Song for Sophia (32 page)

Andrew Tilmore, Lord Preston, the dazzling heir of Courtenay whom she had met at the ball, watched over his younger sister and brother with Alysia. They behaved like doting parents over the younger two. He seemed wholly unconcerned about associating himself with the daughter of his father’s mistress. In fact, after observing his subtle but tender attentions to her for a while, it became apparent to Sophia that Lord and Lady Courtenay would have trouble on their hands at some point in the future.

Sophia was far too experienced to mistake such a serious look from a man for a woman; apparently romance drew no requisites in age. She learned Lord Preston would soon turn eighteen and go away to Oxford in the fall. Alysia could be no more than fifteen or sixteen. But the knowing, nearly carnal glances passing between them made even the jaded Sophia blush.

Romeo and Juliet nesting under your roof
, Sophia wanted to warn Lady Courtenay.

Wilhelm and Lord Courtenay had entrenched themselves in a pair of great leather chairs before the fire. Difficult to say if they plotted as powerful lords or reminisced as old army comrades, but if Lord Courtenay refilled Wilhelm’s snifter
one more time
—

Oh, damn — He just did.

Sophia could take no more; she had been counting. Before now, Wilhelm had fairly well maintained his sobriety. She thought it was blind of Lord Courtenay not to consider it; he had to know about Wilhelm’s drinking problem. Sophia excused herself from Lady Courtenay and crossed the room.

She came to a stop between Wilhelm’s knees and unceremoniously snatched the snifter of brandy. A strong Armagnac — four fingers. She tossed it down her throat in four scorching swallows and lowered the glass to find the two men gaping at her. Thankfully, she didn’t cough, and her eyes watered only a little.

“Wil, darling, thank you for the sample, but I think I shouldn’t have any more.” She turned to Lord Courtenay, “Would you not agree, my lord?” He twisted his neck in an amused, conciliatory nod. Wilhelm conspicuously fought a smile while his eyes did that distressing frost-scald stare from under his eyebrows that made her see visions of golden-haired children with hazel eyes.

Minutes later, she heard the tail end of an animated debate between the two men. Lord Courtenay called to his eldest son, “Preston, if we need cover next week, can you do anything about the papers?” He gestured with his head to Wilhelm; she guessed he meant they wanted attention drawn away from an impending scandal.

Sophia wondered what could possibly be a bigger bone to gnaw on for the ton than a ruined, escaped heiress, thumbing her nose at her father by seducing a wealthy lord of dubious sexual orientation with his own shady history, according to gossip. Her mother would be impressed with the caliber of infamy Sophia had inspired in such a short time. Whatever mischief Wilhelm thought to hatch which would eclipse that, she didn’t want to know.

The young Lord Preston appeared unimpressed. He scratched numbers in a ledger, looking intensely businesslike, far beyond his years. He replied without looking up, “Can do. And it is good timing as well. Halverson is three days past due in Dover port from Shanghai, and there is word of storms all along the eastern trade routes. Marsden says he wasn’t shipwrecked but everyone else suspects his cargo is lost. I will wire shares to Grismer’s and drop all of the stock in Halverson’s.”

He cross-checked his ledger with a note scrawled in the margin of a newspaper written in a language even Sophia didn’t recognize, and she was Queen of the Bluestockings. “Orson is in London and owes me a favor. I will convince him to stage a rush on Worth’s, and by Wednesday afternoon, every lady from Edinburgh to Corsica will be panicking over next Season’s silk. No one will care about who is tupping whom for at least a week.”

“
Andrew
!” his mother hissed, horrified.

“Oh. Are we going to
off
someone, then? Perhaps we should stir up the labor unions as well. How about a strike in the northern cotton factories?”

Sophia saw the glint of amusement in his dark eyes as his mother reacted as though laying an egg. Lord Preston glanced sideways at Miss Villier and winked, and she tried to give him a stern look but obviously thought him too charming and clever to put any heat behind the scowl. Oh yes, there would be an endless supply of trouble for the Tilmores in the future.

Sophia struggled to follow Preston’s ramblings, but it seemed he thought he had the wherewithal to personally manipulate the stocks on Threadneedle Street. It seemed an odd notion and highly unlikely, but Lord Courtenay snickered, beaming with pride. “That will do. Proceed.”

