Chapter Thirteen

“And where are your guardians now, dear sister?”

Sophie cast a casual glance around as she and Celia meandered along Bond Street, idly admiring items in the shop windows. “I believe Mr. Forthrite remained close to the carriage. But the whereabouts of Mr. Tomes and Mr. Freedly escape me. I am sure they are very close, though. Mr. Wethersby spoke to them quite sternly about keeping me safe while Nash was…” She halted, searching her memory, only to discover she couldn’t finish her reply with any reasonable semblance of certainty. Her dear husband had left extremely early before she came down to breakfast.

“While Nash was…?” Celia prompted while arching a brow.

Sophie shook her head as they admired a silver tea set fit for the queen herself. “He had an appointment somewhere today, but I am not certain where. He failed to say when he kissed me goodbye before I was fully awake.” She squinted harder, not at the tea set but at the oddness of the situation. He had left their bedroom so very early. Where on earth would he have needed to be at such a peculiar hour?

“He probably had some boring errand not worth mentioning.” Celia drew closer to the shop window and examined a long, narrow silver tray before pulling a quizzing glass from her reticule and holding it to her eye. “Oh dear, it was much prettier when I couldn’t discern that those small handles on each end were writhing eels rather than delicate scrollwork.”

“Writhing eels? Really?” Sophie took the small magnifying glass and eyed the intricate metalwork in question. “My goodness, you are right. Why on earth would anyone wish to have writhing eels for the handles of such an unusually long tray?”

“To serve eels for dinner, I suppose?” Celia shrugged as they continued on to the next shop window, enjoying the sunny day and balmy weather. “There is the parasol shop just there. Did you not say you wished to examine the newest styles and discover if they would suitably freshen your wardrobe?”

“I wondered if they might have some simple white ones or subtle prints available.” Sophie lightly twirled the pale-yellow parasol she currently held in place to shield her from the sun. “I simply do not see the need for a different parasol to match every bonnet and walking dress. Not only is it wasteful, it is time consuming to ensure that every article of an ensemble is matched to the set with which it belongs.”

“Have you become miserly now that you are married?” Celia teased.

Sophie couldn’t resist rolling her eyes. “You know I have never condoned wastefulness. I consider it a vulgar attitude while so many are forced to do without, through no fault of their own.” She halted, adjusted the tilt of her parasol, and squinted against the brightness of the day. Dread and disgust squeezed her like an overly tightened corset. “Oh dear, is that not Lady Bournebridge and her vicious little pets coming this way?”

“Indeed, it is,” Celia said with what appeared to be a forced smile. “Forgive me, but we must speak to them even though she and her cronies gave our dear Frannie the cut direct at Gretna Green. Lord Bournebridge is little Oliver’s godfather.”

Sophie clenched her teeth and braced herself for the unpleasantness of greeting the demoness of Polite Society. Lady Bournebridge’s sole purpose in life was to make everyone either find themselves owing her a costly favor or wishing they had never made her acquaintance—usually both. But if the vile woman had any wits about her, she would tread carefully. After all, Lady Bournebridge knew Sophie had discovered that her only daughter had fallen from grace and shamed the family by eloping to Gretna Green with the head groom of the Bournebridge stables.

Lady Bournebridge, Lady Essendon, and Lady Mardlebon inclined their heads in almost identical snobbish nods as they drew closer.

“Your Grace,” Lady Bournebridge said to Celia before aiming a haughty curl of her lip at Sophie. “Lady Rydleshire.”

“Greetings, Lady Bournebridge,” Celia said, then returned the nods of the other two ladies.

“Good day, Lady Bournebridge,” Sophie replied woodenly, wishing the viperous trio would move on with no further meaningless conversation. “Ladies,” she said, belatedly acknowledging the other two for propriety’s sake.

