“Um … an old friend. Please excuse me, I’ve a terrible headache,” she lied, and pushed past, unable to look her old governess in the eye.
“Lady Sophie!” Miss Brillhart called after her, but Sophie was already sprinting down the corridor. In her rooms, she grabbed a small bag and stuffed two gowns into it, a cotton night shift, and two pairs of drawers. Frantic, she glanced around the room. What did one take when one eloped? There was no time for it! Miss Brillhart appeared in the doorway, her chest heaving with the exertion of having run up two flights of stairs. “My lady, please!” she rasped. “What are you doing?”
Wild with excitement, Sophie shoved Miss Brillhart aside and ran. In the foyer, she paused only long enough to grab a cloak and throw it about her shoulders.
“My lady!” Miss Brillhart shrieked.
With a start, Sophie whirled around, clutching her valise in both hands.
Flanked by two footmen, Miss Brillhart held her hands out to Sophie. “My lady, think of what you are doing!” she begged, taking one tentative step. “Think of the shame you will bring to your brother’s good name! You can’t do this!”
“I can do this!” Sophie shouted, feeling strangely victorious. “I will follow my heart and not his convention! Love will prevail, Miss Brillhart!” The housekeeper made a sudden move, and in a moment of terror, Sophie threw the valise at her as she whirled and dashed through the door. William was mounted and waiting for her; he yanked her up behind him and sent the horse galloping down the drive. Clinging tightly to him, Sophie glanced over her shoulder to see a handful of bewildered servants and a very pale Miss Brillhart watching them flee.
In London, the rash was festering in Julian, slowly destroying him. He stared blindly at the document in front of him, unable to read it. Claudia had rent him in two, cruelly dividing him between betrayal and longing. Part of him hated her for misjudging him so completely and without cause. Another part despised her for making him mad with desire every time he looked at her. But there wasn’t any part of him that could forget what she had done to Sophie—it was the final blow to his battered heart.
He had sworn to his dying father that he would keep the girls safe, and having failed miserably with Valerie, he’d be damned if he would fail with Sophie. Claudia had betrayed him in the most heinous way imaginable by trespassing onto ground she had no right to enter. Her meddling had forced him to take drastic measures he had not wanted to take, and for all he knew, thanks to her, Sophie’s reputation was already in tatters.
It was not something he could easily forgive.
This marriage, he thought bitterly, had come to an inevitable end. It was only a question of how.
When Tinley showed a bedraggled footman from Kettering Hall into his library, Julian could see that he had ridden like a desperate man and immediately expected the worst—she was dead, just like Valerie and Phillip. Somehow, he forced himself to take the note from the footman. Somehow, he calmly retrieved his spectacles from his coat pocket, and carefully placed them on the bridge of his nose before he opened the note. A crumpled piece of paper fluttered to the floor but he ignored it, scanning Miss Brillhart’s neat handwriting. He did not hear Claudia come in, heard nothing but the rush of blood in his head.
She might as well be dead.
He stooped to pick up the piece of paper that had fallen and recognized Claudia’s handwriting.
“Dear God, what is it?”
Slowly, Julian lifted his head and turned to look at her angelic face. The note was the thing that would at last drive him into the den of madness, consume his soul … break his heart. It was far worse than he could have imagined, the absolute living death of his sweet, sweet Sophie. Never, not once, had he believed she would do this.
He extended his arm, both of the damning notes in his hand. Claudia’s eyes, shimmering with fear, flicked to the notes, then back to him. When he made no move, she slowly came forward and took the papers from him. Impassive, he watched her read them, watched her hand press against her abdomen as she looked at the note penned in her own hand, and the other—still clutching Miss Brillhart’s note—cover her mouth and her silent scream.
He turned away and strolled to the window, looked out over St. James Square. He had failed Sophie, miserably and irrevocably. By law, she probably already belonged to Stanwood, and there was nothing he could do for her. Nothing. Never in his life had he felt so bloody powerless or alone. And while he stood gazing thoughtfully out the window, the discomfort quietly began to choke the life from him. Let it.
