Never Dare a Wicked Earl by Renee Ann Miller (24)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sophia tried not to tap her foot or smooth the tablecloth before her. She’d done both a dozen times as she and Celia sat at the dining table waiting for Hayden to return home.

Celia fidgeted with one of her spoons and restlessly kicked at the leg of the chair next to hers. Surely, not fair to make the child wait to eat dinner.

She turned to Hawthorne. “Will you start serving, please?”

“I’m sure his lordship will be here shortly,” the butler replied.

Celia’s stomach rumbled.

“I believe we are past the point of waiting. There seems to be a hungry beast in Lady Celia’s stomach.”

Celia giggled.

The butler nodded, and within ten minutes, an army of footmen entered the room carrying silver serving dishes.

As they ate, Sophia continued to glance at the door. Unease crept up her spine. Had Hayden forgotten they were to eat an early dinner, so they could attend a play at Royal Albert Hall—their first public venue together?

“Papa promised to read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland to me before you and he went out tonight.”

Sophia pushed her bowl of raspberries away and stood. “If you wish, I will read it to you.”

“Do you know how to do all the voices?” Celia asked.

“The voices?”

“Yes, the Queen of Hearts and the March Hare?”

“I can try.” Sophia took Celia’s hand and led her up the stairs to the nursery.

After Celia washed and slipped on her nightgown, they settled on the bed, and Sophia read. Near the end of the book, she glanced up from the page.

Hayden stood in the doorway. A raw tension emanated from him. He looked as tightly wound as a boxed devil about to spring. Did he blame her for her earlier mishap? Or, like Great-Uncle Charles, did he now think her clumsy and less refined than the women in his social circle? Or did he fear, as she did, she’d become a magnet for mayhem?

“Papa!” Celia exclaimed as he stepped fully into the bedchamber. “Where have you been? You promised to read to me before you and Sophia went out.”

His gaze slid to Sophia’s face, and a sharp pain lanced her heart. He’d clearly forgotten their plans.

“I’m sorry, Celia,” he said. “A business meeting kept me longer than expected.”

A lie. She’d checked his appointment book earlier, and he’d cleared his schedule.

“That’s fine, Papa. Sophia does the Queen of Hearts’s voice even better than you.”

The tautness edging his face eased a little. “Ah, does she now?” He set his hand on Sophia’s shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze before taking the book from her. “How are you feeling, Sophia?”

“I am well.”

“You look exhausted. Why don’t you retire early? I shall finish the book.”

She gave Celia a kiss and headed for the door.

“Sophia,” he called after her.

She turned back.

“I’m sorry we missed the play.”

Are you? She wanted to ask, but she would not do so in front of Celia. She acknowledged his apology with a brief nod and left the room.

In their bedchamber, Sophia dressed for bed, then paced the floor. She would confront him. Ask him why he’d not accompanied her to the theater. Was he ashamed of her because she wasn’t a member of the nobility?

An hour passed.

Sophia slipped her wrapper over her nightgown and went to the nursery. Celia slept soundly.

She ventured downstairs. Light streamed from beneath Hayden’s study door. Stiffening her spine, she stepped into the room.

“He’s gone out, madam,” Hawthorne said, striding toward her.

Where did a man go at night? Was he out with his rakehell friends? Up to no good? She pulled her robe tighter around her body.

“Thank you, Hawthorne.” She dashed back upstairs and crawled between the bedding. Arms folded across her chest, she leaned against the headboard. When her husband returned, she would ask him where he’d gone off to.

* * *

Sophia awoke to a cold, empty bed. Rolling onto her back, she slipped her hands over her abdomen.

Curse Hayden for making her love him. And curse him for lying. Business meeting her foot. What had she expected from such a man? God knew what time he’d returned home last night. She’d fallen asleep before she could confront him.

Thomas’s words about how Hayden abandoned his first wife only weeks after Celia’s birth and acted the rogue drifted through her mind. Was history now repeating itself? Well, she wouldn’t play the martyr, if he’d gone back to his wicked ways. She would return to Chelsea. Mrs. MacLean and the dailies, tasked with boxing and packing her belongings, were still there. When they were finished, Hayden had offered them employment, even Mrs. MacLean. She would send a note, telling them to unpack everything. She’d return to her home on Cheyne Walk.

Celia’s sweet face floated in her mind’s eye. What would she say to the child? She’d be no better than Hayden, giving love then snatching it away. Sophia curled her fingers against her palms until her nails bit into her still raw skin. Her conscience would not permit her to abandon the child. And though Hayden left Laura after Celia’s birth, Sophia believed he would not allow her to leave with his unborn baby, perhaps his heir. She would move into the bedchamber next door. She’d been a fool to trust him—to give him her heart.

After completing her toilette, Sophia descended the stairs, ready to confront Hayden. She noticed the tightness on Hawthorne’s face as he stood in the entry hall. His expression, along with the fact she’d awoken to the solitude of an empty bed, told her Hayden had once again vanished.

