“And what, exactly, does my reputation have to do with any of it?” Sophie demanded, just as irritably.
He did not deign to answer that, but bestowed a very impatient look on her. “Think hard, Sophie. Where might she have gone?”
To the moon for all she knew. And no amount of prodding from her older brother was going to give her any clue as to Honorine’s whereabouts, or the inexplicable reason she had not at least left a note, a fact that bothered Sophie greatly. “Why must everyone assume Honorine has done something wrong?” she demanded of Julian. “She is missing too, is she not? It’s not inconceivable that someone has abducted both of them.”
Much to her surprise, Julian nodded. “Yes, I had thought of that, too. The man claiming to be his son was the first person I suspected, but as he has been seen at his favorite haunts, I cannot give that theory credence.”
Her heart suddenly pounding, she asked, “His favorite haunts? What are they?”
Julian looked at her curiously. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve just heard it said. But I rather think it safe to assume your friend Madame Fortier is the culprit, Sophie, for who would possibly think to gain from harming a batty Frenchwoman and a rather debilitated man?”
Her heart went crashing to her feet again. She turned away from Julian to hide the flush of her disappointment from him; she was no closer to knowing where Caleb might be, except that he was still in London. Fat lot of good that did her.
“Sophie?”
“Whatever you might think of her, Honorine has a heart of gold,” she said softly.
Behind her, Julian snorted his opinion of that.
“I know her, Julian. Whatever she did, she had good reason for it, I can assure you.”
He said nothing, but it was plain from his expression he did not share her good opinion of Honorine. By the time he left, Sophie wasn’t entirely certain he kept a good opinion of her.
She followed him to the door, watched him toss a leg over his mount and haul himself up, then gather the reins. “If you perchance think of where she might have gone, I hope you will send for me straightaway. I am doing everything in my power to keep your name from this debacle, but I don’t know how long I can do that. Do you understand me?”
Oh, she understood him only too well; she nodded slowly. Seeming satisfied with that, Julian tipped his hat and spurred the horse to trot out of the courtyard.
She shut the door, turned around and leaned heavily against it, staring blindly at the chandelier above her. Where was Caleb?
How she missed him! She could not sleep, could not eat, could not think without him. And she couldn’t even attempt to find him—leaving Maison de Fortier at the moment was impossible, given the number of callers seeking some word, or having a new idea as to what might have happened. She felt herself under particularly harsh scrutiny, as if the entire city were watching her.
Nevertheless, Caleb had remained at the edge of her consciousness, his image jarring her over and over again. She wondered if he had worked on his house, or did it still stand silent? Perhaps Julian was wrong—perhaps he had left for Scotland. Maybe France? She could not begin to imagine where he was, no more than she could imagine where Honorine had gone. The only thing she knew was that she missed him terribly, would sell her soul to see him again, if only for a moment, if only to say, I am sorry, so very sorry.
What she wouldn’t give to take it all back now.
She spent the rest of the morning waiting … for what? Word from Honorine? From Caleb? Fabrice and Roland were also out of sorts, arguing between themselves about where Honorine might have gone, becoming so adamant in their respective viewpoints that they each locked themselves away in their respective bedrooms. As the minutes and hours passed, however, every plausible explanation evaporated. There was nothing. Nothing but the torturous thoughts of Caleb, the sharp pain of her devastation sinking in, the slow shattering of her heart with the realization her deed had destroyed the raw love she had for him, love that was too large, too deep, to fathom.
Exhausted from a lack of sleep, Sophie tried to nap, but her dreams surrounded Honorine. They were at the ball again, Honorine in her wildly colored gown, twirling Lord Hamilton around in his wheeled chair as everyone gaped at her in dumbfounded horror. “Shameful,” whispered one. “She’s mad,” said another. In her dream, Sophie had run from person to person, trying to assure them there was nothing wrong with Honorine … until they began to whisper that she was the one who was mad.
She was exhausted when she awoke that afternoon.