Lady Bournebridge idly turned and cast a glance back in the direction from which they had just come. “So here you are, Lady Rydleshire. Imagine my surprise when I saw your husband flagging down a coach with a lady on his arm, and it wasn’t you.” She feigned a shamefaced look. “I fear I embarrassed myself by calling her Lady Rydleshire.” Her snide chortling left no doubt she relished the encounter as the latest on dit. “Of course, Lord Rydleshire was good enough to correct me.” She tapped her chin as though struggling with a faulty memory. “Miss Hampshire, he said her name was. Imagine my surprise.”

Sophie forced her smile to remain firmly in place, refusing to give the old crow the satisfaction of a reaction. “Ah yes, my husband’s cousin,” she lied. “Delightful lady. They are quite close.” A sickening knot tightened in her middle, threatening to make her knees give out and drop her to the ground. But no, she would hold strong. Old Bournebridge would report the weakest twitch of an eyelash to the entirety of the ton, and Sophie refused to give her any additional fodder for her tales.

“His cousin?” the cruel woman repeated as she arched both eyebrows to even haughtier heights. “I see.” She slid a glance over to her cronies, and they all tittered behind their hands like hags cackling over a cauldron.

“Why, there they are again,” Lady Essendon said, with a snobbish wave at a pair of coaches passing on the street. “Oh dear. I don’t believe they saw us.”

“Which coach?” Sophie snapped, no longer able to curtail her temper.

“That one right there, dear. The hackney.” Lady Bournebridge directed Sophie with a subtle nod just as the coach stopped, Nash stepped out, then turned to help a rather questionably dressed, buxom blonde step down from it. The woman, obviously one of ill repute, rubbed up against him in a most unseemly manner as she took his arm and tugged him into an establishment that bore no sign.

“His cousin, you say?” Lady Bournebridge said with a malicious smile. “Indeed.” She turned to her snickering companions and twirled her parasol. “Come, ladies. Bid Her Grace and Lady Rydleshire good day. After all, I am quite certain they wish to catch up with Lord Rydleshire. Perhaps even join him and his cousin for luncheon.”

The terrible trio cackled in unison and swept onward down the street—no doubt in quite the hurry to spread the news of Sophie’s humiliation.

She was rooted to the spot, and a sickening chill crashed across her with the strength of a stormy sea. She turned to Celia. “You saw him? It is not just their penchant for cruelty? Not their making up of unsavory stories?”

“Perhaps we are all mistaken,” Celia said gently, but her pained expression left no doubt that it was Nash who had stepped out of the carriage, then turned back to help the harlot step down as well.

Struggling to stop herself from shaking, Sophie squared her shoulders and charged forward.

“Sophie!” Celia hissed while forcing a smile at passersby. “Where are you going?”

“Where do you think I am going?” Sophie’s sister by choice should know her well enough by now to realize she would not stand idly by while her husband boldly visited his whore on Bond Street in the middle of the day—flaunting her in front of those of the ton, no less.

Celia caught hold of her arm and vainly tried to slow her. “You cannot go in there!” she quietly scolded, still wearing that ridiculous smile to make others think nothing was amiss. “Sophie! You must not. We already have the gossip of Bournebridge and her cronies to deal with.”

Sophie halted and glared at her. “No one publicly shames me.” She held up her reticule. “And I do not go in there unarmed. I not only have my pocket pistol but also my dagger.” She jutted her chin back in the direction they had just come from. “Go back to the carriage. I will be quite fine, I assure you.” Rage paired with unbearable humiliation seethed through her. How could she have been such a simple-minded, trusting fool? How could she have lowered her guard and allowed him back into her heart?

Celia gave her arm a hard yank and prevented her from turning. “You must not be seen going in there. Nor must you cause a scene. If you do not wish to be completely eviscerated by the razor-sharp tongues of Polite Society, pretend you saw nothing—at least for now.”

“Saw nothing?” Sophie choked on the ridiculousness of what Celia suggested. “You expect me to act as if I saw nothing?”

