But she could not stay away, and she finally crept back to the pond like a sinner returned to God, taking care to arrange herself just so in a way that she wouldn’t appear to be looking. She thought herself quite clever.
So it was the worst sort of panic that swept through her early one bright afternoon when the foreman on horseback actually appeared on her side of the pond. She was reading, having lost interest in the building since he was not there and absently looked up at the sound of an approaching horseman.
She almost toppled right off her wrought iron bench, and in the struggle to keep that from happening, knocked her picnic basket to the ground. She quickly bent to retrieve it, cringing when she realized the horseman had stopped.
Slowly, she sat up, clutching the basket so tightly that the food all but oozed out the wicker sides.
“Good day,” he said, tipping his hat.
Mother of God, he was gorgeous! Dumbfounded, Sophie nodded.
He smiled, flashing brilliantly white teeth, matched only by the brilliance of his pale green eyes. “Lovely day for walkabout.”
Walkabout? Sophie blinked. What was this? What did he want? Was her face as red as Honorine’s Christmas cape?
His smile faded a bit and he shifted uneasily in his saddle. “I beg your pardon if I have imposed. It’s just that I have noticed you sitting here on several occasions, and I wondered if perhaps you might know the occupants of the house at the end of the lane just there,” he said, motioning behind him.
Sophie didn’t actually see the house he indicated, as she had, unfortunately, caught sight of his thigh—the heat quickly spread to her chest, constricted her breathing.
“Madam?”
She jerked her gaze up to his. “Ah … ah, the house? That house? Ah, no. No,” she stammered.
He smiled again, absently rubbed his hand on that sculpted thigh. “There is a particularly sturdy gutter on the perimeter of that house. I thought to inquire as to where it was made.” He looked at her again with his high, well-defined cheekbones, and his square, clean-shaven jaw. She meant to speak, she truly did, but she had apparently swallowed her fat tongue.
“Ah well, then. I beg your pardon for the intrusion.”
Like an imbecile, she nodded.
He tipped his hat, started to turn away, but hesitated, looking down at her. Why? Why was he looking at her like that? Sophie’s eyes grew wide.
“Excuse me,” he said politely, “but I think you are about to snap the handle of your basket.”
Sophie looked down—she was holding the basket so tightly it was a wonder the lid had not exploded from it. She immediately let go, dropping the thing as if it were a red-hot coal.
“Well then. Good day,” he said, and he was gone, galloping around the pond to the site of construction.
Sophie stared at the place he had vacated. Lord, oh Lord, he was more handsome than she could possibly have imagined, exceedingly masculine—
And she had made a complete cake of herself!
She abruptly stood up, and in something of a panic, grabbed up her basket and book, the basket once again clasped tightly to her chest. Before she realized it, she was walking toward Gloucester Gate. When she reached the crowded thoroughfare, she felt a pall of confusion come over her. Where did she go? What corner of the earth could she find where the humiliation would not swallow her whole? She had sat there like a fool, unable to speak, staring at him as if she had never seen a man before! Augh!
“To Marleybone! All bound for Marleybone!”
She jerked around; a hackney driver motioned to the cab of his coach. “ ’Ere you are, miss. Up to Marleybone, if you’re of a mind.”
Yes. To Marleybone. Yes, yes, yes. Sophie nodded eagerly, fished in her reticule for two crowns, and handed them up to the driver before hoisting herself into the coach and squeezing onto a bench next to a gentleman who was in desperate want of a bath. When the coach lurched forward, she gripped her things tightly in her lap and wondered where in heaven’s name she thought she was going now. Anywhere but Regent’s Park, where the eyes of a stranger had melted her into a warm mess of muck.
Two hours later, Sophie stood in front of a small townhouse with green shutters. She couldn’t be entirely sure, but she thought it was the townhouse she was looking for. She peered up at the windows, dredging her memory for any sign that it was the right one.
