Never Dare a Wicked Earl

by Renee Ann Miller

  He couldn’t blame her. No doubt, she thought him a dictator. But she remained safe, and for that he would not regret his imperious decision. He would spend the day with her and hopefully make her forget her anger. Hayden reached across the white tablecloth and captured her hand in his.

  She shot him another malignant glare. Then, discreet as a vicar eyeing a woman’s diddeys, she lowered their hands below the table and attempted to disengage them with several futile tugs.

  Celia scraped the last remaining bit of blancmange from her custard cup and spooned the dessert into her mouth. “Papa,” she said, folding her hands before her, “may I be excused? Ginger and I are to play a rousing game of cards after we work on my sums.”

  The only Ginger he knew worked as a chambermaid. He arched an eyebrow at Sophia.

  “I hope you don’t mind, my lord,” Sophia said. “I asked Ginger to spend time with Celia today. You have yet to hire a governess.”

  Hayden could practically taste the censure and condemnation in her voice.

  “I did not believe you would find it objectionable,” she continued, “since Ginger is in possession of a pleasant disposition and reads exceedingly well.”

  He glanced at Celia’s expectant face. “Go on, dear.”

  “Thank you, Papa.” Celia pushed back her chair and darted out of the room.

  The sweet expression on Sophia’s face evaporated. “I thought I wouldn’t be home today and when Celia is left alone, she is bored witless. I know Mrs. Beecham would gladly look after her; nevertheless the woman lacks sufficient time to give Celia the attention she should receive.” She sighed. “I greatly fear Celia will be married before you engage a new governess.”

  Hayden peered at the footman who stood silently by the sideboard. “Peter, you may be excused.”

  Wide-eyed, Sophia’s gaze swung to the retreating servant. Apparently, she’d forgotten his presence.

  “Shrewishness does not become you, Sophia.”

  “It does not,” she readily agreed, “but neither does bullying and autocracy become you, my lord.”

  He ignored her repeated use of my lord as if he were no better than something one found pickled in a laboratory jar. “You shall be pleased to know, my sweet, that I narrowed the candidates for governess down to three. The final interviews should have taken place the day after we married. I delayed them. I wanted you and Celia to become better acquainted. I hoped you would take part in the final interview and gauge which candidate would suit Celia best. I happen to value your judicious opinion in this matter, above my own.”

  Only the momentary lapse in her taut expression betrayed her surprise, but she said nothing more than a mumbled “thank you,” while staring at her uneaten blancmange.

  Hayden frowned. He knew the custard to be a favorite of hers, reminding her of the cooked cream, flavored with hazelnut, she’d told him she’d eaten as a child.

  The sound of Sophia’s chair sliding back drew him out of his thoughts.

  “Now, if you will excuse me.” She tugged her hand free. “I have pressing matters to attend to—such as staring at the walls while drumming my fingers restlessly upon some polished surface.”

  He was tempted to carry his incensed wife upstairs and suggest an altogether different activity she could put her restless fingers to. But since he didn’t relish looking like he’d tangled with an angry feline, he’d wait until her anger cooled.

  A half hour later, Hayden strode to the morning room. He rubbed the tight muscles in his neck. One of Sophia’s massages would relieve the tension, but she might just strangle him instead. Releasing a heavy breath, he stepped into the room. Sophia sat by the fire, her hands placed protectively over her abdomen. Her face remained pale.

  The contents of his luncheon churned in his stomach. “Sophia?”

  She glanced up at him, then redirected her gaze to the hearth.

  He placed his hand over hers where it rested on her belly. “Sophia, would you like your feet rubbed?”

  “No.”

  “Anything else rubbed?” He winked.

  Her almond eyes grew round. She looked at him as if he’d sprouted two heads and asked her to parade down the street naked. Definitely not the reaction he wanted.

  A tap on the door drew his attention. “Yes, come in.”

  Hawthorne entered the room. “Reverend Mosely is here and wishing to speak with you, my lord.”

  What the deuce does that windbag want? “Send him away.”

  Sophia arched a brow at him.

