The Secret Lover

by Julia London

  “You must take it or you may never hope to recover,” Trevor said, and moved to the sidebar, eyeing the different decanters there. “It’s a blessed miracle that no more harm has come to you, really. You cannot imagine what I feared.”

  Something about his son’s voice rang false. Silent, Will watched as Trevor selected a crystal decanter and poured an amber liquid into a glass. From the pocket of his filthy trousers, he pulled a small vial, and emptied the contents of it into the glass, then turned and looked at Will.

  His expression was oddly blank; Will felt his blood run cold. As this son approached him, he struggled with the lap blanket, determined to gain his feet. But Trevor was quickly upon him, straddling him with one knee on his lap, one strong arm wrapped around his shoulders, pinning his arms. “I have no idea what that whore might have told you, but you need this,” he said, breathing heavily.

  Overcome by the stench of his son’s breath and the growing awareness that something about the medicine wasn’t right—if only he could think for a moment!—Will struggled. But he was no match for Trevor. He forced his mouth open, poured the liquid down his throat, then let go, falling backward, catching himself before he tumbled to the ground, his gaze never wavering from Will’s face.

  Panting wildly, Trevor watched him closely. “There now, you’ll see. You’ll feel much improved, trust me,” he muttered. Will’s eyelids began to droop; Trevor smiled thinly and moved to a writing table, where he rummaged through one drawer.

  The effects of the medicine quickly took hold; the fog was descending on him like the black of night, thickening his tongue, slowing his thoughts, weighting his arms and legs into the divan. His head lolled back of its own accord. Through a heavily hooded gaze, he watched Trevor retrieve a piece of paper, snatch up a pen, and come striding forward, the paper in one hand, the pen in the other.

  He could not speak. His mind screamed no, but his lips would not move. Trevor leaned over him, jabbed the pen into his hand. He then grabbed a book from a nearby ottoman, slapped the paper on it, and thrust the book onto Will’s lap.

  “All right then, Papa.”

  The medicine…there was something about the medicine. Damn it, why couldn’t he remember?

  Trevor squatted down on his haunches, peered up at his father with eyes shining brightly, too brightly. “Come on then, old man, do what you do so well,” he muttered.

  But Will could not make his hand move, could not make anything move. With an impatient sigh, Trevor grabbed Will’s hand that held the pen. “Come on then,” he said, breathing heavily, and pressed Will’s hand down onto the book.

  The pressure of Trevor’s hand on his snapped something in his feeble brain—Will remembered. Like a light breaking through the clouds, the pressure of his son’s hand on his brought it all back to him, everything. No. No, he would not sign, not of his own accord.

  But Trevor would make him, that he knew, as well as he knew how powerless he was to stop him. And as he helplessly sat there, his body given over to the effect of the drug, Trevor did exactly that.

  Finally, it was all beginning to make sense in his scrambled brain. The pieces began to fit together, forming an ugly picture. More pieces of the puzzle that was his memory came flooding back to him as Trevor forced his signature. And Will might have put them all together, then and there, were it not for the pain of his heart breaking.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  CALEB HAD A bad feeling as he and Sophie crested the hill above Hamilton House, and paused to look down at the estate. It was an almost eerie feeling of alarm…but then again, it could very well be the apprehension he had felt all day. All week, really.

  He looked at Sophie; she was leaning slightly forward, staring down the hill at the Hamilton mansion, her long hair tied at her nape, her bonnet on her back. It was amazing, he thought, that she seemed to look more robust every day of their extraordinary little journey. It pleased him enormously to know that this woman was no fragile flower of the ton, but a vibrant, thriving woman, very much alive, unafraid to live.

  She turned slightly, noticed he was looking at her, and smiled sadly. “I suppose this is it, then,” she said, shifting her gaze back to the house. “Where the dream ends?”

  He knew, of course, exactly what she meant. Although they had managed to leave it unspoken the last three days, the truth remained like the earth beneath them—silent and unmoving. Their secret had been a dream—and when they awoke from it, they would be forever changed, their lives possibly never returning to the magic that they had been.

