Kathryn Smith - [Friends 03] (17 page)

Letitia continued, "He mentioned the dedication specifically. Sophia told me she wrote those words in your copy of the book alone. Julian, that day Aberley came here, could he have seen the book?"

"Of course not— " he stopped. Aberley had been obvious in his scrutiny of his desk that day. Sophia's book had been there, and he had left Charles alone in his study when he left the room.

Oh Christ. It couldn't have been
that
simple, could it? It seemed too fantastical, the idea that Aberley might have picked up the book, opened it and saw the dedication, but it was possible.

Pathetic as he was, he wanted to believe it. He wanted to clear Sophia of all guilt, but it was impossible. It was too small a thing— too much of a coincidence to think that in the few minutes Aberley was in his library, he had found Sophia's book, memorized the inscription and put two and two together.

It would have been easy enough to do if Aberley had also seen Julian's own notations on several pages. And he wouldn't have had to memorize the inscription; it was short enough that he could have written it down.

"Why would he do such a thing?" he asked his sister. "What could he possibly have to gain by ruining his brother's widow in such a fashion?"

"Because of a clause in the late marquess's will," Letitia explained. "He wanted to ruin Sophia."

Julian didn't bother to hide his surprise. "I think you had better tell me everything you know. Start from the beginning."

The story she told him was an amazing one. She told him that Sophia had confided to her little about her marriage other than the fact that Edmund Morelle expected his wife to be a model of propriety, so much so that he had it written into his will that if Sophia ever brought any kind of scandal or shame upon herself and the family that she would be cut off without a penny. The men who were left to decide her fate were Edmund's solicitors and his brother Charles.

"Surely Charles did not need the money," Julian mused out loud. "Why did he want to ruin Sophia?"

Letitia flushed a dark crimson, answering his question without words. A chill crept over Julian's entire body as realization sank through his damnably thick skull.

"He wanted her at his mercy," he whispered, memories of that day at her cottage flooding back unwanted and ugly. He could see Charles forcing Sophia down on the table, and the tears in her eyes as she tried to fight him off.

The bastard had been trying to deprive her into submitting to him, and when that didn't work he'd reverted to physical force.

And then he had been handed the perfect weapon with which to bring Sophia to her knees. And if the information Letitia repeated was correct, then he, Julian, had been the one to give it to him.

"Why was I not told this earlier?" He couldn't help but think this could have been avoided if Sophia had only confided in him.

Letitia's eyes widened. "I have been trying to tell you for the past three days."

Julian shook his head. "Not you. Why did Sophia not tell me about Aberley's machinations herself?"

Folding her arms over her chest, his sister regarded him with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.

"Despite the fact that it was none of your concern, if she had told you, would you have believed her?"

Probably not, no.

Letitia was right. He was an ass. Possibly the biggest in all of England. The question was, what was he going to do about it?

"Where are you going?" Letitia demanded as he strode past her toward the door.

"I'm going to pay Murray a visit," Julian informed her, pausing on the threshold. "He is not only Sophia's publisher, but mine as well. And if he wants any more of my poems, he'll damn well tell me who ordered the reprint of that blasted book."

John Murray was a shrewd-looking man with thinning hair, a long, hooked nose and eyes that saw more than they should. Normally Julian didn't mind having that intrusive gaze fixed upon him, but today was the exception.

"What makes you think anyone wanted the book reprinted?" Murray asked. "Perhaps I made the decision on my own."

Julian arched a brow. Murray might be a good publisher— God knows he had made Julian a small fortune— but as a liar he was poor at best.

"Did you make up that dedication on your own as well?"

Murray smiled affably. "No, but then I think you already knew that." His eyes narrowed. "You know who wrote the book, my lord. The same person wrote the dedication."

Julian's patience was almost at an end. "That is not what I asked. I want to know who came to you about having the book reprinted. Was it So— Lady Aberley?"

Julian held Murray's gaze as the publisher peered into his soul. Finally, Murray nodded. "Yes. It was Lady Aberley who requested the book be reprinted with her name and dedication attached."