  Hayden sighed. “Never mind, show him to the drawing room.” Leaning close, Hayden brushed his hand over Sophia’s arm. “After Mosely leaves, if your color has returned, I will take you to Edith’s.”

  Her eyes widened. “To call on her friends?”

  “Perhaps you can do that another time.” Hayden bent down and gave her a long kiss. “I shall be quick.”

  * * *

  Sophia slipped out of the morning room and into Hayden’s study. Though she’d not read Hayden’s journal it burned in her pocket like a devil’s temptation. Best to lock it away. Thank goodness, the gabby Reverend Mosely would distract her husband long enough for her to return it.

  She withdrew the diary. Voices in the corridor moved closer—Hawthorne’s and a member of the staff. Were they looking for her? She fumbled with the little book, hastily tried to shove it back into her pocket. It snagged on the material and tumbled to the floor. Hawthorne paused outside the door. She clasped her hands together, waited for him to knock, but the voices receded.

  Exhaling sharply, she crouched to pick up the journal, which had landed with the front cover open, revealing an inscription. Not written in Hayden’s hand, but a swirling feminine script.

  Startled by the potency of the woman’s words—the evidence of her fidelity and love—Sophia stared at the exquisite writing until the letters blurred beneath a veil of tears.

  Laura had loved him. Dearly, and he’d abandoned her. How could he have cast her aside and so callously flaunted his infidelities? His actions spoke of cruelness.

  She drew her fingers over the blue satin ribbon that marked a page. She opened the book, expecting the journal to be blank. However, the parchment was not a sea of white.

  The tears pooling in Sophia’s eyes overflowed.

  He had returned Laura’s regard. Loved her.

  A tear splashed onto the bottom of the page. It spread, darkening the parched surface like a droplet of India ink.

  She snapped the book closed, feeling like an intruder—an emotional voyeur, glimpsing something too private. With haste, borne on the breath of guilt and shame, she removed the key, slipped the diary back under the stationery, locking it away.

  As she made her way upstairs, she found it difficult not to ponder either Hayden’s or Laura’s written words. What had happened to their love? And if he was capable of abandoning Laura, when he’d loved her so dearly, where did that leave Sophia?

  Outside the drawing room, she listened to Reverend Mosely. It sounded as if the man was giving a Sunday sermon.

  Releasing a heavy sigh, she made her way to their bedchamber. Sophia swung her wool cape over her shoulders before dashing down the stairs.

  “Are you going out, my lady?” Hawthorne inquired.

  Whether Hayden wished it or not, she intended to go to Edith’s residence. Not to accompany her on any social calls, but to see if her sister-in-law would help her understand the past and the enigmatic man, now her husband.

  “Yes, I’m going to call on Lady Prescott. After Reverend Mosely leaves, please inform his lordship where I’ve gone.”

  The butler’s normally stoic countenance softened. “I am sorry, my lady, his lordship told me your carriage is in need of repairs.”

  “I shall walk.” She inched her gloves over her abraded palms and stepped out of the house. A stocky man, dressed in a gray sack suit, casually leaned against a lamppost, a newspaper tucked beneath his arm. His posture stiffened upon seeing her. For a m
oment, she believed he waited for her, but he gave his newspaper a perfunctory shake and lifted it before his face.

  A mere twenty minutes later, Sophia arrived at Edith’s residence and the butler showed her to the drawing room.

  “Sophia, I’m delighted to see you are well,” Edith said, sitting next to Sophia on the gold settee. “Hayden’s note worried me.” Her sister-in-law’s visage turned contemplative, and her smile wavered. “Though, I must say, you do look wan, dear. We should make our calls another day.”

  Sophia released a taut breath. “Yes, that would be best.”

  A maid entered the room, placed a tea service before Edith, and left.

  “Edith, I hate to impose upon you, but—”

  “Dear, you could never impose.”

  Sophia hoped her sister-in-law would retain that sentiment after she inquired into Hayden’s past. “I wish to ask you about several things.”

  “Yes, dear.” Edith leaned over the tea tray to pour.

