Julia London 4 Book Bundle (150 page)

“What is it?” Sophie exclaimed as she hurried to Honorine’s side.

“I do not know! He begins when this man comes!” she cried, gesturing wildly to where Caleb stood with Trevor.

Sophie looked to Lord Hamilton again; he strained to see around her to where Trevor and Caleb were standing. She went down on her haunches next to the viscount. “Lord Hamilton, is there something I can do?”

He looked at her with clear light brown eyes, but the words would not come. He screwed up his face, strained so greatly that he turned red before spitting out the word “
son
.”

“Trevor,” she said, nodding, but Lord Hamilton reached across his unmoving body and clamped her forearm tightly with his good hand. “N-no, no … 
son
,” he said, his voice stronger, the word clearer.

Confused, Sophie looked up at Honorine, who shrugged helplessly. Lord Hamilton’s grip on her arm tightened painfully and Sophie nodded, tried to pry his fingers from her arm. “Son,” she repeated, nodding.

Lord Hamilton let go.

Sophie exchanged a look with a troubled Honorine. “I shall fetch Hamilton,” she said low, and reluctantly hurried to where Trevor and Caleb were speaking.

Both men turned to her at once, Caleb smiling sympathetically, Trevor frowning.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” she said hastily, “but your father—he seems to be in distress.”

“I shouldn’t wonder that he is,” Caleb said, and stood calmly as Trevor raked a heated gaze over him.

“I’ll thank you to take your leave now, sir. My father’s health cannot tolerate such wild claims as yours,” he snapped, and without waiting for a response, pivoted sharply on his heel and marched away.

Amazingly, Caleb did not seem at all fazed by Trevor’s admonishment. He smiled again at Sophie; she felt the peculiar warmth of it in spite of the strained circumstances, and unthinkingly put a hand to her nape.

“He’s every right to be distressed,” he said calmly, stepping forward. “But I think Father shall be right glad to see me all the same,” he added, more to himself, and began walking to where Lord Hamilton was now standing, his weight balanced precariously on the cane.

Chapter Eight

L
ORD
W
ILL
H
AMILTON,
Viscount, had been known all his life as a man of action and deed. He had lived dangerously in his youth, crossing to the Continent on many occasions and finding himself in questionable situations before his duty as a gentleman, husband, and father obliged him to settle down. In the last few years, he had been living peacefully and quietly in the country with his son Trevor.

He never dreamed he would become a prisoner in his own body.

He could still recall the feeling of it as it came on him one blustery January day—something evil, a demon, an illness of the mind, who knew?—first tingling in his arm, then a tightening of his body …

To be bound, for all intents and purposes, to a wheeled chair was the most humiliating thing he had ever endured, and the worst of it was that he could not seem to make his son understand that was so. His stuttering fell on deaf ears—he never received anything more than a sympathetic smile and a pat on the shoulder from Trevor for all his efforts.

He could not speak as clearly as before, could not remember all the words he needed to explain, but by God, he could think, and he was alive in the shell that was once a man’s body.

How very odd that the only person who seemed to recognize that was a pleasingly peculiar Frenchwoman. Honorine Fortier was a pretty one, he would give her that. Luscious black hair and red lips, a gorgeous smile, the most arresting blue eyes he had ever seen. And when she touched him … well, he was rather ecstatic to learn that not
all
of his body had seized up. Thank God Honorine had burst into his life when she had. The despair had almost killed him,
would
have killed him, perhaps by his own hand, had she not come when she did. Thanks to her, he realized that life was, potentially, still very much worth living.

Not only was it worth living, but he had noted an improvement in his speech and his ability to move since the day she had approached him in the park. Improving, yes, but he was still suffering occasional setbacks, most often at home, most often when he was agitated, like now. It was these moments his entire mind seemed to freeze.

He looked down at Honorine’s hand, so delicate but strong on his. He could see the worry in her eyes as Trevor strode toward them, could see that she believed he was suffering another seizure. It felt as if some invisible vise gripped his heart so tightly that he could not breathe, and the dead side of him began to quiver of its own accord. But all that had evaporated into a monumental struggle to tell her exactly what he must: That the man who followed behind Trevor now was his Caleb, the bastard son he loved above all else.

Trevor pushed past Honorine without even realizing he had done so, his mind a savage chaos of thought and emotion. How
dare
the lying bastard come into their midst! He had already turned him away countless times, sending him from the steps of his father’s home like the scoundrel that he was. He would not allow this man to make his outrageous claims, would not allow him to touch his father’s fortune. Unthinkingly, he grabbed his father’s hand. “Father, listen to me! This bastard would make false claim to you!”