“I expect you to act rationally to save face and avoid even further embarrassment. Bournebridge will supply enough fodder to the gossip rags. Do you wish to feed them even more by barging into a brothel, dragging your husband out into the street, and shooting him in broad daylight in front of witnesses?”

“A brothel?” Sophie whirled about and stared at the mysteriously plain door that Nash and the woman had disappeared through. “How do you know it’s a brothel? I assumed it was merely the doxy’s private den of iniquity.”

“You saw how she was dressed, and Elias told me that there are at least three of them here on Bond Street that are about to bankrupt one of his clients. They call them sporting hotels.”

“I suppose we know what sport they house.” Sophie stared at the place, willing Nash to emerge so she could confront him. How could he do this to her? Why would he do this, after all that he had said about loving and needing her? If he truly loved and needed her, why did he need that woman too? She blinked against the stinging threat of tears, refusing to allow herself to show such weakness. She covered her mouth with her gloved hand. Her heart ached so badly it threatened to make her retch.

Celia wrapped an arm around her, supporting her as she turned her back in the direction of their carriage. “Come. Let us get you home. You are not well at all.”

“I do not have a home,” Sophie forced through clenched teeth. “It is all his now, remember? Thanks to Her Majesty, if he wishes, he can spend every last farthing that once belonged to Maman and me. He can spend it on that whore, and there is nothing I can do about it other than shoot him and then hang for it.”

“You will be my guest. He will not be allowed in my home.” Celia hurried her along, hugging her tighter. “I shall send for your things, and for your mother too. Elias will see what can be done legally to protect you and provide for your future.”

“I have no future and nothing can be done legally. You know that as well as I.” Sophie swallowed hard to keep from sobbing. All was lost. All she had ever hoped for was gone. “That was the reason for the Sisterhood of Independent Ladies in the first place. Except Maman and I failed in our endeavors by trusting the wrong people. We were such fools.” She squeezed Celia’s arm as she stumbled along beside her. “At least you and Frannie secured your happiness safely. I am glad of that for the both of you.”

“My lady! What happened?” asked the man Nash had introduced as Mr. Forthrite. He rushed to meet them while glancing all around. “Did something frighten you? Did those ladies who stopped and talked with you warn you of some danger?”

Sophie snorted a bitter laugh. “Leave me alone. You will only side with him.”

“My lady?” Mr. Forthrite gave her a perplexed look then motioned for a man across the way to join them. “Tomes! Did you see what happened?”

Mr. Tomes joined them, looking just as confused as Forthrite. “Nothing. They spoke to those three ladies and then moved on. Not a single untoward thing happened. No unsavory-looking characters lurking about. My lady?”

Sophie ignored the men, clambered into the carriage, and sagged back in the seat. How could Nash have done this to her? All his precious sentiments had been as worthless as the dust she shook from her shoes. Clenching her teeth, she stared out the window as they rolled along. She appreciated Celia’s silence. It consoled her more than any meaningless words could ever hope to.

Once they arrived at Hasterton House, Celia rushed her inside, pausing only long enough to inform the butler that under no circumstance was the Earl of Rydleshire to be allowed admittance onto the property. Only the dowager countess and Miss Marie, Lady Rydleshire’s maid, were approved to come in whenever they arrived.

Gransdon nodded and even bolted the door.

“Come. Let us get you upstairs to the guest room. I shall order tea strongly laced with brandy, and we shall plan your counterattack.”

Sophie didn’t answer, just clung to the banister to keep from crumpling to her knees and shaming herself further by releasing the painful sobs begging to be unleashed. Counterattack? What could she and Maman possibly do? Queen Charlotte had stripped them of their power, influence, and wealth. Nash had stripped her of everything else—pride, contentment, and trust—but worst of all, he had ground her love for him beneath his heel.

Once they made it into the guest bedroom, Celia settled beside her on the cushioned bench at the foot of the bed. “Cry, Sophie,” she said. “Or rant and rage. Throw things. Break whatever you like if it will help. There is no shame in it, and it is so much better than this dreadful silence that is so unlike you.”

