Julia London 4 Book Bundle (160 page)

He said nothing, merely shrugged his slender shoulders as he pushed the locomotive back and forth, back and forth.

Sophie took another step forward, squatting down beside him. “I am actually rather desperate to find my dear friend Madame Fortier,” she said softly. “I fear she might be in a spot of trouble.”

The frantic movement of the locomotive increased; Ian pressed his lips tightly together and refused to look at Sophie.

“You wouldn’t want Madame Fortier to meet with any unpleasant trouble, would you?”

He shook his head.

“Then might you tell me where they have gone?”

The locomotive paused for a moment as the boy considered her. After a moment, he began to move the locomotive very slowly. “Papa has gone to fetch her.”

Sophie’s heart skipped a beat.
“Where?”
she whispered, putting a hand on Ian’s shoulder.

He reacted strongly to the touch of her hand, jerking away as he began to move the locomotive back and forth with increasing fury. “I won’t tell you!” he said loudly.

Miss Hipplewhite raised her head, craned her neck to see around the furniture. “Lady Sophie?”

“It’s quite all right, Miss Hipplewhite,” Sophie called, and suddenly frantic, slapped her hand down on top of his locomotive, prohibiting its movement.

Ian yelped with surprise, but Sophie ignored him. “All right, then, Master Ian, you have plagued me from the moment we met. I
know
you do not care for me, I
know
you do not want me to marry your papa, and you may trust me in this—you have nothing to fear. I also know that you care very much for Madame Fortier and so do I. I do not know where she is and I am very fearful of what might await her. I am asking you—
begging you
—to tell me if she said
anything
, anything at all when she got in that coach, or if your grandpapa conveyed to you where they might be going!”

The boy struggled to free his locomotive, but Sophie would not allow it and grabbed his wrist.

“Lady Sophie!” Miss Hipplewhite cried from behind her, but Sophie held fast, her gaze boring into Ian’s.

“Where, Ian?” she demanded, aware that Miss Hipplewhite was fleeing the room for help. She had only a matter of moments before she was tossed out on her ear.
“Where?”
she almost shouted.

“I think to home!” he cried, and suddenly yanked his locomotive free of her grasp.

“Home?” she repeated dumbly.

“I don’t know,” he said, and clamped his mouth shut, pushing his toy back and forth again.

Sophie stared at him—was he speaking the truth? Had they gone to Lord Hamilton’s home, wherever that might be, or was the child lying to her?

Ian did not even bother to look up as the butler and a footman rushed into the room ahead of Miss Hipplewhite. One of them grabbed her shoulder, but Sophie was already gaining her feet, and shook him off. “There is no need, sir. I have what I came for,” she announced, and straightening her skirts, caught Ian’s eye once more. “Thank you kindly, Master Ian,” she said pleasantly, and marched from the room, her head held high, refusing to acknowledge the gape of horrified shock from Miss Hipplewhite.

And as she marched down the front steps of the house, she didn’t even wince at the sound of the door being slammed behind her. Let them think her a pariah again, for what did it matter? She had already made up her mind. It couldn’t be too terribly difficult to learn where “home” was, if Ian was telling the truth. Once she did, she’d go fetch Honorine, and they would return to France.

Only this time, it would be forever. Any hope she had of perhaps salvaging her tattered reputation had been permanently impeded by Honorine’s disappearance and her bullying of a seven-year-old child.

She continued on, past
Maison de Fortier
and across Bedford Square, her feet moving ahead of her conscious thought.

As she passed into Regent’s Park, she reminded herself that any hopes of happiness she had harbored were gone, too—smashed by her own insecurities, destroyed by her own supercilious beliefs as to who was acceptable and who was not.

How she regretted that now, she thought miserably as she neared Caleb’s empty house. It was silent—no one had worked on the house for two days now, and Sophie suddenly felt very foolish for coming. He wouldn’t come back, not as long as there was any danger of encountering her nearby. Bloody fabulous—she had destroyed his dreams, too.

