Chapter Eleven
Hayden glanced up from his desk as Hawthorne entered the study with a calling card centered on a silver salver.
“A Mr. Ambrus Varga is here to see you, my lord.”
“Send him in.” Hayden tossed aside the large stack of unanswered mail that had accumulated in the three weeks since Sophia left. He pinched the bridge of his nose and surveyed the ledgers and monthly reports scattered about the desk like inconsequential rubbish. If he didn’t settle his mind on his business dealings, he’d soon find his finances in a shambles.
Varga stepped into the room. Time had taken its toll on the Hungarian over the last couple of years. The lines on the older man’s face appeared etched in stone and his long moustache and muttonchops were now gray. Nevertheless, he was still the best private investigator London had to offer.
Hayden motioned toward one of the chairs facing the desk. What perversity had caused him to hire the man in the first place? And more importantly, what did he hope to accomplish? “So, tell me what you have learned.” He leaned against the back of his chair and stretched out his legs.
“Very little, as of yet, m’lord.”
“What do you have so far?”
Varga reached into his breast pocket and extracted a small journal bound in black leather. “Miss Camden resides in Chelsea. A Cheyne Walk residence.”
“A suite of rooms?”
“No, a private residence.”
“A private residence?” he echoed.
“Yes, she employs a housekeeper and several other servants, but only the housekeeper lives in.”
Hayden eyed the decanter of brandy on the sideboard. Too early to fortify himself with liquor, yet he might be tempted to drink a glass after hearing the answer to his next question. “Who holds the lease and pays the staff?” Fearing he’d hear Trimble’s name, the muscles in the back of his neck tensed.
“It’s hers, m’lord. Lock, stock, and barrel. Moved there nearly three years ago.”
It was obvious Sophia had been raised in a well-to-do home. He’d thought her brought low by financial hardship or some bitter twist of fate, but she was a woman of means.
Varga’s next sentence severed his thoughts. “Had a baby with her when she moved in.”
He sat forward and set his forearms on the desk. “A child?” His voice betrayed his disbelief.
“Her neighbors are rather closed-mouthed, but one of their maids passed on that tidbit. Looked like her, the servant said. A girl.”
Hayden would have sworn the ground beneath him shifted. A child. He found it hard to fathom. Yet, this would explain a great deal. Why she seemed removed from the society she’d been born into. “You said had. Where is the child now?”
Varga tugged on the left side of his long moustache. “The maid said the baby died, near two years past.”
Died. The word echoed in Hayden’s head. His heart grew heavy as he recalled how Sophia had bonded with Celia in such a short time. How had she coped with the loss of her own child? “Go on,” he prompted.
The man closed the journal. “That’s all I have for now. I’ll start searching the parish records tomorrow. See what else I can find.”
“I’ll expect a full dossier delivered to my residence next week.”
“Some of them parish records are in disorder, m’lord. It could take—”
Hayden raised a silencing hand. “Patience is a virtue I lack.” Standing, he shook the man’s hand, forcing an end to their conversation.
Varga nodded. “I’ll be in touch, m’lord.”
After the man exited the room, Hayden braced his palms on the desk and stared blindly down upon its surface. Sophia had borne a daughter. He wasn’t the type to make moral judgments, not after the life he’d led, but the information shocked him. She’d seemed so inexperienced when he’d kissed her.
He swept his hand across the desk. The ledgers toppled to the floor and correspondence flew in the air.
Why was he angry? Was it because some bastard had gotten her enceinte, then possibly abandoned her? Or simply the fact that she’d endured the pain of losing a child?
He sat and surveyed the mess he’d created. He doubted he’d muster even a small semblance of concentration tonight. He glanced at the brass clock perched on the desk. Simon and several chums were gathering at the Coat of Arms Pub. He stood. He’d not intended on going, but he needed a distraction. No, he needed to get drunk.
* * *
The scent of strong spirits and tobacco permeated the pub. Hayden tipped his glass to his lips and took a heavy sip of whisky. The numbness engulfing him relented to the scorching burn of alcohol trailing down his throat.
He set the near empty glass on the table and cradled it between his hands. The amber liquid pooling in the bottom absorbed the hue of the darkened wood beneath it before catching the glow of the gaslights above. The color reminded him of Sophia’s dark tear-filled eyes.
Hayden drew the glass back to his mouth and drained it dry. He surveyed the men seated at his table conversing amiably. He’d not listened to a single word they’d said over the last half hour. He’d come here to forget, yet he’d need several more drinks if he were to find any measure of solace from the single-mindedness of his thoughts. Restlessly he looked around the taproom for the serving girl.
“Westfield!” Someone hailed above the din of the crowded room.
He glanced up to see George Boswitch standing by the pub’s etched glass doors waving his hat in the air. The redheaded young man, an heir apparent fresh from Yorkshire, had relentlessly tried to ingratiate himself into their merry band of revelers since gaining admission to one of the clubs they all subscribed to.
Hayden acknowledged him with a quick nod. However, he refrained from inviting Boswitch to join them. The lad was ingenuous and truly out of place with their iniquitous group.
Had he ever been so callow?
Yes, how could he forget the youthful, reckless antics Simon and he had engaged in? He recalled the first time they’d taken the rail into London from Eton. They’d ventured deep into the seedier enclaves and sampled everything from fish at Three Tuns Tavern to loose women in a dirty dockside inn. They’d stumbled out of that less-than-fine establishment three sheets to the wind.
