Elizabeth Boyle (11 page)

“But I saw him take me little one.” The woman’s voice rose to a piercing level, verging on hysteria. “He snatched ‘um from the cradle, he did. I wants me little baby back.”

Ignoring the exasperated sigh from his companion, Giles went to the window, opened it, and looked down to the street. On his steps stood a poorly dressed man and a woman, her face twisted with incoherent grief. She alternately pulled at her hair and dress with both hands.

When Keenan began to back into the house, she pitched herself at his feet, clutching his ankles.

“I won’t let you have me little Johnny. Give ‘um back. It’s not fair. I want ‘um back.”

Her companion, probably her husband, stepped forward, his badly patched jacket marking him for a poor laborer. From his jerky movements Giles could tell he was both mortified and afraid of this unseemly outburst.

“Come away there, luv,” he was saying as he caught the distraught woman by the waist and tried to pull her free of Keenan.

Suddenly she broke away and dashed inside. Giles stepped away from the window.

“Stealing children, as well?” the lady at his side commented, her fingers brushing up and down his sleeve in an attempt to guide him back to her passionate trap. “You’ve had a busy night.”

The wailing and crying downstairs grew in volume.

Giles looked at the closed door and then back at his captive. She smiled at him, her lips swollen from his kisses. Whatever he’d been feeling a few minutes before faded, as his anger over Webb’s death resurfaced.

Dryden would be here soon, and he didn’t need half of London in his house when his superior arrived.

He walked to the door and unlocked it. Turning to his captive, he looked back at her. She’d seated herself on top of his desk, her stocking-clad feet wiggling back and forth in the air.

“You won’t be long, will you?” She winked at him. “I do so hate to be kept waiting.”

Something like a growl rolled up from his chest. Her voice invited him to return to her arms, but this time the angelic tones fell flat on his ears, chilling his senses. How could he have let this happen?

And if she were responsible for Webb’s death he should be throttling her, not falling for her lies like the rest of the fools of London. “You’ll wait.”

“It’ll be worth it.”

He didn’t respond, but instead ordered a third footman up to watch the door, then strode down the staircase.

When the ragged woman in the foyer caught sight of him, her wailing stopped. Her eyes narrowed and she raised a bony finger toward him. “You evil man. You took me baby.”

“Madame,” he said with as much courtesy as he could muster, “I’m afraid there has been a mistake. I do not have your baby.”

“Why, you lying devil,” she spat out before flinging herself at him, her clawlike hands extended.

Her companion caught her before she made contact. “I’m sorry, milord, for this disturbance. Me missus isn’t quite right in the ‘ead, it seems.”

All the while the woman fought and called out over and over for her little Johnny.

The man leaned forward. “Our baby died, you see. The fever took him. We can’t make her believe he’s gone to his reward. Her sister and I’ve been trying to get her to see the sense of it. She keeps insisting he’s been stolen and she has to find ‘um.” The man pulled off his cap. “You won’t have her thrown in the asylum, will you? She doesn’t mean no ‘arm. We waited so long to have the wee little nipper, and then he was only with us for a couple of months.” The man looked as if he was about to break into tears. “She just took the loss a mite too ‘ard.”

“My condolences,” Giles offered, unable to find any other words to fit the situation. He’d heard of women like this, so tormented by the loss of a child that it filled them with madness. “But you need to take her home and see that she gets the care she needs.”

The man bobbed his head in thanks. “I will that, milord. Come on, luv. Our Johnny’s not here. We should be getting back home, because if he’s there he’ll be needing his mother.”

The idea appeared to snap the woman out of her dementia. “A baby needs his mother.” She clung to her husband, wiping her tears with the back of her sleeve and sniffing loudly. Slowly, she allowed herself to be led from the house.

Giles followed Keenan to the door to make sure the couple made it down the steps. As they rounded the corner of the house Michaels pulled up in the carriage with Dryden.

“So you have her,” Lord Dryden said when he got inside. “That fool Stanton blathered on so, I insisted Michaels drop him off before we came here. He was quite miffed, but when I mentioned that his part in this evening would not go unnoticed, he cheered right up and left quite willingly.”