  There were moments, perhaps, that Caleb regretted that for Sophie. As much as he liked to think differently, their dilemma was his doing, for he had started the wheels in motion with that first kiss.

  Yet as he gazed at Sophie’s slender neck, the golden glow of her skin, he was not sorry. This woman had walked into his life with her picnic basket and awakened him, shown him the sun and what had been missing from his life all these years. With Sophie had come the elusive wonder of love, the feeling of power and giddiness and contentment with all things and the world in general. Caleb had never known anything like the passion he felt for her. It seemed that for an eternity he had felt nothing but the sting of his birth, the need to prove himself, an all-consuming desire to show the world that he was worthy of esteem.

  Worthy of love.

  Sophie had made him understand he was worthy of it. He was eternally grateful for it, would go to his grave showing her just how grateful he was for it.

  He looked away from her; a lump rose to his throat. Give me but the chance, God.

  Although he fully intended to be with her until his dying day, the truth—and he would not say so to Sophie—was that he could not help feeling dubious about their future. There seemed so many obstacles!

  First and foremost, there was Julian Dane, the very powerful Earl of Kettering, with whom he would ultimately have to contend. Naturally, he had heard in great detail—Lady Paddington having seen to that—how Kettering had dispatched of William Stanwood. Kettering had power and influence that extended far beyond the realm of most mere mortals, and Caleb would be a liar if he did not admit to a palpable apprehension. Certainly he did not fear Kettering, quite the contrary. He wanted to speak to him, wanted to prove that he was worthy of Sophie’s affections, would strive to always be worthy. But he imagined he’d have a rather difficult time of convincing him, all in all—it was bad enough that he was a bastard, but to have been embroiled in such an ugly row with his half-brother and to have traveled across England with Sophie in such intimate companionship, well…He could only imagine what he might do in Kettering’s shoes.

  And there was the nagging question of where they would go, where they would live. England had seemed too small for them before this had happened. It seemed impossibly small now—their scandal might very well travel the length of the British Isles and back again. Surely it had already spread like fire all over Mayfair and Bedford Square.

  “What if they haven’t come? What will we do then?”

  The sound of Sophie’s voice pulled Caleb from his ruminations. He looked at her, wished he had a good answer for that question. “I don’t know,” he said, and looked down at the house again, wishing, like a thousand times before, that he was his father’s son in truth and in name. All of this would have been different then. He could have given her the life she deserved.

  How would he give her a life now?

  Caleb closed his eyes, drew a deep breath. The feeling of hopelessness invaded him again—too many forces stood in their way. Yet he could not help but think of the love they had made last night beneath the stars, the feel of her body under his, and he knew that he would climb to the moon for her if necessary. Strangely, as he sat there, he felt a draw that started somewhere near the bottom of his heart, the feeling of something blossoming warm and moist within him, and instinctively, without opening his eyes, he put out his hand, toward Sophie.

  Her hand met his in the space between them.
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  Caleb opened his eyes and looked at her. She smiled warmly, her pretty brown eyes shimmering with affection. “We will make our way,” she said simply. “We will.”

  It was uncanny, the force between them. Moved by it, Caleb could only nod and swallow the lump in his throat. “Let us go and have a look about,” he said gruffly, and brought her hand to his mouth, kissing it, pressing upon it all the devotion he felt.

  They rode onto the circular drive in the front of the house and Caleb remarked that it seemed odd no one was about.

  Sophie was obviously thinking the same thing. “At Kettering Hall, the staff would come running from all corners when Julian came home. They were always so happy to see him.”

  He wouldn’t know if that was the practice at Hamilton House—he had been put away in Scotland or France where there were no servants.

  Caleb slid down from his mount, then helped Sophie down and tethered the horses near the water trough. He rejoined her in the drive, pausing to glance up at the old mansion as she was. It was a formidable structure, built a century or more ago, he guessed. Gargoyles dominated the corners and the roof, as well as ghastly carvings of beasts and half-man, half-horse creatures.

  “Could it be deserted?” she asked in a half-whisper.

