Midnight Pleasures (36 page)

Tears prickled so hard at the back of her eyes that Sophie had to swallow, so she rose and quietly walked out of the room. There was, literally, no point in talking further.

Only innate, fierce pride kept Sophie’s head high during the next few weeks. She registered Madeleine’s social triumphs with some pleasure. But Patrick came home late every night now. Twice she sent a message to Charlotte and joined their party for the evening, since her husband was no longer accompanying her to social events.

Alex looked at her with his black eyes that were so like and unlike Patrick’s, but neither he nor Charlotte ever asked her why Patrick had seemingly disappeared from London society. Sophie drew strength from Charlotte’s silent support.

Only Eloise demanded an explanation. Sophie was taking tea with her mother and rather absentmindedly fending off the suggestion that she eat at least one partridge a week in order to sustain the growing babe.

Then her mother folded her hands in her lap and looked at her. As always, Eloise’s back was as straight as a poker.

“Was it the languages, Sophie,
chérie
?”

For a moment Sophie didn’t understand the question.

“Languages?”

“Was it the languages that pulled you and Patrick apart?”

Sophie flushed. “Oh no,
Maman
. At least, I don’t think so.”

Eloise’s eyes sharpened. “You don’t think so?”

“When he found out—in Wales—he did seem—”

“It’s my fault,” Eloise cried, anguish in her tone. “I should never,
never
have allowed your father to have his way! All that education has given him a dislike of you, hasn’t it?”

Sophie shook her head. “I don’t think so,
Maman
. Patrick simply doesn’t care very much for me either way. He forgets that I exist.”

“He couldn’t do that,” Eloise said simply.

Sophie smiled at her. Whatever her mother’s faults, she was fiercely loyal. “It’s not so bad,
Maman
, really. I don’t mind very much. And Patrick … he has his own amusements.” She shrugged. “He does not appear to notice whether I’m around or not. In fact, he suggested that I come back here and stay with you and Papa in the fall. He will be traveling to the Ottoman Empire as an ambassador.”

Eloise’s face was as sharp as an eagle’s. “Your father will see about that! So Foakes thinks he can toss his bride out like a piece of laundry, does he! And what about the babe?”

Sophie’s hands twisted in her lap. Somehow it all sounded so much worse when her mother formulated it. Her eyes filled with tears. Sophie cried at the drop of a hat these days.

“Please,
Maman
,” she said, her tone half stifled. “Can’t we just let it be? There’s nothing anyone can do—
please
don’t tell Papa.”

Eloise sat down next to her daughter on the couch and wrapped a loving arm around her. “Don’t worry,
mignonne
,” she said soothingly. “You think about yourself and the babe. We would love to have you make us a long visit in the fall.”

Tears dripped onto Sophie’s hands. “I don’t want to talk about it.” But she continued anyway. “I never made a fuss about Patrick’s mistress. But it made no difference. He stopped coming home in the evenings. And then … and then he … We don’t talk. So I didn’t know that he was a duke, and I didn’t know he was going to Turkey—just when the baby is to be born….”

“We won’t mention it again,” Eloise said soothingly.

After a moment they collected themselves and the Marchioness of Brandenburg reseated herself. Eloise looked over at her lovely daughter, now the Duchess of Gisle.

“Have I ever told you how proud I am of you, darling?”

Sophie laughed. She didn’t see anything Eloise should be proud of. Her daughter had managed to make a disastrous marriage.

“I am proud of you because you show true breeding these days,” Eloise said fiercely. “I know how cruel one’s so-called friends can be when a marriage is faltering. But you have behaved with absolute grace on every occasion. I am truly proud of you, Sophie.”

Sophie swallowed, tears rising to her eyes again. It was an odd legacy to hand from mother to daughter: the ability to stand proud among the ruins of one’s marriage.

“Thank you,
Maman
,” she said finally, swallowing the terrible lump in her throat.

Chapter 24

T
he following morning, Sophie had barely made her toilette when Clemens announced that Lady Madeleine Corneille had come to call.

Sophie entered the drawing room a trifle anxiously. She had seen Madeleine the preceding evening, and she had said nothing of making a morning call.

With her usual charm, Madeleine made sure that Sophie was comfortably seated—not an easy thing, given her increasing girth—before she spoke of the reason for her call.

“I have decided to stop the masquerade.” Madeleine’s voice rang clear, calm, and unshakable in the quiet chamber.

Sophie gasped. “Why?”

“It is not honest. I cannot have a marriage based on this … this foundation of lies. Can you imagine pretending to be a false person, for the rest of your life, Sophie? I cannot do it.”

“But you won’t have to,” Sophie pointed out. “Once you are married to Braddon, you will be the Countess of Slaslow, and no one will care a fig for your background.”

“I will,” Madeleine replied simply. “Braddon and I will have children … and what will we tell them?
When
will I tell my son that I am a liar, a pretender from the lower classes? How old will he be when I tell him that I grew up over a stable, and that he will have to worry his whole life that people might find out about his mother’s past?

