Chapter Four
Sophia’s throat grew dry. Up until this point in her life, she had thought no man’s chest could be as magnificently formed as Michelangelo’s David. She’d seen a cast of it at South Kensington Museum, but looking at Westfield, she realized the young David’s body somehow paled in comparison. Westfield’s shoulders were broader, his pectoral and abdominal muscles more developed, and unlike the statue, his skin was warmly hued, while below his navel a thin band of hair trailed beneath the sheet.
His smile broadened. “Ah, Miss Camden, I’m as hungry as a horse.”
She tried not to leer. “Where is your nightshirt, my lord?”
“I was warm, so I removed it. And since I resemble little Edward Shore, whom you recently attended and bathed, I figured you wouldn’t mind.”
She turned to the valet. “Mr. Mathews, would you please be good enough to get his lordship a nightshirt?”
“I’m not putting it on. If you wish to work here, you’ll have to contend with me in the nude. Of course, you could resign.”
As Mathews scurried into the dressing room, Sophia distracted herself by setting the breakfast tray down on a large mahogany desk. She glanced at the numerous landscapes that dotted the walls of the private sitting room. An impressive collection. Her eyes moved past a Canaletto of the Thames to another landscape of the river. It was one of her grandfather’s paintings. Her chest tightened. One of the few she’d regrettably sold. She fought the urge to step up to it. If she had known Westfield owned it, she would have included it as part of her prize for completing the dare.
Mathews rushed back into the room, holding a nightshirt.
Westfield scowled at the valet. “Mathews, are you as hard of hearing as Miss Camden? I said I do not wish to wear a nightshirt.” With an impatient wave of his arm, he motioned the man away.
The movement caused the cording in his upper arms to twist and his pectorals to harden. Sophia couldn’t look away. She’d overheard someone on Westfield’s staff say his lordship was a member of the London Rowing Club. Could the repetitive movements of such an activity have developed him to this extent or had God felt generous?
A foreign heat warmed her belly while a contradictory shiver prickled her skin. This will not do! She strode to Mathews, took the garment out of his unsteady hand, and turned back to Westfield. She tried not to act overwhelmed by his nakedness; however, she couldn’t stop her gaze from perusing the thin ribbon of hair that trailed downward until it—
Westfield cleared his throat.
Her gaze snapped back to his face.
The scoundrel smiled at her like some merry Andrew at a carnival. As she tossed the nightshirt onto the chaise, she noticed a set of crutches leaning on the wall. Ah, so that was how he’d maneuvered about. Where had they come from? She looked at Mathews.
The valet’s cheeks turned red and he averted his face.
She gathered up the crutches.
Westfield narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing with them?”
Ignoring his inquiry, she returned to the desk and leaned the crutches against the wall. “You should not be out of bed, my lord.”
There were two silver-domed platters on the breakfast tray. She lifted one of the lids, revealing several thick slices of bacon and three eggs. A savory aroma permeated the air. “I believe your chef has outdone himself. Mr. Mathews, doesn’t this look tasty?”
“Yes, miss,” he responded, once again, mopping his limp handkerchief over his brow.
Sophia began to cut the bacon into bite-sized pieces. She stabbed a piece with the tines of the fork and lifted it into the air. “I’m not giving you this tray of food until you put your nightshirt on. In fact, it looks so tempting, I’m going to start eating it myself, so the longer you take to dress, the less there will be.”
His lordship glared at her, then swung his legs down, and tried to stand. He cringed.
“I wouldn’t do that. You’ll tear your stitches and slow down your recovery.”
He slumped back down. “Miss Camden, if you dare eat even one piece of my—”
She placed the piece of bacon in her mouth and slowly drew it off the tines. “Mmm. I don’t know what you pay Monsieur Laurent, but your chef is worth every pound. This bacon is cooked to perfection.” She turned to the valet. “Mr. Mathews, would you care to join me?”
The red that flooded Mathews’s face drained away. The valet swallowed, and his Adam’s apple visibly bobbed convulsively as the man’s gaze shifted to Westfield’s gaping mouth.
“Mathews, if you eat one jot of my breakfast or even take a whiff, you shall find your scrawny arse on the street. Now, you ruddy well better get my food from that confounded woman and bring it to me!”
