Jilting the Duke (27 page)

It would be easier to find them if she could call their names. Aidan had given them a half-pence each in exchange for their names and ages. And they had been delighted to tell him. One—the girl—was four, the boy six. She remembered that clearly.
Think, Sophia, think.
Margaret? The child's pronunciation had been inflected with the lilt of her Welsh heritage. Margaret wasn't quite right, but it was close. Perhaps close enough that the child would respond? “Margaret? It's Lady Wilmot. I gave you and your brother apples this morning. Margaret? Answer me, and I'll come find you.”

Nothing. Sophia's back and legs ached. To relax them somewhat, she closed her eyes and held her breath, then she stood up straight into the thick smoke. Then, hunching back down once more, she inched forward. Another few feet of slow movement and she heard it, a child's voice, too faint to position easily. But a voice.

“Aye.” Then coughing, loud enough to follow.

She pushed forward another ten feet, the ground descending sharply. The bridge. She had made it. Relief felt like a drug. The stream was, thankfully, in a small declivity, and the smoke had not descended as low near its banks. But even so, she could not see past the landing of the bridge.

She stepped forward and found Margaret huddled in the bridge's middle. Alone. The child flung herself at Sophia's knees weeping. And Sophia knelt beside her, wrapping her arms around the thin child. “I'm here, Margaret. Where's your brother?”

Wide-eyed, the child pointed toward the bank Sophia had just left.

“Which way did he go?”

Margaret pointed down the stream.

“Did he go to get help?”

The child nodded.

“Did he tell you to stay here?”

The child nodded.

“Let's go find him. And take you home.”

The child held out her arms to be carried. Sophia's legs and back ached at the thought of carrying the child while hunched over. But she couldn't risk the boy's having been overcome by the smoke somewhere, perhaps only a few feet away. She looked at the water flowing below, its cold keeping the thick hot air from descending too low. If she went to the deepest part of the stream, she might have enough visibility to walk upright.

She knew roughly where the fire had started, and from her youth, she remembered something of the river's course. In parts it was quite deep. At some point below her studio, the stream turned, leading away from Tom's and her uncle's estates and away from where she thought the fire had begun. But she couldn't be sure. If she were wrong about where the fire had begun, she might be walking into the fire, not away from it. But it didn't matter. That was the direction the boy had taken.

Removing the fichu from her head, she soaked it in the water, then wrapped it around Margaret's small head, pulling the edge over her face to protect her eyes from the smoke. Then ripping a strip from her own shift, she did the same for herself, wrapping it around her nose and mouth, but leaving her vision unimpeded.

On the edge of the bridge, she sat, her legs dangling over the water. “Climb on my back.”

Margaret sat down behind her, extending her legs on either side of Sophia's hips and wrapping her arms around Sophia's neck. The girl tucked her head trustingly into the curve at the back of Sophia's neck. “What's your brother's name?”

“Hugh,” Margaret whispered.

Sophia lowered herself into the water, feeling the cold rise over her waist. Once she had her footing, she waded as close to the fire-side bank as she could to watch for the boy. Treading forward, Sophia called Hugh's name and watched for him on the four or so feet of bank she could still see. She prayed he was no farther up, lost to her in the smoke.

The smoke bore down closer to the water's surface, and she lowered her body to the pits of her arms. With the water supporting her body, it was easier to walk with bended knees. Soon she couldn't see the bank at all, just the line of water in front of her. She moved farther into the center of the stream, praying that she would get past the fire, praying that the fire didn't change its course to pursue her down the stream. Every few steps she would call out Hugh's name and listen. There was never any response. She hoped the boy had made it home safely, just as she hoped none of the cottagers were risking their lives to save Margaret or her.

Carrying the child on her back made her think of Ian. If she were to die, Aidan would protect him, Aidan, who she had finally been able to love. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she was strangely grateful. She would leave them each other.

She tried to imagine the distance she'd traveled, but she could see only smoke and water. After a seeming eternity, the stream curved slowly. But at her next step, the depth of the creek increased precipitously. She sank up to her chin. Margaret cried out in fear, until Sophia cooed reassurances. Sophia was already exhausted, muscles fatigued, body shivering. Though the deeper water lifted more of the child's weight, Sophia had to fight harder to pull her body forward. Freezing below the water, heat burning her face above it, she estimated how much longer she could keep moving. Ten minutes, maybe less.

After the curve, the water shallowed incrementally, and she began a slow climb up. Soon the water reached only level with her waist. As the water receded, Sophia had to bear more of Margaret's weight, but before her, trees appeared in ghostly outlines. Sophia's heart lifted. She was past the fire, and it hadn't turned to pursue her. She looked where she had been. There, the smoke still lay thick, obscuring all reference points.