She abruptly turned away, forced herself to walk on.

It was her own rotten fault. She had, in a moment of knee-jerk,
haut ton
reaction, dismissed a man she adored above all others as some sort of being beneath her. It sickened her. And what made it particularly revolting was that there was no way to correct it—she couldn’t even apologize.

Her resolve to find Honorine and leave London was overwhelming now. Only this time, she was not running. She was walking away, by choice.

In Cheapside, at a gentleman’s club of second order, Caleb heard the gossip that Trevor Hamilton had gone in search of his missing father. It was rumored that the Frenchwoman had kidnapped the viscount. The men openly discussed her motives, all quickly coming to the conclusion that she meant to harm him by extorting money from him somehow. Perhaps even to cause injury to his person. The discussion bothered Caleb greatly. They certainly did not know Madame Fortier, or that she had almost single-handedly led his father to improvement in spite of Trevor. But neither did he know her, not really. Was she capable of such a crime? It was hard to imagine, but as of two days ago, nothing was as it seemed.

Yet it was the second piece of gossip that truly disturbed him: that Lady Sophie Dane, formerly Lady Stanwood—an emphasis that raised more than one eyebrow—had apparently left on her own search. What Caleb found so disquieting about that was the fear that seemed to overtake him and constrict his breathing in an odd sort of way.

He feared for Sophie.

The fool woman had gone running after Madame Fortier and with Trevor in the apparent state of mind that he was, Caleb could only imagine the potential danger for Sophie. Regardless that she had all but destroyed him, he still loved her. Would go to his grave loving her—he could not scrape that burn from his heart. How very odd, he thought in a detached way, that he still loved her so much he would do anything to see that no harm came to her, including chasing her halfway across England.

The irony of that was almost laughable, he supposed, but nonetheless, with a weary sigh of defeat, he tossed two crowns on the table, strolled out of the club, and headed home to pack a satchel.

On the banks of a gurgling stream, approximately fifteen miles north of the village of Gedling, Honorine spread jam on a thick slab of fresh-baked bread she had purchased in the village and handed it to Will.
“Voilà, mon petit ami.”

“Thank you, darling,” Will said, and taking the bread with his good hand, sank his teeth into it. It was, without a doubt, the most delicious bread he had ever tasted. He smiled at Honorine, then looked up at the azure-blue sky, silently naming the shapes he saw in the clouds, ecstatic that he
knew
the names. A few months ago he had not even known his own name. Since Honorine had come into his life, he was stronger every day, finding words in his brain he had thought lost to him forever, finding strength in his legs, his arms.

It was amazing and humbling, really, this miracle that had come to him by the grace of God.

Beside him, Honorine flopped onto her back on the blanket they had spread and folded her arms behind her head as she gazed up at the sky. “This day, it is
très joli
,” she sighed.

Will nodded, munched his bread. “Not as p-pretty as you, l-love,” he said.

Honorine laughed, ran her hand seductively along his leg, which instantly stirred all the passion he felt for her. “You speak this English better than me!”

He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. She was a true godsend; he had not adored someone so completely since Caleb’s mother more than thirty years ago.

He adored her so completely that he put her hand to his groin, let her feel the hardness there. Her blue eyes sparkled; she came up on one elbow, shaping her hand to the rigid length of him. “Umm … but this love, is it better than me?” she asked low, and suddenly pushed him on his back, coming over him with a gleeful laugh, her smiling face blocking the clouds from his sight.

Chapter Nineteen

L
UCIE
C
OWPLAIN DID
not divulge the information he needed until he pressed ten pounds into her palm.

After that, it had been easy to find Sophie’s trail. Caleb was making good time, given that she had almost a full day’s head start on him.