The poor valet appeared ready to swoon again. Sophia knew the man couldn’t comprehend why Westfield didn’t sack her as he most likely did anyone who did not cower before him.
Not wishing to place the valet in the middle of the battle, she said, “My lord, this is between you and me, and I shan’t relinquish this tray until you put your nightshirt on.”
“Mathews, get my crutches,” Westfield barked.
She flashed Mathews an apologetic expression. “My lord, what is it you expect Mr. Mathews to do? Wrestle them from me?”
“Yes, by God, if that’s what it takes.”
Mathews’s mouth fell open, and his gaze swung back and forth between them as though he observed two tennis players at Hampton Court. “I-I believe I’m being hailed. I’m coming!” the valet said, and bolted from the room.
“Damn you, Mathews. You spineless rotter. You probably wouldn’t have won a tussle with this termagant, but at least you might have given it a go!” He turned his angry glare back on her.
She smiled and lifted another dome with great fanfare. “Oh, sausages. How divine.”
“You she-devil. Don’t you dare.”
“Did you know Monsieur Laurent has left for market?” She shook her head at him. “No, you poor soul, confined as you are, you would not. But surely you must realize what it means?” Without waiting for a response she continued, “It means there is no one in the kitchen to cook up more of this hearty fare.”
If possible, Westfield’s visage took on an even more lethal edge.
“Oh, don’t fret. I’m sure there is some porridge left in the kitchen.” She scrunched up her nose. “Though it does have a terrible propensity to crust and thicken when it sits about.”
Westfield reached out and grabbed his nightshirt. He looked like a man barely contained. He drew the garment over his head and onto his body. “You, my dear girl, are lucky I cannot walk, because if I could, I would throttle your slender little neck.”
A frisson ran down her spine. Westfield’s hands were massive. They looked capable of snapping not only her neck, but grinding stone to dust or bending steel. She battled down such unsettling thoughts and dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the pressed linen napkin from the tray. “I’ll ring for a clean fork and napkin.”
“Never mind, just give me my food,” he said, buttoning his nightshirt.
Sophia felt a pang of regret when he fastened the last button.
“Be warned, madam, I shall remove my nightshirt as soon as I’m done eating.”
“Hayden!” a female voice gasped from the doorway. “Surely, you cannot be serious.”
Westfield slumped against the pillows cushioning the chaise and rubbed the back of his neck. The sharp look in his eyes was gone, replaced by an unmistakable affection for the woman who entered his private sitting room.
“Tell me, Edith, have I been such a terrible brother you felt it befitting to shackle me with this accursed woman?”
Lady Prescott sighed. “Hayden, should not the question be what lunacy persuaded me to retain such a sweet and gently bred woman to tend to you? I should have hired a charwoman from one of the East End infirmaries with ham-sized hands and a vocabulary befitting a sailor.”
Westfield’s sister plucked the kid gloves off her fingers. They were a deep green, like her fashionable walking dress with its bustled back and layered swags. The woman patted her brown hair, swept up into a chignon. “I’m appalled by your behavior. It is beyond the pale, even for you.” She turned to Sophia. “Do forgive my brother’s immodesty, Miss Camden. I pray it shan’t happen again, but I did forewarn you that your charge would not be easy. Yet, I never imagined . . .” Her ladyship steepled her hands and tilted her face heavenward before looking back at Sophia. “My dear, I hope you are not about to resign.”
“No, Lady Prescott, I would not dream of abandoning his lordship. I fear his confinement has piqued his temper and brought about some oddity of behavior, but we can only hope and pray it will be relieved with my fastidious care.”
With a hand on her bosom, Lady Prescott heaved a sigh. “Good, my dear. I knew I could count on you.” She waggled a finger at her brother. “We must thank the good Lord that Miss Camden has a great deal of Christian charity in her, Hayden. You should feel ashamed.”
“Presently, dear, all I feel is hungry.” He motioned to the tray. “My breakfast, Miss Camden.”
Sophia placed the bed tray upon his lap and turned back to Lady Prescott. “May I inquire how you are faring, my lady?”
“Quite well. My cold is all but gone.”
