The Secret Lover (29 page)

"I've been waiting for you."

Trevor's voice startled her; Sophie whirled around to see him standing at the edge of the corridor, in the shadows. It was funny, she thought for a single mad moment, how she had hardly spared him a thought all day, other than the need to remove any notion of marriage from his mind.

"H-how long have you been here?" she asked, despising the quiver in her voice.

"Long enough to know that Madame Fortier and my father are not here," he said coldly. "Where has she taken him?"

"Taken him? I don't know—have you inquired—"

"I have not had the pleasure of actually
seeing
a servant here, other than your housekeeper," Trevor snapped, and walked out of the corridor into the light of the foyer. "Not that I should have any reason to hope any one of them would be particularly useful."

The bitter edge in his tone was disquieting; she noticed that he looked ragged, with dark circles beneath his eyes. Something about his appearance caused an old spring of fear to rise in her and she unconsciously took a step backward, bumping into the entry console. "I have not seen Madame Fortier today. I would surmise they have gone picnicking as they often do. Did you not see your father this morning?"

A strange expression fell over him; Trevor planted his hand on his waist and glared at her. "I said I do not know where he is!"

"I am sure there is no cause for worry—"

"No cause for worry, indeed? And what would you know of worry, Sophie? My father requires medicine for his condition, and I shudder to think what might happen if he doesn't receive it."

Frantically trying to think when she had seen Honorine last—the ball, but
when
!—Sophie shook her head. "Surely they will return very soon, Trevor—they always do."

He made a guttural sound of disagreement and stalked past Sophie toward the door. "I pray that you are right," he said, and reached for the door. "Father is unwell."

"Trevor, wait! I… I—"

"What?" he demanded sharply.

"I thought we should speak of last night."

That seemed to stun him as much as it apparently aggravated him. "I beg your pardon, but this is hardly the best moment for that. I shall call in the morning." He yanked the door open. "Good evening."

He disappeared through the open door without another word, closing it loudly behind him. Hardly the sort of exit a gentleman ought to make—

Trevor did not seem himself. But who did? Certainly not her.

With a weary sigh, Sophie turned from the door and glanced around.

Someone had picked up the debris from yesterday's ball. She assumed Fabrice and Roland had somehow managed to survive, and with Lucie Cowplain's rather obnoxious prodding, had gone about the business of cleaning up.

Where was Honorine? It really wasn't like her to be gone so long. Sophie walked to the curving staircase, trudging up to her suite of rooms as she pondered the question. Certainly wherever Honorine had thought to take Lord Hamilton, she would return this evening. She always did. And please, God, let her be fast asleep when Honorine did come blustering in, for Sophie was in no mood to discuss the events of last evening or today with anyone.

She went through the motions of her evening toilette and sneered at the early evening sky, wishing the sun would go ahead and slip behind the earth so that full night would come. After brushing her hair and braiding it, Sophie read for an hour. When she glanced at the window, she groaned with dismay. The sky was a slate gray; the sun had not yet taken its leave.

In a fit of pique, she stood abruptly, marched to the window, and drew the shutters tightly closed.

When she at last laid her head down—after taking her great frustration out on her pillow—she offered up one more prayer, begging God for a few hours of complete respite, a few hours of a sleep so deep that nothing could find its way up from the dark pool of her conscience to torture her in her dreams.

Apparently she got what she had hoped, for the next thing Sophie knew, someone was banging on something quite loudly.

With a moan, she pushed herself out of bed and padded over to the windows. Pulling open the heavy shutters, she blinked at the morning sky and pushed open the heavy counterpane window. Below her, Roland was toiling away in the garden; Fabrice was sitting nearby, his legs casually crossed, a book open in his lap. He glanced up when Sophie leaned out over the sill and waved cheerfully.

The banging persisted—it was coming from the front door. "The door!"

she called down to Fabrice, but he merely waved again, pretending not to hear her.

"Oh for heaven's sake," she muttered irritably, and hurried to her dressing room, where she donned a simple day gown, passing up the petticoats and crinolines in favor of tackling the dozen or more buttons as she rushed out of her room.

As she stepped onto the staircase, the banging got louder—it sounded as if a king's army wanted entry. She flew down the staircase—where was Lucie Cowplain? Honorine? Honestly, had she not hired a host of servants?

She reached the door, yanked it open, expecting to see at least a troop.

But the army consisted of only Trevor and Ian.

"Trevor!" she exclaimed, surprised. "When you said you would call, I—"

He startled her by pushing past her into the foyer, dragging his son behind him. "Do you know what she has done?" he demanded, his hard gaze sweeping the length of her.

"Who?" she asked stupidly.

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.

Thanks to Trevor, 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."