Moriah Densley

by Song For Sophia

  • • •

  Nothing happened. Not the day after Sophia escaped her father at the Torquay station, and not the three days following. The ride home from Lancashire was boring, except for her near-crippling anxiety. She expected bandits on the train, thought every rider must be a highwayman about to attack the coach. Even Fritz found it unexciting; he traveled sprawled on the floor dozing most of the time.

  Each morning she raided Wilhelm’s office, frantically scanning newspaper headlines for the devastation she expected. Mayfair had been ailed by clogged commodes. A midget pugilist escaped hanging for murder by squeezing between the prison bars. A stray tiger found roaming King’s Cross station terrorized a stout dowager wearing an ostrich plume in her hat. Lord Preston’s fabricated disaster had not struck, and neither had her father’s.

  Rougemont transformed into a military command post, with riders, scouts and wires coming and going at all hours. She glimpsed what Wilhelm must have been like on the battlefield; burning with purpose, frightfully cunning, yet reassuring with a calm sense of absolute. No hint of doubt or weakness. He hardly ever slept yet showed no sign of fatigue. His men seemed to think he was alpha and omega. She would have followed him into the fray too.

  Humiliating that all this upheaval was on her behalf.

  The Queen’s Life Guard had nothing on her personal security detail. When Wilhelm didn’t attend her himself, he knew better than to assign the task to Philip. No, he sent the only man she couldn’t cow; the enormous Irishman she remembered as Colonel O’Grady. With his grizzled auburn whiskers, barrel chest and slight limp, he looked like a cross between a pirate captain and a beloved grandfather. Sophia had learned the hard way that he moved faster than one would expect, and he didn’t mind snatching the Countess of Devon by the waist and bodily returning her to the place Wilhelm had ordered her to remain. For her safety, of course.

  Trouble had to be brewing, but she was largely kept aloof of it, on account of her “condition.” Wilhelm seemed to expect some event — the harbinger of Armageddon, by the scope of the operation — but declined to trouble her with tiresome details. More likely he knew she would disapprove, whatever the plot might be.

  Frustrating how her temperamental health seemed to validate his concerns. The sudden bouts of abdominal pain she managed to conceal unless they stunned the nerves in her legs, forcing her to collapse in a most distastefully dramatic manner. And whoever had dubbed the term “morning illness” must have been a man, because every woman of experience she consulted agreed nausea struck day or night as a matter of course. Especially if Msr. Girard cooked pork or cabbage — heaven help her if he did both at once. The smell made her retch, even separated by three floors and the west wing. She once fainted halfway up a flight of stairs, and Wilhelm ordered her to be carried henceforth. Ridiculous, all of it.

  A small relief when she counted the days and added almost eleven weeks, far past the point when she had lost the baby last time. Small, because she didn’t seem to fare well carrying a baby, and it had only begun. She hated the dark voice in the back of her mind hinting that her body had been warning her these many years of her incompatibility with motherhood.

  Yesterday Mary had helpfully quoted some famous Viennese doctor about how one out of every five metropolitan mothers perish in childbirth, but only one in six country-dwellers. Aunt Louisa had threatened to lock the impudent girl in a tower until she turned twenty. The humor did little to dissolve the tension, because everyone knew the odds did not seem stacked in Lady Devon’s favor.

  What better distraction than a surprise? Sophia heard commotion downstairs and thought she heard a familiar voice among the chorus, but it hardly seemed possible. She managed to sneak past Wilhelm’s office and down half a dozen steps before he came from behind and swept her into his arms, ignoring her protests as he jogged down two flights of stairs, carrying her like a rescued damsel.

  “What a naughty girl you are,” he groused, but kissed the top of her head. She scowled up at him and noticed his bloodshot eyes and the lines of strain creasing the corners of his brows. It dissolved most of her annoyance.

  “What is going on, Wil? Is it what I think?”

  His eyes lit, a smile formed on his lips slowly, as though the gesture had rusted from lack of use. He opened his mouth to answer —

  “You call his lordship, the Earl of Devon, Wil?”

