Chapter Eight
Number 26 Henrietta Street, London,
March 16, 1815
Sophie dreamed of Banallt that night. She had dismissed him from her life, but he was haunting her anyway. Out of sheer spite, she thought. He never did like not having his way. In her dream, Tommy had only recently died. She was poor again and living at Rider Hall, wondering how she was going to survive. The bailiff had taken away all the furniture. Rider Hall was empty, with bare windows and empty fireplaces. In reality, the house had not been stripped quite so thoroughly, but she’d felt as empty as the structure was now in her dream.
She dreamed she’d been left a single trunk in which there was nothing but a book she didn’t care for, and she needed to write Banallt a note, explaining where she’d gone and what had happened. But she had no pen or ink or paper. Everything was gone. And just as she was about to cry with frustration, Banallt walked through the door, bringing with him the recollection of his lingering glances and memories of their friendship. He handed her pen, ink, and paper, and they agreed she would move into the guard tower at Castle Darmead where she could write as much as she liked. Novel after novel, if she so desired. And because she was grateful, she kissed him. For a very long time because at last she could. The kiss became more. A hungry and needy embrace. She wasn’t married anymore. When they parted for air, with her trembling in his arms, he smiled and said, “Have I told you I’ve remarried? To Fidelia.”
Long after she’d risen in the morning, images and emotions from the dream came at her. She didn’t need to write anymore, but the fact was the stories had never gone away. The difference was that now she kept them in her head rather than writing them down. As for Banallt marrying, he’d told her himself that he must. His title required it. Whoever Banallt decided to marry, she would always feel a little pang of regret, which was ridiculous. The Earl of Banallt would never be faithful.
She sat at the desk in her room on Henrietta Street and remembered all the nights she’d stayed up to write when Tommy was alive. Words that supported her. All her life, she’d made up stories. When Tommy left her without funds, she’d done the only thing she could: write her stories down. She took out paper, but instead of dashing out the history of a knight determined to reclaim his birthright, she made out a list of items the house needed and that had not been fetched from Havenwood. Paper, for one.
At half past one John came home. He burst into her room without a pause between knocking and his entry. She put down her pen. “What is it, John?”
He grinned. “You’ll never guess who I’ve brought home with me!”
His smile was always infectious, and she smiled back. “The Prince of Wales?”
John tweaked the end of her nose. “No, Sophie. An admirer of yours.”
“John.”
“It’s Vedaelin.” He put a hand on the top of her desk and leaned over her. “Change your gown. He practically invited himself here when I told him you were home.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “The Duke of Vedaelin?”
“He admires you, I tell you. Just think of it, Sophie!”
“He’s a duke.”
“Get dressed. Wear that green striped gown. It’s the best you’ve got, and the color flatters your eyes. He’s already got his heir, Sophie. He is free to marry for love, and last night at Cavendish Square…I promise you, I am not the only man to have remarked he was taken with you.”
“He’s old enough to be my father, John. He’s not interested in me.”
“He is, I tell you.” He tweaked her nose again. “Now get dressed.”
She pushed her brother away. “Be gone.”
“And do something with your hair.”
“Very well, John.” She made a shooing gesture. “Go.”
“Change your slippers, too.”
“Go.” She called Flora and swapped her dress for her green striped afternoon frock, even remembering at the last minute to change her slippers and tie a green ribbon in her hair. Then she went below stairs and met with the cook before she proceeded to the parlor. What if John was right and the Duke of Vedaelin wanted to court her? She wasn’t sure what to think of that.
A servant brought in tea and cakes purchased from the confectioner’s down the street and laid out the table. Sophie was glad to busy herself brewing tea. John’s words made her look at the duke differently, and she wasn’t best pleased with her brother because of it. She did find Vedaelin more than a little attractive, though. He didn’t look at all his age. He might easily pass for ten years younger. He was a sensible man. Levelheaded. A bit proud, but then he was a duke, after all.
“I should like to add my thanks, Your Grace, to my brother’s, for securing us such a lovely house,” she said when she’d dropped sugar into his tea.
“I’m pleased if you like it, Mrs. Evans.”
“We like it very well, thank you.”
“Mercer,” the duke said. “What plans have you to show your sister the sights?”
“Sights?” John said.
Sophie hurried to fill John’s puzzled silence. “We’ve only just arrived, Your Grace,” she said. “We’ve not had time to think of seeing anything.”
“Have you not been to Bond Street yet?” Vedaelin smiled at them both. “If my memory is accurate, young women adore shopping.”
“I’m most unnatural then,” Sophie said. She kept her cup and saucer perfectly balanced. “I find shopping tedious.”
John polished off his second iced cake. “My sister is more likely to make the nearest subscription library her second home.”
