Julia London 4 Book Bundle

by The Rogues of Regent Street

  “Claudia! What are you doing!” she shrieked as Claudia reached for her dressing gown.

  “He did that to you, didn’t he?” she demanded, her voice shrill with fear.

  Sophie’s face went ghostly white; she clutched at the thin dressing gown and wrapped it tightly around her.

  A silent scream of terror and remorse lifted from her heart to God, and Claudia lashed out at Sophie’s hands, pulling them off the dressing gown. Shrieking, Sophie tried to fight her, but Claudia was too determined—she had to know, had to see it with her own eyes, know the full extent of Stanwood’s depravity. When at last she freed Sophie’s hands and yanked the dressing gown open, she stepped back in horror, covering her mouth with a badly trembling hand.

  There were bruises everywhere—up and down her ribs, in varying shades of purple and yellow and green. On the underside of her breast, across her abdomen. The clear mark of fingers on the inside of her thighs. Sophie stood rigidly, her head bowed meekly as Claudia gaped at her with tears spilling from her eyes. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Sophie …”

  Sophie carefully pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, then slowly wrapped the ends of the dressing gown around her before calmly tying the sash. “He is very careful to hit me where no one can see,” she murmured. “Except for my maid Stella, that is, but he has threatened her life should anyone find out.”

  Sophie had to leave. At once, without delay. All the bloody consequences in the world be damned, Sophie had to leave this house at once. “You must leave here,” Claudia said quietly.

  “No!” Sophie responded sharply. “I cannot leave! What respectability my family has left will be destroyed if I—”

  “You cannot stay here!” Claudia cried, gesturing wildly at her body. “The next time he may very well kill you, Sophie!”

  Sophie laughed, a strange, high-pitched laugh that pierced Claudia’s heart. “He won’t kill me! He needs me! Without me, he hasn’t any income!” she shouted hysterically, and whirled toward the wall, banging her fists against the paneling. “Christ God, what a fool I am!”

  Frightened, Claudia lurched forward, wrapping her arms around Sophie and pressing her cheek to her hair. “You must leave him! You have grounds for divorce, don’t you see? Extreme cruelty—”

  “And who will file on my behalf? Julian? No, he won’t do it. Firstly, because I will kill you if you ever tell him! And … and secondly, he won’t risk all that he has to the scandal! Even if he did, Claudia, there’s no guarantee that I would be granted a divorce! William could fight it … he could stop it from happening! Julian knows that!”

  Claudia didn’t know if that was true or not, and she was too frantic to care. “I don’t know what he’ll do, but I do know that this … this violence will not improve with time. I fear for your life, Sophie! You must go from here!”

  Choking on a desolate sob, Sophie slapped at Claudia’s hands until she let go and twisted out of her embrace. “Even if the family could withstand the scandal, just where do you think I would go, Claudia? If I go to Julian, William will call him out, and I cannot bear that! Tell me, where in God’s name would I go?” she cried helplessly, and covered her face with her hands.

  “I know a place,” Claudia breathlessly answered. “I know a place where you will be safe, a place he will never find you. Never!”

  Sophie lowered her hands. “What place? What place could you possibly know besides your father’s house or Kettering Hall?”

  “It is a place,” she frantically continued, “where women can be safe. A place for women just like you, Sophie. No one knows of it, and it is nowhere near here. He can’t find you there, I swear it! Come on, then, gather your things. We can go today!”

  Sophie gaped at her. A whirlwind of emotions clouded her eyes—despair, disbelief, hope—after a moment, she shook her head and looked furtively at the door. “No, not today. He’ll return soon, and he’ll know it was you who helped me.”

  In great frustration, Claudia threw her hands up. “Can you not see the bruises on your body? Are you not the least afraid of what he is capable of doing?”

  “I know exactly what he is capable of doing, believe me,” Sophie answered low, and a chill coursed Claudia’s spine. “Tomorrow. He is attending the market fair in Huntley and will be gone overnight.”

  “A market fair?” Claudia asked, confused.

  Sophie frowned, flicking her wrist in a show of disgust. “Racing. He has lost quite a lot of Julian’s money recently, and he thinks to make it up with a few wagers.”

