For All Eternity

by Heather Cullman

  “Oh, no, my lord. The thief most definitely wasn’t Lord Quentin,” Dickson was saying. “The theft occurred in the kitchen.”

  “I can’t imagine there being much worth stealing there,” the marquess mused thoughtfully.

  The majordomo nodded. “On most days you would be quite right, my lord. Today, however, the silver was brought down for its monthly polishing. It was at a point between the time the footmen finished the polishing and carried it back up to the safe that the crime was committed. It — “

  “What exactly was stolen?” the marchioness interrupted.

  “Two spoons and a salt cellar, my lady.”

  She frowned. “I simply cannot imagine any of the servants stealing from us. Did you question everyone?”

  He looked uncomfortably at his feet. “Everyone but Miss Barton. She is nowhere to be found.”

  “Well, I am quite certain that she isn’t our culprit,” she retorted, her frown deepening.

  Quentin, too, frowned, instantly understanding her absence. Stupid little bitch. So she thought to evade him, did she? Well, they would just see about that. Clearing his throat, he said, “I wouldn’t be so very certain of that if I were you, Mother.”

  “Indeed?” The way she looked at him, eyes narrowed and lips pursed, you would think that he, in contesting her, had committed a sin every bit as grave as theft.

  He nodded. Well, her expression would change quickly enough once he’d said his piece. “As much as it grieves me to tell you this, Sophie isn’t Miss Barton, but Miss Barrington, the very chit who jilted and humiliated Colin. I didn’t mention it right off because I wasn’t quite certain how to tell you. You seem rather fond of the girl.”

  The look his parents exchanged wasn’t so much surprised as it was odd. “Even if that is true, what makes you think that she is the thief?” This was from his father.

  “In case you haven’t heard, she fled London to avoid debtors prison.”

  “Indeed?” his mother murmured.

  He nodded. “Yes. And she is so certain that you will turn her over to the authorities if you find out who she is, that she begged me not to reveal her identity to you. Knowing how distressed you are over what she did to Colin and that you would wish to know of her deception, I naturally refused.”

  He paused to nod again. “My guess is that she stole the silver to purchase transportation to take her as far from here as possible, thus saving herself from your wrath.”

  Another strange glance between his parents.

  “Do you wish me to have the grooms search for her?” Dickson inquired, looking rather down in the mouth. It was apparent that he, too, liked the girl.

  “Well — ” His father stared at his mother. “I suppose we have no choice. If the girl is a thief, she must be brought to justice.”

  “I suppose so,” she agreed with a sigh. “Please do send the grooms, Dickson. She can’t have gone far.”

  Quentin bowed his head to hide his smile. Not only was Nicholas’s intended a liar and a jilt, she was a thief as well. Perfect.

  “Mr. Renton, the parish constable,” Dickson announced.

  The constable! Sophie stared at the hulking, grimfaced man the majordomo ushered into the drawing room, her insides coiling with fear. This had to be a nightmare, it simply had to be! Only in a nightmare could her life be so wretched and continue to get progressively worse with every passing second.

  Fighting to keep her panic at bay, she closed her eyes. She would count to twenty and then awake. When she did so, she would find herself safe in her bed with Nicholas still at Hawksbury and in love with her.

  One … two …

  As she counted, she heard the marchioness exclaim, “The constable? Who the devil summoned the constable?”

  Seven… eight… nine …

  “I did, Mother. Considering the circumstances, I thought it for the best.”

  Fourteen… Quentin, of course. The demon of her dream … fifteen … sixteen…

  “Really, Quentin! I hardly think it was necessary to send for the constable,” her ladyship chided. “Your father and I are perfectly capable of dealing with our own servant problems.”

  Twenty! Sophie pinched herself for good measure, then opened her eyes. She still sat in the blue drawing room, and the constable still stood a scant ten feet away, looking, if possible, even more menacing than before.

  “Pardon, my lady, but thievery is everyone’s problem,” the man objected, his voice every bit as ominous as his appearance. “If a thief’s crimes are ignored or too easily dismissed, they will be repeated again and again, each time to a greater magnitude.” He shook his white-wigged head. “As I always say: Pardon the theft of bread today, and you create the highwayman of tomorrow.”