“Indeed?” the duke said. Sophie couldn’t tell if he approved of women who read or not. She’d not be able to write if she were married to him. The wife of a duke could never engage in something so undignified.
“I’m sure you’ll be impressed with me,” she said, hiding her thoughts behind a sip of her tea. She smiled when she lowered her cup. “This morning, after you left, John, I walked as far as Oxford Street and admired the buildings along the way.” Henrietta Street backed onto Oxford Street, so she hadn’t been adventurous at all. “After having seen your home, Your Grace, I’m determined to learn something of architecture. Your home is lovely.”
“Thank you.” He looked pleased at that, and so did John. She was proud of herself for managing the change of subject so deftly.
“Has there been further word of Napoleon?” she asked. The duke could not possibly care to hear of her reading habits, and if he was not the sort of man who cared for women who read, then it was best to avoid that subject. “Is it true Napoleon is in Paris already?”
“Ah,” Vedaelin said. His cup clicked against his saucer. “You are a woman of intellect, Mrs. Evans.”
Again, whether he thought that admirable or not Sophie could not guess. No matter how much John wanted it, she wouldn’t pretend she was an empty-headed female without a serious thought in her mind. Really, there was no reason at all to think the duke was being anything but polite to her. “Napoleon’s whereabouts and his intentions are on everyone’s mind, Your Grace. Like everyone else, I wonder if we are to go to war again.”
“Yes,” John answered. “We must.”
“Such a disagreeable subject,” Vedaelin said, “when the company is so very charming.”
Sophie kept still. John’s guests at Havenwood had always been political, and he’d never objected when she voiced an opinion or showed an interest in the subject. The duke had just reminded her that not all households welcomed the female point of view. “Do you think we women don’t worry of such things?” she asked. “It is our sons and husbands”—she looked at John—“and our brothers who will go off to fight, after all. If there is war, not all of them will return.”
“Sophie isn’t like most women, Your Grace.” John leaned over the tray of cakes and took two more. It’s a wonder he wasn’t fat. He wasn’t at all, though. “She never has been, I’m afraid. Even as a girl, she was—” He caught himself. Sophie was certain he’d been about to call her odd. “—unique among girls.”
The duke looked at her over his cup, fingers poised to lift. “That is abundantly plain. Tell me, Mrs. Evans, do you never wish a moment’s respite from the worry?”
She set aside her tea. He was a man of another generation. His ideas about women weren’t very modern. “What women wish for and what reality we face are worlds apart, Your Grace. What woman can forget her worries when the lives of her loved ones are at stake? Such a state of affairs can never be far from our minds. You’ve done nothing but breathe the news since it was first whispered in Whitehall. But I learned of Bonaparte’s escape only recently, when my brother told me. Naturally, I am curious, and anxious, to know what Britain will do in response. But, do please forgive me. You are correct. We should speak of more pleasant subjects while we may.”
Vedaelin bowed his head. “With that, I wholeheartedly agree. If you do not care for shopping and you’ve a mind to admire architecture, then perhaps you would enjoy touring some of the great houses of London Town. What do you think of that as a pastime, Mrs. Evans?”
“I should like that exceedingly,” she said. “In Duke’s Head we have no Christopher Wren to admire, and Palladio never came to our corner of England, though we have a fine Norman church. Will you make me a list, Your Grace? I’ll begin first thing tomorrow.”
John paused in his selection of another petit four. “My sister has an appallingly methodical mind, Your Grace. Give her a task, and she’ll see it through and provide you a detailed report afterward. If you give her a list of houses, expect a reckoning from her of every one she’s visited and her observations of them all. Fully catalogued and indexed.”
“John, really.” She smoothed her skirt.
“It’s so, Sophie. Don’t deny it.” He addressed the duke. “I’ve abused her talents horribly since she came back to Havenwood. It’s why I’ve brought her to London this time. Without her there’s no hope of my staying organized.”
The duke leaned back in his chair. “We are but a short walk from Gray Street, and there we can see Hightower House. It’s a lovely day yet. Shall we go?”
“Hightower?” Sophie asked. Her heart misgave her. “Isn’t that Lord Banallt’s home?”
“It is.” Vedaelin nodded. “Banallt keeps other quarters in Town. Mrs. Llewellyn and her daughter are resident there for the season. The housekeeper is delighted to show the house, though, I can promise you that. Hightower is an extraordinary example of sublime architecture.” His enthusiasm for the subject was comforting. He didn’t object to any and all of a woman’s intellectual pursuits. “If you are to study the great homes, Hightower must be on your list. What do you say, Mrs. Evans?” He smiled, and Sophie decided that she did like the duke. “Shall we walk there and permit you to make your first ledger entry?”
