Julia London 4 Book Bundle (167 page)

Sheriff.
The word rang loudly in Caleb’s consciousness; if he was at Longman’s Gate, it was only a matter of minutes before he would be here, at Hamilton House. They had to leave, had to get out of there straightaway.

Trevor knew it, too. “Aha, at last!” he cried victoriously, and rushed out of the room.

Caleb looked down at his father. As worried as he was for him, he had no doubt that whatever had happened to the viscount would be blamed on Madame Fortier and himself. The sheriff would have them all locked away before nightfall, Sophie too, if only for her association with the two of them. He could not help his father if he were locked away in some gaol, that was certain.

They had to leave.
Now
. Caleb reached for Sophie and pulled her away. “Go.
Run
,” he told her. But Madame Fortier refused to go. She broke free of his grasp when he tried to raise her up and clung to his father. Caleb knelt beside her, put his hands on her shoulders. “We must go,” he said in French. “We will return again, I promise, but now we must flee, for they will certainly put you away, Madame Fortier. And you will not want to be locked away in an English gaol, I assure you.”

“But look at him! How can I leave him? He knows I am here!” She leaned forward. “Will! Will, you tell them,
non
? You remember what to tell the
shérif
! You know this truth! You know of this medicine!” she pleaded with him. “
Remember!
Remember
la médecine
!”

Caleb pulled her up and pushed her toward Sophie, who grabbed her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders as she struggled to lead her sobbing friend away. Caleb paused, grabbed his father’s hand and squeezed it hard, choking back the myriad emotions that threatened to drown him. He felt helpless, incapable of saving any of them, but particularly his father. “I love you,” he whispered. “I’ll come back, Father, I promise you that. Believe me.
Trust
me!”

The viscount lifted his head, fixed his gaze on Caleb. It seemed as if he were trying to speak, trying to tell him something with his eyes, and, much to Caleb’s surprise and horror, a tear slipped from the corner of one eye, landed perfectly on Caleb’s hand.

“Caleb! You must come now!”

The urgency in Sophie’s voice spurred him to move. “I promise,” he said again, and let go of his father’s hand, feeling the tear burn his hand as he hurried to join the women.

They dragged Madame Fortier between them and moved quickly down the corridor, into the foyer where Trevor stood waiting for the sheriff. Darby stood off to one side looking quite miserable. There were also two footmen standing nervously behind Trevor.

Two footmen with guns.

Trevor laughed coldly, pointed a finger directly at Madame Fortier. “Why, you can’t leave now,” he drawled sarcastically. “You haven’t met our sheriff!”

“Tell your men to step aside, Trevor,” Caleb warned.

He laughed at that, then gestured at Sophie. “And you, madam,” he said, “I am rather certain the good Earl Kettering would want his wicked sister returned safely from her latest little foray into the English countryside. How indecorous of you—twice journeyed, twice a whore.”

The rage passed through Caleb so quickly that he scarcely knew what he was doing. Trevor did not see him coming until his fist connected with his jaw. He went down hard on the marble tile; the blow of his head made a sickening sound. Legs apart, fists curled, Caleb waited, waited for him to say one more word against Sophie, but Trevor did not move.

Caleb glanced up at the two footmen. They looked to Darby.

“Let them go,” Darby said quietly.

Caleb did not waste a moment; he hurried the women out the door to where the horses were still tethered. He helped Sophie up first, then a despondent Madame Fortier behind her and, pausing to retrieve his gun from the saddlebag, swung up onto his mount. With a final look at Darby, they rode in the opposite direction of Longman’s Gate, Madame Fortier’s mournful cries drifting in their wake.

From the veil of his lashes, Will watched the two men watching him, knew they spoke of him as if he were dead for all intents and purposes. He probably would have been dead, had it not been for Honorine. But his love had saved him again, had put the words into his muddled brain that he could not seem to remember on his own.

Remember
.

Yes, that was what she had said. Remember the medicine. It had come to him then, clear as a cold winter day. The medicine made him like this; the medicine his son gave him made him a virtual prisoner in his own body. It was horribly frightening; after only a day of it, he could feel the pieces of his mind starting to slip away again, like so many leaves scattered by an autumn wind. And it was maddening—he had come so very close to making all the pieces fit, to solving the little puzzle that had plagued him for weeks now.