“He has gone out?” She forced her voice to remain even.

“Yes, madam. He left a note.” He handed her a sealed missive.

She stared at the dark strokes that spelled out her name before inquiring about Celia’s whereabouts.

Hawthorne’s somber expression lightened. “She went to the kitchen, not fifteen minutes ago. She wished to know if Monsieur Laurent would bake Lady Olivia some dog biscuits.”

“Oh, my,” Sophia gasped, wondering how the Frenchman would take to such a degrading request.

“My thoughts, exactly,” Hawthorne responded. “But there was no dissuading her.”

With the missive still clutched in her hand, Sophia gathered up the sides of her skirts and hastily made her way belowstairs.

She breathed a sigh of relief at the sight that greeted her.

Celia knelt on one of the chairs that surrounded the massive wooden table, pouring water from a small ironware pitcher onto a floury mixture, while the chef graced her with a benevolent smile.

“Just a little more, ma petite,” he instructed Celia as he enthusiastically kneaded the wet and dry ingredients together.

Celia nodded.

“Zees biscuits were a favorite of Emperor Napoleon zee third’s basset hounds,” the Frenchman announced proudly.

Celia peered up at him, her eyes wide with unabashed pleasure. “Do you think the royal chef makes these biscuits for the queen’s dogs?”

He clucked his tongue, the sound distinct and crisp. “I am zee only one who knows zis recipe.”

She beamed. “Lady Olivia is most fortunate, Monsieur Laurent.” The chef’s chest seemed to expand with each word the child spoke. Obviously, Celia had discerned flattery was the key to the man’s heart.

Unnoticed, Sophia turned and made her way back up the servants’ stairway. She slipped into Hayden’s study, opened the envelope, and read her husband’s bold hand.

Devoted husband. Ha! She crumbled the missive with hands that shook. Why in heaven’s name should she wait about while he was . . . was . . . ? She moved to the fireplace and tossed the note atop the cooling gray ash dotted with flecks of orange embers. Smoke darkened its crisp edges before it burst to flame.

Seething, she stalked to the desk, intent on writing a scathing retort. She pulled on the center drawer, only to find it locked.

Her eyes surveyed the mahogany surface before settling on the French inlaid desk tray. She lifted the inkwell, revealing a key. “Too obvious, Hayden.” She slipped it into the keyhole of the center drawer. The lock gave a soft click.

Sophia sat and opened the drawer. An assortment of neatly placed ledgers stared up at her. She slammed the door closed, then unlocked the top right drawer and opened it. A crisp stack of parchment embossed with Hayden’s noble emblem and bound with elaborate ribbon lay in it. She lifted it and peered beneath, hoping to find plain stationery, but instead she found a small navy journal with gold-embossed lettering. HAYDEN JAMES MILTON, VISCOUNT MASON.

She stared at it. Hayden’s journal. The lesser title dated it to an earlier time.

Mason? The familiarity of the name hit her as soundly as if someone had conked her on the head rattling her brain into sensibility. If she inverted the initials it would read J. H. Mason—the wholesaler and the mission’s most generous benefactor. Could it be?

After placing the journal on the desk, she reopened the center drawer. She pulled the ledgers out and read them. Wincombe Manor, Westfield Hall, River Spey Distillery, Magniess Brewery.

Magniess Brewery? Did Hayden own Magniess Brewery? The writing was unfamiliar, yet the bold notations scratched into the margins were his.

How inane he must have thought her when she’d questioned if he teetered near financial straits. Pubs across Great Britain and beyond sold Magniess Ale. It shipped as far as Africa.

She looked at the next ledger. J. H. Mason. Her heartbeat escalated as she opened it and flipped through the pages containing her husband’s writing in the notations. She closed it and ran her fingers over its leather binding. Why had he acted with such disdain toward Mason, when it appeared they were one and the same person?

Was Edith responsible for the donations? Had she coerced Hayden into giving them?

Her mind still dancing about, Sophia looked down at the near empty drawer. A small leather hinged case peered up at her. Slowly she lifted it. Her already tumultuous stomach leapt as she opened it, exposing a gold-framed miniature portrait of a woman one could only describe as breathtaking. Sophia’s finger traced the filigreed edge of the frame, while she studied the woman’s flaxen hair, blue eyes, and her pink bow-shaped mouth.

Sophia touched her own wide mouth, so different from the subject’s delicate one. Great-Uncle Charles would have deemed the young woman the perfect example of English beauty.

Bang! The front door slammed, rattling the sturdy walls of the ground floor.

Of course. No one else would have the audacity to shut the door with such violence. Sophia quickly returned the portrait and ledgers, slid the drawers shut, and locked them. She placed the key beneath the inkwell.

Footfalls approached. She stepped around the desk and froze when the glint from the golden letters of Hayden’s journal brazenly reflected the light from the desk lamp. Heart pounding, she turned her back to the door and slipped the little navy book into the side pocket of her skirt.

The study door swung open.

Sophia spun around.

Hayden entered the room, his expression dark and ominous.