ve recently learned that she’s with child and might be in need of assistance. I’m hoping you can give me her address because … I want to help.”
* * *
Next Friday morning at breakfast, Mary casually opened the London Hearsay, and Sophie’s heart began to trip. She hadn’t seen the final version of the column Lily wrote and delivered to the paper, nor had she seen Fiona’s sketch.
But she did know that both women had intended to make a statement in this week’s edition.
She resisted the urge to snatch the paper from her sister’s hands, and, instead, asked, “What’s the topic of today’s Debutante Revenge?”
Mary raised a fair brow. “Oh, I’d quite forgotten that a new column appears in the paper today. I was looking for the fashion pages.”
Sophie refrained from rolling her eyes—barely. She knew that Mary enjoyed the column as much as anyone. Her sister simply refused to admit it.
“Give the column to Sophie, then, so she can read it to us,” Mama instructed, briskly stirring cream into her tea. “Her engagement ball tomorrow night is a particularly momentous event; perhaps this week’s edition will have some pertinent advice.”
Sophie cast Mama a skeptical glance as Mary sullenly handed over the paper. She opened it to the column expecting one of Fiona’s gorgeously romantic drawings.
But the image was strikingly different. The sketch, much larger than usual, took up half of the newspaper page. In it, three barefoot women wearing half masks and long, flowing gowns danced around a bubbling cauldron. The first woman held an artist’s palette in one hand and paintbrush in the other, pointing it like a rapier. The second wielded a large feather quill near her shoulder as though it were a dueling pistol and she was about to pace off. The third outstretched her palm to reveal a seed that had sprouted into a lovely flowering vine.
Dear Lord. Fiona had skillfully hidden their identities, and yet, Sophie had never felt so exposed.
“Goodness.” She looked up at her mother’s and sister’s expectant faces. “Today’s sketch is quite different from the usual fare,” she said, hoping she sounded nonchalant.
“Just read the column,” Mary said, slightly annoyed. “Mama and I shall look at the illustration later.”
“Very well.” Sophie cleared her throat and began.
Dear Debutantes,
When a gentleman accuses you of being a witch, he is unwittingly acknowledging the considerable power that you possess.
Sadly, some men will feel threatened by that power and attempt to undermine you with dubious claims about your character. Some may try to sabotage your efforts to gain knowledge. Some may forbid you to discuss and share your ideas.
Do not be intimidated.
A man who disparages you does so because of his own insecurities and because—oh, how shall I put this delicately, dear readers?—because he may not measure up in other regards.
It gives me no pleasure to say this. Indeed, I think it safe to say that it gives no one pleasure. However, you should know that a gentleman’s derogatory comments have much less to do with your faults than they do with his own—pray, forgive me again, dear readers!—rather sensitive shortcomings.
But all hope is not lost. There are plenty of confident, strong, and capable men who will encourage you in your pursuits and celebrate your triumphs. Seek a partner who will not be threatened by your power, but instead, be in awe of it … and of you.
In the meantime, embrace your power. Cast your spells. Follow your dreams.
And never, ever apologize for who you are.
Sophie’s cheeks were burning by the time she read the last sentence. She looked up from the paper to see Mama’s eyes had grown wide as saucers. Mary stared blankly. “Nothing very instructive in there,” she said, biting into her toast. “Why on earth are you blushing, Sophie?”
“I’m not certain,” she lied.
“Perhaps it’s best if you don’t show us the accompanying drawing,” Mama said, before taking a fortifying sip of tea. “Now then. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you girls how important tomorrow night’s ball shall be. Come Sunday morning, everyone will be talking about Lord Singleton’s ball—and his betrothal to Sophie. We must not give the gossips any reason to ridicule us.”
Sophie reached over and patted her mother’s thin, pale hand. “Forgive me for saying so, Mama, but the gossips are likely to find fault in something we do. Even if our manners are flawless, they will misconstrue a word or gesture and invent a faux pas in their imaginations.”
“Perhaps,” Mama said, frown lines creasing her forehead. “But I’d prefer that we not make it too easy for them. I, for one, will ensure that your father is well rested and in good form.”
Sophie nodded gratefully, for she knew the task of keeping Papa relatively sober would require a great deal of time and effort, including hiding some spirits and watering down the rest.
“Mary,” Mama continued, her tone uncharacteristically stern, “you shall wear your prettiest gown, pretend to enjoy yourself, and dance at least three sets.”
Mary gasped as though their mother’s request was on par with one of Hercules’ labors. “But Mama,” she said, “what if no gentleman asks me to dance?”