  “I hardly think Miss Barrington likely to take to highway robbery,” the marquess commented dryly. “Besides, my wife and I have serious doubts as to her guilt.” “Yes. There isn’t the slightest bit of evidence of her guilt,” her ladyship chimed in.

  Her husband nodded. “There you have it, Mr. Renton. As you can see, we have no need of your services.” He signaled the majordomo. “Please do accept my most humble apologies on behalf of my son for inconveniencing you so, sir. Dickson shall show you out.”

  The constable frowned. “A thousand pardons, my lord. Be the girl innocent or no, the fact remains that there is a thief in your house. As parish constable, it is my duty to find and apprehend him.”

  “Yes. Besides, Miss Barrington is hardly without guilt. There still remains an outstanding warrant for her arrest in London.” Quentin, naturally.

  “A warrant you say?” The constable’s beady blue eyes shifted to Sophie. Of course they held no mercy. “Is this the felon?” He jabbed an accusing finger in her direction.

  Quentin’s gaze, too, was on Sophie, spiteful and triumphant. Forbidding herself to show her fear, she returned it with as much disdain as she could muster. Oh, how could she have ever thought those violet eyes beautiful?

  As they dueled with their glares, he replied, “That, sir, is Miss Sophia Barrington, one of the most notorious and despised women in all of London. Not only is she guilty of defrauding the entire ton, she racked up enormous debts during the Season and then fled the city when her game was discovered.”

  Despite her best efforts to remain brave, she shrank back in her chair in terror. On the verge of hysteria now, she gazed first at the marchioness, then the marquess, mutely pleading for help. The couple exchanged a peculiar look, then Lord Beresford smiled — a smile that turned into a frown as Quentin added, “She is indeed a felon.”

  “Have you proof of her guilt, brother?” a voice rang out.

  Sophie’s heart stilled in her chest as she recognized that voice, that deep, lovely … beloved voice.

  Nicholas.

  Not quite certain what to feel or think, she followed the sound of his voice to where he stood in the open door. It was apparent from his hat and greatcoat that he had only just arrived.

  With the majordomo dogging his steps, clearly anxious to relieve him of his outer garments, he stalked into the room. “Damn you, Quentin,” he spat. “What sort of mischief are you about this time?”

  “I could ask the same of you, Colin.” This was from Lady Beresford.

  Nicholas glared at his brother for several more beats, his handsome face a mask of fury, then he slowly turned to the marchioness. “Please do explain yourself, Mother.”

  “I think it is perfectly obvious. You allowed Miss Barrington, the same Miss Barrington who publicly shamed you, to take refuge beneath our roof without offering so much as a clue to anyone as to her true identity. You then proceeded to champion her at every turn, and finally coaxed me into allowing her to serve as my personal maid.” So disapproving was her expression, that had Nicholas not been a grown man, she’d have no doubt taken him over her knee and spanked him until he was unable to sit for a week.

  As it was, she wagged her finger, finishing in a most severe tone, “And as if that i
n itself isn’t quite enough, you fly off to London to do heaven only knows what, without a single by-your-leave to either your father or I. Worst yet, you remain there for nigh on a fortnight without bothering to send a note to relieve my worried mind.”

  Rather than look chastened, Nicholas simply looked more irate. “Surely you know me better than to suspect me of knavery?”

  “Of course we do, my boy,” his father exclaimed, starting to rise. “We — “

  “We had no idea what to make of your sudden, irrational behavior,” her ladyship cut in, shooting her husband a quelling look. He shrugged and sat back down again.

  The constahle cleared his throat. “It seems that I intrude on family business. Therefore, I shall take the girl and be off to allow you to discuss your affairs in private.”

  “Yes. Please do take her,” Quentin said, smirking at his brother.

  Sophie, too, gazed at Nicholas, her heart crying out in anguish. All she wanted was a sign: a look, gesture, or a word. Anything to show her that he indeed cared for her, that Quentin had lied. Even if he was unable to save her from prison, and she doubted he could, just knowing that he loved her would make her life worth living. It would be a light in the darkness of her future.