“No.” A cold numbness had settled over Sophie, and she would do nothing to dispel it. It was better this way. Crying meant she cared, and had been foolish enough to love and yearn for a man who would never feel the same for her. Never would she make that mistake again. She pulled in a deep breath and let it out. “After our tea, I would like to rest for a while and would be exceedingly grateful if you would send word to Marie about my things. She will see to bringing everything over. And send for Maman too, as you suggested earlier. But if she wishes to stay at Rydleshire House under Mr. Wethersby’s protection, I understand.”

“And what about your protection?” Celia gently hugged her around the shoulders.

Sophie huffed a bitter snort. “Not that it matters, but if they wish to do so, they may stand guard outside. That is the appropriate place for a master’s dogs, is it not?”

“I am glad you listened to reason and did not make a scene that you would have later regretted.” Celia rose and yanked on the bellpull.

“I suppose.” Sophie pushed up from the bench, crossed the room to the dressing table, and eyed herself in the looking glass. “Her hair was golden. Like sunshine. Mine resembles one of the queen’s red Pomeranians.” She cupped her breasts and turned sideways, studying herself from that angle. “Her hips and bosoms were quite a bit larger than mine, but not so heavily curved as to be considered too plump. I suppose a man can never have enough of those things from a woman?” Was that why Nash had strayed to Miss Hampshire’s bed?

“Stop.” Celia caught hold of her hands and squeezed them. “You are loveliness itself. There has to be an explanation for his being there today.”

Sophie snorted again. “I am sure there is. She gives him delights that he apparently does not find with me. Why else does a husband frequent a brothel?” She held tightly to Celia’s hands, struggling to understand, fighting to find a logical reason for this horrid pain he had foisted upon her. “Do you ever worry about Elias straying? About his taking a mistress?”

“Every woman experiences doubts at one time or another.” Celia pulled Sophie into another hug. “But we must not drive ourselves mad with wonderings. Facts, dear sister. We must discover the truth about today and move forward from there.”

Sophie spewed a bitter laugh as she pulled away. “Truth, you say? Do you honestly think he will fall on his knees and say, ‘Why yes, my love, I meant to tell you I was going to visit my favorite ladybird today’? No. He will tell me some convoluted lie and expect me to fawn at his feet and beg his forgiveness for doubting him.” She gave a violent shake of her head. “There is no such thing as the truth with Nash, and the sad thing is, I understood that. I witnessed his callous treatment of other women years ago when I first fell in love with him. His lies. His trickery. I knew, Celia, I knew.” She clutched her hands to her breaking heart. “I was such a fool to think he would be any different with me.”

A light knock on the hallway door interrupted them.

“That will be our tea,” Celia said. “Come into the sitting room, dear one. You need a drink.”

Sophie needed something, but at present, she wasn’t sure what it was unless Celia knew of a way to turn back time and fix all her mistakes. She followed her into the small sitting room and sank into a chair as Celia went to the door. Sagging to one side with her head in her hand, she ignored the murmurings in the hallway. She didn’t have the energy to care anymore.

“Two of your guards—Mr. Forthrite and Mr. Tomes are the names Gransdon gave—are standing outside at the front gate. I asked him about the third guard, but he had no information about that man.” Celia set the tray on the low, bandy-legged table close by and filled the cups with brandy, forgoing the tea completely. She held out the delicate saucer and cup. “Here. Drink this. It will either help calm you or numb you enough so you cease to care. Either way, you need it.”

Sophie accepted the cup and stared down at the pale amber liquid that perfectly matched the translucent roses painted on the fine porcelain. Peach brandy. She doubted it would help. At this point, nothing would help her feel better.

“I instructed Gransdon to send a pair of footmen across the way to help Marie bring your things over.” Celia settled in a chair across from her but left her cup on the tray. “I did not, however, send for your mother. Not yet.”

