Authors: Heather Cullman
“Look on the bright side of things. Since Miss Barrington is ruined, you can finish out the Season with the assurance that you shan’t be meeting her anywhere,”
Freddie persisted, as if by her mere absence the scandal would magically disappear.
Nicholas eyed his friend in consternation. “You don’t honestly think that I shall remain in Town after what has happened, do you?”
“Why ever not? You yourself said that this has been a particularly lively Season. Besides, it’s not too late for you to find another bride, if you’re still of a mind to do so.”
A bride? Nicholas felt physically ill at the notion of courting. What if whomever he chose the next time found his face as hideous as Miss Barrington did? That thought deepened the dull ache in his belly to a torturous wrench.
Shaking his head as much in response to his pain as in reply, he gritted out, “No. I shall spend the remainder of the Season in Scotland. Fishing.”
Where no one would have to look at his face.
As Freddie predicted, every tongue within the fashionable district between Grosvenor Square and St. James Street was a-wag over the Barrington-Marwood hoax by the following afternoon. The merchants, upon hearing of the trio’s insolvency, merged upon their residence en masse, banging on the door and bellowing for payment. When it became apparent that they would receive neither money nor a response, they retreated one by one, each shouting threats of arrest as he stormed off down the street.
Of course the Marwoods blamed Sophie for their fix, Edgar with a rage that exploded into violence the instant he read Lyndhurst’s note accusing them all of fraud and calling off the wedding. Indeed, had Heloise not shielded Sophie from his wrath, he’d have no doubt added murder to his growing list of sins. It was during that volatile outburst, as she lay sobbing in her aunt’s arms, that he’d banished her to her chamber, vowing to throttle her should she remain in his sight a second longer.
And she was still there, though many hours had passed.
Her eyes welling with tears for the hundredth time that day, Sophie rolled over onto her belly and buried her face in her pillow to smother her anguished wails. If she’d only been sensible and married his dreadful lordship, they wouldn’t be in this coil … this hopeless, tangled coil.
She also wouldn’t be suffering the pain of discovering Julian’s true character.
As happened every time she thought of Julian, raw, savage grief clawed at her heart. Better she’d wed Lyndhurst and spent her life mourning for Julian’s love than to have learned that it had never truly been hers. At least then she’d still have her dreams.
But now she had nothing. Literally. And by this time tomorrow she would be sailing for the wilds of America, fleeing the country like the criminal she was. She’d overheard Edgar and Heloise plotting their escape to the New World when she’d tiptoed past the library earlier that evening.
Mind you, she hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. Indeed, had they still had servants she’d never have ventured forth from her exile. But the servants were gone, every last one of them, all having quit the instant they learned of their employer’s straitened circumstances. That meant that there was no one to bring her her meals. And since neither Heloise nor Edgar had thought to do so, she’d been forced to forage for herself.
So forage she did, though, in truth, she’d had no real appetite. No. What drove her to the kitchen wasn’t hunger, but craving; one for the Shrewsbury cakes the cook had baked the day before. There was always something comforting about their sweet, buttery taste, something that reminded her of her father’s laughter and her mother’s hugs — of picnics and Christmas and stories by the fire. Their taste took her home again: home, where she’d always been safe, happy, and loved.
Filled with bittersweet longing for those peaceful bygone days, she’d gorged herself on the remainder of the cakes. Full to the point of bursting and exhausted from her emotional turmoil, she’d crept back to her room, where she’d fallen into a restless, dreamless slumber sometime around eleven o’clock.
Lifting her face from her pillow, Sophie wondered what time it was now. As tired as she felt, she couldn’t have slept more than an hour or so. That would make it what? Twelve or one? Close to the time her aunt would be coming to bid her to ready herself for the voyage. She’d heard Edgar say that they would leave the house promptly at three to catch the four-fifteen coach to Dover. If it were indeed one o’clock, she had but two hours to prepare. Best she stop moping and start her packing now.
Though she felt boneless from fatigue, Sophie somehow managed to force herself from her bed. After tossing on a white cashmere wrap, she lit a candle and dragged herself to her dressing room. For several beats she stood drowsily surveying her surroundings, wondering what to do first. Then she caught sight of her reflection in her dressing table mirror, and her vanity decided for her. Was that really her hair or had a bird nested on her head?
Grimacing at what had mutated from a fashionable crown of curls into a matted horror, Sophie sat before the table. No wonder mademoiselle always insisted she take it down and brush it before bed. It turned impossible when left up.
Wishing that mademoiselle were there to help her now, she dug through the knotty wad and extracted what hairpins remained. She then picked up her brush and launched her attack. She had finished taming the golden chaos and was pinning it up when the hall clock began to chime.
One, two, three … four?
With a gasp she dropped her hairpins, scattering them across the table to lay like the wire skeletons of long defeated tin soldiers. The clock was wrong. It had to be! Desperate to confirm the fact, Sophie rushed to her jewelry case to check the time on her watch.
It was gone. All her jewelry was gone save the paste coronet she had worn to a costume ball at the beginning of the Season.
Certain she’d been robbed by the servants, Sophie dashed to the door and flung herself out into the corridor, frantic to inform Edgar. Her thin white wrap chasing behind her like a ghostly shadow, she ran down the hall at neck-break speed, coming to a sliding stop when she reached her destination.
Her frenzied voice mingling with the bruising whack of her knuckles against the door, she cried, “Edgar!” over and over again.
No response.
Dropping her now numb hand to her side, she leaned over and pressed her ear to the door to listen for signs of life within.
Not so much as a creak or a sigh.
A frisson of foreboding tingled down her spine as she straightened up again. Had he made good his earlier threat to take his mother and flee the country without her? Had the “we” in his plan not included her?