The village of Stevenage had been the most productive so far. The tavern at which he devoured an unremarkable luncheon was immediately adjacent to the coach station. That station, he had guessed, supplied a steady stream of travelers in and out of the Hawk and Dove on a daily basis. This notion was confirmed by the woman who served the common room patrons, and fortunately for Caleb, she had an excellent memory.

“Oh me, aye, we seen ’em, we did,” she said when asked about Madame Fortier and his father, bobbing her head so eagerly that thin wisps of her hair seemed to float about her face. “Thought it rather odd that the lady was driving. She gave the hostler
five
crowns to care for the horse, and the gent didn’t seem to mind a’tall.”

“Did anyone happen to notice their direction?”

“Oh, north, sir. They all go north from here.” She nodded, started to walk away, but Caleb put his hand on her arm.

“I beg your pardon, madam, but I am also in search of two other people. A gentleman, about my height, perhaps a notch or two shorter, a bit of silver at the temples? A wealthy gentleman—”

The woman grinned with all three of her teeth and wiped her palm on the dirty apron she wore. “Oh
aye
, I remarked him, I did—not many gent through here; a handsome one he was, too. And that coach, Lord! Never seen a coach so fine, not ’ere. Ask Mr. Litton—”

“Yes, I’ve seen the coach,” Caleb interjected wryly. “Headed north I suppose?”

She nodded. “ ’E’ll have a time of it, that fancy coach on
these
roads!” she added with a delighted cackle.

“And lastly,” Caleb said, withdrawing five crowns from his pocket and placing them on the table. “Have you perhaps noticed a woman traveling alone today? She’s quite attractive, perhaps a head shorter than me.” He paused—how exactly did one describe Sophie? How did he capture the spirit within her?

“Aye?” the serving woman prodded as she slipped the five crowns into her pocket.

Caleb cleared his throat, drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. “A woman of slender frame …”—
so slender that she fit perfectly within his embrace … and beneath him
—“… and dark brown hair. And her eyes …”—
bottomless wells of passion
—“… her eyes are dark brown, like chocolate. And … and she has a certain essence about her, a sort of radiance if you will.” He glanced up at the woman. “Do you perhaps recall her?”

Grinning, the woman chuckled low. “Luv, had I seen a woman as you describe, I’d not forget her, I promise you that. But no, I ain’t seen her, not ’ere. She sounds too fine for the likes of this,” she said, gesturing to the common room around her. “Another ale, then?”

“No, thank you.”

She shrugged, adjusted the tray at her hip and wandered off.

At the dry goods shop, Caleb had better luck. He bought a sack of oats for his mount and some hardtack, then inquired after Sophie. The proprietor there remembered her, remarking that she seemed rather prim in selecting two hard candies and some bread and cheese for her journey north. He had thought it odd, he told Caleb as he polished an empty jar, that a woman of her obvious stature was traveling alone, to Nottinghamshire, on a public coach.

To Hamilton House, then.

They were all headed for his father’s estate, to the place where Caleb had once longed to live, longed to be accepted. His father and Madame Fortier may have already reached it, or would in a matter of one or two days. As for Trevor—assuming he knew where they had gone—he could conceivably arrive within twenty-four hours of his father with the viscount’s coach and team of four grays.

Sophie, however, was another matter, particularly given that Caleb wasn’t entirely certain she knew where she was going. Moreover, having availed himself of the public coach system on more than one occasion, he rather thought Sophie would be lucky to reach Hamilton House by the end of the week, and in one piece.

At least there was only one viable road going north, only one that the public coaches would take, and if he rode hard enough, he could conceivably catch her by nightfall.

As he rode out of town, Caleb marveled that he could not recall a time he had been of such single-minded purpose. Even the construction of his house had not consumed him so, in spite of the many hours he had devoted himself to it. That was, he had come to realize, only a diversion, something to occupy his hands and his thoughts, a monument to his success in the rail industry, a symbol to show the world that he was worthy.