  “All right. Tomorrow, then. Julian will help us—”

  “No!” Sophie shrieked. “You can’t tell him! You must swear you will not tell him!”

  “He must know where you are, Sophie! I cannot keep this from him!”

  “If you tell him, I will not go! I would die before I let him see my shame, Claudia! I would take my own life first!” she cried hysterically.

  Claudia frantically thought what to do. She could not keep something like this from her husband—Sophie’s own brother! But then, she could sense Sophie’s deep shame, unfounded though it was. “All right, all right!” she conceded, “I won’t tell him now. But he will be frantic with worry when he discovers you are gone!”

  “He won’t come until Saturday. He won’t know for two days,” Sophie said, her eyes beseeching Claudia. She told herself to calm down, told herself that the most important thing was to remove Sophie from harm. As for Julian—God, she couldn’t keep this from him! But she couldn’t think now, and for the moment, Sophie had her word.

  When she was certain Sophie was safe, then she would figure out how to tell Julian.

  Twenty-Two

  ONE OF THE most difficult things Claudia had ever done—ranking right up there with facing Julian after Sophie’s elopement—was to keep the latest news of Sophie from him. Throughout supper and well into the late evening hours her mind warred with it. Every time she looked at him, she felt the crush of guilt and uncertainty. In the drawing room, she sat staring blindly at the pages of a book in her lap, preoccupied to such a degree that Julian actually asked if something was wrong. That startled her; she turned her head to look at him, unsure if he had actually inquired after her.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked.

  Miracle of miracles, a faint smile turned the corners of his mouth up. “I asked if you were quite all right. This is usually the point in the evening when you try and impress upon me how very pleased you are to have made my acquaintance. As you have not offered any evidence of it tonight, I cannot help but wonder if you are perhaps unwell.”

  Good God, he was jesting with her! Stunned, Claudia shook her head. “I beg your pardon, sir. I never meant to imply I was that pleased to have made your acquaintance.”

  Julian chuckled softly at her quip. His eyes quickly flicked the length of her before he returned his attention to the manuscript he was reviewing. A faint yearning swept her as she shifted her gaze to the book again, but she pushed it aside, spending the next several moments anxiously reviewing the escape plan she and Sophie had devised. Stanwood planned to leave midday on the morrow. Claudia would meet Sophie and her maid, Stella, at the corner of Park Lane and Oxford Street, where they could easily slip into an unmarked hack, unnoticed.

  “All right, what are you thinking? You look positively frightening with your face all scrunched up like that.”

  Startled again, Claudia’s gaze flew to Julian. “Scrunched up?”

  He smiled. “You seem lost in thought.”

  “Ah,” she said, confused by his companionable demeanor. “Well, yes. Yes, I was thinking. About Sophie. I called on her today.” The pleasant atmosphere between them suddenly dissipated, and Claudia regretted her words at once.

  Frowning, Julian glanced at his manuscript. “Oh? And how did you find her?”

  Having already trod upon forbidden ground, she had nothing to lose now. “Wretchedly unhappy,” she said softly.

  Julian’s frown deepened; he removed his eyegl
asses, and closing his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. “Yes, well, unfortunately, that is her own doing.”

  “There must be something we can do,” Claudia continued carefully. “Surely there must be grounds for a separation of some sort.”

  Julian gave her a piercing look. “You know as well as I that their union is impossible to dissolve if Stanwood is unwilling.”

  “But he is cruel to her. He corrects her constantly and keeps her confined in that house.”

  “All rights afforded to him by the law!” Julian responded sharply, growing visibly angry.

  Deep breaths, she reminded herself. “She could sue for divorce. It’s been done before.”

  “On what grounds?” He came abruptly out of his chair, stalked to the hearth. “Insanity? Impotence?

  Sodomy?” Claudia gasped, but Julian continued, “Do you honestly think I haven’t considered it before now? There is no reason! She chose him! She cannot unchoose him because she has discovered they do not suit, and I, for one, hardly know if that is true! Perhaps she has confided in you, Claudia, but she tells me very little other than she is getting along swimmingly.”

