“If that will be all,” Sophia said. “I must take my leave so I may accompany Dr. Trimble to Whitechapel.”
“Miss Camden,” his lordship said, “I am not in the habit of employing people who make their own schedules.”
“Oh goodness, Hayden.” His sister swatted at his arm with her gloves. “I am the one who retained Miss Camden, and she made me aware of her previous commitment to the mission.” Lady Prescott turned to her and smiled. “I think it rather commendable you and Dr. Trimble give so much of your time to those less fortunate. You do recall, Hayden, I am a patroness for the Whitechapel Mission, and it is supported by some of those closest to my heart?”
Looking disinterested, Westfield pierced several pieces of sausage with his fork. “Indeed, my dear. You, Trimble, and Miss Camden are angels doing God’s work.”
Was the nobleman so insensitive to the hardship of the indigent? One only had to visit the East End to see their plight. She’d seen factory-girls whose hands were cut and scarred from machinery, and men whose bodies were twisted and crippled from the laborious work they partook in, but worst of all, she’d seen dirty, badly nourished children with no hope in their eyes.
Doubtful Westfield had ever set foot in Whitechapel or anywhere thereabouts. She thought of her sister and niece—of the filth they’d called home. She clamped her mouth shut and resisted the urge to tell his lordship what she thought of him. Instead, she nodded and turned to Lady Prescott. “It was good seeing you again, my lady.”
“You too, my dear.”
* * *
As soon as Miss Camden left the room, Edith glared at him.
“Do you get pleasure in letting others believe you are indifferent? Why do you court condemnation? You are a generous man. The mission’s greatest benefactor, yet you shroud the fact.”
“You think the high sticklers would forgive my transgressions if they knew of the alms I bestow upon the poor? Has my money bought me absolution? Erased the fact I abandoned my wife not even a month after Celia was born? How fanciful you are, dear.”
Edith’s face flushed. “There were extenuating circumstances. If Laura had told you the truth, you wouldn’t have left her or Celia.”
He narrowed his eyes. Edith was about to cross an unspoken boundary if she wished to place blame at Laura’s feet.
“Hayden, you are kind and caring, yet everyone who knows it must remain mute. Others would see you in a different light if you could forgive yourself instead of seeking out their derision. I know why you are acting this way toward Miss Camden. You wish her to tell people how wicked you are. When will you feel worthy of forgiveness?”
The memory of Laura’s tear-streaked face appeared before his mind’s eye. He didn’t deserve forgiveness. “I should have figured out what Father had done to Laura, yet I was blinded by my own sense of betrayal.”
“It is difficult to accept that Father would force himself on someone. That he would do it to his son’s betrothed is incomprehensible.” Tears glistened in Edith’s warm brown eyes.
“Do you doubt Laura’s last letter to me? That it was Father who got her with child?” Hayden couldn’t force his mouth to say the word rape aloud. His stomach curdled. He shoved his dish of food away.
“Father was nothing if not cruel at times, especially to those he considered beneath his station. Your decision to marry a simple country girl infuriated him. Yes, I believe it. One only has to look at Celia to see the resemblance to our family. But you wouldn’t have left Laura if she had told you—”
“She knew I would have taken pleasure in sending him to the devil.” His hands flexed. Too late. The bastard was dead. As was his wife.
Edith gasped. “You wouldn’t have.”
“It appears my wife knew me better than you. So she suffered in silence, and I walked away.”
“Because you thought her unfaithful. How were you to know the truth, Hayden? What were you to conclude? She gave birth to a child you knew wasn’t yours. Most men would have reacted the same way. You need to forgive yourself. Otherwise, I fear you won’t be content until you are dead. It is the only thing that explains why you started a relationship with that madwoman Adele Fontaine.”
He glanced away.
“Oh, Hayden, it was only a wild guess, but your expression confirms it. I saw you and her standing before Claridge’s Hotel a few months ago. Quite insane to engage in a dalliance with such an unstable woman. You live your life as if it has no future. You are reckless. If you do not care a fig for yourself, at least think of those who love you. Think of your commitment to Celia. I know after Laura’s death you vowed to care for the child.”