Sophia smiled. “I’m pleased to hear it.”
Westfield raised a fork laden with bacon. His hand stilled. “Edith, I’d offer you some breakfast, but Chef is at market. Would you care for some hot chocolate, tea, or some toast?” He slipped the fork into his mouth.
Sophia gently cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, my lord, I don’t mean to be impertinent by correcting you, but Monsieur Laurent hasn’t left yet.”
Westfield nearly choked on his bacon. “What?” he asked, coughing down the meat as though it had grown a cloven hoof. “I thought you said Laurent was at market.”
She pressed her fingers to her cheek. “I do beg your forgiveness if I was somehow unclear. Mr. Laurent is not due to leave for another hour.”
Sophia thought Westfield would throw one of his dishes at her, but instead he grinned.
“You are a worthy opponent, Miss Camden. Very worthy.”
Lady Prescott stared at her brother. “Opponent? What in heaven’s name are you prattling about, Hayden? Is he feverish, Miss Camden? Should Dr. Trimble be summoned?”
“Edith, I’m fine. I have no fever, and I do not wish to see Trimble. Now, dear, do you wish for some breakfast?”
Lady Prescott took an exaggerated breath. “No, I’m fine.” She settled into the upholstered chair by the chaise.
“If that will be all,” Sophia said. “I must take my leave so I may accompany Dr. Trimble to Whitechapel.”
“Miss Camden,” his lordship said, “I am not in the habit of employing people who make their own schedules.”
“Oh goodness, Hayden.” His sister swatted at his arm with her gloves. “I am the one who retained Miss Camden, and she made me aware of her previous commitment to the mission.” Lady Prescott turned to her and smiled. “I think it rather commendable you and Dr. Trimble give so much of your time to those less fortunate. You do recall, Hayden, I am a patroness for the Whitechapel Mission, and it is supported by some of those closest to my heart?”
Looking disinterested, Westfield pierced several pieces of sausage with his fork. “Indeed, my dear. You, Trimble, and Miss Camden are angels doing God’s work.”
Was the nobleman so insensitive to the hardship of the indigent? One only had to visit the East End to see their plight. She’d seen factory-girls whose hands were cut and scarred from machinery, and men whose bodies were twisted and crippled from the laborious work they partook in, but worst of all, she’d seen dirty, badly nourished children with no hope in their eyes.
Doubtful Westfield had ever set foot in Whitechapel or anywhere thereabouts. She thought of her sister and niece—of the filth they’d called home. She clamped her mouth shut and resisted the urge to tell his lordship what she thought of him. Instead, she nodded and turned to Lady Prescott. “It was good seeing you again, my lady.”
“You too, my dear.”
* * *
As soon as Miss Camden left the room, Edith glared at him.
“Do you get pleasure in letting others believe you are indifferent? Why do you court condemnation? You are a generous man. The mission’s greatest benefactor, yet you shroud the fact.”
“You think the high sticklers would forgive my transgressions if they knew of the alms I bestow upon the poor? Has my money bought me absolution? Erased the fact I abandoned my wife not even a month after Celia was born? How fanciful you are, dear.”
Edith’s face flushed. “There were extenuating circumstances. If Laura had told you the truth, you wouldn’t have left her or Celia.”
He narrowed his eyes. Edith was about to cross an unspoken boundary if she wished to place blame at Laura’s feet.
“Hayden, you are kind and caring, yet everyone who knows it must remain mute. Others would see you in a different light if you could forgive yourself instead of seeking out their derision. I know why you are acting this way toward Miss Camden. You wish her to tell people how wicked you are. When will you feel worthy of forgiveness?”
The memory of Laura’s tear-streaked face appeared before his mind’s eye. He didn’t deserve forgiveness. “I should have figured out what Father had done to Laura, yet I was blinded by my own sense of betrayal.”
“It is difficult to accept that Father would force himself on someone. That he would do it to his son’s betrothed is incomprehensible.” Tears glistened in Edith’s warm brown eyes.
“Do you doubt Laura’s last letter to me? That it was Father who got her with child?” Hayden couldn’t force his mouth to say the word rape aloud. His stomach curdled. He shoved his dish of food away.