“And what of my children’s grandfather? Will I make my father into Braddon’s stable master? I would not do such a thing to my father! This is not possible, Sophie. We were fools to think it so.”

Tears came to Sophie’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I never meant to …”

Madeleine looked equally teary. “Oh, Sophie, in no way is it your fault! I am so grateful to you for your friendship, as well as for what you taught me. But Braddon and I were living in a fool’s paradise. We would never have a happy marriage on this basis.”

“You can’t know that,” Sophie protested. “Braddon loves you so much, Madeleine.”

“We cannot have a good marriage when our life is based on falsehoods,” Madeleine replied, French practicality resonating in her voice. “Love is not enough.”

“Yes,” Sophie murmured. She loved Patrick, after all. But somehow her marriage was falling to shards and tatters … love or no. “What will you do now?”

“Braddon and I discussed it last night. We may go to America. Braddon says he will not stay in England without me, and Braddon is very determined.”

“He will never let you out of his sight,” Sophie confirmed. “But what of his family, Madeleine?” She hesitated, remembering Braddon’s anguished fear that his mother would be humiliated.

Madeleine nodded. “It is a problem, that. So we have come up with a new plan, Sophie. I will continue the masquerade until next week. At Lady Greenleaf’s ball, our engagement will be announced. The following day, we will let it be known that I have suddenly fallen ill. Then,” she said briskly, “when I am dead of a fever, Braddon will make a trip to America to recover his spirits.”

“And you will go with him? Oh, this is a true Braddon scheme!” Sophie said. She felt a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

Madeleine wrinkled her nose. “I—I do not care for it. But I can see that I have woven my lies, and now I must play to the finish. I shall go to America and be a plain horse trainer’s daughter, and if the Earl of Slaslow is foolish enough to marry an American horse trainer’s daughter, well, so be it. Our children may return to England someday. I shall not.”

“I shall miss you,” Sophie said. And she meant it.

“I am so grateful to you, Sophie, for teaching me to be a lady,” Madeleine said. “I too shall miss you.” She hesitated, then rushed on. “Your Patrick … he does love you, you know.”

Sophie started. A glow of humiliation heated the back of her neck.

Madeleine’s brown eyes were earnest and passionately sympathetic. “He
loves
you,” she repeated. “I see him—watching you. Whenever you are not looking, he watches you. And his heart is in his eyes, Sophie.”

Sophie smiled, a pinched little smile. She and Madeleine hugged a long good-bye.

A few minutes after Madeleine left, Clemens appeared in the doorway of Sophie’s sitting room, holding a salver with a card on it. “Mr. Foucault and Mr. Mustafa are calling,” he said.

His tone was resonant with hostility, and Sophie knew instantly that Clemens, who was a ruthless judge of character, did not approve of these particular callers.

“Do I know them?” Sophie asked.

“Certainly not, Your Grace,” Clemens replied. “They are acquaintances—distant acquaintances—of His Grace.”

“I don’t understand, Clemens. Did they ask for me?”

“They asked for His Grace,” Clemens said, “and when I informed them that he was not at home, they requested to speak with you.” He let it be known by the curve of his lower lip just what he thought of such a gross lack of propriety. Requesting a call with the mistress when the master was out of the house! Absurd. “I shall inform them that you are not at home.”

Sophie nodded, and Clemens backed out of the room. He returned a few minutes later. Now there was a miniature silver castle on his salver, a willowy, fantastic castle whose turrets were crowned with glowing rubies.

Sophie’s eyebrows rose.

“A gift for the sultan, Selim III,” Clemens pronounced. His tone was still rancorous but he was clearly appeased by the obvious worth of the castle. “Mr. Foucault claims that His Grace is expecting the inkwell and has agreed to present it to the sultan on Mr. Foucault’s behalf.”

“Oh, dear,” Sophie said, rising from her chair. “I had better greet him, hadn’t I? Why, what a lovely piece!” She approached and reached out toward the castle roof. “This must cover the well.”

But Clemens shook his head. “Mr. Foucault desired most earnestly that the inkwell remain untouched at this juncture, as it is temporarily sealed for the trip to the Ottoman Empire. Apparently the well is filled with the sultan’s favorite color ink—green.” Clemens’s lower lip conveyed his opinion of green ink.

“Of course,” Sophie said, withdrawing her hand. “Why don’t you set the castle over there, Clemens?” She waved toward a small parquet table in the corner. “Where are they?”

“In the drawing room,” Clemens replied.

“If you would ask Simone to join me, we shall greet the gentlemen in fifteen minutes.”

Clemens bowed and retreated backward. Ever since Patrick had acceded to the title of duke, Clemens’s self-esteem—and his worth among London butlers—had gone through the roof. The extra consequence had translated into a formality unmatched except in the halls of St. James’s itself.

By the time Simone had been located, and fussed with Sophie’s hair, rather more than fifteen minutes had passed. But Monsieur Foucault pooh-poohed Sophie’s apology.