Slowly, she dressed and wandered down to the morning room. Lucie Cowplain was not long behind her, jerking through the door with a tray of tea.
“No word?” she asked.
Sophie shook her head.
Lucie Cowplain slapped the tray on the table in front of Sophie, shoved a cup and saucer toward her. “What rubbish it all is! It has the lads quite upset! I hear they’ve got the authorities searching the countryside for her. They’ll not be lenient, I reckon.”
“She has done nothing wrong,” Sophie sharply reminded the housekeeper. “They have no reason to be lenient or otherwise.”
Lucie Cowplain lifted a sparse brow. “Indeed? Well, to hear Miss Birdwell tell it, Madame Miscreant might very well be capable of murder.”
Sophie sprang to her feet; clutching her fists at her sides, she glared at the diminutive housekeeper. “Watch your tongue, Lucie Cowplain! Madame Fortier may be many things, but she would never do anything to harm Lord Hamilton!”
That earned her the usual shrug from Lucie Cowplain. “Suit yourself,” she said as she hobbled toward the door. “I merely repeat to ye what I hear.”
When the door closed behind her, Sophie sank into her seat, buried her face in her hands. There had to be an explanation. There had to be a note, a message they were missing. She suddenly glanced up, stared blindly at the wall.
Ian.
The boy had seen Honorine and Lord Hamilton leave—surely they had said where they were going. It was so simple, she was amazed she hadn’t thought of it before.
Sophie was greeted at the door of the Hamilton House by a stately old butler who curtly informed her that Mr. Trevor Hamilton had left earlier that morning.
That piece of news hardly registered. “Yes, well, I have come to call on Master Ian Hamilton.”
The butler frowned ever so slightly. “Master Ian?” he said in something less a question and more a statement.
“Master Ian,” Sophie repeated.
The butler eyed her suspiciously.
“I beg your pardon sir, but is Master Ian within?” she asked pointedly, hoping to high heaven he could not see the solid and rapid thump of heart against her chest.
The man sighed, then smoothly stepped aside, holding the door open. “Master Ian is with his governess in the morning parlor. If you will follow me.”
Miss Hipplewhite was known to Sophie—they had met in Regent’s Park a time or two, and of course, in Honorine’s salon. She smiled uneasily as Sophie was shown into the parlor, her gaze darting nervously to Ian and back again. Ian scarcely looked up as Sophie entered the room, seeming more interested in the wooden locomotive he rolled about the Aubusson carpet.
“Good morning, Miss Hipplewhite.”
“Good morning, my lady,” she said softly, her gaze darting to Ian again. “Master Ian, please extend your greeting to Lady Sophie.”
Reluctantly, the boy came to his feet. “Good morning, mu’um.”
Sophie forced a smile to her lips, glanced at the toy locomotive again, her mind unable to release the image of Caleb for even a moment. “Ian, how well you look!” she forced herself to say brightly. “What have you got there, a locomotive?”
He nodded, scratched his nose.
“How lovely,” she said, and looked again to the governess. “I don’t suppose … that is to say, if you wouldn’t mind terribly, might I have a word with Ian?”
Miss Hipplewhite looked surprised by her request; a hand waver
ed at the prim collar on her throat and she glanced nervously at her charge. “Umm … I really don’t know if I ought, Lady Sophie. His father, well, Mr. Hamilton is quite insistent that I not leave him alone, particularly when he is away.”
Away? Sophie had no idea what she meant by that, but it was hardly surprising that Trevor would be meticulously restrictive with Ian’s activities. “Surely Mr. Hamilton will return soon?”
Miss Hipplewhite shook her head. “I can’t rightly say, mu’um. He’s gone to have a look about for his father.”
The information caught Sophie off guard. She was so accustomed to his daily calls that it had never occurred to her—“Did he say where?” she asked suddenly.
Miss Hipplewhite’s eyes rounded slightly; she quickly shook her head again.
Sophie looked at Ian—the child was making a concerted effort not to look at her, and in fact, had managed to maneuver himself all the way to the other side of the carpet, his back to her. He didn’t want her to ask him a question.