Giles smiled. If he knew the duke, the man would be at Dryden’s office first thing in the morning requesting a medal of honor for his meritorious duty to his country.

“Come along, sir,” he said, resisting the urge to warn his superior of what was sure to befall him with the Duke of Stanton. “She’s upstairs in my study.”

“Has she said anything? Have you been able to find out who she is?” Dryden asked as they went up the stairs.

Giles nodded to the footmen, who stepped aside. He fished the key out of his pocket and started to open the door. “No, sir,” he coughed, feeling quite guilty for his own lapse of professional judgment. “She’s being quite evasive.”

Dryden’s features became serious. “We’ll see about that.”

Giles took a deep breath and opened the door, not too sure what they’d find.

He certainly didn’t expect the sight greeting them.

In the middle of the room lay her skirts, in a pool of white silk. Next to them lay her hoops, and next to the open window lay her stockings.

D
ucking into the carriage, Sophia put her back to Emma and started hunting through her valise for her traveling clothes.

Lord Trahern hadn’t been kidding when he said the climb was impossible. So difficult that she’d discarded her cumbersome dress, clung to the ivy-colored wall for dear life, and ended her escape by traipsing down one of London’s most fashionable streets in only her chemise.

Across from her, Emma pinned her hair back into its usual taut chignon at the nape of her neck. She took off the old patched jacket she’d worn for her part in Sophia’s escape and replaced it with her usual widow’s black jacket, lacing up the front with steady motions.

Sophia found the thick, interminable silence between them agitating. What must Emma think? “I know how this looks . . .” she shot over one shoulder as she pulled on a quilted cotton petticoat.

Emma’s eyes widened, a smile twitching at her lips. “Looks like what?” she asked. “Is there something I’m
missing
?”

Shaking out a jacket, Sophia continued. “There was no other way out. I had to climb down. I couldn’t have done it with my hoops on.”

“Of course, that sounds likely.” Emma nodded slowly in agreement.

“He locked me in. There was no other way out but the window.”

“Certainly.” Emma folded her hands primly in her lap. “But Sophia, did you have your clothes on before he locked you in?”

“Of course!” Sophia lied hastily. “Well, yes. Most of them.” Unconsciously, her fingers went to her face, the memories of Giles’s kiss blossoming anew.

Again, silence filled the interior of the rocking carriage.

“While I always like the opportunity to refresh my acting skills after so many years away from the stage,” Emma finally said, “I find it amusing that you feel the need to continue your performance for me.” Her discerning gaze fell on Sophia’s bare legs.

“You think I’m acting? That I actually—” Sophia turned her attention back to getting dressed.

“I never recall anywhere in our plans the part where you let the man have his way with you before you slip him the potion.”

“He knew about the potion,” she argued. “It must have been his friend, the Duke of Stanton, who warned him not to drink with me.”

Emma only nodded in reply.

“I know how this looks,” Sophia started again, having no idea why she felt this urgent need to continue explaining to Emma. “The point is, I didn’t. In fact, if there hadn’t been so much ivy on the wall and a drainage pipe nearby, I’d be there still. . . .” Sophia rambled.
Be there still.
In his arms, letting him remove the rest of her clothes, his lips kissing her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. Her gaze shot back up, suddenly embarrassed at the wayward direction of her thoughts. “The fact of the matter is, I was nearly out of the house by the time you and Oliver arrived.”

“Oh, that’s what you were doing up there. Escaping.”

“Of course. What else would I have been doing?”

Emma’s arched brows answered the question.

“Perhaps, well, maybe I let him kiss me,” Sophia conceded. “At the time it seemed the best way to distract him.”

At this, her companion laughed. “Sophia, I’m not one of your aunts. It’s me, Emma. You can’t hide that flirtatious delight from me. You drove that man wild and loved every minute of it.” Her friend opened another valise and hunted around inside it, pulling out a pair of thick socks and sturdy shoes.

“So what if I did,” Sophia mumbled, accepting the offering. She still smarted from the fact that he had been the one who’d stopped their passionate embrace. He’d pulled away from her with a startled look on his face, as if he regretted every moment, then turned positively angry at her. As if she were the only guilty party in that room.

