Sophie's decision was easily made; Julian kissed her on the forehead, held her tightly to him for a long moment, then bid her goodbye for a few more days.
Weary, his thoughts and emotions in complete disarray, Julian dragged himself into Kettering House. As he handed his hat to Tinley, the old man said, "He's come back," and brushed beads of water from Julian's hat with the sleeve of his coat. "Who?" Julian asked.
"Can't recall the fellow's name. Lady Sophie's husband."
Good. He wanted this over with.
Stanwood was in the gold salon, sipping delicately from a glass of brandy. In addition to having helped himself to Julian's best liquor, he was wearing another new suit of clothes—yet another courtesy of the Kettering family fortune.
A sneer spread Stanwood's lips as Julian walked into the room. "Well, Kettering? Come to your senses yet?"
Lord God, he wanted to beat Stanwood within an inch of his sorry life. "Indeed I have," he drawled, strolled casually to where Stanwood stood, and removed the brandy from his hand, prompting a nasty chuckle from Stanwood.
"If I were you I wouldn't be so quick to insult me, my lord. I have the law on my side, as you well know."
"Do you?" Julian asked, tossing the brandy into the fire and watching it flare bright along with his temper.
"Naturally. The marriage is quite legal, whether you like it or not. She is mine, and there is not a damn thing you can do about it. Now, being the generous man that I am, I am willing to overlook your gross error in judgment for a small fee. I won't press my grievance in the courts and I'll even allow the wench to call on you occasionally."
Bloody bastard. Julian flexed his fist in a mighty struggle to maintain his composure. "I advise you to hold your tongue, Stanwood, lest I rip it out of your head. The fact of the matter is, on Sophie's behalf I intend to petition the Church for a divorce."
The scoundrel reacted with a sputtering laugh of disbelief. "You what? Oh, that's marvelous! On what grounds? You have no grounds, Kettering, and even if you did, you'd not stomach the scandal!"
"Just watch me," Julian said venomously.
Stanwood gaped at him as if he had just uttered a capital threat against the king. "But . . . but you have no grounds," he insisted wildly.
It was Julian's turn to smirk. "I will petition the Church for divorce a mensa et a thoro. Do you know what that is, Stanwood? The petition will cite grounds of extreme cruelty. And before you think to argue that, know that I have witnesses to the many bruises on her body."
Stanwood paled. "She fell!" he all but shouted, then looked frantically to the fire. "Nevertheless, what you threaten will gain you a legal separation, nothing more—it's not a divorce!"
"True," Julian said, nodding thoughtfully as he strolled nonchalantly to the middle of the room. "But then I shall bring suit in Parliament for dissolution of the marriage because of your adultery, as I am confident that you will find your way into a whore's bed before long . . ." —he paused to cast a scathing look of disgust across him—"if you haven't already." Stanwood blanched, revealing the truth in that statement, and Julian's smirk turned into a contemptuous scowl. "In the meantime, I will be watching you every minute of every day, Stanwood. My eyes will be everywhere, you may depend on it. When you breathe, I will know it. When you eat, I will know it. When you squat on a chamber pot, I will know it. And if you think for even a moment to defy me, I will bring the power of my name down on your head. No institution or man of standing will lend you money. No one will employ you. No one will house you or clothe you or feed you. There will be nowhere for you to turn, Stanwood. Do you quite understand me?"
The blackguard's chin began to tremble with his rage. "You can't do that!" he bellowed. "You don't have the power to do that!"
With a derisive chuckle, Julian folded his arms across his chest. "Try me," he drawled.
Stanwood's breathing was suddenly harsh and loud. "You can't do it," he repeated. "You and your sisters will not be able to abide the scandal I will cause! I will fight you—I can, you know—the law is on my side! Oh yes, I will fight you
. . .
if I want her, that is. Perhaps I don't want her any longer! Perhaps I am sick to death of the wench! What if I don't want her? What then?"
Julian shrugged indifferently, masking the cauldron of rage boiling in him. "I suppose, in that case, you may slink off and crawl back under the rock from which you came."
