Historical Jewels

by Jewel, Carolyn

  Conversation from the parlor came faintly down the hall, but here they stood in private, or very nearly so. The servants weren’t likely to head this way, and the retiring rooms were in the other direction. He doubted anyone would see them here, alone and in such dim and intimate lighting. “Did she say something unkind?”

  “Unkind.” She sniffled, a sign of how close she’d been to tears. “How could she have been unkind? Deliberately, I mean. She did not know who I was.”

  “Should she have?”

  Her mouth worked, going from pressed thin, to parted, and back to closed. He did his best not to stare at her mouth, her full and perfect lips, the lower one just that much fuller than the upper. “Not long after you left Rider Hall the last time…” Another stuttering breath came from her, but softer than before. She tucked her hands behind her back, leaning on them, refusing to meet his gaze. So be it. Did he expect to be forgiven so easily? “Tommy came home.”

  He said nothing. She wore white muslin trimmed with dark blue satin. A row of tiny blue satin bows lined the neckline, some touching the pale skin of her bosom. Shadows gathered at the tucks that pulled her bodice to a tiny vee. In all the time he’d known her he’d never seen her in an evening gown. Never once with bare shoulders or with the upper curves of her breasts exposed. She was exquisite. And he would never hold her in his arms, with her body soft and pliant against him.

  “He said he’d come home to stay.” At last, she stopped staring at the ceiling and looked at him. His body reacted with a jolt of sexual anticipation. Misguided, hopeless, but there it was, coursing through him as if he were once more on the prowl. “He was tired of his life, he said, and he wanted me. He wanted to make a life with me.” She smiled, but the corners of her mouth too quickly turned down. She looked at the floor and tugged on one of her gloves, bringing the kidskin closer to the tender crook of her elbow.

  “I didn’t believe him,” she said. “Why should I have? You know what he was like. But he stayed at Rider Hall. He stayed home with me, and he was never once drunk. He didn’t ask me for money. Nor spend the night in town. I wanted so much to believe he meant it.” She bit her lower lip, and then slowly, sensuously, she smiled. He doubted she knew what she looked like with the dreamy uptilt at the corners of her mouth. “I was happy, Banallt. For the first time in…forever, it seemed, I was happy. He was the man I married, the man I fell in love with, and I fell in love with him all over again.”

  He let the silence stay between them. What the hell had Tommy Evans ever done to deserve such devotion?

  Her head leaned against the column. “We went to visit his parents. They had several guests at the house. Down from London. We weren’t going to stay long. Tommy and I had talked about going to Havenwood to see Papa and John. He knew how dreadfully I missed them.”

  Banallt kept his silence. If Tommy Evans had wanted to visit Sophie’s family, then it would only have been to borrow money after he showed off a young wife whom he pretended to adore and who obviously adored him.

  “But one afternoon I came home early from some outing with his mother. I don’t even remember now what it was we were doing. And I walked in on him with Mrs. Peters. In our room. Our bed.” A tear slipped off her lower lashes and headed down her cheek.

  Banallt’s heart dove to his feet. He saw and felt the image in his head. Sophie, believing she had her heart’s desire, that her husband loved her. Her hand on the door, seeing Tommy with another woman, their bodies locked together. He felt her heartbreak. Damn Tommy Evans to hell. Banallt wasn’t over her. No matter how often he told himself he was, he wasn’t. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d not be over her. “I am so sorry.”

  “He made me love him again, and what a fool I was.”

  He closed the distance between them and brushed the tear from her cheek. What was he supposed to say to her when he’d been more than a little responsible for the man’s many transgressions? “Sophie.”

  “Later, we argued terribly,” she said, unaware that more tears were spilling down her cheeks. “I said a great many unkind things.”

  “You were angry.” He was afraid she was going to break. She was trying mightily to control herself, but he knew she was at the edge. “And hurt.”