  Before anyone could respond, however, John charged through the open door, hauling a sobbing Pansy in his wake. Miss Stewart followed on his heels, looking uncharacteristically distraught.

  “My lords. My lady.” He bowed as best he could with the laundry maid struggling in his arms. “I have found our thief.”

  “Pansy? Oh, no. It cannot be,” Sophie exclaimed, springing to her feet to go to her friend.

  Mr. Renton was by her in a flash, roughly shoving her back down again. “You! Stay where you are!” he bellowed.

  “And you, keep your hands off her,” Nicholas growled, his long coat swishing furiously around his legs as he advanced toward the man. “There is a strict rule at Hawksbury against manhandling women, regardless of the circumstances.”

  “Hawksbury? Hell, that rule applies to the entire parish,” his father boomed, marching over to join forces with his son.

  The constable looked from lord to wrathful lord, visibly taken aback by their ire.

  “Why do you care how he treats the chit, Colin?” Quentin baited. “After the way she humiliated you, I should think that you would want nothing more than to see her get her just rewards.”

  Nicholas transferred his wrathful gaze to him. “Unlike yourself, brother, I have the capacity to forgive.” He more spat than uttered the words.

  An ugly expression contorted Quentin’s beautiful face. “Ah, yes. Of course. Let us not forget that we are in the presence of Saint Colin, Lord of Perfection.”

  Rather than be further incensed by the taunt, Nicholas looked suddenly weary. “Quentin — “

  ”Ahem!” John cleared his throat, interrupting whatever it was he might have said. When every pair of eyes in the room was upon the footman, he inquired, “Pardon. But what about Pansy?”

  Nicholas and his father glanced at each other, then the marquess inquired, “How do you know that she is the thief?”

  “Because we caught her with the stolen property.” “But I were putting it back. ‘Onest I were!” Pansy exclaimed, glancing wildly about the room.

  “Is that true?” the marchioness queried, standing as well.

  It was Miss Stewart who replied, “Yes. It is true, my lady. She apparently didn’t see John and I sitting before the fire when she entered the kitchen. Thus, we saw her remove the spoons and salt cellar from her apron, and place them on Cook’s worktable.” She glanced at Pansy, her lips curving into the kindest of smiles. “Would you like to tell her ladyship your reason for taking them?” When the girl merely hung her head, sniffling loudly, the lady’s maid prompted, “It’s all right, dear. I am certain that her ladyship will understand.” She uttered that last while shooting the marchioness a pleading look, who nodded in response.

  Though Pansy continued to hang her head and sniffle, she slowly choked out, “I needed blunt t’ get married. I’m ‘xpecting a babe, you see, an’ Ezra ‘n’ me can’t afferd to get buckled. Not till we got money to rent a farm. We been saving and saving, and we’d ‘ave ‘ad ‘nough in a year, but that ain’t soon ‘nough.”

  “I see,” her ladyship murmured. “And did this Ezra know of your plans to steal the silver?”

  Pansy’s head came up in a flash. “Oh, nay! Nay, my lady! There ain’t a no more ‘onest man than my Ezra. ‘E’d nivver want me to do nothing wrong. It were all my doing.”

  The marquess and marchioness exchanged a frown.

  “I can see that you were indeed desperate, Pansy,” Nicholas said, both his tone and expression compassionate. “What I don’t understand is why you returned the silver.”

  Pansy looked at Sophie, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. “I ‘eard that the constable ‘ad come to take

  Sophie away fer the crime, ‘n’ I couldn’t bear to let that ‘appen. Sophie’s my friend, my best friend. There ain’t nutting I wouldn’t do fer ‘er.”

  “Well. That settles that,” Mr. Renton declared, moving toward Pansy. “The stolen property has been returned, and the thief has confessed. All that remains is for me to arrest her.”

  “No!” Sophie gasped, coming to her feet again. Rushing across the room, she threw her arms around her friend, exclaiming, “You cannot arrest her! Since she returned the property, she cannot be accused of truly stealing it.” Her gaze found Nicholas’s, and she pleaded, “Surely a wise man like yourself, Lord Lyndhurst, can see the truth of my words?”