They returned to school thinking themselves worldly swells, the best of young fellows, who’d had a stunner of a time. Until Simon realized he’d not only brought back some titillating memories, but a severe case of nits in a most unfortunate place, while Hayden had spent the whole of the next day casting up his accounts. They’d been fortunate. They could have returned with the dreaded French disease or been beaten senseless by hooligans while swaying drunkenly down the streets of Wapping.
Without further deliberation, he lifted his hand and motioned Boswitch to their table. The young man eagerly made his way through the heavy throng of patrons and the thick smoke that turned the stagnant air into a cloudy shroud.
Simon, seated directly to his right, peered at him. “Hayden, you cannot be seriously considering initiating that pup into our fold?”
“I remember our exploits when younger. We could have used a benefactor to steer us in the right direction. You haven’t forgotten our visit to Wapping?”
“Christ, how could I forget? Had my bollocks swathed in mercury ointment and Persian powder till they turned nearly purple and the bloody itching drove me mad.” Simon shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Then we should take pity on the lad, for I fear his eagerness may bring him more trouble than he may wish.”
“I don’t doubt that, but what are we to do with him? He’s barely out of his nappies, and I could swear he’s got some wet nurse’s milk dried up on his chin.”
“He’s older than we were when we went to the East End, and those are whiskers on his chin.”
Simon peered at the approaching man. “Oh, I say, that’s just sad.”
“Better he get his tutoring where the girls are clean. Why don’t you do me a favor and take him to Madame Trumann’s. You’re always touting that establishment’s ample endowments.”
Simon’s face puckered. “I’d probably have to burp him after he’s finished with one of Trumann’s girls.” His friend gave him a contemplative look. “I know you’re not fond of brothels, old chum, but I think one of Trumann’s pretty little birds would do you a world of good. Why don’t you accompany us?”
“I should head home. Edith and I are to interview for Celia’s governess tomorrow.” He shoved his chair back, tossed several bills onto the table, and stood. “I bid you all a most pleasant night.”
A riotous protest arose from those seated at the table.
“Damn and blast, Westfield. You off so soon?” Edmond Wright boomed.
He nodded.
“Lady Randall is having a small, exclusive gathering tomorrow, Westfield,” Julian Caruthers added with a wink. “Know she’d be tickled pink if you were to attend.”
Westfield had partaken in most of Lady Randall’s exclusive parties. They started at her terrace in Belgravia and ended at her estate in Kent. They lasted well over a week and were full of dissipation. A month ago, he would have joined the revelry, yet today his stomach soured at the thought. With a grimace, he ran his hand over his thigh. “I think I shall have to forgo the festivities, Caruthers. Though do give Lady Randall my regard.”
“Aye, still not up to snuff?” Alasdair McGrath asked with a plaintive expression.
Picking up his walking stick, Hayden feigned a look of resigned sorrow, and a commiserative murmur arose from the group.
He turned from the table to see Boswitch staring at him as if he were a paragon. Poor misguided lad. “Boswitch, my good man, take my seat.” He motioned to his vacated chair. “I need to be shoving off.”
Boswitch gave the group a wide smile. “W-well thank you, Westfield.”
Westfield thumped Simon on his shoulder, then bracing his weight on his walking stick, he walked to the door. Had he done Boswitch a favor or a disservice leaving him with that group of reprobates? Well, for all Simon’s indifference, he could be trusted.
As soon as he stepped out onto Maddox Street, his coach appeared. He opened the carriage door and extracted his heavy wool overcoat and top hat. “I wish to walk, Evans.” He closed the door and stepped back.
“Walk, m’lord?” The coachman stared pointedly at Hayden’s leg and walking stick. “Do you wish me to follow you?”
“No, drive on.”
Evans hesitated, then tipping his hat, he drew the horses into a trot. The carriage faded into the fog and darkness.
Hayden slipped his overcoat on and took a long draught of cool air into his lungs. Hopefully, it would clear his mind or at least numb it.
By the time he’d reached Brook Street, the night air and solitude had done little to alleviate his tenacious thoughts of Sophia. He wondered what she was doing at this moment or whether Trimble was with her. The latter possibility seemed to incinerate good judgment, and before he knew what he was about, he hailed a passing hackney and gave the driver Sophia’s Chelsea address.
* * *
From inside the carriage, Hayden stared at the four-story brick home with flower boxes overflowing with dark boughs of evergreens. Even with the mist swirling off the Thames, hovering around its façade, Sophia’s residence looked warm and inviting—a beckoning light upon his dark soul.
Through the fanlight above the front door, a dim light radiated from the rear of the house. His gaze lifted to the first floor; it was dark. However, the windows on the second floor glowed with a soft light. Was that Sophia’s private suite of rooms? The thought of them suddenly darkening lodged an uncomfortable weight in his gut. He’d intended to only drive by and get a glimpse of her residence, but the cozy outside beckoned him and his desire edged him forward. He stepped from the hackney. With hurried hands, he reached for his billfold and paid the driver.
The clopping of the horses’ hooves had all but faded by the time he swung open the ornate metal gate and moved up the flagstone pathway. The need to see Sophia overwhelmed him. His feet moved as if pulled by gravity. It was lunacy calling on her at this hour—madness to call on her at all. But he’d not turn back.
He had won their wager. Sophia owed him recompense, and he finally knew what he wanted.
Her.