It was Claudia’s sobs that filtered through his consciousness; he turned to look at her standing in the middle of the room, crying silently into her hand. And he calmly walked out of the library, away from the sound of her guilt.
Nineteen
JULIAN WENT IN search of Sophie, ignoring Victor and Louis’s advice against it and their warnings that it was too late. He returned to London more than a week after he left, arriving at sunset. The family was waiting for him, gathered in the gold salon as they had done every night since receiving the news of Sophie’s elopement. Claudia hardly noticed them—she had been too consumed with guilt and frantic with worry for Julian. Never had she seen a man look so haunted or despondent as he had when he left.
When the footman opened the door to the salon to give Julian entry, everyone came anxiously to their feet. Only Tinley seemed not to notice, doing something at the sideboard that obviously fascinated him far more than his master’s arrival. Behind them all, Claudia rose slowly from her seat at the writing table.
Julian strolled into the room, loosening his neckcloth. His gaze swept over them all, passing her as if she did not exist. His nieces, oblivious to the tension in the room, jumped from the settee and rushed forward to greet him.
“Jeannine, my love, what a beautiful frock!” he exclaimed, picking her up to place a kiss on her cheek.
“Mine is new, too!” complained Dierdre.
“And how terribly elegant you look!” he said, as if he had just come down for supper, and lifted Dierdre for a kiss. He put the girl down, absently ran his hand over the crowns of their heads. “I did not find her,” he announced flatly, and looked up at his sisters. Claudia’s heart sank; wordlessly, she lowered herself onto her chair and looked to the window. God, how the guilt gnawed at her.
“Julian,” Louis said quietly. “Sophie is in London. Stanwood sent word, requesting an audience on the morrow.”
A glimmer of hope scudded across Julian’s rugged face. “They are in London? Are they—”
“Oui,” Louis quickly answered, knowing full well what he was about to ask.
For a moment, Julian looked almost nauseated, but quickly turned away from them. “Then it is over. There is nothing we can do.”
“No, nothing,” Victor muttered.
He moved to the sideboard, his shoulders stooped with fatigue as if he carried some enormous burden. “A whiskey, Tinley,” he said tightly, “and a strong one at that.” He glanced over his shoulder at Louis. “Did he say where in London?” he asked, his voice biting.
“Non, rien.”
“Of course not,” he muttered angrily. “The bastard knows too well that I would come for him if only I knew where!” His jaw clenched, and he jerked his head toward Tinley, who had made no move to pour him a drink. “A bloody whiskey, Tinley! Can’t your addled brain comprehend even that?” he bellowed.
Claudia gasped softly; the girls stopped fidgeting and looked at their uncle in horror. “Julian!” Eugenie whispered anxiously, but Tinley merely looked at him. “It can, my lord,” he said indifferently, and reached for the decanter.
“My apologies, old chap,” Julian muttered, and stalked away from the sideboard, inadvertently catching Claudia’s gaze. His black eyes suddenly riveted on her, the hatred in them boring a hole right through her. He abruptly looked away, falling gracelessly into an armchair, his legs sprawled in front of him. Tinley appeared at his side, offering the whiskey on a small silver tray. Ju
lian took the little glass and tossed the contents down his throat. “Again,” he said hoarsely, handing the glass to Tinley.
As the butler shuffled away, Julian motioned for them all to be seated. “I looked everywhere, in every village between Kettering and Scotland, it seems.”
“Oh, Julian,” said Eugenie, “you mustn’t blame yourself. It was Sophie’s doing.”
He sliced an impatient glance across his sister before shifting his gaze to Claudia. “I don’t blame myself,” he said meaningfully.
Oh no, he blamed her, and she deserved his disdain.
“We had no idea she was so headstrong—she was always so very shy!” Ann exclaimed helplessly.
“She is not headstrong, she lacks confidence. When one lacks confidence, one is easy to exploit,” Julian corrected her.
“What will you do?” Louis asked.