  “I can’t imagine why it would be.” His father had lived here for years; it was inconceivable that there was not at least some staff about. He took Sophie’s hand in his and together they mounted the steps. When they reached the top step, they stood for a moment, looking at the massive oak door, their gazes traveling higher, to the pair of angry gargoyles just overhead, their mouths pursed, as if they would spew venom at any moment.

  Sophie wrinkled her nose. “Not very inviting, is it?”

  He shook his head and stepped up to the door. Picking up the big brass handle, he banged loudly three times, then stepped down beside Sophie again. She moved slightly, into his side, and he put an arm around her shoulders, squeezed reassuringly. They stood for several seconds, staring at the door, waiting for someone to answer.

  “Rather odd,” Caleb remarked, and stepped up to knock again, but before he could lift the brass handle, the door came open.

  He recognized Darby immediately, though it had been several years since he had last seen him on one of his father’s trips abroad. The thin butler’s face was pale; his blue eyes quickly took them in before glancing nervously over his shoulder.

  “Darby, do you remember me? I am Caleb.”

  The butler’s mouth twitched. He glanced again over his shoulder. “Yes. Yes, of course, sir, I remember you. Unfortunately his lordship is indisposed—”

  “He is here, then?” Sophie asked anxiously.

  Darby seemed to recoil at the question. “I…he is indisposed.”

  His demeanor was awfully peculiar—the feeling that something was very wrong was growing stronger, and Caleb took a step closer, making sure his foot was over the threshold. “We’ve not come to cause any harm, sir, I can assure you. I would only see that my father is safe. He left London rather unexpectedly, and in the presence of—”

  “Darby! Who is at the door? Has the sheriff come?”

  The pitch of that male voice sounded almost hysterical, but Caleb would recognize it anywhere. Behind him, he heard Sophie’s sharp intake of breath—she knew that voice, too.

  “Darby!” he bellowed again, only louder, and Caleb stepped in front of Sophie as Trevor appeared in the door frame.

  Sophie gasped. Caleb wasn’t certain that he hadn’t, too. Trevor’s appearance was so shocking—he could not imagine what had happened to him. Although he was dressed in typical fashion—navy coat, plain waistcoat, and trousers—dark circles shadowed his eyes. A growth of beard that looked days old covered his jaw, and his hair, always so meticulously coifed, was in wild disarray. There was something else, too, Caleb noticed—something in his eyes, a strange, almost maniacal light.

  He had been drinking.

  Which would explain why he staggered so badly when he saw Caleb. The recognition seemed to take him aback; a look of panic washed over his sallow face, and he lurched forward, trying to reach the huge oak door. Darby, however, was in his way.

  Instinct replaced all rational thought—Caleb lunged forward, pushing the door aside with all his might, and, unfortunately, Darby. “Where is my father?” he demanded hotly.

  Trevor recoiled, looked wildly about him as if he were uncertain what to do. “Y-you have no right to be here!” he stammered. “Before you trespass another step, I should warn you that I have sent for the sheriff!”

  The bad feeling he had noticed the moment they crested the hill was raging now—something was terribly wrong; he could feel it in his marrow. “Where is he?” Caleb demanded again, moving forward.

  “Leave this place at once!” Trevor shouted, stumbling again with the force of his shrieking, and pitched awkwardly toward Caleb, his hands outstretched, as if he meant to grab his throat.

  But he missed badly, for he was distracted, like Caleb, by the sudden appearance of Madame Fortier. She emerged like a ghost from somewhere on Caleb’s right and flew across the foyer, her yellow-and-gray skirt disappearing into the corridor behind Trevor. He whirled, crashed into the wall in an attempt to catch her, but his hands came away empty. “No!” he screamed, and plunged after her.

  But Caleb was sober and much quicker on his feet. He pushed past Trevor and raced after Madame Fortier, saw her duck into a door at the end of the corridor. The bad feeling quickly gave way to a fierce panic. Mindless of everything but his father, Caleb ran, oblivious to Trevor’s labored breathing as he followed.

  He rushed into the room, coming to an abrupt halt the moment he crossed the threshold, unaware that the small, mournful cry was his own.