It looked to be the same one, but honestly, she had come to it under a cloak of darkness and snow. And deadly fear. She had left much the same way, in the company of Julian, too frightened of the journey ahead to look to the right or the left. And it wasn’t as if she had ever ventured from the house in the two weeks she had stayed here—it was, after all, in a part of London that was unfamiliar to her.
And there had been the ugly, telltale bruise on her jaw.
Sophie sighed, glanced up the road to where Upper Moreland intersected Essex Road. What did it matter, really? It had been eight years ago and she was a long way from those days—they were nothing more than a forgotten, hazy memory, an occasional bad dream. And now, she was a long way from Maison de Fortier. She ought to go back before they began to worry about her. This was silly—even if it were the same house, there was no one left here now who had been there then. Except perhaps Mrs. Conner—
“Miss? Is there something you’d be wanting?”
Startled, Sophie whirled around. A woman had appeared on the steps of the house with the green shutters and smiled warmly at Sophie as she swept the top step.
“Ah … no. No, thank you, I was really only … ah, I was merely—”
“You look as if you could use a spot of tea, luv.”
Tea. How delicious that sounded. She hadn’t eaten a bite since early morning, having forgotten her little picnic the moment she had seen the startling green eyes of the foreman. She was famished, she realized; still, one could hardly impose on a stranger. “I … I beg your pardon, madam. I should not have been lurking about, but I thought perhaps … that perhaps it was the same house a good friend once occupied.”
“Does it indeed?” Still smiling, the woman moved down and swept the next step. “Perhaps it is. What was your friend’s name?”
A jolt of self-consciousness seized her; Sophie unthinkingly twisted the gold bracelet around her wrist. “Umm … her name? Her name was ah, Mrs. Conner. Doreen Conner. But I’ve probably the wrong house,” she added quickly.
The woman paused in her sweeping, stacked both hands atop her broom. “You’ve the right house,” she said gently. “But Mrs. Conner is no longer with us.”
“Oh.” Sophie twisted her bracelet again and glanced nervously toward Essex Road. She should simply have asked Claudia where Mrs. Conner had gone, but it was so hard to mention those days aloud, especially to her family. She still felt the shame she had brought them all.
“She died this winter just past.”
Died? That announcement shocked her—Doreen Conner had seemed so … invincible! “She died?” she echoed weakly.
The woman smiled sympathetically, as if she somehow could not believe it, either. “She lay ill for a very long time before the fever took her.”
It was impossible to imagine Mrs. Conner—who had stood exactly where the woman was standing now that bitterly cold day—could be ill. The woman had been an absolute beacon of strength, a rock in the maelstrom in which Sophie had found herself—
“How ’bout that tea, then, luv?”
Blinking through the fog of her memory, Sophie glanced up. The woman was still smiling so warmly that she could almost feel it shining through her. “My name is Sophie. Sophie Dane. I am …” She faltered. Who was she?
“Nancy. Nancy Harvey,” the woman responded, and held out her hand to Sophie, just as Doreen Conner had done that night eight years ago.
Chapter Four
WHEN SOPHIE RETURNED to Maison de Fortier that afternoon, she found Roland in the foyer, staring up at the immense chandelier that hung from the crown dome above. He continued to st
are at it while he informed Sophie she was wanted in the orangery.
“Why?” she asked, peering up at the chandelier, too, curious as to what he was seeing.
“This, I do not know,” he responded, and with a heavy sigh, he shook his head and wandered off in the opposite direction of the orangery, muttering to himself.
Sophie had not endured seven years of Honorine et al. without learning it was not always prudent to question what they were doing. She proceeded down the long corridor, out onto the lawn, and across to the old and empty orangery, which Honorine had, of late, determined should be converted into a studio. Except that she didn’t paint, a thought that occurred to her sometime later.
As she walked across the lawn, Sophie could see Honorine through one of the floor-to-ceiling windows dressed in a red-and-yellow patterned skirt—where did one find such combinations of color in one cloth? She could hear more than one voice; oddly, it sounded as if a child were with Honorine.
Preposterous.