Progressing another twenty feet, she could see the bank and a bit beyond. Another twenty feet beyond that, she could see most of the banks on both sides. She set Margaret onto the grass, then pulled herself up onto the bank, and collapsed, spent.

She lay breathing hard, until Margaret took her hand and pulled it. “Yes, dear, you are right. We need to get you home. Can you hold my hand to walk?”

The child nodded. Sophia wet their facecloths once more, then they began to walk hand in hand along the bank.

Within another ten minutes, they had reached an area almost without smoke, though the burnt smell remained heavy. At another turn in the stream, Margaret tugged Sophia away from the stream, and Sophia allowed herself to be led.

* * *

With Aidan's warning, the cottagers and the manor staff had been able to beat the fire back with few losses to the estate. Even so, it had been several hours before the danger was fully past and all the arms of the fire extinguished. Some of the cottagers had lost their homes, but Aidan knew Sophia would not allow them to suffer.

Standing outside the manor house, he listened as the housekeeper outlined what temporary quarters could be arranged above the stables and in the servants' quarters. As the two conferred, Sophia's Uncle Lawrence arrived, clothes covered in soot and grime.

“We beat it, son. But we might not have, had you not brought the warning in time.” Lawrence clapped Aidan to his breast. “Now, where's my Sophia? In the house? I imagine you had some difficulty keeping her from shoveling dirt with the tenants.”

“We saw the fire from the folly, and I left her there for safekeeping. I was about to take some horses and retrieve her.”

Sophia's uncle paled and swayed. Placed his hand on the wall of the house for balance. “The folly? But . . . we turned the fire into the hay meadow to keep it from the houses. The folly's burned to the ground, nothing left. If she stayed in the folly . . .” Lawrence turned his face to the wall and wept.

Aidan felt gutted, like the inside of his backbone had been scraped clean with a very sharp knife. Somehow he kept finding and losing Sophia, just as in his dreams. But what good were dreams, if having them never changed anything? Benjamin was dead, and Tom, and now Sophia. Just a week ago, she had confessed that she loved him, and though he had held her in his arms, he had refused her the words. And why? What did it gain him? If she were still alive, would he refuse them to her still?

In the past weeks, he'd learned her secrets, learned why she had married Tom, learned, above all else, that he could trust her. He had even spent much of the last week seeing exactly the kind of life they might have together: a marriage of minds
and
bodies. A union of intellect and passion.

Aidan put his hand on her uncle's shoulder and led him into the house. Neither man wanted to speak—not yet. There would be time enough to plan for the services, to sort out the various legal circumstances, to tell her kin. At the thought of Ian, Aidan felt a heavy weight on his chest.

Aidan poured two deep glasses of whiskey and drank both. Then he poured another two and held one out to her uncle. The two men sat without speaking, dirty, exhausted, and heartbroken, drinking until the bottle was almost dry.

“Your grace, one of the cottagers wishes to see you.” The butler had rapped twice to no answer, then entered without being called.

Aidan didn't look up from his glass. “Send him away.”

The butler came closer. “It seems to be important, sir, but frankly, I can't understand his accent. He's one of the Welsh craftsmen her ladyship hired to repair woodwork. And he's becoming agitated.”

“I'll come to the hall. And call for the footmen in the event he needs to be removed. I find myself unsympathetic to other people's ills.” Aidan rose and placed his hand on Lawrence's shoulder as he passed by. “I'll return in a moment, and we can decide how to proceed.”

Lawrence nodded and lifted the bottle to see one small drop at its bottom. He lifted it to his lips and waited for the drop to roll slowly down the bottle's neck onto his tongue. He returned the bottle to the table, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall.

The door opened, and Aidan yelled into the room. “Come along, Lawrence. She's alive.”

A wagon and two horses were ready to leave by the time that Aidan, Lawrence, and the Welshman Dayffd Morgan entered the yard.

“A wagon?” Lawrence asked. “You've three perfectly fine carriages in the mews.”

“Sophia sent for a wagon. Apparently she wishes to move Mr. Morgan's family to the manor house. We can ride beside.”

Morgan swung onto the wagon seat easily, followed by one of the stablemen, and led them out.

At the cottage, the young boy Aidan recognized from the bridge stood watching the road, then ran inside. The cottage was dreary, no curtains on the windows, no flowers in the yard. The boy returned to the door, holding his sister by the hand, while his sister clutched a skinny kitten to her chest. Morgan pulled up the team and called out instructions in Welsh. The children disappeared into the house. Aidan had understood Morgan's Welsh easily, having learned it from his nurse as a child, but having hidden the fact from his father who held all the English prejudices. Morgan was not the children's father, as Aidan had assumed, but their elder brother, all three being orphans.

