Julia London 4 Book Bundle (84 page)

Frowning, Julian glanced at his manuscript. “Oh? And how did you find her?”

Having already trod upon forbidden ground, she had nothing to lose now. “Wretchedly unhappy,” she said softly.

Julian’s frown deepened; he removed his eyeglasses, and closing his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. “Yes, well, unfortunately, that is her own doing.”

“There must be something we can do,” Claudia continued carefully. “Surely there must be grounds for a separation of some sort.”

Julian gave her a piercing look. “You know as well as I that their union is impossible to dissolve if Stanwood is unwilling.”

“But he is cruel to her. He corrects her constantly and keeps her confined in that house.”

“All rights afforded to him by the law!” Julian responded sharply, growing visibly angry.

Deep breaths
, she reminded herself. “She could sue for divorce. It’s been done before.”

“On what grounds?” He came abruptly out of his chair, stalked to the hearth. “Insanity? Impotence?

Sodomy?” Claudia gasped, but Julian continued, “Do you honestly think I haven’t considered it before now? There is no
reason!
She chose him! She cannot
unchoose
him because she has discovered they do not suit, and I, for one, hardly know if that is true! Perhaps she has confided in you, Claudia, but she tells me very little other than she is getting along
swimmingly
.”

The raw anger unnerved her, and gripping the arms of the chair in which she sat to keep from shaking like a coward, Claudia stubbornly continued. “There is cruelty. She could sue on the grounds of cruelty.”

Julian suddenly braced his arms against the mantel and dropped his head between his shoulders. “Do you even know what that means?” he asked hoarsely. “It would require evidence of physical violence to her person. I’ll grant you that Stanwood is a cur, but there is no evidence he hits her. And if he does, there is no evidence that it is any more than routine
discipline
.”

“Routine discipline?” she gasped, wildly affronted by the implication it was all right to beat a wife into submission.

With a groan, Julian tossed his head back and stared at the ceiling. “I do not
condone
it, Claudia! It is an ugly truth, but hitting one’s wife does not constitute violence in the eyes of the law!”

Dear God, if only she could tell him the truth
. Claudia bowed her head, struggling to keep Sophie’s confidence, remembering her frantic promise to her. When she lifted her head, she flinched—Julian was staring hard at her, trying to read her thoughts. “There is no evidence of violence … is there, Claudia?” he asked quietly.

A million thoughts crowded her mind. “No.”
Dear God, how easily the lie rolled off her tongue
. She instantly dropped her gaze to the arm of the chair, fidgeting with the embroidery of the upholstery. “But if there were, would you do it? I mean, would you help her to seek a divorce?”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Julian moved restlessly
to the window. “Divorce,” he said simply, as if testing the word in his mouth.

“Is it the scandal that gives you pause?” she anxiously interjected—too anxiously—he shot her a curious glance over his shoulder.

“I would not
welcome
scandal, by any means,” he said. “My father’s good name has withstood enough in the last six months. Have you any idea what would befall Sophie if she sought divorce? Even if she had legal reason to seek it, her life would be ruined. No gentleman would have her—
no
gentleman. She would be forced to live tucked away in my house like a diseased relative. No children. No friends to speak of, as no lady would consort with a divorcée. She would not be able to go out into society a’tall. What sort of life is that?”

“A far cry better than what she has now,” Claudia muttered.

“God help her, then, Claudia,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “God help us all, because that girl knew what she was doing the moment she rode off with him. She made her choice, good or bad, and now she must live with the consequence.” With that, he moved restlessly to the door. “I’ve some work to do,” he mumbled, and quit the room before she could say more.

But his words remained with her. Staring into the flames of the fire, unseeing, Claudia struggled with her decision. He would not help Sophie; he had resigned himself to her fate, perhaps thought she was getting what she deserved for her impetuosity. It was galling that if Sophie had been a young man and made this very same mistake, everything would be different. The whole ugly matter would be neatly resolved with separate houses and perhaps the occasional joint appearance at holidays for the sake of propriety. But as a woman, she would give her life for it, and there was nothing in between. The world would not forgive Sophie Dane her mistake.