No one else in the room behaved as though they found anything amiss; they thought it a matter of course that an eighteen-year-old boy was about to tumble the shipping industry and textile commerce in three countries on an idle request.

Wilhelm and Lord Courtenay went back to their plotting, seemingly satisfied. She left them the same way but sans liquor when she went up to bed. Fritz trotted along warily in the unfamiliar house, stopping once to ogle Daisy, Lord Preston’s mastiff.

“Forget her, Fritz. The nobility gives no quarter for mutts,” she teased him; he cocked his head and dropped a long tongue out of his mouth in a disarming doggy smile. “
I
should remember that, more so than you.” She laughed to herself but found little amusement in it.

Unless Philip intended to guard his sisters night and day, Sophia worried what retaliation Chauncey might attempt on them. Wilhelm had assured her his men would protect them. She even confessed about the locks of hair and her suspicion about a traitor among the household staff. Aggravating, his confidence in Rougemont’s security.

Even accounting for the private army guarding the house, and Philip and Martin watching over the family, Sophia could not banish the premonition of dread haunting the back of her mind. None of those measures protected against the blackmail and public ruin Chauncey had in store for Wilhelm, who didn’t seem to care.

He had refused to approach the subject, saying
That is best left buried in the past, and Chauncey doesn’t own a big enough shovel
. But steep odds were still odds, and she had a particular loathing for any sort of gamble.

Perhaps the worry made her ill, or it could have been the Armagnac; Sophia dashed to the basin and retched, as she had every day the past several weeks. This time she felt no better afterward. Saints above, she would never drink again, not as long as she lived. With her stomach heaving, her head aching, and the same cold trembling numbing her limbs, sleep would escape her until Wilhelm came and wrapped his warm body around hers.

• • •

Nothing happened. Not the day after Sophia escaped her father at the Torquay station, and not the three days following. The ride home from Lancashire was boring, except for her near-crippling anxiety. She expected bandits on the train, thought every rider must be a highwayman about to attack the coach. Even Fritz found it unexciting; he traveled sprawled on the floor dozing most of the time.

Each morning she raided Wilhelm’s office, frantically scanning newspaper headlines for the devastation she expected. Mayfair had been ailed by clogged commodes. A midget pugilist escaped hanging for murder by squeezing between the prison bars. A stray tiger found roaming King’s Cross station terrorized a stout dowager wearing an ostrich plume in her hat. Lord Preston’s fabricated disaster had not struck, and neither had her father’s.

Rougemont transformed into a military command post, with riders, scouts and wires coming and going at all hours. She glimpsed what Wilhelm must have been like on the battlefield; burning with purpose, frightfully cunning, yet reassuring with a calm sense of absolute. No hint of doubt or weakness. He hardly ever slept yet showed no sign of fatigue. His men seemed to think he was alpha and omega. She would have followed him into the fray too.

Humiliating that all this upheaval was on her behalf.

The Queen’s Life Guard had nothing on her personal security detail. When Wilhelm didn’t attend her himself, he knew better than to assign the task to Philip. No, he sent the only man she couldn’t cow; the enormous Irishman she remembered as Colonel O’Grady. With his grizzled auburn whiskers, barrel chest and slight limp, he looked like a cross between a pirate captain and a beloved grandfather. Sophia had learned the hard way that he moved faster than one would expect, and he didn’t mind snatching the Countess of Devon by the waist and bodily returning her to the place Wilhelm had ordered her to remain. For her safety, of course.

Trouble had to be brewing, but she was largely kept aloof of it, on account of her “condition.” Wilhelm seemed to expect some event — the harbinger of Armageddon, by the scope of the operation — but declined to
trouble her with tiresome details
. More likely he knew she would disapprove, whatever the plot might be.

Frustrating how her temperamental health seemed to validate his concerns. The sudden bouts of abdominal pain she managed to conceal unless they stunned the nerves in her legs, forcing her to collapse in a most distastefully dramatic manner. And whoever had dubbed the term “morning illness” must have been a man, because every woman of experience she consulted agreed nausea struck day or night as a matter of course. Especially if Msr. Girard cooked pork or cabbage — heaven help her if he did both at once. The smell made her retch, even separated by three floors and the west wing. She once fainted halfway up a flight of stairs, and Wilhelm ordered her to be carried henceforth. Ridiculous, all of it.