  Fearful she’d lose her courage, Sophia barreled forward. “I wish to know what happened between Hayden and his first wife, Laura. What caused their estrangement?”

  The delicate cup and saucer in Edith’s hand rattled, and she placed them back upon the tray. “Has someone said something?”

  Sophia shook her head. “No. I shall be honest with you, as I hope you will be with me. I found an old journal belonging to Hayden. A gift to him from Laura.” She twisted her hands together. “There was an inscription from Laura. She clearly loved him. I know I should not have read any of it, but . . .” Sophia averted her gaze. “I opened the journal to the marked page.”

  “Oh, Sophia.” A gentle trace of censure infused Edith’s voice.

  “I know it is no excuse, but I thought the pages would be blank. I found it difficult to envision Hayden keeping a diary.” She ran her fingers over the napkin on her lap. “I read only one entry, nothing more. I know that does not absolve me.”

  “And you were surprised by what you read?”

  “Yes. I believed the marriage loveless. I heard Hayden came to Town only weeks after Celia’s birth. That he took lovers. That he was less than discreet.”

  Edith’s face flushed. “It’s best you ask Hayden these questions. It is not my place—”

  “Do you truly believe he would answer them?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Sophia thought of the ledger proving Hayden owned J. H. Mason. “Why? Because he is so forthright or because you have the false illusion he loves me?”

  “He does love you.”

  “Edith, this morning, Hayden forbade me to accompany you. He said it was because I looked pale, but I don’t think that was it. Then later, he mentioned he’d take me to visit you, but still reiterated he didn’t wish me to pay any calls. Do you think he is embarrassed because I’m not a member of the nobility?”

  “Phfft. Surely, you don’t believe that. Laura wasn’t a member.”

  “Yes, and we know what happened there.”

  Edith shook her head adamantly. “That was not the cause. It’s quite complicated, my dear. And since I am sworn to secrecy, I cannot reveal the whole sordid affair. Go home. Talk to Hayden.” Edith curled her fingers around Sophia’s hand. “He has taken his vows seriously. If he hears of your concern, he might reveal what transpired.”

  She wasn’t quite sure what Edith spoke of, but the woman’s eyes turned teary. “I will, Edith. Thank you.”

  Her sister-in-law hugged her, and Sophia took her leave.

  Making her way down Upper Brook Street, Sophia pulled her cape tighter about her neck to ward off the cold winter air. What was the secret Edith spoke of? When she arrived home, she would ask Hayden. It would be terribly uncomfortable, but Edith was right, she needed to know.

  She stopped at an intersection as a carriage took the turn. Restlessly she glanced about at the other pedestrians strolling up the street and those waiting for the carriage to pass. A little girl and her nursemaid stood behind her. The child cradled a bisque doll. With a whimsical smile, the child lifted the toy toward Sophia.

  The nursemaid pressed the doll back against the child’s chest. “Leave the lady alone, Doris, she’s not interested.”

  The child’s lower lip protruded.

  Sophia smiled at the girl. “But such a lovely doll begs to be admired.”

  The nursemaid sniffled, and Sophia glanced at her. But it was not the woman’s sour expression that caught her attention, but the man standing behind her. The same man she’d observed outside Hayden’s town house, the one dressed in a sack suit and holding a newspaper. Their eyes met, and he averted his gaze.

  An uneasy sensation crawled up her spine. Without waiting for the carriage to clear the corner, she dashed behind it and crossed the street. Behind her, the little girl began to cry, and the nursemaid exclaimed, “You deuced brute. Look what you’ve gone and done!”

  Sophia peered over her shoulder. The vexed woman stood in front of the man, hands braced on her hips, while the poor child wept as she stared down at her doll lying by her feet. Red-faced, the man started to push past the nursemaid, but the woman angrily grabbed his sleeve.

  Seizing the opportunity, Sophia hastily made her way down the street. Near the entrance to a mews, a closed carriage pulled up beside her.

  The equipage’s door opened. A fair woman, garbed in a silk day dress that matched the vibrant green color of her eyes, smiled. “Lady Westfield.”

  The appearance of someone who knew her, most likely one of Thomas’s patients, eased her growing apprehension.

