Song for Sophia (29 page)

“Patience, love. An obscene amount of blunt, and an equal measure of luck.” His words didn’t seem to convince even himself, and she certainly wasn’t fooled. Why so uneasy? And what was he still not telling her?

She was about to prod him for details when he said, “May I ask something of you? A gift?”

“You chose a good time to ask, Wil. I can’t imagine anything I would withhold from you at the moment.”

Silence while he drew flourishes around her navel with his finger. “A piece of paper. The one which allows you to annul our marriage with the stroke of a pen. Or you could present me with the ashes, if you truly want to please me.”

Oh. Had he requested anything else — the great pyramids on a platter, perhaps. “I made the provision for
your
sake — ”

He scoffed and dropped his head on the grass. “You really think I am going to — quote —
tire
of you? After I confessed ardent devotion? Sophie, I have planned this scene since … well, guess how long it takes to acquire a blue rose. But when did I convince you I am fickle?”

“I know you are sincere and constant. The purpose was to secure your freedom as well as preempt against Lord Chauncey, should the need arise — ”

“You sound like my lawyers. Fancy speech to obscure the fact that somewhere in that enigmatic mind of yours, you expect to leave me.”

“An ungracious manipulation of my words. I have been uncomfortable — no, disturbed,
frightened
— with the danger I brought upon you.”

He ripped a handful of grass and tossed it in the air. “That damned paper hangs over my head. I want it gone.
Please
.” He rolled to prop his elbow on the ground and shot her a devastating, smoldering look. Fritz made a similar expression when he begged for a slice of ham, but Wilhelm’s was more effective.

“Anything for you, love. You can eat it for breakfast.”

“I like the fire idea better. And thank you.” He reached across the space to run his hand over her side, following the curve from hip to ribs, over and again. An apology shone in his eyes, then he fell into a trance.

Sophia closed her eyes, letting his warm touch coax her into a brighter mood. Irritation aside, she could not fault Wilhelm for his dedication and unselfishness … even if she thought his methods convoluted.
Part of love is trust
. There went her annoying conscience again, even if its reasoning rang true.

She succumbed to the drowsy feeling pulling her eyelids closed in concert with the weak breeze and dots of sunshine escaping though the wall of hedges. Either Sadie or Wilhelm would alert her if anyone approached. She did feel safe, she reasoned, or else she would not drift to sleep naked in the middle of a garden while a tea party went on only paces away.

Chapter 22

Why Wilhelm Has A Questionable Reputation

Unkind of her to tease him, but she could not resist. Sophia nudged a drawing pencil with her elbow, misaligning it from the others by an inch or so. Wilhelm noticed immediately, glancing over the top of his paper. Sophia droned on about grayscale values to the Cavendish girls, all bleary-eyed and covering morning yawns. At least they remembered to place a hand over their open mouths even if the drawing lesson fell flat. Progress was progress.

There
. She saw the moment Wilhelm could stand it no longer — he had been twitching ever since she bumped the pencil. Leaning over the table, he slid the pencil into place, and she pretended not to mind. First the stack of books, then the jars of powder, and now the pencils. He simply could not tolerate the sight of an object out of place. She remembered his stringent standards for starching and pressing his sheets, shirts, and drawers. He had been quite the tyrant, but months had passed and he was much altered. Everyone noticed, and the reformed Lord Devon seemed to have charmed the entire household.

And my, had he changed. The man she met last year would have perished of apoplexy at the sight of his bed thoroughly disheveled as it had been this morning. Creased sheets were the least of it, she thought with a smile.

He noticed. Wilhelm raised a brow in question, and she winked back. The air between them charged, and she wondered if he was remembering last night too. His expression heated as he mouthed,
I want you
.

“Aunt Sophia?” Mary asked, waiting for instructions.

Sophia turned to the girls and Wilhelm bowed his head over the paper again. Under the table she dropped the slipper from her foot and rubbed from his ankle to knee, slowly to avoid making a rustling sound on the fabric of his trousers, then traveled slowly up his thigh as she spoke. “A common error in technique is to force the tip too deeply. A superior texture is made by softer strokes repeated at various angles.”

