The Secret Lover (19 page)

But she
had
spent those years away, and she had changed. She was not the same Sophie who had left under a cloud, that much she knew. But in moments of private reflection, she wasn't completely certain she was the new Sophie, either. It seemed she hovered somewhere in between, in a sort of no-man's-land, second-guessing herself constantly, feeling the chaos churning into a storm.

All she could do was sit quietly when Ann was talking, fretting what she should or could do about her predicament, the irony of it too rich—she had gone from society's little misfit to a woman with the unusual burden of too many men. She loved Caleb, tolerated Trevor. But to love Caleb meant to disgrace her family, and she wanted to make them proud of her for once in her life. To tolerate Trevor meant she pleased her family and society.

Yet she was so different from the plain and ungainly girl who had made her debut and hoped for Trevor to look her way. How could she make her family see that? As they told her over and over again, their utmost concern was her happiness. They wanted her to have the best life had to offer. They thought the path to reaching that goal lay in Trevor. She could not begin to imagine the recriminations if they ever discovered that she was, in fact, quite in love with the other Hamilton, and in fact, involved in a rather torrid love affair. Naturally, they would instantly believe she was the old Sophie, so desperately naive that she had fallen for the charms of an imposter. God only knew what they might do—they had sent her away before.

Which is why Sophie continued to struggle to hold her little secret, endeavoring to keep her countenance serene through the course of Trevor's frequent calls.

His visits were unbearable.

If he wasn't deploring Hamilton the Imposter, he was making some remark about Honorine's monopoly of his father's waking hours. Yet in spite of what he deemed his disastrous situation, Trevor remained a gentleman and attentive of Sophie, apparently intent on wooing her with talk of his empty home in the country, his many ideals,
too
many, really, and his desire to find just the right feminine influence for Ian.

Whether or not he meant this to influence her, Sophie hardly knew—the only thing of which she was certain was that young Ian did not care for her in the least.

That
was painfully obvious. The child squirmed uncomfortably in her presence, openly cringed each time she came near him, scarcely looked her in the eye, responded with monosyllabic answers when she inquired after him, and then quickly went about the business of determining just where he might find Honorine.

Worse, Sophie was hardly any better in her behavior. It wasn't intentional—she loved children, she truly did, and surely her nieces and nephews could attest to that. She even wanted her own,
imagined
her own, with Caleb. But she was hopelessly inept when it came to Ian—

honestly, what did one say to such a sullen child? He seemed to harbor some glaring resentment for her and it amazed her that Trevor did not see how astoundingly poor her rapport was with the child, or how she bungled each interview with Ian. Surely he would eventually see that any hope he might harbor that she could influence the lad at all would be put into its proper place—the rubbish heap.

But more than that, Sophie could not dismiss the vague feeling that something was not quite right with Trevor. Nothing wrong, exactly, but…

it was just a feeling, nothing more, based on nothing concrete, for certainly he was a gentleman. Nevertheless, she could not shake her intuition about Trevor and felt it keenly one morning when Lucie Cowplain recited her latest opinion of the news received from Millicent.

"Ye'll see yourself married by the end of summer, mark me," she said, wagging her finger authoritatively at Sophie over a plate of steaming eggs.

"Mr. Hamilton, he's been alone with that child for far too long."

"You make it sound as if he seeks a nursemaid," Sophie said as she took the eggs from her.

Lucie Cowplain snorted disdainfully. "Why in God's name do ye
think
he'd marry? It ain't for position or money, obviously."

"
Mon Dieu
!" Honorine exclaimed hotly, roused from her concentration on a plate of delectable pastries. "You do not say such things, Lucie Cowplain!"

The woman rolled her eyes and pivoted on her twisted leg. "I ain't saying there's anything wrong with Lady Sophie, I ain't. But she's got the burden of her past, you cannot deny it," she said, and lurched through the servant's door.

Clearly stunned, Honorine tried to smooth it over, but what she said came out in a mishmash of French and English. It hardly would have mattered had she managed to say something in flawless English, because Sophie knew that the old cook was quite right.

Everyone
knew it.