  The raw anger unnerved her, and gripping the arms of the chair in which she sat to keep from shaking like a coward, Claudia stubbornly continued. “There is cruelty. She could sue on the grounds of cruelty.”

  Julian suddenly braced his arms against the mantel and dropped his head between his shoulders. “Do you even know what that means?” he asked hoarsely. “It would require evidence of physical violence to her person. I’ll grant you that Stanwood is a cur, but there is no evidence he hits her. And if he does, there is no evidence that it is any more than routine discipline.”

  “Routine discipline?” she gasped, wildly affronted by the implication it was all right to beat a wife into submission.

  With a groan, Julian tossed his head back and stared at the ceiling. “I do not condone it, Claudia! It is an ugly truth, but hitting one’s wife does not constitute violence in the eyes of the law!”

  Dear God, if only she could tell him the truth. Claudia bowed her head, struggling to keep Sophie’s confidence, remembering her frantic promise to her. When she lifted her head, she flinched—Julian was staring hard at her, trying to read her thoughts. “There is no evidence of violence … is there, Claudia?” he asked quietly.

  A million thoughts crowded her mind. “No.” Dear God, how easily the lie rolled off her tongue. She instantly dropped her gaze to the arm of the chair, fidgeting with the embroidery of the upholstery. “But if there were, would you do it? I mean, would you help her to seek a divorce?”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Julian moved restlessly to the window. “Divorce,” he said simply, as if testing the word in his mouth.

  “Is it the scandal that gives you pause?” she anxiously interjected—too anxiously—he shot her a curious glance over his shoulder.

  “I would not welcome scandal, by any means,” he said. “My father’s good name has withstood enough in the last six months. Have you any idea what would befall Sophie if she sought divorce? Even if she had legal reason to seek it, her life would be ruined. No gentleman would have her—no gentleman. She would be forced to live tucked away in my house like a diseased relative. No children. No friends to speak of, as no lady would consort with a divorcée. She would not be able to go out into society a’tall. What sort of life is that?”

  “A far cry better than what she has now,” Claudia muttered.

  “God help her, then, Claudia,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “God help us all, because that girl knew what she was doing the moment she rode off with him. She made her choice, good or bad, and now she must live with the consequence.” With that, he moved restlessly to the door. “I’ve some work to do,” he mumbled, and quit the room before she could say more.

  But his words remained with her. Staring into the flames of the fire, unseeing, Claudia struggled with her decision. He would not help Sophie; he had resigned himself to her fate, perhaps thought she was getting what she deserved for her impetuosity. It was galling that if Sophie had been a young man and made this very same mistake, everything would be different. The whole ugly matter would be neatly resolved with separate houses and perhaps the occasional joint appearance at holidays for the sake of propriety. But as a woman, she would give her life for it, and there was nothing in between. The world would not forgive Sophie Dane her mistake.

  William was irate.

  Sophie watched him from beneath half-closed lids as he ranted about the missing purse and the forty pounds that were in it. Forty pounds that he would lose at the horse races on the morrow. “I haven’t time to go to the bank now!” he shouted at her. “The mail coach departs at one o’clock!”

  “You had best hurry along, then,” Sophie suggested.

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” he snapped. “What of that maid of yours? Where was she last evening?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “She had a free day, my lord. Her mother is quite ill, and she was caring for her,” she lied.

  “The kitchen boy, then. He looks like a little thief!”

  “I think you have simply misplaced it—”

  William spun around, his hand lashing out and catching her squarely in the jaw. The impact of the blow knocked Sophie backward and crashing into a wardrobe. “Do not speak to me as if I am stupid!”

  Unable to speak, Sophie slowly raised her hand to the burning pain in her jaw. The darkness suddenly faded from William’s face and he reached for her. Frightened, she flailed her arms at him, but as usual, she was helpless against him—he pinned her arms to her sides in a tight embrace. After several moments, he raised a trembling hand to her face and gingerly touched the spot where he had struck her. “I’m sorry, darling, I’m so sorry,” he pleaded. “But I’m under quite a lot of pressure—you know that! Why do you say things to upset me?”