  The woman arched a brow. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “No, I’m sorry. You look familiar, but I can’t place where we met,” Sophia replied, casting a glance up the street to the man. Having extracted himself from the irate nursemaid, he moved toward her.

  “I’m a dear friend of Hayden’s.” The green-eyed woman’s attention shifted to the man. She opened the carriage door wider. “May I offer you a lift?”

  Even from this distance, Sophia discerned the dark expression on the man’s face as he shoved through the pedestrians. She climbed in, and the woman rapped on the roof.

  “What is coming to the world when a lady cannot walk about without being accosted by some ruffian?” The woman motioned to the fellow now shouting for them to halt. “You don’t know him, do you?”

  “No. I fear he was following me.”

  The woman tugged the back shade down. “He’s most likely a reporter. The scandal sheets plague poor Hayden to death.”

  “I had not thought of that. You must be right.” Relief settled over Sophia, and she studied the woman seated across from her. The hem of the woman’s costly gown appeared dirty and her foot tapped nervously on the floor. “I’m sorry,” Sophia said. “You have me at a disadvantage. You are?”

  “Adele, dear. Mrs. Adele Fontaine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A nerve ticked in Hayden’s jaw. He glanced at the mantel clock. Dash it all, Reverend Moseley had talked nonstop for over an hour.

  Impatient to return to Sophia, Hayden pushed himself out of his chair. “Sounds feasible, Mosely. I’m more than willing to help fund the restoration of the bell tower.”

  The clergyman blinked. “But I haven’t given you all the specifics.”

  If he let the man continue rambling they might be here until midnight. “No need, sir. You’ve convinced me already. I’ll send a check tomorrow.”

  Mosely stood. “Will I see you and your lovely wife at Sunday services this week?”

  At this point, he’d promise the man anything to get him to leave. “Indeed.”

  The reverend smiled.

  In the entry hall, Hayden jerked the front door open.

  Setting his bowler hat on his head, the clergyman stepped out and into his carriage. As Hayden closed the door, he noticed the man tasked with guarding the front of the town house running up the pavement, huffing and puffing. Dillard braced his hands on his knees and tried to
catch his breath.

  Good Lord, had the man seen Adele? The muscles in Hayden’s back knotted. “Did you see her?”

  Dillard’s mottled face paled. “You mean she hasn’t returned?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded, talking above the sudden hammering in his chest.

  “Your wife, my lord. Lady Westfield . . .”

  As Dillard spoke, the pounding in Hayden’s chest grew, resonating until it filled his ears, obliterating bits and pieces of the man’s words. But he heard: “Upper Brook Street,” “carriage,” “hard to see, but the woman looked like the picture of Mrs. Fontaine.”

  Christ! Adele has Sophia.

  With no time to wait for his carriage to be harnessed, Hayden ran down the street, searching for a hackney. Finding one, he leapt into it. “Curzon Street,” Hayden shouted. “Fast!”

  He closed his eyes and prayed that when he opened them, he would find himself in bed, Sophia beside him. But the carriage’s swaying obliterated hope that this was a dream. No, he’d stepped into a nightmare of his own making. He should have stayed with Sophia. Never left her side. Leaning forward, he braced his face in his hands, and listened to the sound of thundering hooves, the jangling of the harnesses, and the cabby’s voice urging the horses to a faster pace. He needed something to focus upon, something to stop the fear within him from festering—rendering him useless.

  “Stop here!” he shouted as the carriage neared Lord Kent’s residence. Hayden jumped out. “Wait,” he said to the driver.

  Hayden pounded on the front door. As it opened, he pushed it inward. Caught off balance, the butler stumbled backward. Hayden stormed down the hall and into Kent’s study.

  Adele’s brother, seated behind his desk, jumped to his feet.

  “I must warn you, Kent, I’m a hair’s breadth away from madness. Have you seen your sister?”

  “No.” Kent gave a nervous shake of his head.

  Hayden grabbed a piece of paper off the man’s desk and slammed it in front of him. “I want a list of every bloody piece of property you own. Start with London first, work your way outward.”