Chapter Five
Sophia stepped out into the cold November air and ascended the servants’ stairs to the pavement in front of Westfield’s house.
A fashionably dressed gentleman stood before Lord Westfield’s front door under the portico. His eyes were nearly as dark as hers, and his angular face was not quite handsome, but arresting.
He tipped his hat to her. Daylight slashed across his face, revealing a scar on his left cheek.
The front door opened. “Lord Adler,” the butler said. “Come in, sir.”
Adler? Oh, she’d heard his name before. Scandal nipped at the nobleman’s heels like an overanxious dog.
The sound of a man clearing his throat drew her attention. She turned to see Thomas standing next to his carriage. He held out his hands, and she moved forward to place hers within his, pleased as always to see her closest friend and employer. “Thomas, how are you?”
“I’m well. How are you, Sophia?”
“Fine.” She climbed into the carriage and settled against the blue plush interior.
He followed her inside and arched a brow—a clear indication of his disbelief.
The carriage jerked as the coachman urged the two horses to start up the street. Ignoring Thomas’s inquisitive gaze, she stared out the window at the grand façades and the spattering of fashionably dressed pedestrians. Unbidden, a vision of Westfield lounging on the chaise, light glinting off his sculpted chest, flashed before her eyes.
“Sophia?”
She gave a slight start and turned to find Thomas peering at her.
He grinned. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, my dear.”
“Thomas, please forgive me,” she replied, feeling foolish for having lascivious daydreams over a man she didn’t even care for.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
She studied her hands folded in her lap. “I was wondering if those supplies I ordered for the dispensary have arrived.” Guilt swept over her. She had always been completely truthful with Thomas, but sharing one’s baser daydreams . . . that she would not do. Not even with her trusted friend, who knew more about her than anyone else in London.
She’d told him about growing up in Chelsea with her parents, grandfather, and sister, Maria. That diphtheria spread through their house, sparing only her and Maria. How they were sent to live with their only other relation—their father’s uncle Charles.
She’d been twelve when she arrived in Northumberland. She still recalled Great-Uncle Charles’s words upon seeing them. “Have them scrubbed,” he’d said to the housekeeper. “They look like gypsies.” At the time, she’d not understood why their olive skin bothered him. Mama had been even darker, and Papa had called her his Italian goddess.
Only years later, did she learn Great-Uncle had expected Papa to marry a proper English miss—a member of the nobility. It hadn’t mattered that Aletta Gianni was the daughter of the revered painter Vincente Gianni; Mama was still an immigrant with no ties to the English peerage. And Great-Uncle’s thwarted hope of having ties to the aristocracy had made him cruel to both her and her sister. Nothing they’d done was good enough.
“Has Westfield been unbearable?” Thomas asked, once again, interrupting her thoughts.
“Unbearable?” she echoed.
“Sophia, you know what I mean.” Exasperation deepened his tone. “He’s an arrogant man. I wish to know how you’re faring.”
A commotion outside the carriage briefly caught Thomas’s attention. He gave an impatient-sounding sigh. “You have not answered my question. Is he treating you with respect?”
“Thomas, I assure you I can handle Westfield.”
“Does he know that?”
She laughed. “I daresay he’s learning.”
A smile resurfaced on Thomas’s handsome face. “I’m pleased to hear it.” His posture relaxed, and he settled against the squabs. Holding her gaze, he continued, “However, I would be greatly relieved if you did not return to his residence.”
Sophia arched a brow. “You don’t care for him, do you?”
“I don’t know him well enough to like or dislike him, Sophia. But the rumors of debauchery and immorality . . . I wish you had not allowed Lady Prescott to talk you into attending the man.”
“I thought you abhorred gossip.”
The carriage swayed as they turned onto Whitechapel High. “I do, but . . .” He tugged his hat off his head and crushed the rim in his hand. “It is not all gossip, Sophia. He has a child. She was born only seven months after the nuptials. A few weeks later, he was here in London acting like an unfettered young buck.”
“Oh,” she mumbled.