A moment later, the children appeared with Sophia, the girl clutching Sophia's skirt and the cat, the boy holding his sister's hand.

Aidan's heart fell into his stomach with relief. Her hair was loose and tangled, her dress torn and streaked with mud and moss and soot. And she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He leapt from the horse mid-stride and ran to embrace her.

Chapter Thirty

When Sophia awoke, Aidan was beside her, the sunlight bright in the space between the heavy curtains. “I told the servants to let you sleep until you woke on your own.”

He was lying on his back, his hands behind his head, his eyes focused on the pattern of the bed curtains. She curved into his side, traced his cheek with her fingers. He caught her hand in his hand and held both over his heart.

“This might be a good time to travel on to my estate in Monmouthshire. Malcolm and Audrey can bring Ian there on their way back to London.”

“When do they return?”

“Whenever we send for them.”

“I thought their trip was for a fortnight.”

“They agreed to take as long as was needed to keep Ian safe.”

“Ah.” She lay her head on his shoulder. “Then it would be nice to see your estate.”

“Seth has stolen most of my innovations.” He shifted to pull her on top of him.

“Has he now?” She settled her legs on either side of his hips and ran her hands across his chest.

“Yes, that new drain system . . .” He caressed her body from hips to breasts and down again, then back to cup her breasts against her chest.

She pressed her hands against his breasts in return. “You mean the one I adapted from the description in the Royal Society papers and sent to Seth in detailed drawings?”

“Yes, that one.” He moved his hands to her hips and settled her on his firmness. “I think you should inspect my version to compare it to yours.”

“I'll instruct Cook to make us a basket. We can leave in the hour.” She rocked gently, arousing them both more.

* * *

Two hours later, Sophia entered the morning room to find mail from London. She didn't want to look through the pile. She didn't want her time with Aidan to end. Perhaps there would be nothing of note.

She sorted the pile into smaller ones. Three letters addressed to Seth personally, not as estate manager, would be sent on to Judith's manor. A letter for Aidan, surprisingly, from Lord Walgrave, and a package with no return address, but addressed in Walgrave's hand. Sophia knew Walgrave; he was one of Tom's friends from Cambridge. Odd.

A single letter for her, from Luca, sent from London.

She slipped a penknife under the wax, releasing the seal, and unfolded the letter to read it. Luca and his sister had arrived from Italy. She remembered her dream, the dark-haired child floating in the water. It was time to return to London.

But how to tell Aidan? Over the last week, she'd watched the lines of his face soften, the set of his shoulders loosen, his eyes grow less guarded. Several times, often when they were in bed, he had looked on her with real affection. Not love, though. They were old friends and lovers. Perhaps if they had been able to go to his estate, to have more quiet days, perhaps then he would have remembered what it felt like to love her. She already knew too well what it felt like to love him.

She turned back to the letter, its single sheet heavy in her hand. Luca's return complicated things, but whether now or later, they would be complicated anyway. If she told Aidan why she'd encouraged the Brunis to come to England, she would have to explain everything. But to do that, she needed the papers, and the papers were in London.

Before she had decided how to broach the subject, Aidan arrived in the morning room, face freshly washed, his hair wet and mussed. The butler offered him chocolate from a service on the buffet, then withdrew. Aidan watched the butler go, then, sipping his chocolate, smiled provocatively over his cup at Sophia.

She touched his hand and pointed at the pile of letters. “Unfortunately, our lives have caught up with us.”

Picking up Walgrave's letter, he broke the seal and read. The muscles in the corner of his mouth tensed, and he picked up the packet, cutting its twine with the knife but not opening it. “I have some business that needs attention.”

She wondered why he could not examine the packet in her presence, but she shrugged it away. Like Aidan, she had her own business to attend to, and she began a list of items to discuss with the housekeeper before they left.

Aidan returned to the library twenty minutes later, carrying a folded newspaper under his arm. His chocolate had grown cold, but he paid it no mind, drinking from it as if he needed a distraction. His manner had grown cold as well, surprising given his playful sweetness since the fire.

Sophia broached the change of plan carefully. “I know it's not what we had hoped to do, but I need to return to London. Some matters have arisen. . . .”

“And you consistently choose to put yourself in situations where you are at risk of harm.” His voice was hard.

It wasn't a question, so she didn't answer.

“What can be so important that you'd return to London where we know a man wishes you harm?” His voice was level and calm, but even harder than before.