  She merely shook her head.

  “God, does it hurt terribly?” he asked softly, wincing sympathetically. He gently pressed his lips to the swelling. “It won’t leave a mark, I am certain of it.” He smiled tenderly, brushed her hair from her forehead, then kissed her. “I’d best be along now if I’m to make the bank and that coach.” He walked over to the bed and picked up his coat. “Mind you, look very hard for that purse,” he said amicably. “I’ll want to know you have found the culprit when I return Saturday.”

  Swallowing past the nausea in her throat, Sophie asked, “You’ll not return until Saturday, then?”

  William stopped mid-way to the door and looked heavenward with a weary sigh. “I’ve asked you not to henpeck me, Sophie! I’ll be home when I have finished my business. Perhaps Saturday. Perhaps later.” He extended his hand, gestured her to him. Somehow, Sophie made her legs move, made herself go to him and stand still as he kissed her. “Take care, my dear,” he said, and walked out the door, as if it was perfectly natural to strike one’s wife, then trot off to the races.

  She stood in the middle of his room for what seemed an eternity, unmoving, straining for any sound to suggest he might be returning. When she was at last convinced he had gone, she walked to his wardrobe, rummaged among his many new coats, and pulled his purse from the pocket in which she had hidden it. She opened it, checked to make sure the forty pounds were still there. Forty pounds. In a matter of hours, that would be her entire fortune.

  The escape was much easier than Claudia had imagined. It was quite cold and wintry, but Sophie and Stella appeared at the appointed time, looking for all the world as if they were out for a casual stroll. Claudia instantly found a hack and the three women climbed inside, feeling as nervous as if they were stealing the crown jewels.

  By the time they reached the house on Upper Moreland Street, their respective nerves were frayed to the very ends. Each time the hack shuddered to a halt because of heavy traffic, they flattened themselves against the grimy squabs, fearing that someone might recognize them. That seemed highly unlikely t
he farther from Mayfair they rode, but Stella frequently imagined she saw someone she knew through the dingy window, and their hearts would pound mercilessly all over again.

  At Upper Moreland Street, Claudia gave the driver a gold crown for his excellent driving and another to wait for her, which he happily agreed to do. As they climbed out of the hack, Doreen appeared on the stoop, her hands planted firmly on her hips, stoically watching as Sophie and Stella trudged up the steps with the two small bags they had dared to take away. She took one look at Sophie and shook her head. “Poor dear. You’ll be wanting some tea,” she said, motioning them inside. Sophie hesitated and looked over her shoulder at Claudia, her eyes full of trepidation. Claudia understood—they were in a part of town Sophie had never seen before, one of decidedly lower class than that to which she was accustomed. And in spite of having a heart as large as the moon, Doreen’s stern demeanor hardly instilled a sense of warmth in strangers. Claudia tried to assure Sophie with a nod—which apparently worked for the moment, because Sophie very cautiously crossed the threshold.

  Inside, a woman took Sophie and Stella’s cloaks, then ushered them into the parlor with cheerful chatter, insisting that they warm up by the fire. As the woman helped Stella drag another chair to the hearth, Sophie leaned toward Claudia and whispered, “What is this place?”

  Doreen overheard her and flashed one of her rare smiles as she patted Sophie’s arm. “Let’s have us a tea. We’ll have us a tea we will, and then we’ll talk all night if you like.” With a furtive look at Claudia, Sophie nodded uncertainly, and took a seat in the chair nearest the small fire. It was then that Claudia saw the bruise on her jaw.

  Astonished that she had not noticed it before now—the ribbon of her bonnet had covered it, she supposed—Claudia tried very hard not to stare at Sophie. It was a new mark, one that Stanwood had put there sometime between her call yesterday afternoon and their escape. It made Claudia’s stomach churn with revulsion; she could not conceive of the beast that would beat someone so much smaller than he. He was a coward, a bloody coward, and as she tried to put Sophie at ease by pointing out interesting things—some children’s watercolors, the women’s needlework scattered on pillows about the room, the piecework piled next to Doreen’s rocking chair—she wished someone bigger and stronger than Stanwood would beat him into submission.