His father glanced at the Frenchwoman; Trevor shook his arm, hard. “Did you hear me, Father! He claims to be your
by-blow
!”

“Papa,” the man said behind him, and Trevor felt the rage boil within. It was so obvious, so blatantly obvious that this man was out to steal a fortune that by all rights belonged to
him
. How could anyone stoop so low as to take advantage of the mere vegetable Will Hamilton was now?

“Papa,” the man said again, and went down on one knee beside the viscount. “Dear God …”

“No!”
Trevor snarled, and pushed him away. “You do not belong, sir!”

But the imposter ignored him, calmly righted himself, and reached again for the viscount’s hand. “What can I do?” he asked the viscount, and by God if he wasn’t able to muster a tear.

“Unhand him,” Trevor said through clenched teeth. “Unhand my father.”

The imposter glanced up at him, his eyes narrowed. “He is my father too, sir.”

“He is
not
your father!” Trevor exploded.
“You are an imposter!”

He merely shook his head and shifted his gaze to the viscount again. “Ask him if you don’t believe me. Ask him who is his son.”

One look at his father and Trevor faltered; the expression on his twisted face was remarkable. It was as if he had understood the bloody bastard … but when he forced out the word
mine
, Trevor felt the world shift beneath him.

The viscount was looking directly at the imposter.

The extraordinary conclusion to the picnic was matched only by the
ton
’s extraordinary ability to spread gossip. It was so astoundingly efficient and swift that it once again took Sophie’s breath away.

She first heard the titillation surrounding the altercation in the park the very next day from the most unlikely source of Lucie Cowplain, who, having ascertained from Honorine that Lord Hamilton himself would be joining them for afternoon tea on Thursday, asked, “Just the old man, then? Or will he be accompanied by any of his sons, legitimate or otherwise?”

“Lucie Cowplain! What in heavens do you think to mean by that?” Sophie had immediately chastised her.

Lucie Cowplain merely shrugged and began her crooked walk out of the morning room. “It ain’t as if it’s a secret. He’s even setting up house just a stone’s throw from the old man.”

Sophie stared at Lucie Cowplain’s retreating back; the mere mention of his house reminded her of the kiss she had shared with Caleb and made her blush like a virgin. She slowly turned her gaze from the door through which Lucie Cowplain had disappeared, and inadvertently looked at Honorine.

Honorine looked back with one brow cocked high above the other.

Sophie unconsciously lifted a hand to her neck and quickly looked down at the table.

“Umm,”
was all Honorine said. But it was enough.

Sophie stood abruptly and looked at the door. “I’ve some correspondence I must finish,” she muttered, and quickened her step at the sound of Honorine’s quiet chuckle.

As there really was no correspondence, and she was in desperate need of something to occupy her time and her hands, she made her way to the kitchen, and finding it deserted, rooted about until she found a large porcelain bowl, some flour, a few eggs, and some freshly churned butter. Without having any idea of what she might do with it all, Sophie donned an apron, pushed up the sleeves of her morning dress, and dumped the flour into the bowl.

She was pulling the first batch of fig tartlets from the oven when Ann found her. “I thought you’d gone out!” she exclaimed, pausing to look around as if seeing the kitchen for the first time. “What on earth are you
doing
?”

“Baking fig tartlets.”

Ann looked at the tartlets as if she were surprised to see they actually came from a kitchen. She blinked, looked at Sophie again. “Well then?” she asked breathlessly, the tartlets apparently forgotten. “Is it true what they say? The imposter showed himself at your picnic yesterday?”

Sophie nodded.

The sparkle in Ann’s eyes was instantaneous. “I had it from Lady Paddington directly, just this morning! Do tell! It’s all
so
titillating!”

Her zeal was a little unnerving; Sophie gave her the briefest sketch of what had occurred in Regent’s Park yesterday.

When she had finished, Ann sank onto a stool, picked up a tartlet, and munched thoughtfully. “Lady Paddington believes his claim to be true, you know.”

Now Ann had Sophie’s undivided attention. “Does she?” she asked anxiously, trying very hard to appear nonchalant.

Ann nodded, went on to say that Lady Paddington—who, by all accounts, was the chief purveyor of gossip among the
ton
—believed Lord Hamilton to be rather attached to his illegitimate son and had desired to leave a sizable portion of his estate to him.