She looked away. “I can't tell you. It's a confidence I've promised to keep.”

“What will it take for you to trust me? Is it that you can't tell me or you won't?” His shoulders stiffened into an almost military stance.

“Both.” She would not be harangued to answer more. “I would prefer to discuss something else.”

“Then tell me about Tom's death.”

Sophia sensed the edge to his voice, an exertion of control that made her wary. He sounded as if he were about to interrogate a prisoner.

She bristled. “I'd rather not. Those were painful years; I'd rather not relive them for your amusement.” She let him hear the irritation in her voice.

“I will not be amused.”

She was tired of the lies Tom had trusted her to maintain. Only half an hour ago, she had decided to let Aidan know everything and bear the consequences. But this was not that Aidan. No, they were back to their London détente, and her previous path was best: tell him only what was essential. The rest could wait until she was sure where they stood.

“What do you want to know?”

“I don't know yet. Let's start with when he got sick.”

She gestured uncertainty. “I don't know. I first realized something was wrong when Ian was five. The night was stormy, and Tom and I were working in the library; Ian had been scared and wished to stay with us rather than go up to his nursery. He fell asleep on the rug in front of the fire, and Tom decided not to call for the footman, but to carry Ian up to the nursery himself. When carrying Ian up the stairs fatigued him, I realized how pale and thin he'd become. After that, I watched him more carefully. If he took cold, it took him longer to recover, and he took cold more often. Chills, fevers. His bones ached.”

Aidan listened carefully. Her story matched the one Ophelia had told him after Tom's death. “Did you consult a physician?”

She shrugged. “Tom was a scientist. He knew his symptoms, so he read widely. He found a description of cases like his in Hewson's
Inquiry into the Properties of the Blood
. So he asked an Italian at the Academy of Sciences to examine his blood. Like those Hewson described, Tom's blood, when left to sit, appeared white like milk. The treatises tied that to poor digestion. Since Tom's stomach was frequently unsettled after eating, he tried to choose foods that were more mild.”

“Did that work?”

She shook her head. “Had it been his digestion, a change in regimen would have helped. But it didn't.”

“Tell me about the day he died.” Aidan's voice offered no more inflection than if he were asking about the weather or a new barn cat.

“The day he died or his death.”

“Both.”

“The day he died was ordinary. We worked in the library on his book, and he wrapped up some chapters and correspondence for his publisher. I remember because Tom seemed more relieved than usual to have that task out of the way and because I found the package unsent after his death. Ian had exhausted himself playing at the house of a friend, so he took dinner with his governess in the nursery. After dinner, I took my leave of Tom and returned to my rooms. In the morning he was still in the library, lying on a couch. Luca called me, but Tom was already cold. He looked like he had fallen asleep; his arm was hanging off the edge of the couch, the book he had been reading on the floor.”

“What book?”

She looked startled. “Charlotte Smith's
Elegiac Sonnets
.”

“Was that a typical book for Tom to read?”

“No, actually, it was one of mine. Tom usually fell asleep to something more weighty.”

“Is it here?”

“It might be in the box of books we took from the trunks.”

“Can you remember anything else?”

She could remember every detail. Sending Luca for Tom's doctor, asking a footman to tell the governess to keep Ian in his rooms until Sophia had a chance to talk with him. The faces of the magistrates as they expressed their condolences. The wailing of the Italian servants. Ian's pale frightened face. Holding herself tightly under control until she could escape to her room. The color of the pansies outside the door in the garden. “No; that's all.”

“I've just received this from London.” He took the folded newspaper from under his arm. “Read this.” He held his finger at a point circled in pencil midway down the page. It was one of the scandal sheets Ophelia loved reading.

She sat frozen on the chaise longue, turning pale. For a moment, Aidan feared that the paper might include some truth.

She slowly shook her head. “Treason? No one was more English than Tom, all king and country. We stayed abroad so long only because I wished it. Tom would have come home years ago. Then later, he was sick.” Her voice drifted off. “Why would someone kill a dying man? It makes no sense. And I . . . I never would have harmed Tom.”

Suddenly all her stoic reserve felt a fragile wall. Her shoulders began to tremble as if she had just come in from a cold night. Aidan placed his hand on her shoulder, its weight and warmth offering her some calm. But the touch was too much, and the contact set her weeping.

“I'm sorry, Sophia. When I opened the packet and saw the paper, I didn't know what to think. . . .” He sat beside her, pulling her into his chest, letting her weep, and brushing her hair softly with his hand. “I believe you. But you are right: it's time to return to London. We'll leave in the morning, and when we arrive, I'll set Aldine to investigate who might be spreading such malicious gossip.”