Too bad for the little bugger.
Sophie smiled sweetly at Miss Hipplewhite. “You needn’t leave the room. I meant only to inquire after him, what with his father away.”
Miss Hipplewhite considered her request. After a moment, she picked up her book and nodded. “I’ll just be there,” she said, nodding toward the far end of the room.
Sophie smiled her thanks, waited until the woman was at a sufficient distance that she might not hear a harsh word or two if necessary, then turned her attention to Ian again. He was slowly rolling the locomotive about the carpet. She strolled to where he was playing, stood with her hands folded before her, waiting for him to look up. When he did not, she nudged the locomotive with her foot.
Ian frowned at her slipper and shifted away, taking the locomotive out of reach.
“Ian, if you please, there is something I’d like to ask you,” she said softly.
Ian ignored her.
“It’s about your grandpapa,” she added hopefully, but he shifted even farther away.
“Perhaps you can help me,” she tried again, but Ian surprised her by whipping his head around to glare at her. “I shan’t help you!”
“Why not?” Sophie demanded, genuinely surprised.
“I won’t, that’s all!”
“That isn’t terribly nice, is it, Ian? I would help you if you asked.”
“I wouldn’t ask you!”
“Not even to help your papa?”
“Papa doesn’t care for you in the least, either! He loves Madame Fortier!” he cried.
Aha. At last, the roots of the little heathen’s dislike toward her. He wanted Honorine for a mama, not her. “Wonderful!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “Perhaps he will persuade her to marry him one day. In the meantime, Madame Fortier is with your grandpapa, and I must find her.”
He said nothing, merely shrugged his slender shoulders as he pushed the locomotive back and forth, back and forth.
Sophie took another step forward, squatting down beside him. “I am actually rather desperate to find my dear friend Madame Fortier,” she said softly. “I fear she might be in a spot of trouble.”
The frantic movement of the locomotive increased; Ian pressed his lips tightly together and refused to look at Sophie.
“You wouldn’t want Madame Fortier to meet with any unpleasant trouble, would you?”
He shook his head.
“Then might you tell me where they have gone?”
The locomotive paused for a moment as the boy considered her. After a moment, he began to move the locomotive very slowly. “Papa has gone to fetch her.”
Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. “Where?” she whispered, putting a hand on Ian’s shoulder.
He reacted strongly to the touch of her hand, jerking away as he began to move the locomotive back and forth with increasing fury. “I won’t tell you!” he said loudly.
Miss Hipplewhite raised her head, craned her neck to see around the furniture. “Lady Sophie?”
“It’s quite all right, Miss Hipplewhite,” Sophie called, and suddenly frantic, slapped her hand down on top of his locomotive, prohibiting its movement.
Ian yelped with surprise, but Sophie ignored him. “All right, then, Master Ian, you have plagued me from the moment we met. I know you do not care for me, I know you do not want me to marry your papa, and you may trust me in this—you have nothing to fear. I also know that you care very much for Madame Fortier and so do I. I do not know where she is and I am very fearful of what might await her. I am asking you—begging you—to tell me if she said anything, anything at all when she got in that coach, or if your grandpapa conveyed to you where they might be going!”
The boy struggled to free his locomotive, but Sophie would not allow it and grabbed his wrist.
“Lady Sophie!” Miss Hipplewhite cried from behind her, but Sophie held fast, her gaze boring into Ian’s.
“Where, Ian?” she demanded, aware that Miss Hipplewhite was fleeing the room for help. She had only a matter of moments before she was tossed out on her ear. “Where?” she almost shouted.
“I think to home!” he cried, and suddenly yanked his locomotive free of her grasp.
“Home?” she repeated dumbly.
“I don’t know,” he said, and clamped his mouth shut, pushing his toy back and forth again.
Sophie stared at him—was he speaking the truth? Had they gone to Lord Hamilton’s home, wherever that might be, or was the child lying to her?