Sophie stepped up on the small porch leading into the orangery, heard Honorine say, “A ballroom. Can you see?” just as a boy darted by the open door. “I remove these furnitures, non? And put in their place pretty plants. Oui, pretty plants for the corners. It is good, this ballroom, non?”
The sound of a deep male voice startled Sophie; as she stepped inside, Honorine instantly broke into a wreath of smiles.
Sophie felt the floor opening beneath her.
Standing next to Honorine, smiling charmingly, was Mr. Trevor Hamilton—the man who, in her last Season, had been the most eligible and sought-after bachelor among the ton. Seeing his trim figure now, Sophie was struck with the distinct memory of being ignored by him the summer of her demise. He had not acknowledged her existence in any way, not even after Julian had made the proper introductions. That distasteful memory was eclipsed only by a panic so immediate that her knees began to tremble. What was he doing here?
“Ah, Sofia! You see Monsieur Hamilton. He is the son of Monsieur Will.”
Will. The name of the man Honorine had met at Regent’s Park. Will Hamilton. Lord Hamilton, Viscount. That was whom Honorine chattered about so incessantly? Frozen by her shocked disbelief, Sophie gaped at Honorine.
Honorine smiled cheerfully. “Monsieur Hamilton, he has a son, too! Mon petit Ian.” To Mr. Hamilton, she said, “My Sofia! Pretty, non?”
Mr. Hamilton bowed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, madam.” He straightened; one brow floated upward, and Sophie instantly dipped an awkward curtsey.
“M-Mr. Hamilton.”
“Madam …?” he asked politely.
What? Sophie blinked. It took a moment for her to understand … she had been so appalled to find him here that it had not occurred to her, not even for a moment, that he might not recognize her. Surely he recognized her! How could he not know who she was?
“Ah, mon amie,” Honorine offered, “Madame Sofia Dane. She belongs to the Kettering!”
Mr. Hamilton’s brow fell; he stared at her in such obvious astonishment that Sophie wished to die, right there on the orangery floor. She wasn’t sure which was more humiliating—to be remembered for her horrible scandal, or not remembered at all! The urge to flee was overwhelming, but there was nowhere to turn, no place in this empty orangery to hide.
“Lady Sophie?” he asked, incredulous. “Forgive me, but you are … you seem quite … well. Quite well, indeed.”
Quite well? Quite well?
“You’ve been abroad, then?”
She could not speak. She was so perplexed that she had absolutely no idea what to say—
“Oui, abroad. Sofia, she is my … how do you say … compagne,” Honorine explained.
Mr. Hamilton looked at Honorine in surprise, then at Sophie. “Indeed, your companion?”
That was followed by a moment of awkward silence in which Sophie still could not find her voice. Honorine’s glare wasn’t helping any, either … “Yes,” she finally managed to croak, “I’ve been abroad several years now. With Madame Fortier. Traveling. And … ahem. And, ah … traveling.”
“Ah, I see.”
She rather imagined he did.
“What a tremendous opportunity for you. Perhaps you might regale me one day with tales of your travel. Perhaps over tea,” he said, gesturing for Ian to come to him.
Over tea? Well, all right, then, she simply had to be dreaming because Mr. Hamilton would not invite her to tea—
“Oui, oui, we join you and Madame Hamilton—”
“I’m afraid there is no Mrs. Hamilton,” he said.
“Oh, non?” Honorine clucked, peering down at Ian as he inched by, looking intently at her colorful clothing and loose hair.
“I am a widower.”
“Oooh, je regrette infiniment,” Honorine managed in spite of the delighted twinkle in her eye.
“Thank you kindly. Well, then,” he said, flashing a smile at Sophie as he took Ian’s hand in his, “I shall leave you ladies to your plans for a ballroom.”
“Oh, but you must come soon again!” Honorine said, hurrying after Mr. Hamilton as he turned toward the door.
“Thank you. Good day to you, Madame Fortier.” He looked pointedly at Sophie and added, “I look forward to that tea.” With a low bow, he pulled Ian out the door.