But since Sophie had refused him the night of the Fortier ball, the house had left him feeling curiously empty. After two days of brooding over it, he had finally understood why that was so. For all his hard work, it was nothing more than a house. It was not a home, nor would it ever be, not without Sophie, not without her laughter and warmth to fill every room, every corridor. By chance, she had sat across the pond one day, and his life had been changed forevermore. He had begun to believe in life again, had begun to believe that love was possible for a man like him. He had begun to see her in every room of his home, of
their
home.

Now, he would never be able to look at the house in the same way. He rather doubted he’d even be able to live in it. Sophie had scored him deeply with her refusal, had lacerated feelings so old and so deep that he had wondered in the last two days if he might ever recover from it. The rejection had left him feeling heavy and old. Alone. Forsaken.

Yet here he was, chasing like a dog across the English countryside after her.
Why
he felt compelled to do so, he wasn’t entirely certain, other than he vaguely understood, on some remote level, why she had refused him. It did not lessen the sting, did not ease his suffering in the least, and he thought that perhaps he had convinced himself he understood so that it might somehow deaden the pain. Yet the pain remained, nibbling away at the corners of his heart.

So why, then, was he chasing after her?

Because he loved her, adored her so completely that in spite of her rejection, he could not bear to see any harm come to her. It was that simple, that primal.

It wasn’t hard for Sophie to learn where “home” was. Naturally, Lucie Cowplain knew everything about Hamilton House, right down to the fact that Millicent’s cousin’s sister was a maid there and found it excruciatingly tiresome, as there was hardly anything with which to occupy one’s time. Somehow, that did not surprise Sophie in the least.

Having secured herself passage on a public coach, Sophie made herself as comfortable as she could on one hard wooden bench, directly across from an elderly couple who proudly informed her they were on their way to visit their son, a solicitor in Birmingham.

But in Biggleswade, the coach collected a woman and two children, which forced Sophie to squeeze onto the bench with the elderly couple. The two children began bickering immediately, and continued on for the entire journey, seemingly without so much as taking a breath. Their mother attempted, in her near shouting, to silence the two, but she only managed to make them louder. Sophie exchanged more than one look with the elderly couple beside her, who looked as appalled as she felt.

When it became apparent that the two children were determined to make their journey miserable, Sophie settled herself in as best she could and tried diligently to block them, and everything around her, out of her mind. Unfortunately, all her attempts met with dismal failure—if she wasn’t feeling the throbbing at her temples, she could not stop thinking of Caleb. Or her argument with Ann.

She was exhausted beyond reason; her journey had begun on the heels of a terrible row with Fabrice and Roland, who did not want to be left alone in the middle of a hostile
ton
. They wanted to accompany Sophie, but she could not afford the time it would take the three of them to travel. She had finally convinced them to return to France if they must, leave the house to Lucie Cowplain. If and when she found Honorine, she would send word and arrange to meet them in Burgundy, at Château de Segries, the Fortier estate.

Her suggestion had caused Fabrice and Roland to howl with dissent; they all but clung to one another like frightened children, but Sophie had held firm, much to the amusement of Lucie Cowplain. “Ah, go and do what ye must then. I’ll keep an eye on the lassies,” she said with a sardonic smile.

As if that ordeal weren’t enough to send her straight over the edge, she next had a terrible argument with Ann, who discovered her stuffing sundries into a portmanteau, and demanded an explanation.

“I am determined to find Honorine before something horrid happens,” Sophie had flatly informed her older sister.

Ann’s eyes rounded. “I beg your pardon, you mean to do
what
?”

“You heard me. I intend to find Honorine.”

Surprise caused Ann to fall into an armchair. She gaped at Sophie, then at her bag. “It is
unseemly
,” she began, gesturing wildly at the portmanteau. “This
will
not do. All of London will think you have run off with Trevor Hamilton. God, Sophie, can you not see how improper it all will seem? Have you considered what Trevor will think?”