Everyone except Honorine, that was, and unfortunately, Honorine could not seem to grasp any of the nuances of the latest gossip surrounding Sophie and Trevor, or worse, herself and Lord Hamilton. On those occasions when Sophie tried to make her understand the furor she was creating, Honorine would cluck her tongue. "These
Anglaises
, they know nothing of life," she would say, and refuse to hear any argument Sophie tried to put forth regarding English propriety.

Honorine's nonchalance and Sophie's frustration collided with fury one afternoon when Honorine announced her very disastrous notion to have a ball in the orangery.

"
Ooh, oui, oui
!" clapped Fabrice.

"Why on earth would you want to host a ball?" Sophie demanded.

"Why not?" Honorine asked nonchalantly as she exchanged cards with Roland in the course of a game. "London, she is very good to us. Very nice,
non
? We should give this ball. Will likes it."

"Honestly, Honorine! Have you no idea what is being said about us?
All
of us?"

Honorine looked up from her card game and smiled. "
Oui. You
they speak about, and
Monsieur
Trevor Hamilton… but I like this other son,"

she said, looking pointedly at Sophie.

"Ooh,
oui
, this other son, he is
very
nice," Fabrice said dreamily, earning an impatient glare from Roland.

"Oh no, you can't invite them both!" Sophie cried with alarm.

"
Non
, I do not do this!" Honorine said indignantly, as if she were suddenly the queen of society protocol. "You think only
you
are concerned for these things? For Caleb," she said matter-of-factly, "I will be concerned, too!" Fabrice and Roland paused at that and looked at Sophie.

That sort of remark usually sealed her lips—but Sophie was beside herself. "I am not concerned, Honorine, but I think you do not understand.

These people, the society here, they are not sincere. They will come to your house to gawk."

"Gawk? What is this
gawk
?" Honorine demanded. Fabrice quickly translated for her, and Honorine laughed. "At what do they gawk?' she asked as Lucie Cowplain entered the room carrying a vase of freshly cut flowers.

"At you! And them!" Sophie cried, motioning impatiently to Fabrice and Roland.

A collective gasp went up among them; they all gaped at her as if she had spoken blasphemy. Even Lucie Cowplain seemed taken aback.

Honorine carefully placed her cards aside and stood from the table, pausing to look down at her with all superiority. "I do not care what they will think, Sofia," she said haughtily. "I will have this ball. They do not come,
c'est la vie
!" she added, and sailed out of the morning room to discuss the ball with the winsome trio of Lucie Cowplain, Fabrice, and Roland on her heels.

Fine then, bloody-well fine
. The whole Hamilton debacle was at least absurd, not to mention calamitous. Having had enough with the lot of it, Sophie donned her bonnet in a huff, grabbed her reticule, and set out to do something more productive than mull over the latest gossip and Honorine's insistence on disaster, or moon over Caleb for endless hours.

It seemed to her an excellent time to speak with Julian about leasing a booth at Covent Garden.

Julian and Claudia were both at Kettering House on St. James Square, in the gold drawing room with their two young daughters. Claudia was attempting to repair Beth's tail of ringlets that had come loose. Bridget, whose long black curls already hung loosely, romped about the room, pretending to be a knight and waving a wooden sword about fiercely. At the far end of the room, Julian looked up from his paper and removed his spectacles as Sophie was shown into the room. "Pumpkin! How good to see you!" he said, smiling warmly. "My, my, how well you look, Lady Sophie. Hamilton's courting apparently agrees with you, hmm?"

What, was the entire city of London following Trevor's every move? And since when did a drab brown gown look anything but ill advised? Sophie could feel herself pinkening under his scrutiny, but her discomfiture was hidden by a collision with Beth. The darling, just freed from her mother's attentions, flew across the room to her sister, Bridget, intent on retrieving her sword—Sophie winced at the impact of the child to her person and immediately reached for her smarting knee.

"Pardon, Auntie Sophie," Beth said as she skipped around her.

"Oh dear, you haven't gone and hurt yourself, have you?" Julian asked.

