He knew what it was to love someone like that. He’d have done anything to save his family. He’d have easily thrown away his virtue or honor or ridden off into the night with a veritable stranger if it had saved them their fate. Yes, he could understand Sophie’s feelings.
She loved her father enough to waste her virginity on an enemy.
Damn, but he wished that’s not what he was to her. She was not just a bit of trash to be used and thrown away. She had the air of quality to her; she was more than just some unwanted orphan who’d fallen into Madame’s brothel. She was special; he’d always known that, seen it all over her the very first time they met. She deserved so much more than her lot.
She should have been allowed to wait, to fall in love with someone capable of returning the feeling. Her first experience should have been with someone who could cherish her and promise her a future, some happiness. All he could promise was that he’d soon be gone from her life. And he’d take her father with him.
It seemed so unfair. If there was any way it did not have to be like that…if he could just keep his arm around her, pull her tighter to him and assure her all would be well…but of course that was not the way it would go. He had his duty, and she had nothing.
No, that was not entirely true. He was in a position to see that she did not end up with nothing. When it was safe, he would find a way to look after her, even if he had to do it anonymously. He’d see that she never had to go back to someone like Fitzgelder or that damned brothel. Hell, what was Eudora thinking to have this innocent crafting such things as those items he’d found in her pack?
Sophie should be making fine things for proper ladies, not wasting her time and her skill on frivolities for Eudora’s deviant clients. That’s what he’d do. He’d set her up with a shop. Sophie would be mistress of her own life from now on; he’d see to it. The next time she shared her bed with a man, it would be one of her own choosing for no other reason than that she cared for him.
And if I ever lay eyes on him, I’ll murder the bastard.
Damn it, he had no right to think that way. He was busy wishing Sophie well, not plotting some unknown person’s murder. If she found a man to make her happy, why should he not want that for her? He did want her to be happy.
He just did not want her to be happy with some other man, that was all.
Oh, hell. He wanted to keep her for himself, didn’t he? All for himself. Well, that was a bloody shame. The man who hauled her father off to Newgate would never be worthy of such an honor. A sobering thought, indeed.
He tooled his carriage through the vacant streets of slumbering Southam. Dark visions of a lonely, Sophie-less future swarmed him, and he did not like them one bit. Damn it, of all the accessible women in the world, why should Miss Darshaw be the one to capture his fool attention this way? And now that he’d had her why was the attraction even stronger than before? That, certainly, was out of the ordinary for him.
But then again, there was nothing ordinary about Sophie. He adjusted his arm slightly, just so he could feel her wiggle against him as she slept. She’d been so determined to avoid this, to sit primly in her seat keeping inches between them. How furious she’d be when she woke to realize he’d been holding her this way for miles. He smiled just thinking of the delightful little fit she’d likely throw.
That line of thought, of course, led him to wonder what he would end up doing to appease her, and that line of thought, of course, led him to imagine all sorts of peaceful alternatives to argument. That line of thought, of course, led him to find his trousers becoming most uncomfortably tight. Lord, but he’d have to find a new line of thought right away.
It was almost a relief, then, when a stray dog ran up and began barking at his carriage wheels. His horses skittered nervously, but he held them from bolting. The dog yelped when it took a spoke to the jaw, but it backed away and the horses settled.
“What is it?” Sophie asked, stirring and pushing herself groggily away from him.
She turned to look around, gaining her bearings. Damn, but her bodice pulled tight against her lovely bosom when she twisted her lithe body that way. The trousers were not getting any more roomy.
“Just a dog,” he answered. “Nothing to worry about, my dear.”
At that moment the dog made one last lunge at them, this time his teeth aimed for one of the horses. The carriage lurched and Sophie fell against him. Her hand fell onto his thigh as she tried to steady herself. Good God, but he did like her touch.
“Oh my,” she exclaimed. Good God, but he did like her voice. “We didn’t run over the poor thing, did we?”
“No, it’s fine,” he said, patting her hand where it still rested on his leg. Good God, but he did like comforting her. “We missed him.”
She pulled her hand away. Damn it. She seemed more interested in the dog that was now running off with its tail between its legs.
“Where are we?” she asked as the barking subsided.
“Southam,” he replied. “Haven Abbey is very close now. You should be settled into a warm, comfortable bed within the half hour.”
And how he liked the sound of that, too. She seemed a bit skeptical.
“And what is this place, this Haven Abbey?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll like it,” he said, not at all certain that would be the case.
He wasn’t even sure he himself would like it. Not now. Not without Marie or little Charles. Not without the people he had most loved. He couldn’t imagine the house—a place he’d spent dozens of Christmases and family holidays—to be nearly the warm, welcoming home he’d once loved. Yet given the circumstances, he could think of nowhere else to go.
He hoped it would not prove a mistake.
“But what is it? A friend’s home?”
“Not quite,” he said, and then realized an interesting irony. “I suppose it’s like Loveland.”
“What?” she asked, looking startled.