“If you keep your distance from the potted palms and manage to smile once or twice, you’ll have your choice of dance partners. I’m sure of it.”
When Mary gave a pathetic cough and opened her mouth to protest, Mama cut her off at the pass. “You haven’t been ill in a long time, Mary. Your sister is marrying Lord Singleton so that your father will not go to debtors’ prison and so that you and I do not become destitute. Considering the sacrifice Sophie’s making for us, I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you fill your dance card at the ball.”
Sophie and Mary sat there, momentarily stunned. Never before had Sophie heard her mother speak to her sister so sharply. And she’d never heard Mama e
xplicitly acknowledge what the marriage would cost Sophie.
She supposed that hearing her sister finally being held to account should have been satisfying, but instead the conversation left Sophie feeling unbearably sad and bereft.
She couldn’t help thinking about Reese and the life that might have been theirs. Couldn’t help remembering how safe and happy she’d felt in his arms.
Her eyes stung as she glanced at the folded newspaper on the table, open to Fiona’s clever depiction of their intrepid trio. She’d drawn Sophie with her hip cocked and a wicked, self-assured gleam in her eyes. Unapologetically bold, confident, and powerful, the woman on the paper staring back at her could have been the goddess of nature, and the mistress of all that grew and bloomed.
Sophie was humbled to think that her friend had imagined her that way.
But the truth was that Sophie barely recognized the woman in the drawing—and with every day that passed, she became more of a stranger.
Chapter 31
Later that evening, Sophie maintained a cheerful façade as she welcomed the women to what would be her last meeting as chair of the Debutante Underground. The room buzzed with nervous chatter, for it seemed that the latest edition of The Debutante’s Revenge had rocked London like an earthquake, and the aftershocks had been rolling through town all day long.
“My older brother was incensed,” one young woman confessed. “He said the authoress of such vile advice should be placed in stocks in the middle of St. James’s Square.”
“My father intends to take up the matter with the authorities,” another chimed in. “He said today’s column is proof that the authoress has poisoned impressionable female minds.”
The members rolled their eyes and erupted in a collective disgusted groan.
“Both your male relatives seem to have missed the underlying message of today’s column,” commented Adelaide, a razor-witted grandmother. “In expressing their disdain for the authoress, they expose themselves as both intolerant and ignorant, making them look very small indeed.”
The women chuckled with mirth, but tension in the room still stretched as tight as strained corset laces.
Sophie stood at the front of the circle and—for her very last time—called the meeting to order. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t allow her emotions to bubble up, but there was a catch in her voice as she recited the rules, and a heaviness in her chest as she handed a copy of the newspaper to Sarah so she could read the column.
When Sarah finished, a lively discussion ensued. Many women expressed anger and concern that harm might come to the authoress. Others worried that the Debutante Underground would be exposed and that they’d all be publicly humiliated, bringing shame—however unjust it might be—upon their families. Still others argued that they must not cower from the attacks, and that it was more important than ever to stand strong.
Sophie stood next to the shop’s counter, listening intently. Shortly before it was time for the meeting to conclude, she walked to the front and addressed the group again.
“There’s no denying that The Debutante’s Revenge has been on everyone’s lips this week and that it’s facing a rising tide of opposition. But perhaps this is because it’s influencing more women than ever.”
The group murmured in agreement.
“Whatever the reason,” Sophie continued, “there are many who wish to silence the authoress—and her followers. I would urge all of you to listen to your instincts and act accordingly. If you sense that a family member or acquaintance is becoming suspicious, take the precautions you must in order to protect yourself and all of the women here.”
“Hear, hear,” the women responded.
Sophie smiled at the faces she’d come to know so well. These women were more than friends. They were her family. And the time had come to say goodbye.
“It’s been my honor to serve as chair of this amazing group. But, as you know, this is my last night in the role. I’m very pleased to announce that Sarah has graciously volunteered to take over my duties, and I leave you in her capable hands.” With that, she gestured toward the auburn-haired widow and invited her to the front.
Sarah slipped an arm around Sophie’s shoulders and presented her with a journal. “This is from all of us. We each took turns writing down what the Debutante Underground means to us and some of the ways it’s made a difference in our lives.”
Sophie ran her hands over the buttery-smooth leather cover, briefly flipped through the pages filled with heartfelt notes, and squeezed the journal to her chest. “Thank you. I’ll treasure this.”
Sarah pulled her into a warm embrace, then waved over Violet, who gave Sophie a lovely bouquet of tulips. “We’ll miss having you at the helm,” the younger woman said with a sniffle. “But even more than that, we’ll miss your calm, kind, generous presence. Thank you for bringing us all together.”
