Julia London 4 Book Bundle (159 page)

His eyes narrowed menacingly.
“Madame Fortier.”

Sophie’s gut twisted; she mindlessly fingered the end of her long braid as she quickly ran through a mental list of all the things Honorine might have done. “W-what?” she finally asked, quite certain she did not want to hear it.

“Kidnapped him!”
Trevor all but shouted, and clamped a hand down so hard on Ian’s shoulder that the boy winced.

That was ridiculous. Patently absurd! Honorine might have taken Lord Hamilton somewhere, but she most certainly had not
kidnapped
him. “Trevor, you are overwrought,” she tried, but he was quick to interrupt her.

“Very astute, Sophie, I
am
overwrought, for it is not every day that one’s father is kidnapped!”

“Your father has not been kidnapped! I am certain—”

“You might hear this before you go off defending her,” he said, and roughly shook Ian. “Tell her. Tell her what she’s done!”

The boy looked up at his father in fear—an expression Sophie knew very well, knew as her own, having experienced it so many times herself. When William Stanwood was in a black mood, the entire house feared for their safety, and she saw the same look of terror on Ian’s face. She instinctively reached for the boy, but Trevor jerked him backward, beyond her reach. “Trevor, please—”

“Tell her!” he demanded.

“M-madame Fortier, she and Papa w-went on a holiday,” he stammered uncertainly.

Impossible. The child was obviously lying. “I don’t believe you,” Sophie said instantly. “Honorine would not leave without saying something … at least to
someone
.”

But Ian was nodding his head furiously. “They
did
!” he insisted. “She came and took Papa’s little carriage,” he said, and looked up hopefully at his father.

Trevor, however, ignored him—he was staring daggers through Sophie. “There you have it,” he said low. “What have you to say for your Frenchwoman now?

How she despised the tone of his voice!
“I do not believe it!” But did she believe it? It was so unlike Honorine—then again, Honorine never ceased to surprise her.

Sophie suddenly picked up her skirts and pivoted about, determined to have the truth from Fabrice and Roland.

“Where are you going?” Trevor demanded hotly.

She did not respond; she was too intent on speaking with the pair of Frenchmen. If Honorine hadn’t said anything to her, she would have at least said it to the two men who had followed her around the world all these years.

She hurried down the corridor and through the doors leading onto the terrace, Trevor on her heels, Ian struggling in his father’s grip. From there, she ran down the steps, picking up her skirts higher still to better run across the dewy grass. Trevor strode across, dragging Ian behind him. Sophie reached the wrought iron gate that marked the gardens before Trevor and sailed through, marching to where Fabrice was still sitting. Roland hardly looked up from his work.

“Where is Honorine?” she demanded.

Fabrice shrugged.

Oh no, she would not have this now. Hands on hips, Sophie leaned over him, just inches from his face. “You will tell me where she is,
mon frère
, or Mr. Hamilton will certainly call the authorities to have it from you!”

Fabrice lifted one brow, casually glanced around her to where Trevor stood, and after contemplating him for a moment, shrugged again. “
Je ne sais pas.
We do not see
madame
for more than two days,” he said, and as if that were a perfectly normal state of affairs, picked up his book and continued to read.

Chapter Eighteen

T
HANKS TO
T
REVOR,
word spread with amazing celerity among the
ton
that the Frenchwoman had kidnapped poor Lord Hamilton.

Trevor apparently railed at anyone who would listen, alternating between his poignant concern for the fact that his father did not have, in his possession, the very medicine he needed to live, and an increasingly public rage at “the Frenchwoman.”

The Bobbies were summoned to
Maison de Fortier;
Sophie was questioned with strained civility in deference to her status as the sister of the Earl of Kettering, but Fabrice and Roland were interrogated as criminals. Although no amount of bullying by the London authorities could force the two Frenchmen to know what they clearly did not know—the whereabouts of Honorine—it left them feeling terribly vulnerable. The two men began frantically packing to leave for France, taking hysteric turns to watch Bedford Square for signs of any more would-be interrogators.

