Julia London 4 Book Bundle (170 page)

Yet it was impossible for even Sophie to conceive of a formal wedding, much less a feast, with their worry about Lord Hamilton weighing on them. Miss Brillhart did the best she could for them in that regard, plotting a meal appropriate to the occasion when no more than a handful would attend.

It seemed to Caleb that they all waited for disaster. It was hard to add a wedding to the feeling of doom, yet he could hardly continue on with their secret love affair. It was imperative that he honor Sophie, and soon. Nonetheless, there were moments, though infrequent, that he rather wondered if he was doing the right thing. But then he need only look at Sophie and know how devastatingly true his feelings were. There was nothing that could compare to the depth of passion he felt for her. At night, when they made love, her natural, heartfelt response shattered him. In the course of their day, the touch of her hand, the whisper of her lips against his skin made him long for her with the force of ten thousand men.

He loved everything about her—the way she watched over Honorine, or seemed to let class distinctions melt away and embrace Miss Brillhart as a true friend. Her periods of reflection, when he would see her looking pensively at the fire, no doubt considering the various facets of her life as it had evolved. She was thoughtful and considerate, kind and loving, and secretly, he could hardly wait for the moment she would put her hand in his, take the plain gold band that had been his mother’s, and become his wife, his companion, his love for the rest of his life.

Nothing could douse the sense of wonder he felt when he was with her, not even the nagging concern for his father’s welfare. But he continued to bemoan the fact that his father would not be in attendance, that he would marry with his father perhaps in imminent danger.

Unfortunately, there was no news by the end of the week.

Miss Brillhart and Caleb fretted equally on this point. Together, they reviewed the time it would take to reach the parish in which Hamilton House sat. Miss Brillhart was convinced the constable had met with some misfortune. Caleb wondered if he hadn’t simply taken another route to combine other business with this. But they both agreed—if the constable had not returned by their wedding day, something must be very wrong.

Caleb discussed that with Sophie and they decided that if the constable had not returned by the time they were wed, they would return once again to Nottinghamshire. It was risky, but far too important. They figured that between his insistence and Sophie’s name, which wielded considerable authority in many parts of England, the parish sheriff there would not refuse to see after Lord Hamilton’s welfare. Further, it was Honorine they wanted, not Caleb. If she remained at Kettering Hall, Caleb believed he had a decent chance of seeing his father, if even for the last time.

That was a persistent worry. He knew Trevor would continue to accuse him of attempting to swindle his father, and while there was no evidence to support such a claim, there was certainly the preponderance of such an assumption based solely on the fact that he was the bastard son. There was nothing he could do to change the way society viewed him, nothing at all.

Which was why he and Sophie had determined they would reside in France. It meant leaving his budding rail endeavors behind, of course, but there was no hope that the two of them would be accepted anywhere within the British Isles. In France, at least, no one need know who they were, much less their histories.

“The work on the rails is only starting there,” he said one night as they lay in each other’s arms, watching the fire turn to embers. “Perhaps this is a good opportunity.”

“What of the house in Regent’s Park?” she asked, tracing a pattern on his bare chest.

What
of
the house into which he had put so much of himself? It seemed so distant now, something of a pipe dream he had once held dear. “I’ll keep it, I suppose. Perhaps one day, we will feel free to come to London.”

Sophie frowned lightly. “I rather think we will not,” she said sadly.

Caleb stroked her hair, said nothing. In truth, he had no idea what they might expect. He had seen enough of the
ton
’s antics to know that it was probable her family would never openly accept her in their fold again. Still, it seemed impossible to him that anyone who knew Sophie could possibly turn his back on her, regardless of what perceived injustice she might have done.

“I could perhaps open a patisserie,” she said idly.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, surprised.

“A patisserie. We could live above it.” She lifted her lashes to look at him and smiled. “Would you like that, Mr. Hamilton? Living above a patisserie?”

He laughed. “And what of you? I should think an apartment above a patisserie is quite a step down from the accommodations to which you are accustomed.”

Sophie shrugged, looked at the fire. “If you are there, I cannot imagine what possible difference the rooms will make, Caleb. You are what makes my life meaningful, not the trappings of it.”

Ah God, he loved this woman. He kissed the top of her head, but not satisfied with that, pulled her up and kissed her lips. Sophie moved, straddling him as she lifted her bedclothes to her waist, pressing her naked flesh against him. “I would that I could crawl right inside you and live there,” she murmured.