Julian snorted, rubbed the back of his neck. “What the hell can I do? Once she took her vows and signed the betrothal papers, she became his. I rather doubt an annulment can be obtained now”—he paused to bestow an impatient frown on Eugenie for her demure gasp—“I know of no other course open to me.”
“Divorce,” Claudia mumbled, and blanched, shocked that she had actually said it aloud.
Eugenie closed her eyes; Ann sucked in a sharp breath and whipped around to her. “Absolutely not!” she exclaimed heatedly. “She is already ruined by this scandal, and we cannot allow the rest of us to be ruined along with her! Divorce is out of the question!”
“Yes, out of the question,” Eugenie echoed, rubbing her fingers into her temples. “It would scandalize the Kettering name across all of Britain! Besides, Sophie has no grounds for it. She must prove cruelty or insanity or something equally ridiculous.”
Frustrated, Claudia looked to Julian. He glared at her as he took the second whiskey Tinley brought and nodded the butler’s dismissal.
“You can refuse to dower her,” Victor suggested.
Julian nodded. “I will not dower her. But as you and Louis know, Victor, my father’s will provides the girls an annuity. Sophie’s annuity begins on her twenty-first birthday. In a matter of days, Stanwood will have it. And I am loath to fight it, even if I could. The scoundrel is penniless, and that annuity is the only means he will have of providing for her.”
A silence descended over the room, save for the two little girls squirming restlessly on the settee. Louis stood up. “Then there is no more to be said today. Come, chérie, we take our leave,” he said, gesturing to Eugenie. “We shall meet this blackguard on the morrow.”
Eugenie rose obediently, ushering her daughters along ahead of her. Ann and Victor followed suit. Julian made no move to stop them. Eugenie paused to place her hand on his shoulder. “I am so sorry, Julian, but you must know that you couldn’t have done anything to prevent this from happening.”
He shrugged indifferently and sipped at his whiskey. Claudia’s heart went out to him—he looked so tired, so ill. She could almost feel his agony emanating from him, radiating to everything around him. Ann leaned down to kiss the stubble on his cheek, and Victor murmured something Claudia could not hear. “See them out, Tinley,” he said wearily, and tossed back the last bit of whiskey as the door shut behind them.
They were alone.
Julian refused to look at her, and Claudia felt as loathsome as she ever had in her life. After a moment he came to his feet and walked across the room to pour yet another whiskey to the rim of the glass. He calmly returned to his seat, took a large sip of the liquid, and with a heavy sigh, leaned his head against the chair and closed his eyes.
It seemed to Claudia that hours passed as she watched him, feeling invisible, before she finally spoke in a voice cracking with tension. “How far did you travel?”
He slowly opened his eyes and stared at the whiskey in his glass. “To Lancaster.”
“I’m sorry you had to go so far,” she murmured, nervously fingering the small gold cross around her neck.
He glanced at her then, his gaze cold and hard. “I would have ridden to the ends of the earth if I could have stopped her,” he said sharply, and turned away again, as if she disgusted him. He was angry, that much was clear. But there was more, she thought as he closed his eyes once more. There was devastation.
She could see it in the weary lines around his eyes, the clench of his fist against his thigh. She had seen him look this way once before, long ago, when Valerie had died. Despite his fury with her, Claudia could not help feeling an overwhelming anguish for him, a deep, heartfelt sorrow.
That sorrow moved her to stand and walk to where he sat and kneel by his knee. His eyes remained closed, but he winced slightly when her hand glided over his and turned it over. When she pressed her lips very softly against his palm, he flinched, opened his eyes, and gazed down at her as she pressed her cheek into his palm. A lone tear slipped from the corner of her eye, coursed softly down her face—and Julian pulled his hand away from her cheek. He turned away, drank from his glass. “Your sympathy is touching, Claudia,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But you are too late with it.”
No, she wasn’t too late, she could not be too late! “Julian,” she whispered faintly, words failing her, “I am so sorry. I am so very sorry for what has happened.” Another tear slipped from her eye—her words sounded so empty, so inadequate, and she all at once felt very fragile, as if she was on the verge of shattering.