Two days after the strange disappearance of Honorine and Lord Hamilton, Lucie Cowplain nonchalantly informed Sophie that the entire
ton
was suddenly speaking of Honorine as if she were some sort of strumpet-turned-felon. “They call her Madame Miscreant, I’ll have ye know. Say her depravity comes from the beatings she used to receive from Monsieur Fortier.”

Such ugly remarks about Honorine’s character angered Sophie. The very same people who had taken advantage of her hospitality now turned on her at the mere mention of scandal. It wasn’t just the insinuation of lawlessness, it was the blatant remarks intended to conjure up images of lewd behavior. It seemed to Sophie that if a woman chose to follow her own unique spirit—instead of the
ton
’s interpretation of what was pure and correct—she was quickly branded a harlot, an immoral wanton.

An outcast.

That she fared only slightly better than Honorine in the gossip spreading rapidly through the
ton
inflamed her fury. “They say you’ve been seduced by her ways,” Lucie Cowplain casually informed her. “They say one could expect little more, what with your past and all.”

Would she never be forgiven the mistakes of eight years past? Would that decision to elope, that single moment in time, follow her for the rest of her bloody days?

According to Julian, it would. He had called on her that same morning, his face drawn and his expression grim behind his spectacles, quietly demanding an explanation for Honorine’s behavior.

Sophie wished she
had
one. “I don’t know where she is,” she responded coolly, weary of answering the same questions over and over again.

Julian released a sigh of exasperation and thrust a hand through his hair. “Help me, Sophie! Might you at least try again to imagine where she might have gone?”

As if she hadn’t thoroughly racked her brain for
any
answer for what Honorine had done, where she might be! “I am as astounded by this as you, Julian, but I do not know where she is, nor can I
imagine
where she is.”

Julian came to his feet then, pacing restlessly before her. “This is unfortunate, to say the least,” he said irritably. “Her conduct naturally reflects on you, and just when I was beginning to hope that your reputation could perhaps be mended.”

“And what, exactly, does
my
reputation have to do with any of it?” Sophie demanded, just as irritably.

He did not deign to answer that, but bestowed a very impatient look on her. “Think hard, Sophie. Where might she have gone?”

To the moon for all she knew. And no amount of prodding from her older brother was going to give her any clue as to Honorine’s whereabouts, or the inexplicable reason she had not at least left a note, a fact that bothered Sophie greatly. “Why must everyone assume Honorine has done something wrong?” she demanded of Julian. “
She
is missing too, is she not? It’s not inconceivable that someone has abducted both of them.”

Much to her surprise, Julian nodded. “Yes, I had thought of that, too. The man claiming to be his son was the first person I suspected, but as he has been seen at his favorite haunts, I cannot give that theory credence.”

Her heart suddenly pounding, she asked, “His favorite haunts? What are they?”

Julian looked at her curiously. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve just heard it said. But I rather think it safe to assume your friend Madame Fortier is the culprit, Sophie, for who would possibly think to gain from harming a batty Frenchwoman and a rather debilitated man?”

Her heart went crashing to her feet again. She turned away from Julian to hide the flush of her disappointment from him; she was no closer to knowing where Caleb might be, except that he was still in London. Fat lot of good that did her.

“Sophie?”

“Whatever you might think of her, Honorine has a heart of gold,” she said softly.

Behind her, Julian snorted his opinion of that.

“I know her, Julian. Whatever she did, she had good reason for it, I can assure you.”

He said nothing, but it was plain from his expression he did not share her good opinion of Honorine. By the time he left, Sophie wasn’t entirely certain he kept a good opinion of
her
.

She followed him to the door, watched him toss a leg over his mount and haul himself up, then gather the reins. “If you perchance think of where she might have gone, I hope you will send for me straightaway. I am doing everything in my power to keep your name from this debacle, but I don’t know how long I can do that. Do you understand me?”