William was irate.

Sophie watched him from beneath half-closed lids as he ranted about the missing purse and the forty pounds that were in it. Forty pounds that he would lose at the horse races on the morrow. “I haven’t time to go to the bank now!” he shouted at her. “The mail coach departs at one o’clock!”

“You had best hurry along, then,” Sophie suggested.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” he snapped. “What of that maid of yours? Where was
she
last evening?”

Her heart skipped a beat. “She had a free day, my lord. Her mother is quite ill, and she was caring for her,” she lied.

“The kitchen boy, then. He looks like a little thief!”

“I think you have simply misplaced it—”

William spun around, his hand lashing out and catching her squarely in the jaw. The impact of the blow knocked Sophie backward and crashing into a wardrobe. “Do not speak to me as if I am stupid!”

Unable to speak, Sophie slowly raised her hand to the burning pain in her jaw. The darkness suddenly faded from William’s face and he reached for her. Frightened, she flailed her arms at him, but as usual, she was helpless against him—he pinned her arms to her sides in a tight embrace. After several moments, he raised a trembling hand to her face and gingerly touched the spot where he had struck her. “I’m sorry, darling, I’m so sorry,” he pleaded. “But I’m under quite a lot of pressure—you
know
that! Why do you say things to upset me?”

She merely shook her head.

“God, does it hurt terribly?” he asked softly, wincing sympathetically. He gently pressed his lips to the swelling. “It won’t leave a mark, I am certain of it.” He smiled tenderly, brushed her hair from her forehead, then kissed her. “I’d best be along now if I’m to make the bank
and
that coach.” He walked over to the bed and picked up his coat. “Mind you, look very hard for that purse,” he said amicably. “I’ll want to know you have found the culprit when I return Saturday.”

Swallowing past the nausea in her throat, Sophie asked, “You’ll not return until Saturday, then?”

William stopped mid-way to the door and looked heavenward with a weary sigh. “I’ve asked you not to henpeck me, Sophie! I’ll be home when I have finished my business. Perhaps Saturday. Perhaps later.” He extended his hand, gestured her to him. Somehow, Sophie made her legs move, made herself go to him and stand still as he kissed her. “Take care, my dear,” he said, and walked out the door, as if it was perfectly natural to strike one’s wife, then trot off to the races.

She stood in the middle of his room for what seemed an eternity, unmoving, straining for any sound to suggest he might be returning. When she was at last convinced he had gone, she walked to his wardrobe, rummaged among his many new coats, and pulled his purse from the pocket in which she had hidden it. She opened it, checked to make sure the forty pounds were still there.
Forty pounds
. In a matter of hours, that would be her entire fortune.

The escape was much easier than Claudia had imagined. It was quite cold and wintry, but Sophie and Stella appeared at the appointed time, looking for all the world as if they were out for a casual stroll. Claudia instantly found a hack and the three women climbed inside, feeling as nervous as if they were stealing the crown jewels.

By the time they reached the house on Upper Moreland Street, their respective nerves were frayed to the very ends. Each time the hack shuddered to a halt because of heavy traffic, they flattened themselves against the grimy squabs, fearing that someone might recognize them. That seemed highly unlikely the farther from Mayfair they rode, but Stella frequently imagined she saw someone she knew through the dingy window, and their hearts would pound mercilessly all over again.

At Upper Moreland Street, Claudia gave the driver a gold crown for his excellent driving and another to wait for her, which he happily agreed to do. As they
climbed out of the hack, Doreen appeared on the stoop, her hands planted firmly on her hips, stoically watching as Sophie and Stella trudged up the steps with the two small bags they had dared to take away. She took one look at Sophie and shook her head. “Poor dear. You’ll be wanting some tea,” she said, motioning them inside. Sophie hesitated and looked over her shoulder at Claudia, her eyes full of trepidation. Claudia understood—they were in a part of town Sophie had never seen before, one of decidedly lower class than that to which she was accustomed. And in spite of having a heart as large as the moon, Doreen’s stern demeanor hardly instilled a sense of warmth in strangers. Claudia tried to assure Sophie with a nod—which apparently worked for the moment, because Sophie very cautiously crossed the threshold.