A curious shiver coursed Stanwood. "Don't threaten me, Kettering! You cannot win in this! The law gives her and all that is hers to me! She belongs to me, not you!" he blustered loudly, and stalked to the door.
Like hell he couldn't win in this. "Very well, then," he said casually. "Just remember—I'll be watching you. Mind that you do nothing to harm your cause," he said, and chuckled darkly. "There is, however, another way, should you choose to listen."
Stanwood faltered at the door, looking confused. "What way?"
"Fifty thousand pounds in exchange for dropping any claim to her annuity or disputing the accusation of adultery. Take it or leave it."
Stanwood bristled. "That's absurd! What of me?"
"It's your life, Stanwood. Fifty thousand pounds or a protracted fight in the courts. If you think your cause is sound, you can meet me on the floor of the House of Lords."
Stanwood turned red as he fidgeted with the watch fob at his waist. "What if I agreed? I don't say that I shall, but suppose I did—when exactly would I expect to receive this fifty thousand quid?"
Julian had won the first stage of the battle.
The next two days were a living hell for Julian in which old feelings of helplessness and grief were roused along with disturbing and emotional images of others lost to him. This was different, of course. Sophie was far from dead—she was merely going to France. Indefinitely. For the rest of her life, perhaps.
It felt like death, and Julian grieved for her loss of innocence, despairing of the road ahead for her. He moved through the long hours with a dozen distasteful tasks, from discussing Sophie's marriage in detail with his solicitors, to overseeing the packing of her things, to soothing his sisters' fears that the evolving scandal would potentially touch their own children.
He did not allow himself to think of anything but the task at hand, certainly not the many ways he might have spared Stanwood's fist on her, although that crept into his conscience more often than not.
And certainly not the extraordinary little house on Upper Moreland Street.
But he could not stop thoughts of Claudia invading him like an army, attacking every part of his mind and his heart. He forced those thoughts from his mind, smothered them under so much garbage in him, refused to acknowledge them or give them the light of the least bit of deliberation. How could he? He would crumble if he allowed himself to think, and he had to see to Sophie, to all of his sisters—everyone but himself.
On the morning Eugenie and Louis bundled their daughters in warm coats and waited patiently on St. Katherine's dock, Julian fetched Sophie from Upper Moreland Street. After a lengthy goodbye to all the women in residence there, including a teary farewell to Stella, who had opted to stay at the little town house, and Janet, who had no choice but to stay, Sophie stepped into the coach with a calmness that baffled Julian. Her newfound confidence had grown even more in the few days since he had last seen her, and as if to prove it, she assured him with a smile that she was quite all right and actually looking forward to her journey.
As the coach rolled away from Upper Moreland Street, Sophie asked, "Is Claudia with Eugenie? I want to thank her before I go."
Julian dragged his gaze away from the window. "Claudia has gone home to her father," he said simply.
The smile disappeared from Sophie's face; he could see the thoughts tumbling in her head. After a long moment she asked him why.
"Because, love, there was too much distrust between us."
"It's because of me, isn't it? Oh, Julian, don't be angry with her—she saved my life!"
As if he needed to be reminded of that.
"We can't lose Claudia! Whatever trouble there is between you, you can fix it, can't you?" she asked anxiously.
"I don't know," he answered honestly, and refrained from prolonging the conversation, unable to discuss what had happened—as if he really knew what had happened between them. It was struggle enough to keep his overwhelming dismay pushed down and buried in the darkest corner of his soul.
At the docks, his entire family was waiting. When he and Sophie walked down the boardwalk toward them, Ann and Eugenie broke away from the others, racing to their sister. The three of them held each other tightly with their arms around their shoulders, their faces pressed together as they whispered to one another. Watching them, Julian could remember how, as girls, they would hold one another just like that
. . .
except that there had been five of them then.
The rumbling disquiet in the pit of his belly almost doubled him over.