  In front of him, in a wheeled chair, sat his father. His head was on his chest, his hand curled unnaturally. Madame Fortier was beside him, clutching his good hand, peering intently at his face. “Mon Dieu! What has he done?” she cried softly. “Will,” she whispered urgently, shaking his gnarled hand. “Will, Will, do you see me here for you? Do your ears they hear me?”

  The viscount did not acknowledge her, did not even seem to know she was there. With a sob of grief, Madame Fortier buried her face in his lap. Stunned, Caleb watched as his father slowly lifted his gnarled hand, laid it awkwardly on her head.

  Oh God, dear God, how had this happened? How had he regressed so quickly and so terribly from a few short days ago?

  At that moment Trevor crashed into the room, knocking something made of glass across the table.

  The fury was suddenly pumping through him; Caleb whirled around and pierced his half-brother with a look of sheer contempt. “If you have harmed him in any way, I will kill you,” he said low.

  “How dare you accuse me! She kidnapped him from my house and you would accuse me of harming him? Get away from him!” Trevor snapped, and came striding forward, his eyes blazing. But Caleb intercepted him, grabbing his shoulders in a vise grip. It surprised him that Trevor’s struggle was so easy to quell—he seemed sapped of any strength, could hardly summon the might to fight him.

  “Get away from him!” he shouted over Caleb’s shoulder as Sophie ran into the room and quickly went to Madame Fortier’s side. “Do you see what she has done?” he breathed hotly. “Father has been without his medicine for days now! This is what she did to him!”

  Madame Fortier lifted her head; her blue eyes narrowed hatefully. “Bête!” she cried. “You take my Will from me!”

  “Shut up,” Trevor said harshly. “You’ve no right to come here! Any of you! But it’s rather fortuitous, all in all—the sheriff can take the lot of you!” he said, and shoved away from Caleb, stepping backward, making no attempt to pass him. “Obviously, you have conspired to take advantage of my father. I should have known, two whores—”

  That slur cut deeply through Caleb—he grabbed Trevor’s neckcloth, wrenched it tightly. “One more vile remark, sir, and I will twist until your head c
omes off,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

  His face turned red; Trevor struggled from Caleb’s grasp, slapped childishly at his hand until Caleb let go, then staggered backward, coughing. “Bloody bastard!” he said hoarsely. “He is none of your concern!”

  “The shérif, he will not come!” Honorine said hotly.

  A sneer of contempt spread across Trevor’s mouth. “Do you really think this bastard will save you?” he snarled. “Believe me, he will not. He is an imposter and will rot in prison alongside you, Madame Fornicate!”

  That earned him a string of profane French, which seemed to set Trevor back on his heels. Alarmed by how frail his father looked, Caleb strode across the room to him. Just days ago, the viscount was beginning to resemble what he had once been—strong, invincible. His hand shaking, Caleb smoothed his palm over his father’s crown and glanced hopelessly at Sophie, on her knees beside him, studying his face carefully. “I think he can hear me,” she said.

  “Sir!”

  The sound of Darby’s distraught voice caught all their attention—the man stood in the doorway of the salon, his neckcloth undone, his hair mussed, his eyes wide. “The sheriff is approaching Longman’s Gate…”

  Sheriff. The word rang loudly in Caleb’s consciousness; if he was at Longman’s Gate, it was only a matter of minutes before he would be here, at Hamilton House. They had to leave, had to get out of there straightaway.

  Trevor knew it, too. “Aha, at last!” he cried victoriously, and rushed out of the room.

  Caleb looked down at his father. As worried as he was for him, he had no doubt that whatever had happened to the viscount would be blamed on Madame Fortier and himself. The sheriff would have them all locked away before nightfall, Sophie too, if only for her association with the two of them. He could not help his father if he were locked away in some gaol, that was certain.

  They had to leave. Now. Caleb reached for Sophie and pulled her away. “Go. Run,” he told her. But Madame Fortier refused to go. She broke free of his grasp when he tried to raise her up and clung to his father. Caleb knelt beside her, put his hands on her shoulders. “We must go,” he said in French. “We will return again, I promise, but now we must flee, for they will certainly put you away, Madame Fortier. And you will not want to be locked away in an English gaol, I assure you.”