While she finished dressing Sophia realized Emma hadn’t been far off, though she’d rather die than admit it to anyone.

She was not ashamed of the power she felt when men weakened under her teasing flirtation. She thrilled at the knowledge that with one sensuous glance she could become a man’s secret fantasy.

Throughout her time in the French court her schooling had consisted of just those lessons. Sophia learned early how to dodge unwanted advances and, when the time was right, allow a few liberties.

It had been during one such dalliance, one such moment when she’d thought herself in love. She’d given in to the exciting passions her lover uncovered in her as-yet-untried fifteen-year-old body.

Oh, it had been love, at least she’d thought so, until he deserted her and the shocking truth of their affair left her parents no choice but to send their hoyden daughter to live among her more rigid and regulated English relatives.

The swaying motion of the carriage as it rolled toward the coast eased the tensions still claiming her body. While Sophia knew she should be thrilled to have escaped Lord Trahern’s study, she still felt strangely bereft.

If only she were like other girls—making a fashionable debut, meeting a man like Lord Trahern at a ball, and letting him pursue her while she remained aloof and out of reach, indifference masking the wild beating of her heart. And if she were like everyone else, she’d finally relent to his pleading requests for her hand in marriage.

And if she looked back on what had happened in the last twenty-four hours, her dream in some ways had come true.

But in all her daydreams and schoolgirl fantasies, she never saw herself spending what should have been her wedding night stealing down the cold street barefoot in only her shift. Or spending the night speeding across the countryside, every mile taking her farther and farther from her groom.

She dashed away the threatening tears and tried to concentrate on the miles ahead. With every passing village the Channel separating her from France drew nearer. From Dover they’d take a small packet across and once again, under the concealment of darkness, continue on to Paris.

“Emma?” she whispered into the darkness.

“What?”

“How do they do it?”

Emma looked up from the window. “Do what?”

“Make you forget everything. Make the entire world knot in your gut.”

Smiling, Emma shook her head. “That must have been some kiss.”

Oh, was it ever
, Sophia thought, her fingers going unconsciously to her lips.

“I thought I could control him,” she confided. “I thought I knew enough about him to use it as an advantage.” Sophia looked away. “I would have stayed with him, Emma. If you and Oliver hadn’t arrived, I would have given myself quite willingly to him. I never thought I would ever say that about any man, not ever again.”

Emma reached over and patted her knee. The gesture was one of understanding. “I wouldn’t have blamed you. With the right man it’s hard to listen to your reason when your heart pounds so to be heard.”

“Me of all people, you’d think I’d know better. Yet something happened. I can’t explain it. Ever since last night when he chased me through the streets . . .” Sophia paused, thinking of the moment Lord Trahern had stood close enough to capture her. He could have pressed forward and trapped her, she was sure of that. And yet he’d let her go, maybe not consciously, but he had just the same. She looked up and found Emma watching her.

“Do you know why he even sought you out? Last night and then tonight. I hardly think it would be coincidence,” Emma said.

“I agree.” Sophia wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. “I can’t imagine why he would want the Brazen Angel.”

Emma looked at her wryly. “Do you think he suspects who you are?”

“No,” Sophia answered quickly. “Though on the subject of Lady Sophia, he claimed he was the one who left his bride at the altar. Do you think he even went to Auntie Effie’s house?”

At this, Emma laughed. “Of course he did.”

Sophia smiled back. “I thought so as well. His pride would never let him admit someone as meek and mild as Sophia D’Artiers rejected his honorable offer of marriage. It probably rankled him thoroughly.”

After patting a stray hair into place Emma nodded. “No more than the sight I guess he found in his study when he returned from my little diversion.”

“Oh, I’d give the Delaney jewels to have seen his face.” Sophia wanted to laugh again, but she found herself sobered by the evening’s events. “You know, Emma, today when he arrived at Auntie Effie’s and demanded we get married immediately, I hated him for how he could ruin everything I’ve worked for. And then tonight, all the same, I wanted to throw away all our plans and stay with him.”