“If you want to help me, Claudia, you will leave me be,” he said impassively, and stood, his knee brushing her shoulder as he stepped away. “I’ve much greater things to contend with at the moment than your sudden attack of conscience.”
That remark stabbed at her heart. “Please, Julian, don’t do this. Let me help you!” she insisted.
Julian responded by walking out the door without looking back.
The family gathered beneath a pall of gloom the next afternoon, not unlike the one that had settled over Kettering Hall five years ago with Valerie’s death. The similarities between the two somber occasions were not lost on Julian, God, no—he felt both catastrophes keenly, felt the same burning pressure in his head. He anxiously rubbed the nape of his neck as he stood beneath a portrait of his father, staring up at dark eyes that mirrored his own and wondering if the old man somehow knew what a mess Julian had made of things.
It was that which he was contemplating when he heard Claudia join him. He knew it was her by the familiar sound of her footfall, but he did not look up, sparing himself the humiliation of seeing the pity in her eyes again, as he had when she had knelt beside him last evening. Fortunately, she did not beg him sweetly to let her help as she had then. In fact, Julian had no idea what she did—he did not turn around and she remained silent until Louis and Eugenie joined them a few minutes later. When he finally turned to face the room, Eugenie was with Claudia on the settee, their dark heads bowed together as they whispered fervently to one another.
“I accompanied Boxworth to White’s last evening,” Louis remarked quietly, stirring Julian from his brooding. “Unfortunately, this scandal goes very rapidly among your society, mon ami. You should distance yourself before it ruins your name.”
Julian slowly turned his head to look at Louis. The Frog steadily returned his gaze; he was quite serious. Hardly surprising—any self-respecting man in Julian’s position would disown Sophie, and frankly, that thought had certainly crossed his mind. Not because the ton would expect it of him, although God knew they would—a woman did not defy authority and propriety in such an appalling manner without risking complete censure. But Julian didn’t give a damn what the ton thought. It was just that there were times, like now, that he wanted Sophie gone, because he was quite certain he could not bear to ever look at her again. He was that angry with her—violently angry with her. “You are not me, Renault,” he responded with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Thank God for this small favor,” the Frog muttered, and strolled away.
Frowning, Julian swung his gaze to his father’s
portrait again. His limbs felt like lead, his mind churned with anger and desperation and, yes, even humiliation. It had been many years, decades even … perhaps never … that a person had trumped him so greatly. Particularly one of Stanwood’s ilk.
When Victor and Ann arrived a few moments later, Julian noticed Ann had been crying. She muttered some apology, blaming it on her condition. Julian despised her tears all the same, felt himself sinking under the weight of them as Ann stared morosely at the floor, Victor behind her with a comforting hand on her shoulder.
They waited.
Restless, Julian looked at the door, the window casements, his father’s portrait—anywhere but at Ann or Eugenie. Hell, he was hardly able to look himself in the eye, much less his sisters. What sort of man did they think their brother now? He hated all of them for looking at him as if they expected him to fall to pieces, shatter into a million fragments, explode with remorse and frustration and the overwhelming sense of powerlessness.
But not as badly as he hated himself for teetering on the brink of doing just that.
As the clock struck three, his heart began to slip in his chest, sliding down to his gut. At a quarter past, he impatiently stalked to the window, peering out across St. James Square, half expecting to see Stanwood down there, surrounded by those who would welcome this scandal, laughing at him.
The unexpected, gentle pressure of a hand on his arm startled him so badly that he almost came out of his skin.
Julian jerked around, sliced a scathing look across Claudia. She instantly removed her hand from his arm. “Tinley,” she murmured.
He looked up; the butler was not two feet away, bowing crookedly like an old circus performer. “Lady Sophie has come home, my lord.”
God help him, he would squeeze the bloody life from someone. With a quick glance at the others, Julian nodded curtly. “Show them in.” He was suddenly aware of Claudia again, at his side. She was too close to him, too close, her presence suffocating. He moved abruptly to the middle of the room, braced his legs apart, and clasped his hands tightly behind his back. God give me strength …
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