  Sophia turned her head, difficult with Wilhelm’s shoulder in the way. “Mother,” she greeted, forcing warmth into her voice. “What a surprise,” she directed at Wilhelm.

  Helena cocked her head in a coy pose and waited while Wilhelm descended the last few steps and set Sophia on her feet. “Lady Chauncey,” he nodded.

  How very Mediterranean she looked. Her beauty shocked Sophia; perhaps she had downplayed the memory of her mother’s witchlike, exotic allure. The contrast of her pristine Madonna features and overt air of sensuality gave her a commanding presence. Easy to believe she had upset all the continental royal courts in her day.

  Lady Chauncey seemed to take in every detail instantaneously, but her gaze lingered on Wilhelm’s hand twined with Sophia’s, half hidden in her skirts. Helena leaned on the banister, and … winked! Like some cabaret flirt. Oh, but she had stayed in France too long.

  “So this is what you have been keeping from me, Anne-Sophronia.” She eyed Wilhelm with blatant appreciation. “At first I thought I saw a ghost — ”

  “We already know about Roderick, Mama. No need to boast,” Sophia half-whispered, glad the staff gave them a wide berth for the awkward reunion.

  “I remember Wilhelm as a centurion-like, bookish young man, but my, has he grown into a god!”

  “Mama, please — ”

  “Magnificent. Not as pretty as his brother, but twice as … oh, what is the word? Alléchant? Vigoureux? Comme un etalon, oui.”

  Tantalizing, vigorous, like a stallion? Mercy. “He is standing right here, Mama, and you may be embarrassed to learn his French is quite good.”

  “Nonsense. Our dear Wilhelm doesn’t mind, does he? And obviously a romantic, intrepid sort of fellow, if he carries you about like a pirate stealing a wench. What a delightful game.”

  Sophia remembered why the English Channel made a proper neighbor between herself and her dear mother.

  Martin approached and interjected, “Lady Devon? Which room shall I — ”

  Helena gasped. Then she cursed and covered her mouth, her eyes wide. “Lady Devon? Lady Devon!”

  “You cannot … You mean you haven’t heard?” Sophia furrowed her brows, wondering how news several months old had not reached Helena Duncombe, hub of information for all current events.

  Once her look of shock faded, Helena scrutinized first Sophia then Wilhelm with an expression clearly showing she thought them both insane. Then she smiled, the same gracious conciliatory smile Sophia used to rescue awkward moments. “Of course not, darling. I must shock you with the news that I have been mistress of a cellar long enough to have lapsed in my duty. We shall have to debate, you and I, whether your tale of conquest or my fantastic escape should be told first.”

  She smiled and winked again, and Sophia finally noticed the strategic tilt of her hat, how it angled the feathers across her cheekbones. Hiding bruises, as always. She seemed a bit gaunt and lacking her usual glowing golden complexion. A humbling reminder that Helena Duncombe had first taught Sophia to smile and carry on.

  Sophia pressed her hand against Wilhelm’s, silently thanking him. Apparently the spy he sent to infiltrate Chauncey’s men holding Helena captive had finally managed a jail break. He squeezed back and rubbed his thumb up and down her hand.

  “How about the India Room, Martin? Mother, you must be exhausted. We shall catch up after you rest. And welcome to Rougemont.” Or is it welcome back? she wanted to say.

  “Relieved to see you arrived safely,” Wilhelm added, his voice raised in a polite tone, a genteel voice she only heard him use on formal occasions.

  “Yes,
thanks to you.” Lady Chauncey spoke behind her hand. “He will not be far behind, you know.”

  “I assume so,” Wilhelm answered, as though the prospect of Lord Chauncey unleashing his worst upon Rougemont bored him.

  Somehow the utterly bizarre situation of hosting her mother, former mistress to her husband’s late brother, became lost in a sudden wave of worry. On the upside, whatever disaster loomed over their heads must strike soon and be over with. She could not stand to wait any longer.

  Chapter 25

  On The Value Of Superior Marksmanship

  Another night spent with Wilhelm dashing about commanding soldiers, riding out on reconnaissance, plotting over maps and endless stacks of telegrams, and Sophia didn’t sleep well. She tried not to growl at everyone the next day, but tension radiated throughout the house. The energy affected everyone differently. Helena seemed sanguine as always, the other women had become somber, and the men invigorated. They called Wilhelm Iron Wil, his old army nickname. He seemed indefatigable, and it made her tired. His charisma could be too intense.