As quickly as the thought entered her mind, she dismissed it. Though he was no doubt angry enough to desert her, Aunt Heloise loved her and would never allow him to do so. And Edgar, despite his tyrannical manner, always yielded when she asserted her matriarchal command. Factoring that with the lateness of the hour, it was reasonable to conclude that the plan had been changed and that he was out somewhere modifying the arrangements. Yet — yet —
Possessed by a sudden chill, Sophie snugged her wrap around her. A change of plans might explain Edgar’s absence, but where was her aunt? All the banging and shouting should have drawn her attention. Growing more uneasy by the second, she opened Edgar’s door. It took only a single glance to confirm her worst fears.
Every drawer was pulled from its slot, every box and chest stood open, their hastily rifled contents spilling over the sides and across the floor. What little of value there was in the room, the silver candlesticks, the marquetry clock, even the gilt mirror, had been stripped away, probably to pay for passage. The sight left no doubt in her mind as to who had stolen her jewelry.
With mounting horror she backed away from the threshold, moving step by trembling step across the hall until her back butted against the facing wall. For what felt like an eternity in hell, she stood there, paralyzed by panic. Then she turned and numbly stumbled the short distance to her aunt’s chamber.
It, too, was ransacked.
A ragged sob of betrayal tore from her throat. Like Julian, it appeared that Heloise, too, had lied about loving her.
“No!” she cried out loud, the word echoing forlornly in the forsaken room. No. Heloise loved her. She knew she did. She would never abandon her, not willingly at least.
Desperately clinging to that belief, Sophie searched the littered chamber, looking for a note, or anything at all, to sanction her faith in her aunt. But there was nothing.
Shattered by disappointment, she wandered from the bedchamber to the dressing room, though deep inside she had little hope of finding anything there, either.
At first glance her pessimism looked to be justified, a justification that deepened as she explored the normally overfilled wardrobe. Aside from a few old gowns, a pair of spoiled red dancing slippers, and two broken fans, it was completely empty.
Her shoulders drooped as she turned away. Ah, well. She hadn’t truly expected to find anything there anyway. Dejected nonetheless, she shuffled over to her last bastion of hope: her aunt’s dressing table.
Bracing herself for yet more disappointment, Sophie reached for the silver pull on the top drawer. As she did so, the light from the lone lit wall sconce spilled across the tabletop, lifting the shadows to reveal a sheet of unevenly folded vellum. So homogenous in hue was the paper to the ivory marble surface that Sophie counted it a miracle that she’d noticed it at all.
Cautioning herself against hoping too much, she picked it up, her hands quivering with both anticipation and dread as she drew it nearer to the light.
Written in her aunt’s delicate, spidery hand was her name.
Her breath stilling in her throat, she slowly unfolded it. By the uneven scrawl and smeared ink, it was clear that the brief note had been written in a rush.
Please forgive me for leaving you so, dear. Were there a choice, I would have taken you with me. Regretfully, our funds are such that doing so is impossible. Therefore, I urge you to go to your father’s uncle at the address below. He is said to be a man of some consequence, and you, dear, are his only living relative. No doubt he shall help you. You will find what I pray is enough to take you to him in the top drawer. Please be assured that I love you and will write you in care of your great-uncle as soon as we are settled. Aunt Heloise.
Further down the page was the name Arthur Bromphrey and an address in Exeter.
Her great-uncle Arthur? Sophie frowned, vaguely remembering meeting him at her parents’ funeral. If memory served her correctly, he had been positively ancient back then. So ancient, that it defied logic to imagine him still alive. Did Heloise know for certain that he lived? Or did she direct her to him on nothing more than hope?
Trying without success to stir her optimism, she opened the drawer and stared at the coins within. Be he a certainty or a hope, she had no choice but to go to Exeter. With luck, she would find him alive and be able to persuade him to help her.
And if he were dead?
Well, at least she would be away from London and the immediate threat of arrest.
Chapter 6
“Bath?” Sophie echoed in dismay.
“Bath,” the majordomo confirmed with a nod. “Mr. Bomphrey left yesterday and isn’t expected back for at least a month. If you would care to leave your card and your business, I shall have him contact you upon his return.”
“I’m Miss Sophia Barrington, his great-niece, come all the way from London to see him,” she replied, fumbling through her reticule for her card. Upon presenting it to him, she added, “If you please, I would prefer to await his return here.”
By the man’s sudden frown, it was apparent that he didn’t please. “I am afraid that is impossible, Miss Barton,” he replied, a sudden and inexplicable chill frosting his previously warm voice.
“Barrington,” she corrected, pointing at the card in his hand.
His gaze followed her finger. After a beat he nodded. “Ah, yes. I see. A thousand pardons, Miss Barrington.”
She returned his nod, though what she really felt like doing was sag with relief. By his pinched expression, it was clear that he recognized her name and felt exceedingly foolish for almost sending her away. Deciding that she rather liked the man, she hastened to hearten him. “It is quite all right, uh — ” she broke off to cast him an inquiring look.
“Beasley, miss.”
“Beasley,” she repeated with another nod. “Now, if you would please be so kind, Beasley, I am dreadfully weary from my journey and would like to be shown to my chamber.”
“I am sorry, miss. Be your name Barrington or Barton, I still cannot allow you in Mr. Bomphrey’s home. Not without his orders.”
“But that’s absurd! I’m his great-niece … his only living relative,” she protested, instantly reversing her favorable opinion of the servant. “As such, I am certain that he shall be none too pleased to hear that you sent me away.”
“If you are indeed who you say, then no, he shan’t be pleased. However, as he has made no mention of you or any other family member, I cannot be certain that you are who you claim. Thus, I must bid you a good day.” “But of course I’m his niece,” she exclaimed, grasping the edge of the door he sought to close. “Why ever would I say so if it weren’t true?”