The Secret Lover (44 page)

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.

There 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.