“I’ll give him credit for taking responsibility. He obviously got the woman with child. She was not of his social standing. But I cannot excuse his shabby behavior afterward or the way he flaunted his infidelities. He abandoned the poor woman in the country. She died near five years ago.”
Sophia stared at the nerve twitching in Thomas’s jaw. He may treat the highborn, but it was clear he possessed little tolerance for their ilk.
Sophia bit her lip. “Where is the child?”
“Celia lives with him, but Lady Prescott has taken her to her residence so Westfield might rest. The child’s lovely. Precocious and smart.” He smoothed the rim of his hat. “I wish you to be careful. I hear he can be charming when he wishes to be.”
Sophia’s mouth fell open. “Thomas, is that what you fear? That he will try to seduce me?” She laughed softly. She was tempted to tell him that Westfield had already sacked her, and she remained in his employ only because she’d dared the scoundrel. But Thomas would call it folly, just like Great-Uncle Charles called her ambition to become a physician a foolish venture, and she didn’t wish to be criticized. She’d experienced enough disapproval from that cantankerous relation to last her a lifetime.
“Do not worry about the man seducing me. Westfield has no desire in that regard. He hasn’t even tried to be charming. In truth, he does not care for me, nor I for him, but we shall muddle through our differences as best we can.”
Sophia returned her gaze to the window—to the grave faces of the people looking at the fine equipage as it made its way through Whitechapel. She should spend her time thinking about these people. Not waste her thoughts pondering a highborn nobleman who was a rogue.
* * *
“Christ, if you don’t look like a man who’s had his bollocks twisted into a knot,” Lord Simon Adler announced, stepping into Hayden’s sitting room.
“If you’ve come here to insult me, you unsympathetic sod, you’d best turn your hairy arse around and leave,” Hayden bit back.
Laughing, Simon unbuttoned his black town coat and settled himself into one of the fireside chairs. “I just saw a vision of beauty exiting your house. Have you hired Celia a new governess?”
“No. Did the woman have a taut chignon, cold eyes, and disapproving scowl?”
His longtime friend plopped his legs atop the ottoman and grinned. “No. Glossy hair, enchanting eyes, and extremely kissable lips.”
Hayden harrumphed. “My new nurse is anything but kissable. Stick your tongue in her mouth and you’ll find yourself mute.”
The corner of Simon’s lips twitched. “A termagant, eh? Why, old chum, she sounds like your type.”
Hayden ran his hand over his thigh. “I’ve learned my lesson.”
Simon gave him a sympathetic look. “I warned you about Adele. Do you intend to eventually tell the authorities, or do you wish to handle this matter more discreetly?”
“Her brother has sent her to the Continent. Hopefully, to some asylum. I’ve told Kent that as long as she remains there, I will not disclose her identity. I do not wish to add fuel to the spectacle presently being played out in the newspapers.” He had to start thinking about Celia and Edith.
“Will your pretty nurse be returning shortly? I should like to make her acquaintance.” His friend grinned.
Hayden was not sure why, but the idea of Simon meeting Miss Sophia Camden sent a frisson of uneasiness through him.
“She has gone to do God’s work at the Whitechapel Mission.”
Simon’s expression turned solemn. “Pious? What a tragedy. Do you think her corruptible?”
“I doubt it.”
“Ah, a woman who hasn’t succumbed to your charms.”
Shifting on the chaise, Hayden cringed. “Do I look fit to charm anyone?”
“Truthfully? No. However, I shall dare you to do so, since you find her so uptight.”
“I’m not interested.”
“You, not interested in a dare?”
“I’ve come to the conclusion I abhor dares. The sooner my tart-mouthed nurse leaves my house, the happier I shall be. Now, will you pass me those crutches?”
Simon stood and handed him the crutches. “You need any help?”
“No, I’m going to remain here for a bit.” He was sick of lying in bed.
“Then, I shall be shoving off. I might return in a few days, so you can introduce me to your lovely nurse.”
“Don’t bother. She will be gone shortly.” Once again, an odd and irrational feeling of discontent settled over Hayden.