Like Fritz pointing his ears, Wilhelm’s attention darted up, and she forced any hint of humor from her expression as she went on, demonstrating the pencil stokes. Let him wonder if she intended the innuendo in her art lesson.

“See? This effect is more complex, more saturated, and more pleasing.” She saw Wilhelm swallow. It seemed he badly wanted to chortle, or at least trade glances with her. She ignored him, still teasing with the ball of her foot. “Observe the superior control with gentler strokes. And I can intensify the value with sideways and diagonal strokes, which adds a dimension of motion. Hmm, and it makes the texture much
smoother
.”

Wilhelm made a choking sound then disguised it with a false cough.

Just when she thought he might fall out of his chair, she doused the game with a clinical tone. “And besides, I ruined the texture with the first way, see? The lines of the pencil should not score the paper. Now you try. Start from opaque and shade to absolute white, in a column of graduated values.” The girls bent over their sketch books.

Sophia rubbed her toes across Wilhelm’s lap, back and forth slowly, then in little circles — abruptly he shot out of the chair, knocking it over and striking his knee under the table. He grunted and held the paper to cover his groin, sending her a look both exasperated and heated with lust.

The girls glanced up in puzzlement, Sophia bade them to stay on task, and Wilhelm cleared his throat. “A loose tack in the upholstery,” he explained and moved to take the seat next to Sophia then snatched one of her drawing pencils.

He appeared thoughtful, doodling mathematics in the margin of his newspaper. Then she noticed the numerals and their odd arrangement in his formulae. When she quit trying to understand the equation and took in the whole, Sophia gasped as she saw outlined figures — two of them, male and female — engaged in the very act that had transpired last night in his bedchamber. The addition of a horizontal figure eight — the infinity sign — and the number 1 made it even worse when combined with a zero.

“Ooh, Uncle Wil, what is that?” Madeline peered over his shoulder before Sophia could shield the girl’s eyes. Mary and Elise leaned to examine the numeric figures. Confusion shuttered each of their expressions, and Sophia sighed in relief. Apparently they saw patchy rows of numbers.

Wilhelm hummed casually. “Just the product of a bit of inspiration. If I can solve this equation, I may have discovered the solution to a divergence of the
harmonic series
paradox. Architects everywhere will petition my sainthood.”

Mary nodded as though she comprehended his onslaught of mathematical terms. “You are very clever. Well done.” Then the girls lost interest and returned to their drawing.

Sophia muttered, “Yes, darling. Submit
that
to the Oxford department of mathematics.” She appraised the number 4 serving as a profile of her face, and numbers 3, 1 and a handful of 7s and Xs behaving very naughtily with his opposing 2 and 6.

He shot her his rakish pirate smirk. “Simple calculus. The equation is completely viable.”

Brilliant madness.

“Yes, I can see that.” Lovely, how she inspired him to expound on his talent. Put that in a history book: Anne-Sophronia Montegue: muse for mathematical erotica.

• • •

Innocent-looking but bizarre, the three locks of hair resting atop a sealed envelope on her bedstand. The long golden strands belonged to Elise, the coarser raven curl Mary’s, and the short caramel ringlet unmistakably Madeline’s. These could have been waiting days or weeks — Sophia had not slept in the Scarlet Suite for over a month since that lovely day in the garden.

Curiosity turned to dread as she saw the penmanship on the outside of the envelope. It curdled her blood. Slanted, compact, with pointed strokes like little weapons sticking out at odd angles. Only one soul in the world wrote that way.

Darling Daughter,

It may interest you to know I have in my possession a notarized copy of a most interesting bill of annulment, signed by none other than the illustrious Wilhelm Montegue, Earl of Devon. Oddly, it lacks the necessary detail of your signature.

Imagine my surprise to receive in coincidence several affidavits of complaint filed by continental dignitaries and officers of Her Majesty’s Royal Army, all shocking in nature and
most condemning to a mutual person of interest should their contents emerge from the dusty archives to, say, the
Times.