The sheriff approached him, leaned down, and eyed him warily. “You’re quite certain he cannot understand what is being said to him?”

“No,” Trevor said with a sad sigh, and gingerly touched his split lip again. “There are moments of lucidity, but for the most part, he cannot distinguish the things around him.”

No, that is not so!
Will knew very well what was going on around him; he just couldn’t remember the words! It was the
medicine
that made him seem so senseless, not his mind!

“Pity, that,” the sheriff said, and straightened, walked back to where Trevor was sitting. “Nasty bump on the back of your head, sir. Would you like me to send for a physician?”

Trevor quickly shook his head. “Please don’t bother yourself. I’ll be quite all right, I assure you. I am infinitely more concerned about the swine who would do this to my family.”

The sheriff nodded solemnly. “You can rest assured that when they are apprehended, they will be brought swiftly to justice.”

“Thank you. I cannot ask for more.”

Will groaned at that; the two men turned and looked at him, the sheriff’s expression curious, Trevor’s more of a panic—so much so that he stood, pressed a hand to his forehead.

The sheriff immediately started for the door. “You should rest, Mr. Hamilton. I’ll see myself out,” he said, and paused. “You mustn’t fret over this ugliness. We’ll be quite diligent in our search, you may depend on it. You need only concern yourself with your father’s care. And your head, of course.”

“Of course,” Trevor nodded feebly, and sank into the settee again. “Thank you kindly,” he muttered, and lifted his hand as the sheriff slipped through the door and closed it softly behind him.

Only then did he lift his head and glare at his father. “Darby let them escape, you know,” he said hotly, and came immediately to his feet, striding toward the drink cart. “He should not have done that!” He poured a whiskey, tossed it down his throat, then turned to stare at his father.

“You mustn’t worry, Papa. That whore will not bother you again.” He poured another drink. “Or that bloody bastard. He
is
a bastard, Papa. There is nothing you can do to change that.”

That remark knifed deeply into Will’s thoughts—there was something there, something standing at the periphery of his memory again, begging entry.
Bastard
 …

Trevor sighed. “I will confess, I am
quite
exhausted. This has been a rather trying day all in all. And I haven’t even decided what to do with Darby.” He drank, contemplated the wall. “He’s been in your employ for years, I know … but he did not help me today when I needed him most, and frankly, I am a little curious why it took the sheriff so long to arrive.”

Not Darby
.

“I should dismiss him. He won’t have it from me, I suppose, but he’d have it from you,” he continued, sipping his whiskey. “Yes, I rather imagine he’d have it from you. The question is merely
how
 …”

Will tried to speak; he managed nothing more than to move his head and his hand, but it was enough to gain Trevor’s attention. His head snapped around; slowly, he lowered the drink glass. “Restless are you?” he said quietly, and strolled away from the drink cart, to the hearth. “It is time for your medicine, Papa.”

He retrieved a small vial from the mantel, then turned, walking back to the drink cart, where he poured a finger of whiskey into a glass. He then emptied the contents of the vial into the drink and turned toward Will again, walking slowly toward him.

“I should call on old Dr. Sibley on the morrow. We’re a bit low on your medicine.” He paused, brushed his hand against Will’s cheek. “Yes, we must fetch you more medicine,” he muttered, and with his hand, lifted Will’s chin, then put the glass to his lips, forcing the whiskey into his mouth. When he had it in, he stood back, watching Will closely.

Will closed his eyes.

It seemed minutes—too long—before he heard Trevor mutter something beneath his breath and quit the room. Slowly, he opened his eyes, looked around the room as far as he could turn his head.

He was alone, he was certain.

Quick
now! Moving as best he could, he shifted in his seat until his head was lolling uncomfortably to one side.

Will parted his lips, let the whiskey burning his mouth fall to the carpet.

Chapter Twenty-Five

T
HEY RODE HARD
for the first hour, putting as much distance between them and Hamilton House as they could before the horses were exhausted. When they were at last convinced that no one was following them, they stopped in a small glen to rest and water the horses and to discuss where they would go.