“You already do, my love,” he said as her mouth came hungrily over his, devouring him until he knew nothing but the feel of her body surrounding his.

It was midnight at Hamilton House, and Will was feeling almost his old self again. He was moving better than he had in months, and with Darby’s considerable help, had remembered almost everything.

Not the least of which was the root of Trevor’s perfidy.

Will stood, his bad arm folded over his good, nodding thoughtfully as he and Darby discussed his memories. “I remember, of c-course. He l-left me no choice. I had to th-think of Ian.”

“Of course you did, my lord,” Darby said.

“He has l-lost—” A sound beyond his door stopped Will. He cocked his head, listening carefully. Very slowly, Darby stood, straining to hear, too. They waited for a moment, and hearing nothing, Will shrugged. “M-my imagination,” he said sheepishly.

He never heard Darby’s response because Trevor came crashing through his door at that very moment. The intrusion startled Will badly, but miraculously, he managed to keep his feet. Darby was at once in front of him, but Will pushed him aside and took a solid step forward to face his son.

“Well, well, aren’t we a cozy pair?” Trevor snarled. His shirttails out and a dirty neckcloth hanging untied around his neck, he stumbled farther into the room. An almost empty bottle dangled from the fingers of one hand; he reeked of whiskey. “I should have known,” he said acidly to Darby. “You are nothing more than a weasel!”

“Trevor!” Will said sharply.

That caught his attention, and Trevor shifted his murderous gaze to his father. “You should be abed, Father. You are ill,” he said, swaying slightly.

“You’ll not d-drug m-me again,” Will said tightly.

That seemed to surprise him. He blinked, took one step back, and looked nervously at Darby. “Drug you?” His bark of laughter was high and hollow. “Whatever do you mean? You are not well—”

“It is you who are n-not well, son,” Will said low. “I k-know what you have d-done. I know you have b-been stealing from m-me.”

The color drained from Trevor’s face; he dropped the whiskey bottle. “I’ve done no such thing!” he shouted, and looked wildly from Darby to his father before making a sudden movement toward Will.

Darby reacted quickly, throwing himself at Trevor and knocking him off balance. “If you touch him, sir, I shall have a host of footmen here to restrain you!”

The look of panic in Trevor’s eyes as he backed away told Will more than he had known in months. It was all true, all his suspicions, all his fears. Even though he had finally remembered most of it, a part of him desperately wanted to be wrong, but looking at his son now, he could no longer cling to that thread of hope, and felt his heart slowly tearing in two. He sighed wearily, put a hand on Darby’s shoulder. “Its all right, D-Darby. He will n-not harm me.”

Darby did not look terribly convinced, but reluctantly stepped aside. Will looked at his son, wondered again how it had come to this. “I remember n-now,” he said to his son. “H-how you f-forced m-me to sign the banknotes. How you signed m-many yourself.”

Trevor blinked, raked a shaking hand through his disheveled hair, and tried to laugh. “Father! What is this nonsense Darby has been feeding you? Of
course
I did no such thing! Why, you accuse me of stealing!” he said with feigned indignation.

“You d-did,” said Will calmly. “Your g-gambling has l-led you to steal, son.”

Trevor stared at Will as if he could not quite grasp what he was saying. Several emotions seemed to pass over his face, and slowly, his lip curled in a sneer. “My
gambling
led me to steal?” he asked, then laughed coldly. “No, Father,
you
led me to steal! You left it all to that bloody bastard of yours! What was I to do? It was rightfully mine,
not
his!” he said, his voice growing louder. “If there is anyone to blame here, it is you!
You
are the reason I have come to this! You did this to me!” he shouted, red-faced.

Will regarded his son, whose eyes were shimmering with tears of his utter fury, and yes, he
did
blame himself. He wondered again what he might have done to change things, yet he could find nothing at that moment but a deep, deep regret. “I d-do blame m-myself, son,” he said softly. “M-more than you know. N-nonetheless, you have stolen from m-me.”

“We have sent for the sheriff, sir,” Darby said stiffly. “He will arrive on the morrow.”

Trevor’s expression slipped from furious to despairing, and he glanced helplessly at the carpet. “The sheriff?” he asked, sounding like a boy. “But what shall I do?”

“You shall b-be a m-man,” Will told him. “You will f-face your d-deeds like a m-man.”

Nodding, Trevor sniffed loudly, ran the back of his hand across his nose, and looked up at his father. “At least allow me to know why, Papa. Please tell me why you left it all to him and forsook me?”