“Haven Abbey was my grandmother’s home,” he replied.
He turned on the road leading south out of the village and missed the vague comfort of Sophie’s body nestled against his. She was back to her prim distance now, with no mention whatsoever of having fallen asleep on him earlier. He supposed he’d humor her and not make mention of it, though he certainly wasn’t quite able to forget it.
“So was this the home of your maternal grandmother, or paternal?” she asked, clearly for the single effect of making polite conversation.
“My mother’s mother,” he replied. “I spent many happy days here, as you must have with your own grandmother at Loveland.”
She seemed unimpressed. “And was your grandmother a courtesan, too?”
Now he laughed. “Don’t think you can shock me, Miss Darshaw. I’m afraid I’ve learned all about your sordid history as I’ve studied your father.”
“I’m not certain I like that idea, sir,” she said.
“I know that your grandmother was the mistress of a previous Lord Dashford, and this is why you are a cousin to the current viscount at Hartwood. I know that your mother was raised at Loveland and then left to become an actress. She married your father after he came over from France, and in your younger years you traveled with them. Then you came to stay at Loveland until after your father’s death, when you went to live with your mother in London and fell on hard times. Your grandmother has been dead some years now, I believe. I’m sure you miss her very much.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Though I wonder, why did you not seek out help from your cousin?”
“Evaline? Oh, but she wasn’t able to—”
She stopped herself, as if she’d said something scandalous. Yes, he supposed she had. The fact that she was not only cousin to Dashford but to his new bride was surely not a matter of public knowledge. At the wedding the new Lady Dashford seemed to have been hesitant to discuss such things, and he could understand why. It was not everyone who relished claiming a relative that dwelt for years in a brothel.
/> “Yes, I know you are cousin to Lady Dashford as well. Not very many people know that, do they?”
“What? I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting Lord Dashford’s new bride.”
“But of course you have. He married your cousin, Evaline Pinchley.”
Her mouth hung open. He could scarcely believe it, but this seemed to be entirely new information for her. Well, he was glad to be the bearer of happy news.
“Yes, it’s true,” he said. “They were married just a few days ago.”
“Indeed, I was aware it was Lord Dashford’s wedding that you and Lord Rastmoor had attended,” Sophie said, her brow wrinkling as she tried to make sense of things. “But how can it be he married Evaline? No one was to know about her!”
“Yes, I gathered that. Her mother was born to your grandmother well before her liaison with the old Lord Dashford, wasn’t she? Though your mothers were half sisters, they were not raised together, were they?”
Sophie shook her head. “No, they weren’t. Evaline’s mother was sent away, brought up elsewhere. Her connection to Grandmamma was not well-known, and she was able to marry a respectable man. My cousin was allowed only limited contact with any of us, though she and I were quite close at one time.”
“She abandoned you when she found out you ended up at Eudora’s?”
“Oh, no! She…that is, I was too ashamed to tell her where I was. She had enough of her own troubles once her parents died. We haven’t seen one another in years now.”
“Well, perhaps you will find a way to reunite at some point.”
“Good heavens! She’s a lady now. She can hardly acknowledge me.”
“Is that why Dashford never helped you all these years? You weren’t good enough for him?”
He’d always rather liked Dashford but would gladly throttle the man just now. It should have been Dashford’s responsibility to look after his cousin, even if her mother was born on the wrong side of the blanket. He shouldn’t have left her struggling there in a brothel all those years.
“I’ve never been well acquainted with the current Lord Dashford,” Sophie said. “By the time I came to live with Grandmamma he was away at school, and then Papa died and Mamma needed me in Town, and then Grandmamma died and we had nowhere else to go…”
“And you never asked Dashford for help, did you?”
“No. Of course not.”
Indeed, that sounded like something that would make sense to her. The woman may have lived in a brothel, but she still held her head high, he’d give her that. She wanted to make her own way, not live off of charity from some relative she hardly knew. He supposed on some level this was commendable, but he could not approve. Not for her.
“Damn it, Sophie, you should have gone to him.”
“Don’t scold me. I did as I saw fit.”
“And look where it brought you.”
She folded her arms across her chest and huffed. “Yes. It brought me here. With you.”
That stung a bit. He knew what she meant. She’d been looking after herself, even under the nose of that bastard Fitzgelder and after years living in a brothel. She’d done well, he had to admit, all things considered. Until he’d come along and ruined her.
All the more reason, then, for him to see that she was cared for from here out. The foolish, headstrong chit was going to discover he could be just as stubborn as she. And he was bigger.
Chapter Fourteen
They left the main road to turn onto a narrow lane. In the moonlight, Sophie could see the outline of a house ahead…no, it was not a house. It was a castle. Good heavens, was this Haven Abbey? It was ancient, with a turret at one end and ramparts along the roof. Not at all what she had expected! Where on earth was Lindley taking her?
“Is this it? This is your grandmother’s home?”
“Not very much like Loveland?”
“No, not very. Good heavens, does your grandmother still live here?”