“Father was nothing if not cruel at times, especially to those he considered beneath his station. Your decision to marry a simple country girl infuriated him. Yes, I believe it. One only has to look at Celia to see the resemblance to our family. But you wouldn’t have left Laura if she had told you—”
“She knew I would have taken pleasure in sending him to the devil.” His hands flexed. Too late. The bastard was dead. As was his wife.
Edith gasped. “You wouldn’t have.”
“It appears my wife knew me better than you. So she suffered in silence, and I walked away.”
“Because you thought her unfaithful. How were you to know the truth, Hayden? What were you to conclude? She gave birth to a child you knew wasn’t yours. Most men would have reacted the same way. You need to forgive yourself. Otherwise, I fear you won’t be content until you are dead. It is the only thing that explains why you started a relationship with that madwoman Adele Fontaine.”
He glanced away.
“Oh, Hayden, it was only a wild guess, but your expression confirms it. I saw you and her standing before Claridge’s Hotel a few months ago. Quite insane to engage in a dalliance with such an unstable woman. You live your life as if it has no future. You are reckless. If you do not care a fig for yourself, at least think of those who love you. Think of your commitment to Celia. I know after Laura’s death you vowed to care for the child.”
“I have always presumed Celia would be well taken care of if something were to happen to me. Am I wrong to believe that you would welcome her permanently into your home?”
“You know I would. I love her. But you are the only parent left in her life.”
“Parent?” he echoed.
“Hayden,” she said softly, placing her hand atop his. “You are her father in every way that counts. Celia has lived with you since Laura’s death. She loves you dearly, and you love her. When you told me what Laura’s letter revealed, I promised I’d take the secret to my grave. I’ll never disclose it to her, nor anyone else.”
He averted his face, knowing it reflected his torment. Edith was correct; he loved Celia as if she were his own. But was it enough?
After Laura’s death five years ago, he’d toyed with the idea of asking Edith to raise Celia. Edith would have made a fine mother, yet sadly, she was childless. However, the moment he’d seen Celia in the nursery at Wincombe Manor after Laura’s funeral, he’d felt a connection to the child.
He remembered her nurse, a good-natured, elderly woman saying, “Say hello to your papa, Celia.” The woman had set her frail hands against the child’s slender back, propelling her forward. Celia, only three, had turned and latched on to the nursemaid’s legs as if the devil himself stood before her.
“That’s fine, Miss Penworthy,” he’d said, taking a seat in the corner of the large room. “Celia hasn’t seen me in a long time. We need to become reacquainted.”
For three days, he sat in the nursery every moment the child was awake. On the first day, she occasionally glanced at him from where she sat playing on the floor, as if he were an oddity or something out of place, such as a bug floating in one’s soup.
On the second day, while he sat in the same chair, looking over the estate books, Celia had surreptitiously tiptoed toward him. She’d ducked under the table and brushed her little hand over the cuff of his wool trousers as if the coarse fabric intrigued her.
He’d peeked under the table and given her a gentle smile, and she’d scurried away.
However, on the third day, seeming to feel braver, she’d approached him. As if wishing to confirm he was not a figment of her imagination, she’d poked him in the ribs with her tiny index finger. He’d wanted to reach out and hold her, to place her on his knee, but he’d resisted, believing he would only succeed in frightening her off. Instead, he pretended her touch tickled, and they smiled at each other.
And that evening, after she’d eaten her dinner, she climbed onto his lap, a book in her hand, and peered at him. And it was then he’d known: he would take her back to London with him and care for her as best as he could, for surely there was a modicum of love left in his heart for this innocent child.
“Hayden.” Edith’s voice drew him back to the present. “Please be more prudent in the future, if not for your own sake, then for those who love you.” His sister stood and smoothed out the skirt of her dark green gown. “Now, I must be off. Celia is here with me. I promised she could visit with you before we leave to go shopping.”
He nodded.
Smiling, as if they had not broached any subject more benign than the weather, Edith bent down and kissed his cheek. “I pray you will take what I have said to heart.”
He patted the top of Edith’s hand. She was right: if he didn’t change his ways, he’d not fulfill his graveside promise to Laura to care for Celia, and he’d fail his wife again.