There was nothing Will could say that would ever make Trevor understand. He scarcely understood it himself. On the surface, it seemed simple. He loved Caleb and he despised the man standing before him now. Sadly, it had been that way for as far back as he could remember. “I had to th-think of Ian,” he said simply. “You w-would have g-gambled his f-future.”

Trevor said nothing. He stared at the carpet for a moment, then went down on his haunches and retrieved the whiskey bottle. Slowly, he stood, and lifted a desperate gaze to Will. “Father, please,” he said hoarsely. “A moneylender has threatened my life. If you give me but five thousand pounds, I will leave here and never return. He will see me dead, I know he shall, if I don’t give him the money.
Please
, Father!” he said, his desperation clearly evident.

Will’s heart was in his throat. “On the morrow, son. We’ll determine what must be done on the morrow.”

Trevor’s cheeks bulged with the exertion of his desperation, but he merely nodded. “On the morrow, then,” he said, resigned, and turned, walking unsteadily from the room.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

T
HERE WAS QUITE
a stir the evening before Caleb and Sophie’s wedding day when a very nondescript carriage pulled up to Kettering Hall.

Honorine, from her perch at the window seat, where she had spent every evening staring wistfully into the dusk, abruptly came to her feet.
“Mon Dieu!”
she exclaimed, and before anyone could speak, was suddenly rushing for the door of the salon. Caleb and Sophie exchanged a look; Caleb quickly stood and went to the window, but Sophie ran after Honorine.

She reached the front door of Kettering Hall just in time to see the door of the carriage swing open with a bang and Fabrice come spilling out. He landed awkwardly, then turned and shouted up in heated French at a very slow Roland, who stepped gingerly out of the carriage, then paused to smooth the wrinkles from trousers identical to those Fabrice wore.

“Ah,
mes amis
!” Honorine shrieked. “You see? They can go nowhere without me!” she cried, and rushed toward the two men with her arms wide, as they stood arguing, oblivious to Honorine.

“Oh dear,” Sophie muttered as Caleb appeared at her side. “Oh
dear
,” she said again, and flashed a delighted smile at him as Lucie Cowplain emerged and immediately began marching crookedly toward Sophie, demanding to know where the wedding would be held, as she had brought wedding cakes all the way from London.

Sophie and Caleb spent the remainder of that evening with Lucie Cowplain in the kitchens while Honorine spent the evening in the attic with Fabrice and Roland, who, having learned of the plans for the wedding, insisted that they, too, be dressed in costume.

Exhausted, Sophie retired alone that night, sending Caleb off to his room with a kiss that promised their future.

Their wedding day dawned bright and clear, and Sophie smiled at the notion that it was only a matter of a few hours before she would be forever known as Mrs. Hamilton.

She loved the sound of that name, Sophie Hamilton. She imagined it on documents as she dressed, painted in the corner of the window of her patisserie in small, neat letters.

Miss Brillhart, already wearing her old gown of dark red velvet and wide panniers, came to Sophie’s suite of rooms to help her dress. They chatted like old friends as she helped Sophie into the tight-fitting corset and quilted gold petticoat. The petticoat was then covered with a dark green overskirt, embroidered in gold. Miss Brillhart strained to lace the bodice—it fit Sophie like a glove, molding her breasts into a mound of flesh rising just above the garment’s very low neck. She paused to admire her work, taking care to fluff the flounced sleeves of Sophie’s costume just so, and at last she stood back, admiring her. “Beautiful, my lady. You are truly a beautiful bride.”

Sophie blushed, nervously tied the forest-green velvet ribbon around her neck. “I confess, I never thought I would hear anyone say so.”

“You’ve changed,” Miss Brillhart said solemnly. “So graceful and pretty. Mr. Hamilton, he is a very fortunate man.”

Sophie smiled, donned the tiny teardrop emerald earrings that had been her mother’s, and turned to look at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t help but laugh—she had never imagined herself in such a dress on her wedding day, but given what they had all endured the last several weeks, the almost surreal effect seemed terribly appropriate.

When she and Miss Brillhart emerged on the back terrace, they could see that all the guests—Honorine, the groundsman and his wife, two footmen, and naturally, Fabrice and Roland dressed almost identically—had already gathered in appropriate costume. Fabrice and Roland had even gone to the trouble of powdering their hair. The only one who looked out of place was the young pastor, who actually looked a little stunned by his surroundings and, most definitely, by Fabrice and Roland.