  At least he left a red rose draped over the pillow this morning, as had done almost every day since his declaration with the colored bouquet. Comforting, the small gesture that meant he thought of her, even through the chaos ruling day and night. She liked it better when he delivered it himself, but she had an affinity for sleep, and he —

  Something important had happened, guessing by the commotion in the hallway. Philip, Colonel O’Grady, and Martin all gathered from their posts to meet in Wilhelm’s office when two rather impressive men arrived from London. She glimpsed them as they passed through the hall, intimidating for their powerful physique like Wilhelm’s and the same purposeful stride. Most notably a sharp predatory cast to their eyes, the same false calm and cold disconnect that frightened her when Wilhelm wore it. She would bet the family jewels these men came from the same covert organization Wilhelm refused to discuss.

  With her guardians all occupied except Fritz, she had no trouble trailing behind to snoop. The taller man with sun-bleached hair, stunning as the angel Gabriel in a rakish sort of way, seemed to take orders from the stocky middle-aged man with the bearing of a lifelong soldier. They strode into Wilhelm’s office without knocking, without the escort of a servant.

  Sophia noiselessly turned the doorknob of the room next door to the office, a seldom-used parlor which shared a chimney with the office, meaning it also shared the vents. Feeling childish but ignoring the chagrin, Sophia ducked to place her ear against the slats of the brass vent. Air whistled through the duct, dampering the voices wafting from the office.

  “Sir Theodore, Sir Gideon. Thank you coming so quickly.”

  She almost laughed out loud — the man she had dubbed Gabriel was in reality not far from it. A handful of voices exchanged greetings in Latin. She missed the first part but heard fratis — brother. The name conjured a connection to the secretive Brotherhood of the Falcon, and a shot of excitement made her heart kick. She closed her eyes, straining to listen.

  “I feared it would be too late.” Philip said that.

  Martin’s voice came muffled from across the room, “ — many did you have to buy?”

  She guessed it was the blond angel, Gideon, who laughed and answered, “Twenty-five thousand copies. Still bound in the printer tapes. One hell of a pile of ashes.” She heard him clearly; he must be standing close to the vent. His accent sounded more urbane than she expected, and Sophia revised her lower-gentry-sea-merchant impression of him to beau-monde-rake-of-the-first-order.

  Philip chuckled and quipped, “Wil already bought Eastleigh and half of Hampshire, why not the Times as well?”

  Sophia bit back a gasp and missed the next comment. Her home? How?

  Wilhelm’s voice came, “You are certain none circulated?”

  A deep voice with a northern country lilt answered, “Courtenay’s son will strike the markets tomorrow, and that should cover it. We arrested the journalist and his editor to be sure.” Sophia guessed the wizened Sir Theodore said that. Authority boomed in his voice; he must be the sort of man whom subordinates jumped to obey.

  “On what charges?” Wilhelm sounded worried.

  “Conspiracy and racketeering. The Brotherhood can hold them for a few days, but you will have to compensate them upon their release.”

  “That doesn’t matter. What about Swenson and Gibbs?”

  Silence while someone sank into a chair. Gideon answered with a tight voice, “Both dead. Swenson went septic and Gibbs never woke after the blast.”

  Blast? What blast? And what about these men who died?

  She heard a metallic whine then glass shattering. She decided it sounded like the lantern on the corner of Wilhelm’s desk, which had probably just been crushed in his hand. He tended to break the nearest object when overwhelmed. Yes, she must be right, because the thudding sound had to be his head dropping to the desk in a gesture of grief.

  “ — about widows?” Martin asked, and Sophia missed the rest until she heard “ — stipend, anonymously, of course.”

  Philip finally said, “Well, God rest their souls. Along with Clarke and Longworth: the best of men and worthiest of soldiers.” The other men assented solemnly, then someone rustled paper, perhaps unrolling a sheet map.