“If you say so. Take care, old boy.”
An hour after Simon left the sitting room, Hayden propped the crutches under his arms and hobbled back to the bedchamber. He winced as a stabbing pain shot up his leg. He’d just reached the bed when Mathews entered the room.
The man rushed over to him, his hands fluttering in the air. “Careful, my lord. You might fall.”
Hayden narrowed his eyes at the turncoat.
Mathews averted his face. “Surely, you did not expect me to wrestle Miss Camden for your crutches?”
He cocked a brow at the valet.
“I couldn’t. She’s a woman.”
“She’s a bloody thorn in my side. That’s what she is.”
The questioning look in Mathews’s eyes clearly betrayed his confusion over the situation. “Is there something else in play here, my lord?”
Hayden grunted an affirmation as he sat on the edge of the mattress.
“Ah, I thought so,” the valet said, taking the crutches.
Carefully Hayden swung his legs onto the bed and pulled the counterpane to his waist.
“Might I get you something?”
“No.” He wouldn’t admit it, but he was feeling bloody tired.
Mathews inclined his head. “I shall leave you so you might rest.”
“Has Miss Camden returned yet?” Why he asked he wasn’t sure. He should be pleased the woman was gone.
“She has not—” A commotion in the corridor halted the man’s reply.
A Saint Bernard the size of a small pony, weighing at least eleven stone, dashed into the room, dragging the butler in its wake. Hawthorne attempted to tighten his hands on the lead as the dog barreled forward.
The animal lifted its head. Hayden recognized the big brown eyes and drool-covered mouth. “Dash it all! What is Lady Olivia doing here?”
A frazzled Hawthorne dug his feet into the thick carpet, halting the dog’s progression. “A young urchin left her. I told him you would not want the beast. But he insisted Sir Harry felt the animal would be good company for you during your confinement.”
Bugger it. “Return her to Sir Harry immediately.”
“The boy said the gentleman has left town,” Hawthorne responded, inching himself away from the animal’s salivating mouth and overlong jowls.
Good God, most likely a creditor was on the man’s tail. Why he stayed chums with the rascal was beyond him. Harry had few qualities to endear him, unless one had a penchant for gamblers, wastrels, and cads—the man had the illustrious achievement of being all three.
Lady Olivia jerked her head sideways, sending a massive glob of drool onto the butler’s perfectly pressed trousers.
Hawthorne groaned. “The boy said the animal must be walked four times a day or she makes a bleedin’ mess. Those are the lad’s words, not mine, my lord.”
The dog jerked forward. A clearly startled Hawthorne released the lead. Lady Olivia barked, and with her tail swishing back and forth in an enthusiastic rhythm, she vaulted upon the bed, and began an affectionate round of face licking, nose nuzzling, and crevice sniffing—all to Hayden’s utter distaste.
“Get me my pistol!”
Hawthorne paled. “My lord, you cannot shoot her.”
“I’m not going to shoot her. I’m going to bloody well shoot you.”
The butler bristled and tipped his long thin nose into the air. “The lad shoved the lead in my hand and took off. H-he just left her. What was I to do?”
Hayden scowled at Hawthorne and then at Lady Olivia. The dog lay on her back. Her tongue lolled out the crook of her mouth as she batted her eyes at him.
Damnation. The deuced dog had always shown a strange attachment to him.
No doubt, Celia would find the animal amusing, but what to do with the beast until she returned was beyond him.
* * *
Sophia arrived back at Lord Westfield’s residence before three o’clock—in time to bring him his afternoon tea tray. As she neared his room, she paused. The man was snapping orders at someone and cursing like a sailor. Hopefully, it wasn’t the new maid. The young girl, fresh from the country, stammered when nervous. Squaring her shoulders, Sophia rushed toward the doorway in hopes of derailing Westfield’s tirade.
“Damnation, can’t you lie still?” he complained. “Olivia, get your head out from under my nightshirt, and stick your bloody tongue back in your mouth.”
Sophia stopped dead in her tracks and eyed the open door ahead. Surely, Westfield was not entertaining a woman with his bedchamber door ajar. She shook her head. She must have misheard.