They milled around as they waited to board the ship that would take them to France, no one quite sure what to say, everyone stealing glimpses of Sophie, looking for more bruises, for some sign that she was broken. But her countenance was serene; she showed no signs of despair, nothing to suggest that the journey she was about to begin frightened her. When the ship's steward gave the signal to board, the girls hugged and kissed one another, promising to write often.
Julian exchanged a few final words with Louis before he lifted each niece to kiss their chubby cheeks. He held Eugenie in his arms and kissed the top of her head, extracting a promise that she would write at least weekly so he would know how Sophie fared. He then turned to Sophie, absolutely horrified that his eyes had started to water. She flung her arms around his neck, kissed his cheek. "I'll never forgive myself for all that I've put you through, Julian. I shall be quite all right, I swear it, and you must promise not to worry so."
He smiled into her hair. "I'll try, love, but I can't promise you that."
She pulled back, smiling up at him. "You will give my love to Claudia, won't you? You really must thank her for helping me. I am forever in her debt."
So were they all. With a nod, he kissed her forehead. And then Sophie was suddenly gone.
Julian was alone.
He did not return home immediately, but ordered the driver to take a turn around Hyde Park. And then another. He dreaded going back to that dark, empty house and its deathly quiet. There was no light or laughter there, no sound of children playing, or women gaily arguing, or target practice on the lawn.
Christ, he missed her.
Unthinking, he pressed his fists against his eyes. She was lost to him. In the end, he had lived up to his worst nightmare and failed her, too, just as badly as he had failed the others. The discomfort in him had grown to a raging fire since she had left, consuming his very spirit—at least he understood now from where the discomfort came.
It had taken Sophie's disaster to finally make him understand the ache that had plagued him since Valerie's death. It had dawned on him, crystal in its clarity, when he had returned from Upper Moreland Street to find Stanwood in his house. After the bastard had gone, Julian had sat with his head between his hands, aching until he thought he would go mad with it . . . because he needed her.
He had needed her then and there, to put her arms around him, to whisper something soothing in his ear. He needed to share his burden, to feel her comfort him. He needed her silly little violets on his desk, target practice on the lawn, teas with slightly deranged ladies. He needed her laughter, her dozen smiles, the warmth of her body at night. At last, a ray of light had finally shone on his battered heart, and he had understood the words of the vicar at Phillip's funeral, "know ye in this death the light of our Lord, the quality of love . . ."
He almost laughed aloud at his own stupidity as the coach creaked around a turn in the road. All this time he thought he knew the quality of love, that his was to lose those for whom he cared. Now he understood that the quality of love he yearned for, ached for, was with Claudia, a love without beginning or end, timeless, never ending, strong and pure in the face of the worst adversity. That was what he had so desperately wanted without even knowing it, perhaps since the time of his father's death. And it was a quality of love he had been unwilling to give himself, so foolishly convinced that he would harm her with it.
He had harmed her, all right—he had shut her out,
pushed her away when he needed her most. She could have turned her back on him, could have walked away from further scandal. But she hadn't—she had tried her best to hold on. And how goddamned ironic that was— when Phillip died, he had taken Julian to the edge of the abyss with him. He had clung to Claudia then, first the ideal, then the person. Whether she knew it or not, Claudia had pulled him back from the brink and kept him from falling.
He wanted nothing more than to bury the demons that plagued him and simply love her, believe in her, revel in her, help her. More than that, he desperately wanted her to love him. Yet that opportunity was perhaps lost to him forever.
Perhaps he would remain in that abyss after all.
The Danes were not the only family in Mayfair to have suffered the last few days. The Whitney household was in like turmoil over Sophie's tragedy, albeit from a very different perspective.
That perspective had to do with Earl Redbourne's steadfast belief that Claudia belonged to Kettering, and was, therefore, his problem. The moment the earl had given her to Kettering in marriage, her unorthodox behavior became his to discipline, her wild thinking his cross to bear, her extravagant allowance his expense. These opinions were rather loudly voiced to Claudia, along with a strongly worded admonishment that she could not simply walk out if the arrangements did not suit her. Especially not after another Dane woman had up and run from her lawful husband.