Inside, a woman took Sophie and Stella’s cloaks, then ushered them into the parlor with cheerful chatter, insisting that they warm up by the fire. As the woman helped Stella drag another chair to the hearth, Sophie leaned toward Claudia and whispered, “What is this place?”

Doreen overheard her and flashed one of her rare smiles as she patted Sophie’s arm. “Let’s have us a tea. We’ll have us a tea we will, and then we’ll talk all night if you like.” With a furtive look at Claudia, Sophie nodded uncertainly, and took a seat in the chair nearest the small fire. It was then that Claudia saw the bruise on her jaw.

Astonished that she had not noticed it before now—the ribbon of her bonnet had covered it, she supposed—Claudia tried very hard not to stare at Sophie. It was a new mark, one that Stanwood had put there sometime between her call yesterday afternoon and their escape. It made Claudia’s stomach churn with revulsion; she could not conceive of the beast that would beat someone so much smaller than he. He was a coward, a bloody coward, and as she tried to put Sophie at ease by pointing out interesting things—some children’s watercolors, the women’s needlework scattered
on pillows about the room, the piecework piled next to Doreen’s rocking chair—she wished someone bigger and stronger than Stanwood would beat
him
into submission.

Her attempts to calm Sophie were not having the desired affect—the poor dear’s eyes were growing wider and wider with consternation. It had to be very difficult for her—Sophie was a lady, the daughter and sister of an earldom that had its roots in centuries of English monarchy. She had been raised in luxury, had never been exposed to the working class except to receive their services. Never like this, certainly, and it was all quite foreign to her. Claudia began to worry that she might not stay, might feel as uncomfortable here as she did in Stanwood’s house.

A woman appeared in the door carrying an old tarnished tea service. As she moved into the room, Sophie’s eyes rounded impossibly with what seemed like sheer terror. She fixated on the woman, staring intently at her as she placed the service down and poured a cup of tea. As the woman offered the cup to Sophie, Claudia saw what she saw—the white of the woman’s left eye was bloody red, the skin around it black and blue.

Sophie lifted her hand to the bruise on her chin. The woman slowly lowered the proffered tea to the table and sank into a chair, folding her hands tightly in her lap. The two women stared at each other until the woman muttered softly. “You ain’t alone, miss.”

And Sophie began to sob.

Claudia stayed an hour, until the snow began to fall. Sophie had calmed considerably, but nonetheless clung to her tightly as she took her leave. “It will be all right, Sophie,” Claudia whispered fervently.

Sophie nodded, trying hard to believe it, and the truth was that Claudia could only hope it would be all right. As the hack pulled away from the curb, a sick feeling of dread filled her to the back of her throat. As powerful as
she knew Julian to be, he could not single-handedly change the laws of Great Britain to accommodate Sophie. Worse, there was the little matter of telling Julian what she had done.

That
engendered an entirely different sort of panic in her.

J
ULIAN’S
E
YES
S
TRAINED
to make out the meticulously scripted letters of the ancient manuscript; his brain labored to translate the text into English. In two hours of work he had succeeded with one stanza. Just one four-line stanza. He removed his spectacles and restlessly ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.
How long could he continue like this
?

His hands slid from his eyes to the back of his neck, and hanging his head, he rubbed the taut muscles, feeling the shaft of tension down his spine and into his legs. This constant anxiety was killing him, this wild discomfort with everything and everyone around him. It was her fault, he thought bitterly, her fault because he could not stop loving her, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how hard he fought to put a steel cage around his heart, she just kept squeezing in.

He dropped his hands and slowly lifted his head, his gaze inevitably landing on the little pot of violets that sat on the corner of his desk. He leaned back, templing his fingers, studying the silly little thing. Someone tended the pot every day, watering it faithfully, pruning the dead blooms. Every day, more blooms appeared, their numbers now practically bursting from the confines of the little porcelain pot. Even
that
was different—it was painted with sunshine and trees and flowers, and if he wasn’t mistaken, a godawful rendition of the front façade of Kettering House.