“We return to
Maison de Hamilton
,” Honorine insisted.

“No,” said Caleb firmly. “We’re no good to him in a parish gaol.”

“Kettering Hall,” Sophie suggested.

Caleb looked at her as if he thought she had lost her mind.

“No one is there,” she said quickly, before he could object. “Julian despises Kettering Hall and Ann never comes, particularly during the Season.”

“It sits empty?” he asked skeptically.

“Not entirely,” she admitted. “There is Miss Brillhart, the housekeeper—she resides there year-round. And of course the groundskeeper. And Cook, perhaps.” Her voice trailed off; she looked off into the distance, struggling to remember who lived at Kettering Hall, her mind inevitably turning to the last time she had been there.

Miss Brillhart.

Sophie had not thought of her in a few years, as her memory of those last days at Kettering Hall was not a pleasant one. It had been the stalwart housekeeper who had watched over her imprisonment after Julian had banished her there. It had been Miss Brillhart who tried to stop her from running away with William Stanwood. Sophie would go to her grave remembering the look of sheer horror on the woman’s face as she and Sir William had ridden away, bound for Gretna Green.

The memory of it made her shiver.

“Sophie?”

Caleb’s voice instantly warmed her, shook her from the past. She looked at him. “Kettering Hall. We’ve nothing to fear and we’ve certainly nothing to lose.”

At least she sincerely hoped not.

He sighed, looked again at Honorine, who was leaning against Sophie’s back, staring morosely at the ground. “I’m not sure we’ve much choice, given Madame Fortier’s current disposition.”

Honorine sniffed, used Sophie’s collar to wipe a tear from one eye. “Leave me,” she said on a sob. “I would walk to my Will.”

“Rather a long walk, that,” Caleb said, and in a slight show of frustration, shook his head. “I suppose we ought to continue on before you actually attempt it.”

“To Kettering Hall, then,” Sophie responded, and spurred her horse on.

They arrived around noon the following day, having been forced by nightfall and sheer fatigue to take a room at a rather shabby inn. Sophie and Honorine shared a very narrow cot; Caleb slept propped up against the wall.

Exhausted and ravenous, they walked the horses down the tree-lined drive leading to the seat of the Kettering earldom, watching the mammoth Georgian mansion rise into view.

The house had the same effect on Sophie that it always had—it was too large, too imposing, and it looked more like a museum than a home. That was because Julian had not made it their home since the death of their sister Valerie years ago. When Valerie died, they had lived in London and abroad, but rarely here, where the memories of his failure to save her had consumed Julian.

Sophie’s memories of Kettering Hall were not any more pleasant. Her mother had died giving birth to her in that house. And even though she had been a very little girl, she could recall the death of her father, could recall particularly the grave demeanor of the adults around her, the black drapes and ribbons on the windows. And then Valerie, of course. Valerie, the kindest of them all, the prettiest, perhaps—or at least in Sophie’s memory, she was—had died in Julian’s arms as he begged her not to go.

How strange it must have been for him—Julian had not been even as old as herself when Valerie had died, yet already he had shouldered the responsibility of raising his sisters for ten years or more. Valerie’s death had been impossible for him to bear, for all of them, really, and even now, as Sophie walked past the family cemetery, the angel rising above the other tombs marking Valerie’s grave was a gruesome reminder of those horrific days.

Kettering Hall had never been the same after that. Certainly the last time she had been here had not improved her opinion of it. That was because Julian had forced her here, against her wishes, because she had been caught in the company of Sir William after Julian had forbade her to see him. He had no choice, he said. He could not trust her. And he had effectively banished her from London.

She had spent several miserable days plotting escape, but Sir William had come for her, had convinced her they should elope, and had stolen her away in full view of the staff and Miss Brillhart.

Would that she had listened to Julian.

As they walked up the drive to the house, she could see it all again, just as it had unfolded that fateful day—Miss Brillhart on these very steps, pleading with her to stay, to think of her family’s name. The two footmen, trying to reach William before she did. The gallop down this very same drive as the servants spilled out onto the front lawn, frantic at what she had done.