A small relief when she counted the days and added almost eleven weeks, far past the point when she had lost the baby last time. Small, because she didn’t seem to fare well carrying a baby, and it had only begun. She hated the dark voice in the back of her mind hinting that her body had been warning her these many years of her incompatibility with motherhood.

Yesterday Mary had helpfully quoted some famous Viennese doctor about how one out of every five metropolitan mothers perish in childbirth, but only one in six country-dwellers. Aunt Louisa had threatened to lock the impudent girl in a tower until she turned twenty. The humor did little to dissolve the tension, because everyone knew the odds did not seem stacked in Lady Devon’s favor.

What better distraction than a surprise? Sophia heard commotion downstairs and thought she heard a familiar voice among the chorus, but it hardly seemed possible. She managed to sneak past Wilhelm’s office and down half a dozen steps before he came from behind and swept her into his arms, ignoring her protests as he jogged down two flights of stairs, carrying her like a rescued damsel.

“What a naughty girl you are,” he groused, but kissed the top of her head. She scowled up at him and noticed his bloodshot eyes and the lines of strain creasing the corners of his brows. It dissolved most of her annoyance.

“What is going on, Wil? Is it what I think?”

His eyes lit, a smile formed on his lips slowly, as though the gesture had rusted from lack of use. He opened his mouth to answer —

“You call his lordship, the Earl of Devon,
Wil
?”

Sophia turned her head, difficult with Wilhelm’s shoulder in the way. “Mother,” she greeted, forcing warmth into her voice. “What a surprise,” she directed at Wilhelm.

Helena cocked her head in a coy pose and waited while Wilhelm descended the last few steps and set Sophia on her feet. “Lady Chauncey,” he nodded.

How very Mediterranean she looked. Her beauty shocked Sophia; perhaps she had downplayed the memory of her mother’s witchlike, exotic allure. The contrast of her pristine Madonna features and overt air of sensuality gave her a commanding presence. Easy to believe she had upset all the continental royal courts in her day.

Lady Chauncey seemed to take in every detail instantaneously, but her gaze lingered on Wilhelm’s hand twined with Sophia’s, half hidden in her skirts. Helena leaned on the banister, and …
winked!
Like some cabaret flirt. Oh, but she had stayed in France too long.

“So
this
is what you have been keeping from me, Anne-Sophronia.” She eyed Wilhelm with blatant appreciation. “At first I thought I saw a ghost — ”

“We already know about Roderick, Mama. No need to boast,” Sophia half-whispered, glad the staff gave them a wide berth for the awkward reunion.

“I remember Wilhelm as a centurion-like, bookish young man, but my, has he grown into a
god!
”

“Mama, please — ”

“Magnificent. Not as pretty as his brother, but twice as … oh, what is the word?
Alléchant? Vigoureux? Comme un etalon, oui.
”

Tantalizing, vigorous, like a stallion?
Mercy
. “He is standing right here, Mama, and you may be embarrassed to learn his French is quite good.”

“Nonsense. Our dear Wilhelm doesn’t mind, does he? And obviously a romantic, intrepid sort of fellow, if he carries you about like a pirate stealing a wench. What a delightful game.”

Sophia remembered why the English Channel made a proper neighbor between herself and her dear mother.

Martin approached and interjected, “Lady Devon? Which room shall I — ”

Helena gasped. Then she cursed and covered her mouth, her eyes wide. “
Lady Devon?
Lady Devon!”

“You cannot … You mean you haven’t heard?” Sophia furrowed her brows, wondering how news several months old had not reached Helena Duncombe, hub of information for all current events.

Once her look of shock faded, Helena scrutinized first Sophia then Wilhelm with an expression clearly showing she thought them both insane. Then she smiled, the same gracious conciliatory smile Sophia used to rescue awkward moments. “Of course not, darling. I must shock you with the news that I have been mistress of a cellar long enough to have lapsed in my duty. We shall have to debate, you and I, whether your tale of conquest or my fantastic escape should be told first.”

She smiled and winked again, and Sophia finally noticed the strategic tilt of her hat, how it angled the feathers across her cheekbones. Hiding bruises, as always. She seemed a bit gaunt and lacking her usual glowing golden complexion. A humbling reminder that Helena Duncombe had first taught Sophia to smile and carry on.