Caleb looked magnificent in his gold coat, dark brown trousers, and embroidered waistcoat. He had even, after much complaining through the week, donned the high-heeled shoes and pulled his wavy hair into a queue. Sophie had to struggle to keep from running headlong at him, flinging herself into his arms to assure herself that she was indeed about to marry the man who stood so handsome before her.

Honorine assured her it was real by walking up on the terrace so that she might accompany her down to the gazebo, looking more like her old self than she had in days, with a dress of blue and purple and a red quilted petticoat. As she approached, Sophie noticed a sheen of tears in her eyes.

“Ooh, Honorine!” she exclaimed, reaching for her hand. “You mustn’t be sad!”

“I wish for my Will to come, but this does not make me sad,” she said, shaking her head and smiling affectionately. “This peanut, it is now a coconut,” she said, tapping Sophie’s chest above her heart. “I am this day very happy.
Very
happy.”

“So am I,” Sophie said, and linked her arm through Honorine’s. Together, they followed Miss Brillhart to the gazebo.

But as they stepped onto the lawn below the terrace, the sound of an approaching carriage drew them up short. Sophie and Honorine paused, holding unconsciously to one another as they watched the carriage thunder down the long tree-lined drive.

A feeling of sick dread instantly filled Sophie. She knew that carriage—it was as if her life were repeating itself, and she could do nothing but stand dumbly, her knees weakening, as the carriage came to a sharp halt in the circular drive.

Caleb was instantly at her side, his expression grim. “You know who this is.” It was more of a statement than a question; he knew, too, she realized, as he grasped her hand and held it tightly.

“I know,” she murmured and watched as Julian vaulted from the carriage. He gave her a pointed look as he held his hand up to receive Claudia, then Ann, who was followed by her husband, Victor.

“I’ll speak with him, Sophie. I’ll not allow him to ruin this day,” Caleb said quickly. “We
will
be married.”

“He can’t stop me, can he?” she asked uncertainly as Julian came striding forward.

Caleb did not have the opportunity to respond, because Julian was already there—he grabbed her by the arms, jerked her into his embrace, and squeezed her tightly. “How dare you, Sophie?” he demanded. “How dare you attempt to marry without me?” He reared back at that, frowning, then kissed her cheek. “Silly girl, I ought to turn you over my knee, I really ought. Exactly who did you think to give you away? Am I to be robbed of the honor?”

Stunned, Sophie and Caleb looked at one another.

Julian dropped his arms from her, punched his fists to his hips, and eyed Caleb up and down, shaking his head disapprovingly. But when he looked at Sophie again, he was trying to hide his smile. “I can hardly say that I approve of his dress—he’s in desperate need of a tailor. But I suppose it will have to do as there doesn’t appear time to correct it.”

Sophie gaped at her brother, speechless. Of all the reactions she had imagined,
this
had most certainly not been one of them.

“Oh dear, please do not stand there like you’ve no idea who I am,” he said, straightening the cuffs of his shirt. “At least introduce me to my new brother-in-law, will you?”

“And me!
I
should have been introduced ages ago!” Ann complained, stepping forward to slip her arm around Sophie’s shoulders. “Naturally, I can see why you might have been a bit reluctant to do just that, given how adamantly I tried to push you in the other direction.”

Sophie’s vision was suddenly blurry; she reached for Ann’s hand, then Julian’s. “You aren’t angry.”

That earned a
hmmph
from Ann, but Julian chuckled. “I wouldn’t go so far as all that. I
am
angry that you thought to do this without us. And I suppose I am a bit angry that you obviously believed you could not come to me. A bit angry, mind you, but I rather suppose I do understand it. That does not, however, excuse you, not at all, for thinking you might traipse through this day without
me
.” He paused then, his expression softening as Claudia slipped in beside him and put her arm around his waist. “I love you, pumpkin. All I ever wanted was your happiness, nothing more, and if I failed to make you understand that, then I am terribly sorry. You are right—you are a woman and this is your decision. I will not attempt to lecture you and tell you what the two of you will face—you know it better than I, certainly. I only want to share in your joy.”

“As do I,” said Ann. “I was wrong to have tried to arrange your life, wasn’t I? Yet I must still insist on being introduced!”

It was more than she could have hoped, more than she had dared dream. With a cry of joyous relief, Sophie threw herself into her brother’s arms.

He laughed, rubbed his hand soothingly on her back. “Come now, pumpkin. There will be ample opportunity for wailing when the ceremony begins.” Gently, he took her shoulders and set her away from him, toward Caleb.