“I have always presumed Celia would be well taken care of if something were to happen to me. Am I wrong to believe that you would welcome her permanently into your home?”
“You know I would. I love her. But you are the only parent left in her life.”
“Parent?” he echoed.
“Hayden,” she said softly, placing her hand atop his. “You are her father in every way that counts. Celia has lived with you since Laura’s death. She loves you dearly, and you love her. When you told me what Laura’s letter revealed, I promised I’d take the secret to my grave. I’ll never disclose it to her, nor anyone else.”
He averted his face, knowing it reflected his torment. Edith was correct; he loved Celia as if she were his own. But was it enough?
After Laura’s death five years ago, he’d toyed with the idea of asking Edith to raise Celia. Edith would have made a fine mother, yet sadly, she was childless. However, the moment he’d seen Celia in the nursery at Wincombe Manor after Laura’s funeral, he’d felt a connection to the child.
He remembered her nurse, a good-natured, elderly woman saying, “Say hello to your papa, Celia.” The woman had set her frail hands against the child’s slender back, propelling her forward. Celia, only three, had turned and latched on to the nursemaid’s legs as if the devil himself stood before her.
“That’s fine, Miss Penworthy,” he’d said, taking a seat in the corner of the large room. “Celia hasn’t seen me in a long time. We need to become reacquainted.”
For three days, he sat in the nursery every moment the child was awake. On the first day, she occasionally glanced at him from where she sat playing on the floor, as if he were an oddity or something out of place, such as a bug floating in one’s soup.
On the second day, while he sat in the same chair, looking over the estate books, Celia had surreptitiously tiptoed toward him. She’d ducked under the table and brushed her little hand over the cuff of his wool trousers as if the coarse fabric intrigued her.
He’d peeked under the table and given her a gentle smile, and she’d scurried away.
However, on the third day, seeming to feel braver, she’d approached him. As if wishing to confirm he was not a figment of her imagination, she’d poked him in the ribs with her tiny index finger. He’d wanted to reach out and hold her, to place her on his knee, but he’d resisted, believing he would only succeed in frightening her off. Instead, he pretended her touch tickled, and they smiled at each other.
And that evening, after she’d eaten her dinner, she climbed onto his lap, a book in her hand, and peered at him. And it was then he’d known: he would take her back to London with him and care for her as best as he could, for surely there was a modicum of love left in his heart for this innocent child.
“Hayden.” Edith’s voice drew him back to the present. “Please be more prudent in the future, if not for your own sake, then for those who love you.” His sister stood and smoothed out the skirt of her dark green gown. “Now, I must be off. Celia is here with me. I promised she could visit with you before we leave to go shopping.”
He nodded.
Smiling, as if they had not broached any subject more benign than the weather, Edith bent down and kissed his cheek. “I pray you will take what I have said to heart.”
He patted the top of Edith’s hand. She was right: if he didn’t change h
is ways, he’d not fulfill his graveside promise to Laura to care for Celia, and he’d fail his wife again.
Chapter Five
Sophia stepped out into the cold November air and ascended the servants’ stairs to the pavement in front of Westfield’s house.
A fashionably dressed gentleman stood before Lord Westfield’s front door under the portico. His eyes were nearly as dark as hers, and his angular face was not quite handsome, but arresting.
He tipped his hat to her. Daylight slashed across his face, revealing a scar on his left cheek.
The front door opened. “Lord Adler,” the butler said. “Come in, sir.”
Adler? Oh, she’d heard his name before. Scandal nipped at the nobleman’s heels like an overanxious dog.
The sound of a man clearing his throat drew her attention. She turned to see Thomas standing next to his carriage. He held out his hands, and she moved forward to place hers within his, pleased as always to see her closest friend and employer. “Thomas, how are you?”
“I’m well. How are you, Sophia?”
“Fine.” She climbed into the carriage and settled against the blue plush interior.