“And why not?” It seemed like the appropriate question to ask, although Sophie didn’t particularly care whether Celia answered it. She didn’t care about anything but drinking herself into oblivion and curling into a pitiful knot under the bedcovers.

“The more I pondered your mother’s behavior since the two of you arrived here in London, the more questions I have thought of than answers.” Celia laced her fingers together and folded her hands in her lap. “Since when has the esteemed Lady Nia, the most talented female agent who ever served the Crown, given up on a problem so quickly and sought help from said Crown when she had to have known what it would cost the two of you in the end?”

Sophie took another deep drink of the fruity beverage, inhaling the powerful fumes as the brandy warmed her tongue. Her head was beginning to pound, probably because she had not allowed herself to melt into a sobbing, inconsolable mess. “Speak plainly, Celia. I have neither the patience nor gracefulness at the moment to sort through niceties to describe the raw, vulgar truth. What do you suspect, and who has betrayed me?”

The duchess tipped a sympathetic nod, retrieved her cup and saucer from the tray, and partook of a healthy sip of the spirits herself. “Your mother and the queen betrayed you. Colluded, if you will, to marry you off and be done with the undue stress and maintenance of perpetuating the fake earl.”

Sophie drained her cup, then refilled it herself while mulling over her friend’s logic. “But what about the attempts on my life? Do you truly believe Maman wished me dead?” That was so unimaginable that it didn’t even upset her to suppose such a thing. All her life, she had been nothing but cherished and treasured by Maman.

Celia frowned and returned her cup and saucer to the tray. “I do not believe your mother wished you harmed, but I feel it with the whole of my being that she is behind the scheme of your marriage. She surrendered too easily, sister. Recall her tenacity over the years. When has she ever given up on handling anything herself?”

“Never.” Sophie stared off into the distance, sipping her brandy and wishing the numbing effect would take hold faster, because Celia’s reasoning was beginning to make sense. “So you feel I have Maman to thank for marrying me off to a whore’s bird?”

“Either her or the queen or both.” Celia gave her a pained look. “Please forgive me for speaking so plainly when you are already overwrought. I do hope I am wrong.”

Sophie topped her cup off yet again and held it up in a mocking toast. “Do me the courtesy of changing your original instructions to Gransdon about who may come in to visit me. Marie only. For now, at least. I have much to think about. Please politely decline Maman’s entry until I can find the strength to speak with her about all that has come to pass and what she might know of it. You have given me much to think about.” She indulged in a hearty sip, flinching as the beverage burned its way down her throat. “Maman is an expert at dancing around the truth without soiling her soul with a lie. I am currently in no condition to confront her and extract an answer I can recognize as the truth.”

Celia rose, crossed to the door, then paused. “I am sorry, sister. I will help you in any way possible. Please understand that.”

“Thank you, dear one. You have my utmost gratitude.” Sophie swallowed hard, her throat aching as she once again teetered on the verge of tears. “Thank you for being here for me.”

Celia nodded, then quietly left.

Sophie slowly stood and made her way back into the bedroom. A shuddering sigh worked its way free of her as she climbed onto the bed and curled into a tight ball on her side. She cocooned herself in the counterpane, huddling inside its sumptuous layers and wishing she could disappear. Thank heavens Celia had given her a haven, a sanctuary where she could hide and decide what to do and how to go about doing it.

A hot tear burned its way free. Another followed it, then a torrent of sobs shuddered out of her. She had been so happy. So content—so foolishly trusting and, damn her stupidity, so very much in love. Now she understood why Maman had never remarried or taken any other man seriously. Apparently, a true, lasting love between two people, a bond that kept them faithful to one another, hardly ever happened. Maman had experienced it once, so in her wisdom, she had known that in all probability she would never find it again.

Sophie shook with another hard, keening cry that came from the depths of her soul. Perhaps that kind of love didn’t even exist anymore. Who was to say? She sniffed and coughed, choking on her misery. It didn’t matter if it existed anymore or not—she would never attempt to believe in such a ridiculous fairy tale ever again.