  “I refused to stay another night in that room. Where he’d been with that woman.” She looked up. “Her eyes were closed, you know. She mayn’t ever have seen me or known I came in. Perhaps Tommy never told her. I saw them, and right before I closed the door, Tommy…he looked right at me. And I could see in his eyes that he’d lied to me all along.”

  Banallt brushed a finger along her lower lip.

  “All I wanted was for my husband to love me. Just a little.”

  “Sophie…”

  “That night, he was killed. His mother knew we’d argued, though not why—I wouldn’t tell her that for the world—and she blamed me. If we hadn’t argued, he’d never have gone out.” She looked away. “Married couples argue all the time,” she said.

  “She was a mother, Sophie, who’d lost her son. She must have been mad with grief.”

  Her eyes met his, silently acknowledging his point. She reached for his hand, holding just his fingers in hers. “Yes, that’s so.” She sighed. “She blamed me that Tommy got drunk that night and stayed drunk all night and killed himself riding home.” She let out a breath. “If I hadn’t told him to get out, he probably would have stayed. So, in a way, she was right.” He watched tears pool in her eyes, and the sight tore at him. “Seeing Mrs. Peters brought it back. Even if he’d lived, he was never going to love me. I knew that, too, but I never cared. I never could believe it was so.”

  He pulled her into his arms, and the moment he felt her body against his he knew that he’d made a mistake touching her.

  “You knew,” she said into his shirt. “You knew all along he never loved me.”

  “Shh,” he crooned. He held her while she cried, her hands against his chest. He loved her still, and there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it. He would probably love her until the day he died, a pathetic, dried-up old man married to some worthy woman who would give him his heir and a spare and would never, ever be to him what Sophie was right now and forever.

  “I know Tommy’s to blame for what he did, I know that,” she said. “But I can’t forgive her, either. She was married. She knew he was married. She knew it was wrong of her.” He put his handkerchief in her hand. “I wish I’d never come here.” She lifted her tear-streaked face to his. “How many other women here tonight were Tommy’s lovers, too? Five? Ten? A dozen?” She crumpled his handkerchief. “I should hate him. Why do I miss him so terribly when I ought to despise him?”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders. His hands were bare, and his fingers splayed onto the skin exposed by her gown. “That’s quite enough out of you.”

  She reared back and stared wide-eyed at him.

  “Sophie Mercer Evans, you are better than her. Better than this. Go back in there. She can’t compare to you. She never will.”

  “I can’t.” She dissolved into tears again.

  He gave her to a mental count of five, and yes, the tears stopped, exactly as he knew they would. “I’ll fetch your brother,” he said. “He’ll take you home if that’s what you want.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  In the parlor, he dispatched a footman to have Mercer’s carriage brought around then found Mercer and took him aside. “I beg your pardon,” he said to Fidelia. “I need a word with Mr. Mercer.”

  “What is it, my lord?” he asked.

  “Your sister is…ill.” His hesitation was yet another mistake. One of many tonight. Mercer heard it and understood quite well that some other word must have been foremost in his mind. “I’ve called for your carriage.”

  Anger flickered in his eyes. “Bold of you, my lord.”

  He grabbed Mercer’s arm, hauling him farther from curious ears. “Whatever the cause, forget about Fidelia for five minutes and take your sis
ter home. She’s in no fit condition to be seen.”

  Mercer took a step toward him. “What have you done?” He only just kept his voice low. “If you’ve harmed her, Banallt—”

  He raised his hands. “I’ve not touched her, nor am I the cause of her distress. We barely spoke.”

  “Then what is the matter?”

  Banallt ought to have kept his tongue. He didn’t. “For God’s sake, man. One of Tommy’s mistresses is here, and Sophie, God help her, knows what the woman was to her husband. Why on earth she ever loved that man, let alone loves him still, I’ll never understand.”

  “I do,” Mercer said sharply.

  “Then I fail to comprehend why you continue to stand here instead of looking after your sister.” He ground out the words. “If you won’t take her home, I shall, and I won’t be responsible for the consequences of that.”