John said, “That would be delightful, Your Grace. Sophie, fetch your cloak.”
The day was fine, and Sophie walked with her arm on the duke’s. How strange it was to be thinking of him as a potential suitor. John stayed on her other side. She didn’t mention to either that she knew Hightower House quite well. Banallt had once brought plans to Rider Hall. He was having the interior remodeled, and he had two sets of plans from rival architects. She’d sat with him while they discussed the merits of the two proposals. Back then, she’d thought if ever she saw the house it would be with Tommy at her side.
She felt uneasy about the visit, even though she knew Banallt would not be there. She could not help feeling she was encroaching on some private retreat of the earl’s. Their own area of Mayfair was grand enough to her, but the town houses soon gave way to larger homes. From Edward Street, they took a right to James Street and from there another right onto Gray Street, which was a short street tucked between two longer ones. Hightower House took up the whole of Gray Street, from James on one end to Duke Street on the other. She recognized the exterior from the sketches Banallt had once made when he’d described his London home to her. As they walked to the entrance gate, a black carriage turned onto the street from Duke Street, Gray Street being a convenient outlet for travelers and much quieter than the surrounding streets.
An iron gate ran the length of the Gray Street side of the house, each pole tipped with a gold-painted point. The entrance gate opened onto a cobbled courtyard just large enough for a carriage to turn around in. The exterior architecture betrayed its Gothic roots. The middle, and oldest, section of the house retained medieval gargoyles on the downspouts. The central tower was flanked by Tudor-era wings. The stone was blackened with soot and further discolored where rain dripped from the eaves and gutters. A short flight of stairs led to the double front door. She knew the door was original to the house: heavy black planks crisscrossed with great iron flanges.
At the top landing, Vedaelin reached for the knocker, a roaring lion that was not original to the door. Sophie saw the teeth in the brass figure, the flowing mane, narrow eyes, lips drawn back in a snarl. He rapped on the door.
Sophie held her breath. For goodness’ sake, did she expect Banallt himself to answer the door? The carriage heading for James Street was almost to the gate. The vehicle slowed. For no reason at all, her heart tripped.
The servant who answered bowed when he saw the duke. She recognized him immediately. Banallt’s most singular servant had at some point, it appeared, been promoted from valet to butler. He wore black but for a white shirt and an absolutely impeccable cravat. He was unattractive and ridiculously tall. Taller than Banallt by half a head, and broader through the chest. His eyes were the color of mud and had a disturbing keenness about them. His crooked nose was flattened across the bridge. One of his ears had been shredded at the top. He looked a brawler and, indeed, had been one professionally before he came to work for Banallt.
“King,” the duke said with perfect familiarity. “A pleasure to see you, as always.”
“Your Grace.” He spoke with a pleasant accent, almost no trace left of northern England in his speech. According to Banallt, his accent had at one time been impenetrable. King gave no sign that he remembered her from Rider Hall, even though he had been there with his employer several times.
“King?” John straightened and looked King up and down. “Not Rupert King, the great boxer? The Rupert King who fought Hampton in aught five?”
The man’s muddy brown eyes lit on John with a sharp gaze. “And if I was, sir?”
“Why, then I’m pleased to meet you, that’s all! I saw you fight Hampton. That was you, wasn’t it?”
“Might have been, sir.”
“I had ten pounds on you.” John grinned. “A left to the jaw and Hampton went down like a sack of”—he glanced at Sophie—“old wheat.”
“Hampton never could take that wicked left, could he, King?” said the duke.
“No, Your Grace, he couldn’t:” King flexed his left hand and stared out into the street. The black carriage made the turn to Hightower House. All three of them turned to watch. A servant appeared from underneath the stairs and ran to the courtyard.
“Heigh-ho!” the coachman called as he brought his team to a halt.
Sophie found herself with the advantage of position. With just a small turn of her head she could watch King eye her and John and she could see the carriage. When the vehicle stopped, the groom put down the steps, clack, clack. Then came a deeper thunk as the mechanism fully engaged. The groom retreated to hold the head of the lead horse. Someone important was making a call at Hightower House. The caller’s identity wasn’t certain, because the carriage coat of arms was covered by a black lozenge. For no reason at all, Sophie’s heart rattled in her chest. It couldn’t be. Vedaelin had said Banallt didn’t stay here. She couldn’t be so unlucky.
A gentleman got out of the carriage. He dipped his head to watch his step and was, for the moment, unaware of his audience. He was not alone, for he stayed at the carriage door and immediately turned his back to the house, holding out his hand. A delicate gloved hand emerged from the carriage, touched his offered one, gripped, and then a young woman came out.
She heard John curse under his breath.