“Indeed?” asked a skeptical Sophie. “Lord Hamilton confided all this in her?”

Ann shrugged, helped herself to another tartlet. “I suppose. She has called the viscount friend for many years now.”

“But what of Trevor?”

“I don’t rightly know. But I rather imagine Lord Hamilton has quite enough to provide rather handsomely for all his offspring.”

“Oh really, Ann,” Sophie said, laughing. “How could you possibly know such things?”

Her sister’s spine stiffened. “I know such
things
,” she said indignantly, “because I
listen
. But enough of that! Come on then, tell me everything about Trevor Hamilton! Did he say anything to indicate his feelings? Anything a’tall?”

Sophie tried to bite back the truth, but Ann saw the evidence of it on her face. With a squeal of delight, she lunged across the table and grabbed Sophie’s arms, jostling her in her enthusiasm. “Ooh, but this is
marvelous
! Sophie, Sophie, do you realize what this means? We had so hoped and oh Lord, how we
prayed
you would be accepted! This is more than we even dared
dream
!”

More than they dared dream? Putting aside, for the moment, that her family was apparently quite mortified that she might remain on the shelf all her natural days, Sophie wasn’t entirely certain there was anything to
“dare dream”
just yet. And she could not help her laughter as Ann began to regale her with how wonderful life would be as a Hamilton, wondering what her proper older sister might think if she knew it was Caleb Hamilton who invaded her mind’s eye as she spoke, not Trevor, or Caleb Hamilton who had melted her all over the floor of the house he was building with a single kiss. Or that Caleb Hamilton was the subject of her wanton, risqué dreams, he who filled her every waking moment, particularly since the extraordinary events of yesterday. There was something about the way he had looked at Lord Hamilton, something poignant in his expression that made Sophie believe he was telling the truth—he
was
Lord Hamilton’s son.

It was that image that filled her mind long after Ann had taken her leave and long after she had finished making more than four dozen fig tartlets.

There had been quite a lot of figs.

Standing in the dressing room of her suite later, she surveyed her wardrobe, wishing that she possessed a gown in some bright color. Claudia was right—she could stand to add some color to her wardrobe.
Any
color. Her clothing reminded her of her life—drab and dull. But in the last few weeks, something different was fluttering to life within her, desperate for release. It was as if her blood had started to flow again, stirring feelings that had been dead for so long that she hardly recognized them.

And those feelings required color.

The best that she had at the moment, however, was a rose-colored gown devoid of any ornamentation. Making a mental note to see a modiste straightaway, Sophie donned the thing. She then critically assessed her few bonnets. Very practical. Very nondescript. Honestly, her bonnets were as tediously uninteresting as her gowns. She might as well walk about wearing a box on her head.

None of them would do.

Her next thought was so astounding that she wondered briefly if she shouldn’t send for a physician, but marched out of her dressing room nonetheless, turned right in the corridor, and proceeded purposefully to the far end, to Honorine’s suite of rooms.

She paused at the door.

No. This could not be right. She was anxious, all right, but was she insane? Had she gone so far round the bend she would actually consider … 
bloody hell.
Sophie shoved open Honorine’s door with gusto.

A half-hour later, with the tamest of Honorine’s bonnets tucked securely beneath her arm, Sophie descended to the main foyer. She knew a moment of panic when she saw Fabrice there, holding an umbrella as he struck various poses in front of the large mirror, in spite of the day being brilliantly sunny and blue. This felt dangerously familiar, as if she were sneaking about when she knew she should not. Well she
was
sneaking about, not unlike she had eight years ago in her frantic efforts to meet William Stanwood in some clandestine place. But this was different. This time, she at least knew how to go about it, she thought with a wry smile—but more than that, she was not the naive young girl she was then. This time, she knew what she was doing … she was almost 95 percent certain that she did.

Drawing a deep breath and holding it, Sophie sailed right past Fabrice, calling out a cheerful
“Good day!”
Fabrice was too quick for her, however, and whipped around, immediately spotting the bonnet. Sophie sprinted for the portico landing, ignoring his warning that the bonnet was not the appropriate color for her gown, and she kept walking, right through the gates of the house, not stopping until she was in Bedford Square, where she paused to don the thing.

One look at the bonnet and the enormous blue flower it sported made Sophie wrinkle her nose and fit it firmly on her head. She spent a few moments trying to adjust the overly large flower, but impatience made her leave it to flop about as she continued her march across Bedford Square, her only worry now, of course, that Caleb would not come, proving, once and for all, that she was indeed a fool.