What
Trevor
would think? That was, without a doubt, the final straw. How had they all come to care so much for appearances at the expense of all else? She returned Ann’s glare. “I am sick unto death of caring how everything
appears
to everyone else, Ann! I could not possibly give a whit what Trevor Hamilton will think, much less high society! And I cannot abide another untoward remark on Honorine Fortier’s character—she has done nothing but show her kindness and support to Lord Hamilton when his own son considers him too infirm, and her thanks for that is to be denounced a criminal by all of England!”

“Her behavior has brought this on her! She has taken an ill man from his family without permission—”

“He is not so infirm—”

“He is hardly capable of making his choices, you cannot disagree! But be that as it may, you have your
own
reputation to think of, an offer from a gentleman—”

“I couldn’t
possibly
care less about my reputation! And
you
mustn’t worry about any offer, either, for as I have tried to tell you, I have no intention of marrying Trevor, not now, not ever!”

“Sophie!” Ann had cried with alarm. “You cannot mean that!”

“I can and I
do
!” she responded sharply, slapping the portmanteau closed. “I do not
care
for Trevor Hamilton; I think him a pompous, boring ass!” she continued, ignoring Ann’s gasp. “If you want to know the truth, I am in love with his brother, Caleb. Completely! Thoroughly besotted with him! I have been such a bloody fool about it all—he is a far better man than Trevor, and were it not for the circumstance of his birth, you would think so, too!”

Her admission had shocked Ann into momentary silence. She stood slowly, her gaze unwavering. “No,” she said low. “You cannot possibly mean what you say.”

“I bloody well do.”

“You foolish chit! Have you lost your mind? Do you think these affections are returned, or has the Imposter duped you into believing he loves you so that
he
might have a chance at your fortune?”

The implications of her question stung so deeply that Sophie felt it all the way to her toes. She stared down at the portmanteau, her heart and mind reeling with the hurtful and overwhelming sense of inadequacy and failure in her family’s eyes. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to her sister, saw the genuine concern there, and felt betrayed by it.

“He is not a blackguard.”

“You didn’t think so of William Stanwood, either.”

Sophie struggled not to dissolve into tears, swallowing hard. “I am not a child, Ann. I am a grown woman. Granted, I have made mistakes—but you could at least do me the small courtesy of believing that I have perhaps learned from them instead of treating me like a simpleton. Caleb Hamilton is an honorable man and I love him. And I am so very tired of everyone believing they know what is best for me, because they don’t!
You
don’t! You haven’t the faintest idea who I am, Ann! But I am through pretending, I am quite through trying to be part of the
ton
with all its disingenuous hyperbole and hypocrisy! I cannot remain true to myself, not like this, not in London, and most certainly
not
with Trevor Hamilton!”

“Oh Sophie, how can you do this to us again? To Julian?”

That was the moment Sophie had picked up her portmanteau and walked purposefully to the door. “I did not
do
it to
you
the first time, Ann. I did it to
me
. This is not Julian’s life, it is not your life, it is
mine
. When will you accept that?”

Ann opened her mouth to speak, but Sophie quickly threw up her hand. “Please save your breath. And please don’t worry overmuch—I refused Caleb’s offer for the sake of propriety, just as you would want me to do. Surely that should please you, and by God, I hope it pleases you for years to come, as I have no intention of returning to London or marrying again!”

The declaration had spurred her onward, made her more determined than ever. Ann had, of course, tried to stop her, but Sophie had pushed her sister’s hand from her arm and marched down the stairs. With Ann fast on her heels, she marched past a fretting Fabrice and Roland in the foyer, past a smirking Lucie Cowplain who held the door open for her, and onto Bedford Square, leaving behind Ann’s frantic threats to find Julian before she left.

The public coach came along before Ann could have possibly reached Julian. Sophie was bound for Nottinghamshire and Lord Hamilton’s country estate long before Julian could have learned that she had left everything behind. She regretted that she did not have the opportunity to take her leave of Julian, but she had to go. She could not live the lie that had become her life even one more day.