She stepped over the threshold. Her breath caught in her throat. Westfield nudged at a long body completely snuggled under his bedding.
“You unrepentant bitch. Stop licking my toes!”
Sophia halted with the intention of stepping back out of the room, but Westfield peered up at her.
“I don’t know how much Harry paid for her, but the man was a deuced fool. She can’t follow the simplest command, and she’s as large as a cow.” He scooted away from the woman. “She’s been here only a few hours, and I’ve already tired of her.”
Sophia stood still, her gaze fixed on the tray she held in her hands. Thomas was correct. The man had no morals whatsoever, dallying with some tart while his door remained open. Worse, he seemed to have no shame with regard to the fact she’d walked in on them.
Westfield’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Miss Camden, put the blasted tray down, and tell Hawthorne to get in here. Perhaps he can do something with her.”
Sophia’s throat constricted. The butler? He wished the butler to have a go with the woman? If this was some indecent ploy to win their dare, he was close to succeeding. She opened her mouth to speak—to tell him what she thought of such moral depravity. However, at that exact moment, Westfield lifted the top edge of his counterpane to glare at his bedmate. “Olivia, stop pawing at me, or I’ll have your big hairy bum carted outside.”
Sophia had listened to enough of his degradation. The woman, whatever her station in life, deserved more respect than Westfield bestowed on her. She slammed the tray down on the dresser, rattling the china. “You should be ashamed of yourself. I’ve heard men talk to their horses with more respect.”
“I damn well wish it were my horse. Why don’t you get into bed with her and see how you like it? Better yet, I’ll have her sent to your room later, so you can spend the entire night together.”
The only thing that would have stopped Sophia from responding would have been a catastrophic event, something along the magnitude of an earthquake or a flood. “Oh, you wicked man. You”—she scraped her mind for a word that would clearly betray her abhorrence—“vile heathen!”
She opened her mouth to continue her fulmination when a long muzzle accompanied by a massive tongue poked itself out of the counterpane at the foot of the bed. Sophia clasped the wool fabric of her bodice and jumped back. “Good heavens, what is that?”
Westfield stared at her as if she were a simpleton. “What does it look like? It’s a bloody dog.” His eyebrows pinched together. “Goodness, woman, what did you think?”
“Um . . .” Heat flooded her cheeks.
His dour countenance lightened. His eyes crinkled at the corners and a slow smile spread across his lips. He tipped his head back and burst out laughing. After what seemed like minutes, he swiped at the dampness at the corners of his eyes and sobered his expression.
Folding his arms over his broad chest, he stared intently at her. “Miss Camden, what . . . or should I say who did you believe shared my bed?”
Sophia swallowed. “Well, you called her Olivia, and said Harry had foolishly paid too much for her, so naturally I believed . . .” The tips of her ears burned, and she focused on the animal peering at her.
“Yes, do go on,” Westfield prompted.
She stepped closer to the bed. “I believe I owe you a grave apology, my lord.”
Westfield opened his mouth, and she braced herself for his caustic reproach, but instead he asked in an intrigued voice, “My door is wide open. What manner of man do you believe me to be?”
She gave a weak smile. “Magnanimous, sir.”
Westfield grinned. “I’ve been called many things over the last several years; however, magnanimous isn’t one of them.”
He tugged the blankets off the massive dog. “Lady Olivia, may I introduce you to Miss Sophia Camden?”
The dog, the largest Sophia had ever seen, rolled onto its back and spread its hind legs wide.
His lordship looked utterly disgusted. “No need to curtsey, Miss Camden. As you can plainly see, her ladyship is not a stickler for formality.”
“Is she yours?”
“Good God, no. She belongs to a friend. A soon-to-be departed friend, when I get my hands on him.”
The dog’s long tongue reached out to lick Westfield’s toes.
“Lord, help me.” He shifted his feet away. “Now, be so kind as to ask Hawthorne to come retrieve her ladyship. He has generously agreed to walk her at least six times a day, though he insists it need only be four.”