“No,” he replied. “She’s been gone years now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes, so am I.”
“But the grounds are maintained,” she said, noticing what appeared to be careful plantings along the way and the silhouette of hedges trimmed neatly. “Is someone living here?”
“I keep a staff to look after it.”
“You must love this place.”
“I haven’t been here in three years.”
“I see. Is that when you lost your grandmother?”
“No. It’s when I lost the rest of my family.”
“Oh.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. He’d made mention of it before—that he’d lost his family and her father had been partially responsible. She hadn’t let herself think of it, hadn’t wanted to care. But now it was impossible. She did care.
This had been a home; his home. He’d had family here, obviously more than just his grandmother. Had he been married? Heavens, had there been a wife, children? Dear Lord, but she hadn’t let herself imagine that before now. It was unbearably painful to think what he might have lost.
Sitting here beside him now, arriving at this place he’d been afraid to return to for three years, she could feel the hurt emanating from him. No wonder he would have spent his life seeking justice. No wonder he’d had so little inclination to show Papa any mercy. She knew the anguish of losing loved ones. She could only imagine the torment of knowing they’d been murdered.
He likely never intended to come here again. It was only the threat on their lives that gave him reason now. The threat on her life.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” she said. “I know you would have preferred not to.”
“It was the most practical solution,” he said. “But don’t thank me yet. We still have to see whether or not we can rouse someone to let us in.”
At first she thought he was teasing. After waiting as he pounded at the enormous front door for several shivering minutes, however, she began to realize he had not been. Finally there was a sound from inside. Someone was approaching.
The door creaked open just the tiniest slit. A wizened face peered out—an old man with a nightcap. The one blue eye Sophie could see scanned her quickly, then moved on to Lindley. It widened immediately.
“Good evening, Wimpole,” Lindley said, grinning at the old fellow. “Care to let us in?”
The door flung open with more force than she would have expected an elderly man to muster after having just been dragged from his bed. Sophie could see him clearly now, his shirt tucked haphazardly into his breeches and his stocking feet shoeless on the stone floor. In one hand he held a taper, in the other what appeared to be a broom.
“Doing some late night tidying, are you?” Lindley asked as the old man stepped back to invite them inside.
“Someone’s rapping at the door in the middle of the night, milord. One never knows what to expect. Could be footpads or vandals, you know,” the old man said.
“And you will stave them off with a broom. Ah, Wimpole, it has indeed been far too long.”
He clapped the man on the back. Despite his frail appearance, the old man seemed quite happy to take abuse at his master’s hand. Apparently three years’ absence had not dimmed whatever fondness existed between them. It was very sweet and heartwarming, and Sophie felt herself grossly out of place.
A presence on the staircase suddenly made herself known. Sophie glanced up to see a rather tall, narrow woman in night-clothes with a heavy wrapper pulled tight around her. The lady’s cap was askew and her graying hair poked out at odd angles. Still, the delight on her lined face made her appear less severe than Sophie guessed she would have otherwise.
Lindley noticed and reciprocated her smile. “Ah, Mrs. W. You’re looking lovely as ever.”
She glided down, balancing her taper in a shaking hand. “I’d look even lovelier if a body could sleep at night. Whatever are you up to, dragging us from our beds at this hour?”
“I’m sorry,” Lindley said. “You know
I wouldn’t if I had any other choice. The truth is, er, we’ve come into a bit of trouble.”
At this both sets of elderly eyes turned Sophie’s way. Indeed, she could only imagine what they must be thinking. She felt her face go warm. So just how on earth was Lindley going to explain this? More specifically, how was he going to explain her?
“You recall my friend, Dashford, don’t you?” Lindley went on. “Well, this is his cousin, Miss Sophie D’Archaud.”
She was quite surprised to hear her name spoken that way, in the actual French that Papa had been born with. All her life they’d gone by Darshaw as a part of Papa’s intention to fit in better here in his new homeland. The way Lindley spoke it now, however, it was as if it were something noble and respectable. She rather liked the sound.
“Miss D’Archaud, this is Wimpole and his dear wife,” Lindley said in a tone that sounded very much as if their sudden arrival at this hour was entirely normal. “They have looked after us here at Haven Abbey since before I was born. You may trust them with your life.”
Sophie gave a polite nod and smiled as best she could. Really, how was she to present herself a respectable lady, worthy of claiming connection to the likes of Lord Dashford? Surely these very competent servants would recognize the truth. A young woman traveling alone at night with a gentleman like Lindley was bound to raise an eyebrow or two. She felt it very safe to assume that they would, well, assume. Even now Mrs. Wimpole was studying her quite thoroughly, and Sophie could not say her expression was especially approving.
“I need you to take extra heed for Miss D’Archaud’s comfort,” Lindley said as if he truly cared for such a thing. “And we must be discreet. I’m afraid poor Miss D’Archaud has been through quite a harrowing experience.”
Sophie glanced at him. By heavens, what on earth was he going to tell these people about her?
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