She felt Caleb’s hand on the small of her back, his breath on her ear. “Are you quite all right?”

Sophie caught herself, shook off the ancient memories, and forced a smile to her lips. “I-I have never told you about that day,” she said.

He seemed to read her mind, knew exactly what she meant, and tenderly kissed her temple. “It isn’t necessary, my love, unless you want to talk about it. If you prefer not, I will certainly understand.”

She needed to tell him. She needed to confide in someone, unburden her soul with what had happened that day and that night. It was a weight that had pressed down on her for years, smothering her, blocking the light from her heart. The need to say that she had realized her mistake almost the moment she had made it, had understood that the harm was irreparable, had immediately felt the panic, the horror … Sophie closed her eyes, drew a breath. She needed to say it all.

When she could find the courage to
speak
it all aloud. When she could free herself of William, once and for all.

“This place, what is it?” Honorine asked, awakening from her grief.

“My home,” Sophie said softly, and realizing that her return was inevitable, moved forward, to the door. There was no point in avoiding it.

She mounted the steps, faltered at the door, unsure if she should knock like a guest, or reclaim her rightful place here and simply open the door. Fortunately, the decision was made for her when the door swung open and Miss Brillhart filled the opening.

It was her, all right. Her hair was grayer, her arms thicker, and her face broader. But she was the same Miss Brillhart, the housekeeper who had also served at times as governess, even as surrogate mother to the girls for more than twenty years.

She blinked as she focused on Sophie; the flicker of recognition in her eyes sparked a broad smile, and she held out her arms.
“Sophie!”
she cried happily. “Lady Sophie, you have come home!” Before Sophie could even move, Miss Brillhart had wrapped her in a suffocating embrace, squeezing her tightly to her. “Ooh, Lady Sophie, how
good
it is to see you!” she exclaimed, then suddenly let go, held Sophie at an arm’s length. “Oh my, oh
my
, how pretty you are!”

Sophie blushed, tried to push her tangled hair behind one ear, smiling sheepishly. “Miss Brillhart, you flatter me as always.”

“Oh no,
no
, my dear, I speak true! How lovely you are! The Continent certainly agrees with you!” She beamed again, looked past Sophie to Honorine and Caleb, standing below.

“Oh, ah …”
How did she introduce them?
“Miss Brillhart, may I introduce you to Madame Fortier … she is the lady for whom I serve as companion—”

“Ah! Yes, of course! I’ve heard ever so much about you!” she exclaimed, and letting go of Sophie, reached for Honorine.

Looking confused and a bit dazed, Honorine put her hand in Miss Brillhart’s. “They take me from Will,” she announced. “But he is needing me.”

Judging by the wrinkling of her brow, that obviously confused Miss Brillhart. But always the consummate hostess, she merely smiled and nodded. “I see,” she said. “Well then, come in my dear, and we’ll pour you a spot of tea.”

With a weary sigh, Honorine passed her and stepped into the foyer; Sophie saw Miss Brillhart’s double take of the colorful skirts as Honorine passed. She turned a stunned sort of smile to Sophie, then looked to Caleb, still standing in the lawn.

“Ah.” Sophie faltered. “May I introduce Mr. Caleb Hamilton. He is …”
My secret lover. The man I will marry. The bastard son.
What did she say? Something, anyway—Miss Brillhart was watching her closely.
The truth.
Sophie squared her shoulders, looked at Caleb. “He is the man I love, Miss Brillhart.”

Miss Brillhart gasped; she peered at Caleb as he came slowly up the steps, extending his hand. “Miss Brillhart, how do you do?”

She looked at his hand, then at Sophie before taking it. “A … a pleasure, Mr. Hamilton,” she said uncertainly. “Won’t you come in?”

Caleb smiled, put his hand on Sophie’s waist, and pressed her to proceed him. Miss Brillhart eyed him closely as they entered the foyer, as if she half-expected him to produce a horse and whisk her away. But the old girl surprised Sophie; she shut the door, walked to the center of the foyer, and turned to face them. Miss Brillhart looked at them for a long moment before a smile slowly spread across her cheerful face. “You look as if you have had quite a journey. Perhaps Mr. Hamilton would like a whiskey?”