Julian sat stock-still, struggling for breath as a band of ice squeezed his heart and lungs. Part of him had known— even hoped— that his suspicions about Sophia would prove right but that didn't stop it from hurting. It hurt more than he ever could have thought.

"Of course, I did not deal with her directly this time," Murray went on. Julian raised his head, barely hearing him above the roaring in his ears. "The Marquess of Aberley was our go-between. It was he who took care of the business— rightfully so, given his relationship with the marchioness."

The pressure around Julian's heart ceased so suddenly that his heart gave a mighty thump against his ribs. Murray hadn't dealt with Sophia at all. He had dealt with Aberley.

Thanking Murray for his information, Julian took his leave. As he climbed into his carriage, he ordered his driver to continue on to Gray's Inn and the offices of Finch, Barrows and Abercrombie, the Aberley solicitors. He was familiar with the firm, having done business with them in the past. That previous association— and the hundred pounds Julian had offered— made Mr. Barrows very accommodating. After all, the late Marquess of Aberley's will was hardly a
secret
, now was it?

Barrows told Julian everything— and more— that he wanted to know about Edmund Morelle's will. Sophia hadn't lied to Letitia. There was a clause that demanded Sophia keep her behavior within the bounds of propriety or risk being cut off without a cent— a clause the present marquess had been loathe to act upon, of course.

Julian left the office with a very unpleasant taste in his mouth.

What kind of husband would do such a thing to a wife? If he made such demands as a dead man, what had he subjected Sophia to while he was alive? He had killed Sophia's confidence, her joy, the reckless abandon that Julian had found so contagious and arousing, and turned her into a dim shadow of herself.

But Julian knew the real Sophia was still in there somewhere. When no one else was around, she had shown herself to him. Sophia trusted him enough to be herself with him.

Look at how he had repaid her. He owed her an apology. He thought perhaps he owed her even more than that.

Rapping on the roof of his carriage for his driver to move on, Julian settled back against the squabs with a hard lump in his throat— it was his pride.

And he was going to have a devil of a time swallowing it.

As she stepped into the foyer of the house in Grosvenor Square, Sophia was struck by the realization that no matter how much some things might change, others would forever remain the same. Her parents' house was one of them.

"Well, bless my soul!" The butler, Jenkins, grinned broadly. "Look who has come to call."

Sophia returned the smile, even as the butterflies in her stomach threatened to eat her alive.

"Good day, Jenkins," she greeted as she removed her gloves. "How is Margaret?"

The balding butler's dark eyes twinkled. "Oh, she's very fine, my lady. Just been blessed with her second child."

Sophia had always liked Jenkins and didn't mind having her mission waylaid by small talk. She didn't relish the idea of facing her parents. But she was not a coward— not completely— and so she left Jenkins after hearing about his grandchildren and made the walk to her mother's parlor on her own. She would spare Jenkins the pretense of announcing her. Her mother had no doubt expected her long before this.

Down the narrow hall she walked, her knees trembling with every step. Portraits of disapproving ancestors stared down at her from their pegs high above her head. Only one featured a smiling countenance— that of the fifth Viscountess Haverington. She had been notoriously scandalous her father said. He had compared Sophia to her before marrying her off to Edmund.

She supposed he could have had made a worse comparison. At least the late viscountess seemed happy.

She rapped softly on the door to the parlor.

"Come in."

Drawing a deep breath, Sophia squared her shoulders and turned the knob. It had been Lady Wickford's idea for her to call upon her parents. Sophia would have rather avoided the humiliation all together, but she had little choice. If her parents didn't offer her their support, she would have to find employment. Lady W had offered her hospitality for as long as Sophia wanted it, but she didn't want to be dependent upon the old woman. She didn't want to be dependent upon her father either.

The door swung open, revealing the familiar blue-and-white interior of the little parlor. A quick glance proved that it too remained relatively unchanged. Perhaps there were a few new porcelain figures on the mantel, a new carpet and one or two new chairs, but the room was pretty much the same as it had always been.