Oh, she understood him only too well; she nodded slowly. Seeming satisfied with that, Julian tipped his hat and spurred the horse to trot out of the courtyard.

She shut the door, turned around and leaned heavily against it, staring blindly at the chandelier above her.
Where was Caleb?

How she missed him! She could not sleep, could not eat, could not think without him. And she couldn’t even attempt to find him—leaving
Maison de Fortier
at the moment was impossible, given the number of callers seeking some word, or having a new idea as to what might have happened. She felt herself under particularly harsh scrutiny, as if the entire city were watching her.

Nevertheless, Caleb had remained at the edge of her consciousness, his image jarring her over and over again. She wondered if he had worked on his house, or did it still stand silent? Perhaps Julian was wrong—perhaps he had left for Scotland. Maybe France? She could not begin to imagine where he was, no more than she could imagine where Honorine had gone. The only thing she knew was that she missed him terribly, would sell her soul to see him again, if only for a moment, if only to say,
I am sorry, so very sorry.

What she wouldn’t give to take it all back now.

She spent the rest of the morning waiting … for what? Word from Honorine? From Caleb? Fabrice and Roland were also out of sorts, arguing between themselves about where Honorine might have gone, becoming so adamant in their respective viewpoints that they each locked themselves away in their respective bedrooms. As the minutes and hours passed, however, every plausible explanation evaporated. There was nothing. Nothing but the torturous thoughts of Caleb, the sharp pain of her devastation sinking in, the slow shattering of her heart with the realization her deed had destroyed the raw love she had for him, love that was too large, too deep, to fathom.

Exhausted from a lack of sleep, Sophie tried to nap, but her dreams surrounded Honorine. They were at the ball again, Honorine in her wildly colored gown, twirling Lord Hamilton around in his wheeled chair as everyone gaped at her in dumbfounded horror.
“Shameful,”
whispered one.
“She’s mad,”
said another. In her dream, Sophie had run from person to person, trying to assure them there was nothing wrong with Honorine … until they began to whisper that
she
was the one who was mad.

She was exhausted when she awoke that afternoon.

Slowly, she dressed and wandered down to the morning room. Lucie Cowplain was not long behind her, jerking through the door with a tray of tea.

“No word?” she asked.

Sophie shook her head.

Lucie Cowplain slapped the tray on the table in front of Sophie, shoved a cup and saucer toward her. “What rubbish it all is! It has the lads quite upset! I hear they’ve got the authorities searching the countryside for her. They’ll not be lenient, I reckon.”

“She has done nothing wrong,” Sophie sharply reminded the housekeeper. “They have no reason to be lenient or otherwise.”

Lucie Cowplain lifted a sparse brow. “Indeed? Well, to hear Miss Birdwell tell it, Madame Miscreant might very well be capable of murder.”

Sophie sprang to her feet; clutching her fists at her sides, she glared at the diminutive housekeeper. “Watch your tongue, Lucie Cowplain! Madame Fortier may be many things, but she would never do anything to harm Lord Hamilton!”

That earned her the usual shrug from Lucie Cowplain. “Suit yourself,” she said as she hobbled toward the door. “I merely repeat to ye what I hear.”

When the door closed behind her, Sophie sank into her seat, buried her face in her hands. There had to be an explanation. There had to be a note, a message they were missing. She suddenly glanced up, stared blindly at the wall.

Ian.

The boy had seen Honorine and Lord Hamilton leave—surely they had said where they were going. It was so simple, she was amazed she hadn’t thought of it before.

Sophie was greeted at the door of the Hamilton House by a stately old butler who curtly informed her that Mr. Trevor Hamilton had left earlier that morning.

That piece of news hardly registered. “Yes, well, I have come to call on Master Ian Hamilton.”

The butler frowned ever so slightly. “Master Ian?” he said in something less a question and more a statement.