“It is a pleasure merely to be in the same room with such elegance,” he said, brushing the back of her hand with his mouth. “So many Englishwomen are so—so
quaint
in their attire!”

Sophie barely averted a shudder at the touch of Foucault’s silky lips. When Foucault introduced his companion, Bayrak Mustafa, Sophie wondered for a moment whether to greet him in Turkish. She certainly had mastered enough of the language to conduct a simple conversation. But pregnancy had had a terrible effect on her memory, and she might make a total dunce of herself. So she merely nodded and said a polite greeting in English, trusting Monsieur Foucault to translate.

She had no trouble understanding Monsieur Foucault’s translation of her greeting. But Mr. Mustafa’s response was rather more interesting. In fact, it made absolutely no sense, as far as Sophie could tell. His sentence—delivered with a deep bow—appeared to be a line from a nursery rhyme or a children’s song. She
must
have misunderstood! After all, Foucault showed no signs of surprise. He translated the nonsense line as a most conventional greeting and compliment.

Sophie sank into a chair, feeling even more confused. But her curiosity was piqued. Monsieur Foucault seemed eager to speak of French fashions versus English; after a bit, Sophie managed to steer the conversation back to Bayrak Mustafa.

“I am so sorry that Mr. Mustafa is neglected in our conversation,” she said sweetly to Monsieur Foucault. “Will you please ask him, for me, how our English cities compare to the great city of Constantinople?”

A flash of annoyance passed Foucault’s face, but a beatific smile quickly replaced it. “How very kind of Your Grace,” he cooed, “to think of my companion, Mustafa. As it happens, he and I have overstayed our welcome in your beautiful house, and must be on our way—”

“Please,” Sophie said, her tone as charming and as determined as his. “Do allow me to keep you for a moment. I am
so
curious about Constantinople!”

Foucault nodded politely and turned to Mustafa. Sophie listened closely, trying to keep her face brightly polite.

Sure enough, Foucault relayed her question. But Mustafa’s reply was a nonsensical jingle-jangle of words. And unless she was greatly mistaken, Mr. Mustafa spoke only nouns, no verbs.

What’s more, Foucault’s translation did not represent what she had heard, even given her imperfect knowledge of the Turkish language. In Monsieur Foucault’s words, Mustafa had found the capital of England to be far superior to the great city of Constantinople.

Foucault smoothly moved from his translation to a grandiose apology. “Do forgive me, Your Grace, but we must be on our way. I am”—he swept forward and kissed Sophie’s hand yet again—”your most obedient servant. I trust His Grace will find the inkwell amusing.” He paused for a moment. “I must beg you, Your Grace, to convey the fact that the inkwell is sealed. It
must
remain so until after it makes its long journey to the Ottoman Empire.”

Sophie smiled, rising to her feet as well. “Naturally, we will not disturb the inkwell in any way,” she said. “May I compliment you on your thoughtful and most beautiful gift, sir?”

Foucault bowed once again, then ushered Bayrak Mustafa out of the room, leaving in a babble of English words. Mr. Mustafa bowed silently and did not venture again into Turkish.

After they left, Sophie frowned and walked up the stairs to her sitting room. She walked over to the inkwell, touching its delicate, jeweled turrets with one finger. There was something wrong, deeply wrong, about Monsieur Foucault and Mr. Mustafa.

And yet she had scarcely even seen Patrick since the whole debacle of the Commonweal ball. How could she bring up the subject of Monsieur Foucault? As she thought about it, Clemens appeared at her door with more cards on his silver salver. The Duchess of Gisle was much in demand, and Sophie dismissed her concerns for the moment.

Later that week, Patrick ran into his brother on a crowded street, and they stopped for a moment, nonplussed.

“You’re giving me a damned bellyache, man,” Alex finally said.

“Your stomach is not my problem,” Patrick retorted. His temper was worn to a thread by nights of sleepless walking.

Alex scowled. “You might at least instruct a footman to help your wife,” he said acidly. “I found Sophie clambering out of her carriage yesterday by herself. She almost fell to the pavement.”

Fury raced down Patrick’s spine. He bowed his head politely. “I will of course instruct the footmen to be more assiduous.” He ignored the unspoken criticism—that he should be shepherding his wife around town now that she was almost seven months pregnant.

Alex swore. He had come to love his petite sister-in-law dearly, and something about the wounded bewilderment deep in her eyes told him that she had no idea why her husband was behaving so irrationally.

“Have you talked to Sophie about your fear of the birth?” he demanded abruptly.

Patrick’s body became even more rigid, if possible. His eyes were smoldering. “My ‘fear,’ as you put it, is an entirely reasonable reaction to the fact that one in five women die in childbirth. Unlike you, I hoped not to put my wife in danger for the witless pleasure of reproducing myself.”

The look in both men’s eyes was barbarous now, un-suited to the polite environs of Oxford Street.

“If you weren’t my brother,” Alex said with icy politeness, “I would call you out for that. As it is, I’ll tell you,
brother
, that you have gone stark raving insane. You are making yourself and your wife miserable for no good reason other than senseless, childish terror.”