Ian did not even bother to look up as the butler and a footman rushed into the room ahead of Miss Hipplewhite. One of them grabbed her shoulder, but Sophie was already gaining her feet, and shook him off. “There is no need, sir. I have what I came for,” she announced, and straightening her skirts, caught Ian’s eye once more. “Thank you kindly, Master Ian,” she said pleasantly, and marched from the room, her head held high, refusing to acknowledge the gape of horrified shock from Miss Hipplewhite.
And as she marched down the front steps of the house, she didn’t even wince at the sound of the door being slammed behind her. Let them think her a pariah again, for what did it matter? She had already made up her mind. It couldn’t be too terribly difficult to learn where “home” was, if Ian was telling the truth. Once she did, she’d go fetch Honorine, and they would return to France.
Only this time, it would be forever. Any hope she had of perhaps salvaging her tattered reputation had been permanently impeded by Honorine’s disappearance and her bullying of a seven-year-old child.
She continued on, past Maison de Fortier and across Bedford Square, her feet moving ahead of her conscious thought.
As she passed into Regent’s Park, she reminded herself that any hopes of happiness she had harbored were gone, too—smashed by her own insecurities, destroyed by her own supercilious beliefs as to who was acceptable and who was not.
How she regretted that now, she thought miserably as she neared Caleb’s empty house. It was silent—no one had worked on the house for two days now, and Sophie suddenly felt very foolish for coming. He wouldn’t come back, not as long as there was any danger of encountering her nearby. Bloody fabulous—she had destroyed his dreams, too.
She abruptly turned away, forced herself to walk on.
It was her own rotten fault. She had, in a moment of knee-jerk, haut ton reaction, dismissed a man she adored above all others as some sort of being beneath her. It sickened her. And what made it particularly revolting was that there was no way to correct it—she couldn’t even apologize.
Her resolve to find Honorine and leave London was overwhelming now. Only this time, she was not running. She was walking away, by choice.
In Cheapside, at a gentleman’s club of second order, Caleb heard the gossip that Trevor Hamilton had gone in search of his missing father. It was rumored that the Frenchwoman had kidnapped the viscount. The men openly discussed her motives, all quickly coming to the conclusion that she meant to harm him by extorting money from him somehow. Perhaps e
ven to cause injury to his person. The discussion bothered Caleb greatly. They certainly did not know Madame Fortier, or that she had almost single-handedly led his father to improvement in spite of Trevor. But neither did he know her, not really. Was she capable of such a crime? It was hard to imagine, but as of two days ago, nothing was as it seemed.
Yet it was the second piece of gossip that truly disturbed him: that Lady Sophie Dane, formerly Lady Stanwood—an emphasis that raised more than one eyebrow—had apparently left on her own search. What Caleb found so disquieting about that was the fear that seemed to overtake him and constrict his breathing in an odd sort of way.
He feared for Sophie.
The fool woman had gone running after Madame Fortier and with Trevor in the apparent state of mind that he was, Caleb could only imagine the potential danger for Sophie. Regardless that she had all but destroyed him, he still loved her. Would go to his grave loving her—he could not scrape that burn from his heart. How very odd, he thought in a detached way, that he still loved her so much he would do anything to see that no harm came to her, including chasing her halfway across England.
The irony of that was almost laughable, he supposed, but nonetheless, with a weary sigh of defeat, he tossed two crowns on the table, strolled out of the club, and headed home to pack a satchel.
On the banks of a gurgling stream, approximately fifteen miles north of the village of Gedling, Honorine spread jam on a thick slab of fresh-baked bread she had purchased in the village and handed it to Will. “Voilà, mon petit ami.”
“Thank you, darling,” Will said, and taking the bread with his good hand, sank his teeth into it. It was, without a doubt, the most delicious bread he had ever tasted. He smiled at Honorine, then looked up at the azure-blue sky, silently naming the shapes he saw in the clouds, ecstatic that he knew the names. A few months ago he had not even known his own name. Since Honorine had come into his life, he was stronger every day, finding words in his brain he had thought lost to him forever, finding strength in his legs, his arms.
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