  “Stay away from Sophie,” Mercer said. “Stay well away or—”

  Banallt turned to see what had caught Mercer’s attention. Sophie had come into the room. She’d obviously washed her face and re-pinned her hair. The two of them waited while she made her way to them.

  “Is everything all right?” Mercer asked her with a hard glance at Banallt.

  “Yes.” She looked up at him grave as ever she was. “I decided you were right, my lord. I’m fine, John. Nothing’s the matter.”

  Banallt bowed and clamped his jaws shut. “Mrs. Evans. Mr. Mercer.”

  “My lord,” she said.

  Mercer glared at him.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Reginald Tallboys walking toward them. Good, he thought fiercely. Let her fall in love with a decent man like Tallboys. Hell, let her complete the spell she’d cast on Vedaelin. Either man would do. If she was married to someone else, he could leave her alone. “Good night,” he said.

  Chapter Eight

  Number 26 Henrietta Street, London,

  March 16, 1815

  Sophie dreamed of Banallt that night. She had dismissed him from her life, but he was haunting her anyway. Out of sheer spite, she thought. He never did like not having his way. In her dream, Tommy had only recently died. She was poor again and living at Rider Hall, wondering how she was going to survive. The bailiff had taken away all the furniture. Rider Hall was empty, with bare windows and empty fireplaces. In reality, the house had not been stripped quite so thoroughly, but she’d felt as empty as the structure was now in her dream.

  She dreamed she’d been left a single trunk in which there was nothing but a book she didn’t care for, and she needed to write Banallt a note, explaining where she’d gone and what had happened. But she had no pen or ink or paper. Everything was gone. And just as she was about to cry with frustration, Banallt walked through the door, bringing with him the recollection of his lingering glances and memories of their friendship. He handed her pen, ink, and paper, and they agreed she would move into the guard tower at Castle Darmead where she could write as much as she liked. Novel after novel, if she so desired. And because she was grateful, she kissed him. For a very long time because at last she could. The kiss became more. A hungry and needy embrace. She wasn’t married anymore. When they parted for air, with her trembling in his arms, he smiled and said, “Have I told you I’ve remarried? To Fidelia.”

  Long after she’d risen in the morning, images and emotions from the dream came at her. She didn’t need to write anymore, but the fact was the stories had never gone away. The difference was that now she kept them in her head rather than writing them down. As for Banallt marrying, he’d told her himself that he must. His title required it. Whoever Banallt decided to marry, she would always feel a little pang of regret, which was ridiculous. The Earl of Banallt would never be faithful.

  She sat at the desk in her room on Henrietta Street and remembered all the nights she’d stayed up to write when Tommy was alive. Words that supported her. All her life, she’d made up stories. When Tommy left her without funds, she’d done the only thing she could: write her stories down. She took out paper, but instead of dashing out the history of a knight determined to reclaim his birthright, she made out a list of items the house needed and that had not been fetched from Havenwood. Paper, for one.

  At half past one John came home. He burst into her room without a pause between knocking and his entry. She put down her pen. “What is it, John?”

  He grinned. “You’ll never guess who I’ve brought home with me!”

  His smile was always infectious, and she smiled back. “The Prince of Wales?”

  John tweaked the end of her nose. “No, Sophie. An admirer of yours.”

  “John.”

  “It’s Vedaelin.” He put a hand on the top of her desk and leaned over her. “Change your gown. He practically invited himself here when I told him you were home.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “The Duke of Vedaelin?”

  “He admires you, I tell you. Just think of it, Sophie!”

  “He’s a duke.”

  “Get dressed. Wear that green striped gown. It’s the best you’ve got, and the color flatters your eyes. He’s already got his heir, Sophie. He is free to marry for love, and last night at Cavendish Square…I promise you, I am not the only man to have remarked he was taken with you.”

  “He’s old enough to be my father, John. He’s not interested in me.”

  “He is, I tell you.” He tweaked her nose again. “Now get dressed.”

  She pushed her brother away. “Be gone.”

  “And do something with your hair.”

  “Very well, John.” She made a shooing gesture. “Go.”