  Sophia blinked back tears, stunned at the news that four men had perished. There had been some sort of war between Wilhelm’s men and her father’s men, a private battle? People were dying for her? Her breath came faster, her head swam, and shame stormed her entire being. Distressing enough for Wilhelm to defend her, but an entirely other matter to forfeit innocent lives for the cause. Widows and orphans? How could she live with herself — how could Wilhelm … . .

  Someone in the office moved, blocking sound to the grate, but Sophia didn’t care to hear more at any rate. Her head clanged with alarm, guilt made her limbs feel heavy, as though her blood had turned to cold silt. She crept slowly across the room and left as silently as she entered, ignoring the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Fritz had been waiting, lying in front of the door. She snapped her fingers, indicating he should follow her. She tried to play the piano, but every note sounded ugly; either shrill or murky with a dead tone. It gave her a headache. She wandered the halls again, both restless and aimless. Distracted. Powerless. Slowly she made her way down the stairs, glad to do so on her own two feet, ignoring the dull throbbing in her womb.

  Coming from the west drawing room; four happy voices bantering in French, dishes and silver clinking, and the musical sound of her mother’s enchanting ladylike laughter. So Helena had made fast friends with the Cavendish girls. Aunt Louisa was probably hiding in her rooms, protesting the presence of another demimondaine.

  Sophia simply didn’t belong in such a carefree scene. She turned to avoid the drawing room and exited through the gallery, over the terrace to the courtyard garden. Dagmar joined Fritz, and walking this way with the dogs reminded her of the night she met Wilhelm, by stumbling over him, in this very spot.

  Before he had transformed into Iron Wil, Wilhelm used to take her to his favorite places at night, and this had been the first spot they “christened.” The fountain looked less romantic in daylight, but the marble shimmered in moonlight, and the curtains of falling water turned the stars into hazy gems. That had been her view then, lying in the shell-shaped dish with Wilhelm covering her, gripping the shelf above. She remembered it vividly; his wet hair, the water muting the sounds she could see coming from his throat, a pleasant mix of warm summer air and cool water on her skin. She would take that moment to her grave with a smile.

  She noticed Fritz and Dagmar growling, hackles raised.

  “Anne-Sophronia. I thought you would never come outside your fortress.”

  She had been expecting such a moment for over a year, so her father’s voice only startled her a little. It iced the blood in her veins, but the mindless panic that would have engulfed her before? In its place hummed a focused calm, made
of equal parts strength and determination, with a dash of fatalism. Slowly she turned to face him, not faking the blank expression she wore.

  “Monsieur Girard,” he answered the question she had not asked. “Apparently he cares for his sister in Versailles.”

  So Chauncey had blackmailed the chef for information. And access inside the house, she remembered. Sophia looked at her father, really looked, and saw a tired, soulless old man. His aristocratic polish had been ruined by drink; red swollen nose, watery eyes, loosened skin about the jaw. His size failed to intimidate her, though he stood taller than she remembered, taller and wider than even Wilhelm.

  “I would have made my way inside soon; how thoughtful of you to meet me instead.”

  “I find I lack the energy to hate you.” She took a step backward and the dogs flanked her on each side. “But my husband has no such weakness,” she warned.

  Chauncey chuckled, a mocking, grating sound she had grown up hating. “I can ruin Devon with the stroke of a pen, or a single bullet. You choose which.”

  “Go to hell.” Sophia reached a hand for the dagger concealed in her skirts. I have to do it. Let him come a little closer.

  “Granted. However, news of your rather embarrassing annulment was already published. Sign the document, making it official, and — ”

  “Not a single paper circulated. Burned to ashes; all twenty-five-thousand copies.” She scratched behind Fritz’s ears, disguising her other hand grasping the knife handle. “And these dogs would love to rip out your throat should I give the word. You couldn’t possibly shoot them both before they finish the task.”

  He showed no reaction to her reference to their last meeting, in the Eastleigh hothouse, where he had sent Lowdry to rape her, then shot her dog for defending her. That was before he flayed her back with a horsewhip. Only Helena’s intervention had prevented him from killing her. The reminder that he had no scruples whatsoever raked chills down her back.