  He nodded and smiled. It was a gentle smile, full of wisdom and warmth, the same smile that never failed to melt her heart. “Miss Barrington is indeed correct. There has been no real crime committed. Please release Pansy this instant, John.”

  John immediately complied, looking relieved to do so. “But, my lord! You can’t just dismiss this incident,” the constable protested. “This girl indeed stole from your family. That she decided to return the property and confess most certainly doesn’t excuse her crime.”

  “She did something far more important than just return the silver. She proved her loyalty to the Somerville family,” Nicholas retorted.

  “She proved her loyalty to Miss Barrington, not our family,” Quentin sneered.

  The marchioness shot him an exasperated look. “Do be quiet, Quentin. I have had quite enough of your spiteful harping.”

  “You are wrong, brother,” Nicholas replied, quietly. His gaze was on Sophie again, his eyes gleaming and his expression tender. “Pansy indeed displayed loyalty for a Somerville.”

  “Just like your father. Always speaking in riddles,” his mother complained. “Do just say what you mean.” “I mean that I wish Miss Barrington to be Mrs. Nicholas Somerville, the Countess of Lyndhurst,” he smiled

  faintly, “if you will have me, Sophie. I truly meant it when I promised you my eternity. I love you.”

  Sophie gaped at him, barely able to believe her ears. He loved and wanted to marry her. Her worst nightmare had just turned into her fondest dream.

  His smile broadened then, displaying the dimples she so adored.

  And she ran to him, her heart ready to burst with joy. “Oh, Nicholas! Yes! Of course I will marry you. I love you, too.”

  He caught her as she rushed into his arms and swept her up into a kiss that expressed everything in his heart.

  “It’s about time you declared yourself, boy,” the marquess remarked. “Thought I was going to have to save the girl myself.”

  “What!” Sophie and Nicholas exclaimed in unison, though they remained firmly in each other’s arms.

  The marchioness nodded. “Your father saw your feelings for the gel first, and guessed her identity. When he told me, I must say that I was a bit shocked. And with good reason. Even you must admit that it is beyond unbelievable that you could love Miss Barrington after all that has happened.” She shook her head, as if still amazed.
“You both must sit down and tell me how such a thing came to pass someday. It is certain to be a most lively tale … a fine one to tell my grandchildren.” “Then, you have no objection to our marriage?”

  She made an impatient noise. “Of course not. All your father and I ever wished for you is that you be happy. Your father made me see that Miss Barrington shall make you so. Besides, I like the gel. Best model I ever had, even if she slouches.” She winked at Sophie. “How about giving your future mother-in-law a hug?”

  “And your father-in-law as well,” the marquess added, moving to stand beside his wife.

  As she joyfully did so, Mr. Renton cleared his throat. “This is all very touching, but there is still the matter of the warrant for Miss Barrington’s arrest.”

  Nicholas looked away from his bride-to-be long enough to glance at the majordomo. “Would you please bring the packet I brought from London, Dickson?”

  The man presented him with a flat black leather case. “I anticipated your need and already fetched it, my lord.”

  “Remind me to raise your wages, Dickson,” the marquess said.

  Dickson grinned. “Very good, my lord.”

  Nicholas shuffled through the case, then drew out several papers. Handing them to the constable, he said, “These rescind the warrant. I am certain that you shall find everything in order.” With that, he moved to Sophie, who stood encircled by his father’s arm, and handed her the case. “The rest of this is for you, my love.”

  Sophie examined the contents, her eyes widening when she realized what it was she looked at. It was receipt after receipt, all marked paid in full. “Oh, Nicholas. You settled my debts,” she exclaimed, breathless in her gratitude.

  “I saw no choice if I wish to show off my bride to the ton next Season. It would be ever so tiresome to constantly fight off the sheriffs,” he teased, opening his arms to embrace her again.

  She eyed him rather solemnly. “I doubt the ton shall accept me after all that has happened.”

  “Nonsense, my dear!” the marchioness interjected. “The ton wouldn’t dare cut a Somerville. Harry and I shall be there to make certain that they don’t try.”