“Au revoir!” Honorine called after them, and stood, smiling broadly, until the sound of the Hamiltons’ steps on the gravel walk faded. Then she whirled around to Sophie and threw up her hands, exclaiming heatedly in French that Sophie was absolutely hopeless.
“This man, he is very pleased with you, Sofia!” she spoke at last in greatly exasperated English, “and you there, standing with no tongue! Do you not see?”
“Oh, I see all right, and I know exactly what he must be thinking now!”
“He thinks you are very pretty.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” she retorted sharply. Her head was reeling, spinning—she moved forward, purposely ignoring Honorine as she marched from the orangery.
“It is not I who am ridiculous, Sofia!” Honorine snapped right back, and was quickly on her heels. “This fear you have, it is … mon Dieu! How do you say in English? Injustifié!”
“And exactly what brought Mr. Hamilton to the orangery?” Sophie demanded, stopping and turning so abruptly that Honorine almost collided with her.
“The boy! Never mind of this! Do you see Monsieur Hamilton, how he smiles for you?”
With a snort of exasperation, Sophie whirled about and picked up her pace, unwilling to listen to Honorine as she began, for the thousandth time, the litany of attributes Sophie possessed, concluding that if only she would smile, hold her head up, look a man in the eye … Blast it, but it was enough to drive a woman to drink!
Which is exactly what she did, marching into the grand salon and helping herself to a spot of port to calm her nerves, putting aside, for the time being, that she could hardly swallow the stuff. But then again, it had been a rather extraordinary day for Sophie Dane—two men, two complete disasters, and one of them being Trevor Hamilton, of all people. Trevor Hamilton! In the summer of thirty-six there wasn’t a single debutante who didn’t hope to dance a waltz with him, didn’t dream of making a match with him! Of all the people for her to happen upon now, of all the persons in the world, it had to be him. What a bloody disaster!
Unfortunately, Honorine would not let her forget it, and was obviously intent on driving her quite mad, as she continued well into the evening, ranting about Mr. Hamilton, Sophie’s lack of male companionship in general, and her obvious need to … ahem … tend to all her needs. By the middle of the next morning, Sophie was imagining all the inventive ways she might strangle her. To make matters worse, Honorine went to Regent’s Park on a lark and accosted the little moppet son of Hamilton’s, along with his governess, after a walkabout with the boy’s grandpapa. Somehow, Honorine had managed to convince reasonable adults that the boy should call at Maison de Fortier. Lord Hamilton was, apparently, quite smitten with
Honorine.
And Honorine decided, much to Sophie’s annoyance, to teach young Ian to dance. She coerced Roland—who happened to be a passable violinist and, having no other apparent occupation in London, was available—into playing. Young Ian proved to be an eager and capable little dancer, in spite of his governess’s attempts to tell him that one did not dance precisely that way in England.
Fortunately for his governess, Miss Hipplewhite, Honorine soon grew bored of dancing with a seven-year-old boy, and sprawled on a settee, regaled Ian with outrageously creative stories of her life. Ian lay on his stomach on the Oriental rug, his chin propped on his fists, his eyes wide with awe at some of the more colorful tales presented him.
Miss Hipplewhite sat on the edge of her chair, her mouth agape in horror.
Sophie could hardly keep from rolling her eyes or muttering her disbelief of the more inventive tales, particularly the one that had Honorine rescuing a child from some sort of Norwegian pirate-viking. Sophie’s demeanor, however, did not sit well with her employer. When Honorine suggested, in proper and distinct French, that she might perhaps find another activity more to her liking than drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair and muttering under her breath, Sophie could not agree more.
She set out for her daily walk and found herself in Regent’s Park.
Inevitably, she came to the pond she visited every day, in spite of having already made a monumental fool of herself there. She paused at the wrought iron bench where she usually sat and looked across to where the men were normally working, but was surprised to see that there were no activities at the house today—it was silent. That was just as well, really; she was not very keen to see the foreman after the awful display of her conversational skills yesterday.
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