“Master Ian,” Sophie repeated.

The butler eyed her suspiciously.

“I beg your pardon sir, but is Master Ian within?” she asked pointedly, hoping to high heaven he could not see the solid and rapid thump of heart against her chest.

The man sighed, then smoothly stepped aside, holding the door open. “Master Ian is with his governess in the morning parlor. If you will follow me.”

Miss Hipplewhite was known to Sophie—they had met in Regent’s Park a time or two, and of course, in Honorine’s salon. She smiled uneasily as Sophie was shown into the parlor, her gaze darting nervously to Ian and back again. Ian scarcely looked up as Sophie entered the room, seeming more interested in the wooden locomotive he rolled about the Aubusson carpet.

“Good morning, Miss Hipplewhite.”

“Good morning, my lady,” she said softly, her gaze darting to Ian again. “Master Ian, please extend your greeting to Lady Sophie.”

Reluctantly, the boy came to his feet. “Good morning, mu’um.”

Sophie forced a smile to her lips, glanced at the toy locomotive again, her mind unable to release the image of Caleb for even a moment. “Ian, how well you look!” she forced herself to say brightly. “What have you got there, a locomotive?”

He nodded, scratched his nose.

“How lovely,” she said, and looked again to the governess. “I don’t suppose … that is to say, if you wouldn’t mind terribly, might I have a word with Ian?”

Miss Hipplewhite looked surprised by her request; a hand wavered at the prim collar on her throat and she glanced nervously at her charge. “Umm … I really don’t know if I ought, Lady Sophie. His father, well, Mr. Hamilton is quite insistent that I not leave him alone, particularly when he is away.”

Away? Sophie had no idea what she meant by that, but it was hardly surprising that Trevor would be meticulously restrictive with Ian’s activities. “Surely Mr. Hamilton will return soon?”

Miss Hipplewhite shook her head. “I can’t rightly say, mu’um. He’s gone to have a look about for his father.”

The information caught Sophie off guard. She was so accustomed to his daily calls that it had never occurred to her—“Did he say where?” she asked suddenly.

Miss Hipplewhite’s eyes rounded slightly; she quickly shook her head again.

Sophie looked at Ian—the child was making a concerted effort not to look at her, and in fact, had managed to maneuver himself all the way to the other side of the carpet, his back to her. He didn’t
want
her to ask him a question.

Too bad for the little bugger.

Sophie smiled sweetly at Miss Hipplewhite. “You needn’t leave the room. I meant only to inquire after him, what with his father away.”

Miss Hipplewhite considered her request. After a moment, she picked up her book and nodded. “I’ll just be there,” she said, nodding toward the far end of the room.

Sophie smiled her thanks, waited until the woman was at a sufficient distance that she might not hear a harsh word or two if necessary, then turned her attention to Ian again. He was slowly rolling the locomotive about the carpet. She strolled to where he was playing, stood with her hands folded before her, waiting for him to look up. When he did not, she nudged the locomotive with her foot.

Ian frowned at her slipper and shifted away, taking the locomotive out of reach.

“Ian, if you please, there is something I’d like to ask you,” she said softly.

Ian ignored her.

“It’s about your grandpapa,” she added hopefully, but he shifted even farther away.

“Perhaps you can help me,” she tried again, but Ian surprised her by whipping his head around to glare at her. “I shan’t help you!”

“Why not?” Sophie demanded, genuinely surprised.

“I won’t, that’s all!”

“That isn’t terribly nice, is it, Ian? I would help
you
if you asked.”

“I wouldn’t ask you!”

“Not even to help your papa?”

“Papa doesn’t care for you in the least, either! He loves Madame Fortier!” he cried.

Aha.
At last, the roots of the little heathen’s dislike toward her. He wanted Honorine for a mama, not her. “Wonderful!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “Perhaps he will persuade her to marry him one day. In the meantime, Madame Fortier is with your grandpapa, and I must find her.”