You are now aware how I might exercise the powers of influence at my disposal, and no doubt you understand my determination in matters of utmost importance. In truth I have no quarrel with the noble family of Rougemont and will gladly reinvest my interest where it is most effective, contingent upon your prompt cooperation. I am most concerned for your welfare and the continued well-being of those whom you consider friends. Your dear mother, whom I have here in my company, agrees.

Instructions for your safe transport to be forwarded shortly.

Your loving father,

Alfred Duncombe, Lord Chauncey

The paper made a gratifying crumpling sound in her fist, and she appreciated the sight of it burning in the fire grate even more. No wonder he had the press eating out of his hand. He almost sounded like he meant to invite her to tea, as though she had only a good-natured scolding in store upon her return. It dawned on Sophia that even if she had proof of his evil deeds, no court would convict him. No punishable crime had been committed. Apparently common sense and human decency were optional for a peer of the realm.

In the eyes of the law, Lord Chauncey had every right to reclaim his ungrateful, wild daughter. He would probably submit last year’s marriage contract with Lowdry — she hoped her dog’s teeth left horrid scars on his neck and gave him eternal nightmares — suing Lord Devon for some sort of breach. Granted Wilhelm could wield influence on her behalf, but not if Chauncey found a way to discredit him. Her belly full with Lord Devon’s baby would have helped, but since when had fate ever been so kind? Dickens must have first heard his famous
The law is an ass
quote from a woman. And she was damned right, for all the good it did her.

Sophia had been surrounded by Wilhelm and Philip, as well as the “forcibly reformed” male staff at Rougemont for so long she had nearly forgotten how loathsome the fouler gender behaved. As soon as she left the idyllic cocoon Wilhelm had created for her here … .

Her head jumbled with half-hatched ideas, sprouting contradictory tangents. She let a little growl of frustration, rubbed her hands down her face and willed herself not to panic. She sank into the desk chair and snatched a pen and paper. Her first mark poked through the page, stabbing the leather pad with an unsightly blotch of ink.

None of her choices were palatable; that is why she stared at the page long before writing:

Option 1. Stow away on the next steamer bound for America. Or Australia? And dye my hair a bad shade of ginger, work on a remote vegetable farm for the rest of my life.

Option 2. Run away to Spain and take my vows at St. Angelo’s.

Option 3. Confess all to Wilhelm and hide under his coattails while he rides to his ruin as my faithful champion.

She thought longer and recognized it would be worse than his humiliation or disinheritance. More than once, Wilhelm had vowed to kill Lord Chauncey. He had slain Vorlay for far less than what her father had done. He would do it. And then he would hang for it, because the nobility got away with everything except murder.

Option 4. Pretend to cooperate with Chauncey while conspiring to kill him myself.

Obviously it had to be the fourth one. With Wilhelm, the girls, and her mother at stake, it didn’t seem she had much choice. She would need a bit of help, a co-conspirator to cover her disappearance long enough for her to get away.

All right, then should she speak to Martin or Aunt Louisa? Well, Martin seemed to like Sophia, but Aunt Louisa would be in favor of any scheme which protected Wilhelm, whereas Martin’s loyalty would likely fall toward what Wilhelm wanted rather than what he needed. Sophia huffed, thinking Aunt Louisa would be glad to see the back of her.
The Old Dragon it is
, she decided with a sigh.

• • •

The blood drained from Aunt Louisa’s face, she fanned herself faster, and Sophia worried the woman would faint. “What sort of affidavits? And from whom?”

“He didn’t mention the contents, but cited
continental dignitaries
and army officers. Is Chauncey bluffing? Could such documents exist?”

“Merciful saints, yes. Piles of them, if someone cared to preserve the papers from being destroyed as they should have been.” Aunt Louisa glanced to the doorways, the windows, then seemed assured of utter privacy in the drawing room. Still she lowered her voice, “Those documents must not see the light of day, Miss Duncombe. No matter the cost.”