“Oh really, Sophie, you might at least have said what the dress would be,” sniffed Claudia. “I feel woefully inappropriate!”

Sophie laughed shakily, took Caleb’s hand in her own, and drew him close to her. “Please allow me to introduce you to the man who will be my husband. Mr. Caleb Hamilton.”

And as her family closed around him, greeting him, assessing him, Sophie caught Julian’s eye and smiled. He returned that smile, the pride evident in his eyes, and it was in that moment that Sophie finally realized she was one of them, that they did not see her as a child any longer. She had, at long last, come into her own.

The ceremony was mercifully short, and the feast afterward surprisingly sumptuous. They enjoyed an apparently bottomless well of wine, and between Sophie and Lucie Cowplain, there was so much cake that more than one complained of being in desperate need of a place to just lie down for a time.

As dusk crept in and the rushlights were lit, Caleb surprised Sophie with a fiddler he had managed to find in the village. Much to the surprise and delight of her family, the dancing started with Sophie and Caleb leading the Scottish jig they had danced to in St. Neots. It wasn’t long before everyone was up and kicking their heels in time of the fiddler’s tune, Claudia bouncing about as if she carried a rubber ball instead of a baby, Victor complaining mightily, and Julian nearly laughing himself unto death when Ann kicked her husband in the shin.

Sophie was blissfully happy. She loved to see her family enjoying themselves outside the salons of London, but she could not take her eyes from Caleb, or he from her. She could feel his eyes on her every move, feel them boring down into the deepest part of her. And she sensed that he, like her, was growing impatient with the festivities, wanting the night to end so they could retire for the first time as husband and wife.

And they were getting ready to do just that when Roland noticed a rider galloping up the drive.

The festivity stopped; everyone turned expectantly toward the rider, Caleb and Julian striding forward. As the rider came into their midst, Honorine rushed forward, too, pushing past Caleb and Julian. Miss Brillhart was close behind, her hands clasped tightly at her chest as she looked up at the constable.

“I’ve come from Nottinghamshire,” he announced, his eyes on Miss Brillhart, and dug into his coat pocket. “I’ve a message for Madame Fortier.” Honorine lurched forward and snatched the grimy parchment from his hand. Without hesitation, she ripped it open, scanned the contents, then looked around for Sophie, her face a wreath of smiles.

“It is
him
!” she cried happily. “My Will, he has sent for me!”

Will Hamilton was a little surprised to see two carriages rumbling around the circular drive. He had, of course, believed Lady Sophie would accompany Honorine, and, he had hoped, Caleb. Surely that required only one carriage.

Honorine practically launched herself from the first coach, flying up the steps to him in a gown that was astoundingly provincial for her, and flinging herself into his arms, nearly toppling him over in spite of his cane. Her kisses rained on his face, mixing with her tears.

“Honor,” he said laughing, “I am f-fine. I am v-very well indeed.”

“I have missed you!” she cried into his collar. “I thought I was never to see your face anymore.”

He laughed, squeezed her tightly. “I could n-not be long without my Honor,” he said. She closed her pretty blue eyes; tears spilled from the corners. He slipped one hand around her waist and held her to him as he looked to where the others were on the drive. Fabrice and Roland were here, two men whose names he knew very well—it was their relationship to Honorine that baffled him.

But where was Caleb?
After all that had happened, he desperately needed to see his son, to touch him.

There.
Caleb emerged from the second carriage, pausing to help Lady Sophie step down. He turned then, his eyes on his father, and Will could see the relief wash over him as he came striding forward, pulling Lady Sophie along with him. The Earl of Kettering was right behind them, but what
he
was doing in the midst of all this was a mystery to Will.

Caleb dropped Lady Sophie’s hand at the bottom of the steps and took them two at a time until he was standing eye to eye with Will. Honorine stepped away with a smile. “You see, Caleb? He is now well!” she exclaimed.

“I see,” he said quietly, his eyes misting. “I had not dared hope for it. How—but where is—”

Will held up his hand. “I’ve m-much to tell you, with D-Darby’s help.” He inclined his head, indicating his loyal butler who stood patiently to one side.

Darby bowed perfunctorily, then gestured toward the door. “If you please, sir, his lordship would receive you in the salon,” and looking at the others, added, “All of you.”

Caleb’s apprehension and curiosity were clearly evident—he looked at his father inquisitively, but abided by Will’s wishes, and motioned for Lady Sophie to join him. Will could not help noticing how she slipped her hand into his as if she had done it a thousand times before, and wondered if there was more to their relationship than he could remember.