“I would be forever in your debt, madam,” he responded with a grateful smile.

A swell of old, timeless love filled Sophie as she looked at the housekeeper, and she returned her cheerful smile with one of her own. “Thank you, Miss Brillhart. That would be wonderful.”

After they had drunk their tea and whiskey, Miss Brillhart had baths drawn for them. When she discovered that Honorine had no clothes except those which were on her person now, she went immediately to the attic rooms, dug out a trunk that had belonged to Sophie’s mother, and found three gowns from a bygone era. Honorine emerged from her bath somewhat refreshed, wearing a gown with an empire waist and a bodice cut so tight and low that she was practically spilling out of it. The fabric, however, while not particularly colorful, was a pale blue with yellow trim that highly complemented Honorine’s dark hair and blue eyes.

She complained nonetheless that it was drab and
passé
.

Caleb emerged in a pair of buckskin trousers, a lawn shirt, and waistcoat that accentuated his trim waist. His hair was combed back in long waves that brushed his collar. He had never seemed quite as virile as he did then, striding down the corridor of Kettering Hall, a smile on his face.

As for Sophie, well, the clothes she had packed in the small portmanteau were soiled—Miss Brillhart took them and in their place, gave Sophie a plain black skirt and white blouse that buttoned up primly to the throat. Sophie recognized the skirt—it was one she had often worn eight years ago, was so very much like the old Sophie, plain and austere. But without petticoats, the fabric draped her frame; she fastened her hair up in a twist, and left the tiny little row of buttons unfastened from her sternum and up. At least, she tried to console herself, she didn’t look quite the schoolmistress.

It was her idea to prepare a feast. After several days of trailing after Lord Hamilton, she was firmly convinced they needed a respite, a moment in time to feel normal again and replenish their strength. But Caleb was restless; he wanted to move on, before anyone found them there. “Miss Brillhart is bound to send word to Kettering,” he warned her.

“Perhaps,” Sophie shrugged. “But he won’t come tonight. We should rest, Caleb. We should think carefully about what we will do if we are to leave again.”

“Hamilton will have the whole of England looking for her,” he said, fingering the lace of Sophie’s collar. “And me.”

“He’ll not look here, I’d wager. He’ll think we’ve run to Scotland, to your home.”

Caleb nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose you are right. But I don’t like this, sitting idle. It makes us quite vulnerable.”

She smiled, cupped his jaw in her palm, and winked. “We’ll not sit idle, sir, if you take my meaning.”

Gathering her in his arms, Caleb kissed her neck. “You have my rapt attention, madam. You look rather fetching in your prim little costume, but Lord, that glimpse of flesh just there”—he brushed his finger along her chest where she had left her blouse unbuttoned—“is enough to drive a man to great distraction.”

“Indeed?” she asked, and glanced covertly around the corridor as she stroked his thigh suggestively. “I think you are rather distracting yourself, sir,” she said coyly.

Caleb laughed again. “My God, how I love you, Sophie Dane. It doesn’t seem real at times, any of this.”

“It is real,” she assured him. “From the bottom of my heart, it is real, all of it.”

She made him follow her to the kitchens then, before he had her right there, on the carpet. In the kitchen, when he attempted to feel her breast, she made him roll up his sleeves and help her. He was still grumbling good-naturedly when Honorine wandered in, a bottle of French wine in one hand. Sophie did not bother to ask where she might have found it.

Much to Miss Brillhart’s apparent surprise, she found all three of them in the massive kitchen of Kettering Hall, Honorine sitting at the long wooden table in the center of the room, sipping a glass of wine. Caleb stood across from her, with an apron tied around his chest, chopping carrots with all the finesse of a mule. And at the far end of the table stood Sophie, preparing a sauce for the meat roasting on a spit.

“Miss Brillhart,” she called cheerfully. “Will you join us?”

“Oui, oui,”
Honorine said, waving her over. “It is not good to drink the wine alone.”

Miss Brillhart faltered; her pudgy fingers fluttered to her throat. “I … I don’t know if I ought, Lady Sophie. It doesn’t seem right.”