He followed her inside and arched a brow—a clear indication of his disbelief.
The carriage jerked as the coachman urged the two horses to start up the street. Ignoring Thomas’s inquisitive gaze, she stared out the window at the grand façades and the spattering of fashionably dressed pedestrians. Unbidden, a vision of Westfield lounging on the chaise, light glinting off his sculpted chest, flashed before her eyes.
“Sophia?”
She gave a slight start and turned to find Thomas peering at her.
He grinned. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, my dear.”
“Thomas, please forgive me,” she replied, feeling foolish for having lascivious daydreams over a man she didn’t even care for.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
She studied her hands folded in her lap. “I was wondering if those supplies I ordered for the dispensary have arrived.” Guilt swept over her. She had always been completely truthful with Thomas, but sharing one’s baser daydreams . . . that she would not do. Not even with her trusted friend, who knew more about her than anyone else in London.
She’d told him about growing up in Chelsea with her parents, grandfather, and sister, Maria. That diphtheria spread through their house, sparing only her and Maria. How they were sent to live with their only other relation—their father’s uncle Charles.
She’d been twelve when she arrived in Northumberland. She still recalled Great-Uncle Charles’s words upon seeing them. “Have them scrubbed,” he’d said to the housekeeper. “They look like gypsies.” At the time, she’d not understood why their olive skin bothered him. Mama had been even darker, and Papa had called her his Italian goddess.
Only years later, did she learn Great-Uncle had expected Papa to marry a proper English miss—a member of the nobility. It hadn’t mattered that Aletta Gianni was the daughter of the revered painter Vincente Gianni; Mama was still an immigrant with no ties to the English peerage. And Great-Uncle’s thwarted hope of having ties to the aristocracy had made him cruel to both her and her sister. Nothing they’d done was good enough.
“Has Westfield been unbearable?” Thomas asked, once again, interrupting her thoughts.
“Unbearable?” she echoed.
“Sophia, you know what I mean.” Exasperation deepened his tone. “He’s an arrogant man. I wish to know how you’re faring.”
A commotion outside the carriage briefly caught Thomas’s attention. He gave an impatient-sounding sigh. “You have not answered my question. Is he treating you with respect?”
“Thomas, I assure you I can handle Westfield.”
“Does he know that?”
She laughed. “I daresay he’s learning.”
A smile resurfaced on Thomas’s handsome face. “I’m pleased to hear it.” His posture relaxed, and he settled against the squabs. Holding her gaze, he continued, “However, I would be greatly relieved if you did not return to his residence.”
Sophia arched a brow. “You don’t care for him, do you?”
“I don’t know him well enough to like or dislike him, Sophia. But the rumors of debauchery and immorality . . . I wish you had not allowed Lady Prescott to talk you into attending the man.”
“I thought you abhorred gossip.”
The carriage swayed as they turned onto Whitechapel High. “I do, but . . .” He tugged his hat off his head and crushed the rim in his hand. “It is not all gossip, Sophia. He has a child. She was born only seven months after the nuptials. A few weeks later, he was here in London acting like an unfettered young buck.”
“Oh,” she mumbled.
“I’ll give him credit for taking responsibility. He obviously got the woman with child. She was not of his social standing. But I cannot excuse his shabby behavior afterward or the way he flaunted his infidelities. He abandoned the poor woman in the country. She died near five years ago.”
Sophia stared at the nerve twitching in Thomas’s jaw. He may treat the highborn, but it was clear he possessed little tolerance for their ilk.
Sophia bit her lip. “Where is the child?”
“Celia lives with him, but Lady Prescott has taken her to her residence so Westfield might rest. The child’s lovely. Precocious and smart.” He smoothed the rim of his hat. “I wish you to be careful. I hear he can be charming when he wishes to be.”