"No," Sophie said, biting her lip, "really I am—"

"Must be those stars in your eyes," he said, and laughed appreciatively at his own jest.

"Really, Julian, I thought you above all the gossip," she retorted pertly.

"It's hardly gossip!" Claudia chimed in. "Hamilton has indeed called on you a dozen times now, and that can only mean one thing—"

"It can only mean that we are neighbors. But never mind that, please?"

she asked, limping to the grouping of chairs in the center of the room.

"I've come to speak about much more important things."

"Oh no," said Julian with a playful moan. "I am always quite ill at ease when a woman wishes to speak of something 'more important.' Go on then, let me have the worst of it."

"Oh, Julian!" Claudia clucked.

"It's about the Upper Moreland Street House."

"Ooh! How wonderful!" Claudia exclaimed. "Nancy Harvey told me herself how much time you have spent helping her these last few weeks. I am so very glad you've taken such a keen interest in the house—Lord knows I've not been able to give it the attention it deserves."

"Upper Moreland Street?" asked Julian, clearly surprised.

"I really haven't been much help a'tall, but I should very much like to do more," Sophie said eagerly.

"More? Do you think that wise, pumpkin?" Julian asked, frowning lightly. "After all, your past association with the house—"

"Julian, whatever do you mean?" Claudia asked indignantly. "Her past association with that house makes her all the more sensitive to the needs of the women there. I, for one, am very proud—"

"I did not say I was not proud, Claudia. I am merely thinking of what is best for Sophie, and I cannot help but think the less reference made to her past, the better."

"Oh no, Julian, you really mustn't mind; I am quite—"

"What reference is it to her past?" Claudia demanded, interrupting Sophie.

"An obvious reference!" Julian snorted.

"Why should you mind so? Trevor Hamilton doesn't seem—"

"
Stop
!" Sophie exclaimed, holding up her hands to them. Startled, Julian and Claudia turned twin looks of surprise to her. "Please," she said more calmly, lowering her hands. "Julian, no one knows I attend the house on Upper Moreland Street, and Claudia," she said, preempting the remark of triumph Claudia was undoubtedly about to make to Julian, "I have not spent a great deal of time there. Nancy is being kind. But in the little time I
have
spent there, I could not help noticing they are without sufficient funding to maintain the house properly, much less clothe the women and children as they should."

"What? But I sent several gowns just one month past!" Claudia exclaimed.

"Yes, so you have—but those gowns are too fine. The" women there need garments that are more practical for their daily work. Yet there are two dozen ball gowns and accoutrements if there is one, all stowed away in a small room on the attic floor."

"Oh," murmured Claudia, deflated. "I had no idea…"

"I had a thought, however—what if we were to hire a booth in Covent Garden or a small shop on High Street and sell the gowns that have been donated?" Sophie moved to the edge of her seat, excited about her idea.

"Surely there are other women in London who would appreciate the quality of clothing they might have for a fraction of what they would pay in commission to a modiste. The proceeds from the sale of the gowns could be turned over to the house, and Nancy could purchase what was necessary. You needn't worry about a thing—Nancy and I would do everything. I have the funding necessary, but I need help in acquiring the space."

No one said anything for a moment; Claudia and Julian both looked at her with equally dubious expressions.

"You would sell these gowns?" Claudia asked her, the disapproval evident in her voice.

"Yes," Sophie said, trying to ignore the sinking of her gut. "It should not require a very big booth, really, just enough space where Nancy could display them."

Julian and Claudia exchanged another look; Julian frowned. Claudia shifted her gaze to her daughters, who were now fascinated with something on the Aubusson carpet.

"Sophie, that is an admirable notion, truly," Julian said carefully. "But you cannot think to sell the gowns women of the
ton
have donated to a worthy cause, particularly at Covent Garden or on High Street. That would be unseemly."

"Unseemly?" she echoed, uncertain how it could possibly be unseemly to sell cast-off garments to women who would truly appreciate their value.

Julian cleared his throat as he withdrew his spectacles and carefully put them on. Not a good sign, that, and well Sophie knew it. "Perhaps I did not make myself entirely clear," she quickly said, but Julian was already shaking his head.