Sophie swiped at her eyes and addressed the assembly again. “I’ve loved being a part of this group and am so proud of the knowledge you’ve shared and of the relationships we’ve forged. If any of you is ever in a bind, I won’t be far away. Sarah knows how to reach me, and I promise I will help if I can. Once a member of the Debutante Underground, forever a member.” Since she was on the verge of dissolving into a puddle of tears, she concluded with a curtsy. “Farewell, my friends, and thank you for all you’ve taught me about courting, desire, intimacy, and, most of all, love.”
The room erupted in heartfelt applause and appreciative cheers. And when the din died down, the women approached Sophie one at a time, showering her with effusive hugs before reluctantly bidding her goodbye.
When the tailor’s shop had mostly emptied and only Sarah and Violet remained, Sophie invited them to sit in the pair of old leather armchairs and perched on an ottoman opposite them. To Sarah, she said, “Thank you for volunteering to chair the meetings. Especially since I know you already have so many responsibilities, not the least of which are your two precious girls. You must let me know if it becomes too much, and we will seek someone else to step in, if necessary.”
Sarah smiled, her blue eyes twinkling. “My sainted sister has agreed to watch Rose and Julia every Friday evening, and I’m beyond grateful for the chance to leave the nappies behind for a few hours and talk with other adults. Besides, I’m no longer worried about keeping a roof over our heads or food on the kitchen table. Now that Lord Warshire is paying our rent and providing a generous allowance, I can focus on the important things—like ensuring the girls never forget their father … and trying to fill the hole he left in their hearts.”
“You must look after your own heart as well,” Sophie said softly. Ironically, the mention of Reese had left hers aching too. God, she missed him. “Has Lord Warshire visited you again?” she asked, trying not to reveal how desperate she was for any scrap of information about him.
“No.” Sarah smoothed an auburn strand behind her ear, thoughtful. “Rose keeps asking me when the man with the sad eyes will return, but I’m not certain that he will. He must be frightfully busy,” she said diplomatically.
Violet cleared her throat. “I have some news concerning Lord Warshire.”
Sophie and Sarah both turned to the young pregnant woman, expectant.
“Several days ago, I received a polite letter from the earl asking me to call on him at Warshire Manor,” Violet continued, absently rubbing her belly. “He sent his coach and his valet, Gordon, to fetch me, and I went.”
Sophie’s chest felt unbearably tight. She trusted Reese to treat Violet with respect, but she hated to think of how painful the meeting must have been for both of them and all the sorrow that it must have dredged up. “What did Lord Warshire want?”
“To apologize on behalf of his older brother. Edmund knew the babe was his and asked that the new earl provide for both of us, if I wished.” Violet sniffled. “It was such a relief to hear him acknowledge the babe as Edmund’s. I know that the two of you believed me, but I didn’t realize how much I also needed s
omeone from his family to know and accept that this little one is a part of them too.”
Sarah dabbed a handkerchief at the corners of her eyes. “That’s wonderful.”
The young woman nodded, saying, “But there’s more. The earl asked if he might be permitted to meet the babe and visit occasionally … as any uncle would.”
“Lord Warshire is a good man,” Sophie breathed, wondering why he’d tried to hide that side of himself for so long. Why he hadn’t even believed it existed.
Violet smiled. “When he asked what assistance he could provide, I told him that all I really wanted was my old job back after the babe is born. Warshire Manor is a strange old house with an even odder garden, but I have friends there, and it’s where I belong.”
“What did the earl say?” Sophie asked, stunned.
“He readily agreed. But he insisted on giving me an allowance in addition to my salary.”
“Who will care for your baby while you’re working?” Sarah asked, frowning. “Where will you live?”
“Lord Warshire said he should be able to provide suitable quarters for us—and that he might know someone to help with the child.” Violet shrugged. “He’s going to contact me again soon.”
Sophie blinked back tears. She’d known in her heart that Reese would do the right thing, and he hadn’t let her down.
She was ridiculously proud of him. Not only because of what he was doing for Violet, but because of what he was doing for himself. He was slaying his demons, dragging them out into the light. It wasn’t going to be easy, fighting all the guilt and grief and pain he felt about losing his brother and Conroy. He’d have to manage those emotions for the rest of his life … but he’d taken the first steps.
He wasn’t the same man she’d met a couple of months ago in that very spot in the tailor’s shop. He was climbing out of his dark, gloomy underworld, doing his best to leave the shadows behind.
When You Wish Upon a Rogue Page 21