Sophia’s mouth fell open. “Thomas, is that what you fear? That he will try to seduce me?” She laughed softly. She was tempted to tell him that Westfield had already sacked her, and she remained in his employ only because she’d dared the scoundrel. But Thomas would call it folly, just like Great-Uncle Charles called her ambition to become a physician a foolish venture, and she didn’t wish to be criticized. She’d experienced enough disapproval from that cantankerous relation to last her a lifetime.
“Do not worry about the man seducing me. Westfield has no desire in that regard. He hasn’t even tried to be charming. In truth, he does not care for me, nor I for him, but we shall muddle through our differences as best we can.”
Sophia returned her gaze to the window—to the grave faces of the people looking at the fine equipage as it made its way through Whitechapel. She should spend her time thinking about these people. Not waste her thoughts pondering a highborn nobleman who was a rogue.
* * *
“Christ, if you don’t look like a man who’s had his bollocks twisted into a knot,” Lord Simon Adler announced, stepping into Hayden’s sitting room.
“If you’ve come here to insult me, you unsympathetic sod, you’d best turn your hairy arse around and leave,” Hayden bit back.
Laughing, Simon unbuttoned his black town coat and settled himself into one of the fireside chairs. “I just saw a vision of beauty exiting your house. Have you hired Celia a new governess?”
“No. Did the woman have a taut chignon, cold eyes, and disapproving scowl?”
His longtime friend plopped his legs atop the ottoman and grinned. “No. Glossy hair, enchanting eyes, and extremely kissable lips.”
Hayden harrumphed. “My new nurse is anything but kissable. Stick your tongue in her mouth and you’ll find yourself mute.”
The corner of Simon’s lips twitched. “A termagant, eh? Why, old chum, she sounds like your type.”
Hayden ran his hand over his thigh. “I’ve learned my lesson.”
Simon gave him a sympathetic look. “I warned you about Adele. Do you intend to eventually tell the authorities, or do you wish to handle this matter more discreetly?”
“Her brother has sent her to the Continent. Hopefully, to some asylum. I’ve told Kent that as long as she remains there, I will not disclose her identity. I do not wish to add fuel to the spectacle presently being played out in the newspapers.” He had to start thinking about Celia and Edith.
“Will your pretty nurse be returning shortly? I should like
to make her acquaintance.” His friend grinned.
Hayden was not sure why, but the idea of Simon meeting Miss Sophia Camden sent a frisson of uneasiness through him.
“She has gone to do God’s work at the Whitechapel Mission.”
Simon’s expression turned solemn. “Pious? What a tragedy. Do you think her corruptible?”
“I doubt it.”
“Ah, a woman who hasn’t succumbed to your charms.”
Shifting on the chaise, Hayden cringed. “Do I look fit to charm anyone?”
“Truthfully? No. However, I shall dare you to do so, since you find her so uptight.”
“I’m not interested.”
“You, not interested in a dare?”
“I’ve come to the conclusion I abhor dares. The sooner my tart-mouthed nurse leaves my house, the happier I shall be. Now, will you pass me those crutches?”
Simon stood and handed him the crutches. “You need any help?”
“No, I’m going to remain here for a bit.” He was sick of lying in bed.
“Then, I shall be shoving off. I might return in a few days, so you can introduce me to your lovely nurse.”
“Don’t bother. She will be gone shortly.” Once again, an odd and irrational feeling of discontent settled over Hayden.
“If you say so. Take care, old boy.”
An hour after Simon left the sitting room, Hayden propped the crutches under his arms and hobbled back to the bedchamber. He winced as a stabbing pain shot up his leg. He’d just reached the bed when Mathews entered the room.
The man rushed over to him, his hands fluttering in the air. “Careful, my lord. You might fall.”
Hayden narrowed his eyes at the turncoat.
Mathews averted his face. “Surely, you did not expect me to wrestle Miss Camden for your crutches?”
He cocked a brow at the valet.
“I couldn’t. She’s a woman.”
“She’s a bloody thorn in my side. That’s what she is.”
The questioning look in Mathews’s eyes clearly betrayed his confusion over the situation. “Is there something else in play here, my lord?”
Never Dare a Wicked Earl Page 4