  “Change your slippers, too.”

  “Go.” She called Flora and swapped her dress for her green striped afternoon frock, even remembering at the last minute to change her slippers and tie a green ribbon in her hair. Then she went below stairs and met with the cook before she proceeded to the parlor. What if John was right and the Duke of Vedaelin wanted to court her? She wasn’t sure what to think of that.

  A servant brought in tea and cakes purchased from the confectioner’s down the street and laid out the table. Sophie was glad to busy herself brewing tea. John’s words made her look at the duke differently, and she wasn’t best pleased with her brother because of it. She did find Vedaelin more than a little attractive, though. He didn’t look at all his age. He might easily pass for ten years younger. He was a sensible man. Levelheaded. A bit proud, but then he was a duke, after all.

  “I should like to add my thanks, Your Grace, to my brother’s, for securing us such a lovely house,” she said when she’d dropped sugar into his tea.

  “I’m pleased if you like it, Mrs. Evans.”

  “We like it very well, thank you.”

  “Mercer,” the duke said. “What plans have you to show your sister the sights?”

  “Sights?” John said.

  Sophie hurried to fill John’s puzzled silence. “We’ve only just arrived, Your Grace,” she said. “We’ve not had time to think of seeing anything.”

  “Have you not been to Bond Street yet?” Vedaelin smiled at them both. “If my memory is accurate, young women adore shopping.”

  “I’m most unnatural then,” Sophie said. She kept her cup and saucer perfectly balanced. “I find shopping tedious.”

  John polished off his second iced cake. “My sister is more likely to make the nearest subscription library her second home.”

  “Indeed?” the duke said. Sophie couldn’t tell if he approved of women who read or not. She’d not be able to write if she were married to him. The wife of a duke could never engage in something so undignified.

  “I’m sure you’ll be impressed with me,” she said, hiding her thoughts behind a sip of her tea. She smiled when she lowered her cup. “This morning, after you left, John, I walked as far as Oxford Street and admired the buildings along the way.” Henrietta Street backed onto Oxford Street, so she hadn’t been adventurous at all. “After having seen your home, Your Grace, I’m determined to learn some
thing of architecture. Your home is lovely.”

  “Thank you.” He looked pleased at that, and so did John. She was proud of herself for managing the change of subject so deftly.

  “Has there been further word of Napoleon?” she asked. The duke could not possibly care to hear of her reading habits, and if he was not the sort of man who cared for women who read, then it was best to avoid that subject. “Is it true Napoleon is in Paris already?”

  “Ah,” Vedaelin said. His cup clicked against his saucer. “You are a woman of intellect, Mrs. Evans.”

  Again, whether he thought that admirable or not Sophie could not guess. No matter how much John wanted it, she wouldn’t pretend she was an empty-headed female without a serious thought in her mind. Really, there was no reason at all to think the duke was being anything but polite to her. “Napoleon’s whereabouts and his intentions are on everyone’s mind, Your Grace. Like everyone else, I wonder if we are to go to war again.”

  “Yes,” John answered. “We must.”

  “Such a disagreeable subject,” Vedaelin said, “when the company is so very charming.”

  Sophie kept still. John’s guests at Havenwood had always been political, and he’d never objected when she voiced an opinion or showed an interest in the subject. The duke had just reminded her that not all households welcomed the female point of view. “Do you think we women don’t worry of such things?” she asked. “It is our sons and husbands”—she looked at John—“and our brothers who will go off to fight, after all. If there is war, not all of them will return.”

  “Sophie isn’t like most women, Your Grace.” John leaned over the tray of cakes and took two more. It’s a wonder he wasn’t fat. He wasn’t at all, though. “She never has been, I’m afraid. Even as a girl, she was—” He caught himself. Sophie was certain he’d been about to call her odd. “—unique among girls.”

  The duke looked at her over his cup, fingers poised to lift. “That is abundantly plain. Tell me, Mrs. Evans, do you never wish a moment’s respite from the worry?”