Maria Everston looked up as Sophia closed the door behind her. Aside from the fact that her mother was much darker— given her Spanish heritage— it was like looking into an aged mirror. Startled black eyes stared at her, full lips parted in a silent gasp.

"Sophia."

Clasping her hands before her, Sophia clenched her fingers until her knuckles turned white.

"Hello, Mama."

Her mother was everything Sophia would have become had Edmund not wasted to an early death. The daughter of a Spanish aristocrat, she had been a spirited young girl when Viscount Haverington found her. He married her, brought her back to England and set about turning her into the perfect English viscountess.

Her father had succeeded where Edmund failed. But every once in a while, Sophia used to think she saw a glimpse of that girl whenever her mother let her rigid guard down. This was one of those times.

"
Querida
!"

Sophia hadn't felt her mother's arms around her since Edmund's death, and the warmth and strength of her embrace was much more needed now than it had been then.

Fighting the ache in her throat, Sophia gave her mother a quick squeeze before stepping out of her embrace.

Maria's gaze was assessing, yet without judgment. "I heard you were in town. I had hoped to see you sooner, before all this…unpleasantness."

Sophia only nodded. What could she say? That if it hadn't been for this "unpleasantness" she might not have called on them at all?

"I meant to come earlier, Mama. I am sorry."

"You are here now. That is all that matters." Her mother seemed to know that she was sorry for more than not coming to visit sooner. She took one of Sophia's hands in hers and tugged her toward the small blue settee by the far bank of windows.

There would be no tea, no cakes to fill the awkward stretches of silence as Sophia struggled to find the courage to ask her mother for help. Maria detested tea, even after all these years of living in England. She liked coffee, strong and black, but only in the morning.

"I have heard rumors, Sophia," her mother said in that deep, musical voice of hers. Her accent was still as strong as it had been when Sophia was a child. "Is it true that Aberley cut you off?"

Sophia nodded, knotting her fingers together in her lap. "It is."

"And is he also responsible for this— " Maria's fingers moved in the air, as though trying to grab the right word. "— this
novel
I have heard about?"

Meeting her mother's gaze at that moment was one of the most difficult things Sophia had ever done. "He is responsible for this new edition, but I have to claim the blame for its existence."

Maria clucked her tongue as she shook her head. There were strands of gray in her ebony hair and new lines around her eyes and mouth. She looked tired and weary.

"Oh, Sophia," was all she said.

Gathering all her courage, Sophia seized the opportunity to appeal to her mother. "I need your help, Mama."

Her mother's head lifted. Her eyes and mouth were grim, but she nodded in acquiescence. "What do you need?"

Sophia's heart beat heavily in her chest. Thank heaven her mother was going to help her. It was as though a tremendous weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

"I need somewhere to stay. Either here with you and Papa, or perhaps the house in Brighton, until the scandal passes. Perhaps a loan so I can go to the Continent or the Americas and start over. I am not certain."

She wasn't either. She had no idea what the future might hold for her, but at the moment, getting as far away from England as possible was definitely appealing.

Her mother nodded. "Whatever you need, you will have it."

Sophia's euphoria was shattered by a voice from the opposite side of the room. "She most assuredly will
not
."

Mortification, hot and as acute as only a child can feel, swept over her. Slowly, unwillingly, she turned her head to face her father as he entered the room.

He was just as imposing as she remembered, but the years had not been kind to Henry Everston. His hair was thinning across the top of his head, revealing the pink scalp beneath, and he was much thinner than Sophia remembered. He looked tired, as though he had not been sleeping well. It wasn't much of a reach to figure out what kept him up at night— the damning look in his eyes said it all.

"Hello, Papa." It was a hoarse, pathetic whisper, but at least she met his gaze when she said it.

His blue eyes narrowed. "I cannot believe you have the nerve to come here, asking your poor mother for assistance after all the shame you have wrought upon this family."