For All Eternity Page 8

  By the expression on Freddie’s face, were he a woman he’d have burst into tears. Hanging his head as if confessing to the greatest of sins, he mumbled, “She thinks you’re arrogant. And … um … boring.”

  Nicholas accepted the charge of arrogance without offense, but boring? Never in his life had anyone accused him of being so. More confounded than ever, he picked up his brandy and took a deep swallow. Him, boring? His brow furrowed as he considered.

  Well, perhaps, just perhaps, it was possible that a girl as young and frivolous as Miss Barrington might find him a bit … reserved. And perhaps some of their outings may have been a jot too … academic … for a chit fresh from the schoolroom.

  He took another quaff from his glass. Indeed, now that he thought back on some of their outings, he saw that they might not have been completely to her taste. Like, for example, when he’d escorted her to Vauxhall Gardens and insisted they forgo the amusements in favor of him teaching her about the plants. Though she’d been polite, smiling and asking an occasional question, she hadn’t looked exactly thrilled.

  And then there was that lecture last week by that African explorer. The few times he’d glanced over to see if she was enjoying it as much as he, she’d been staring into the air looking rather stupefied. Assuming the cause to be a lack of comprehension on her part, he’d taken it upon himself to explain afterward everything that had been said.

  He tossed back the remainder of his brandy. Come to think of it, she’d looked none too captivated by his explanations, either. Odd that he hadn’t noted it then. Hmm. Could he have been blind to other things about her as well?

  Like her character?

  Sighing over his splintering illusions, Nicholas glanced to where Freddie sat morosely staring into his own glass, and asked, “Is that the whole reason, then? I’m arrogant and boring?”

  “Uh, well …”

  Sighing again, this time with irritation, he muttered, “Just cast it forth, Huntley. How much worse can this get?”

  Freddie looked at him then, his expression woeful to the point of grief. “You know, Lyndhurst,” he said in a rush, “I never thought Miss Barrington nearly good enough for you. She is, after all, only a cloth merchant’s daughter and truly not — “

  “What did she say?” Nicholas demanded, in no mood whatsoever to be placated. “If you don’t tell me, and tell me now, I shall call on my brother and ask him.” “She, uh — ” Freddie’s already flushed face darkened to the color of an overcooked pork roast. “She supposedly cannot bear the sight of your … um … face.” “My face?” Nicholas ejected. Of all the things his friend could have said, this was the last one he’d expected to hear.

  Freddie nodded miserably. “It’s your — -ur — scar. She finds it o-offensive.”

  His scar? Without thinking, Nicholas reached up and touched his disfigured cheek. That she or anyone found it offensive was a disturbing notion, one that provoked a long dormant niggle of self-consciousness. Could it be true that his face disgusted her?

  His mind whirling, he searched for an answer, scrambling to recall an instance in which she might have said or done something to betray such a feeling. Yet, try as he might, he couldn’t recollect so much as a second in which her conduct was anything less than perfect. On every occasion she had been charming yet demure, as befitted a girl in her position.

  Demure? His eyes narrowed with sudden misgiving. At least he’d always attributed her reluctance to look at his face to demureness. Was it possible that that reluctance stemmed not from modesty, as he’d assumed, but from revulsion of his scar?

  The more he considered, the more likely it seemed. Indeed, now that he thought about it, he realized that she never seemed to have any compunction about looking at her other suitors. Especially Oxley. How many times had he come upon them together at balls and such, and seen her staring at his face?

  It was remembering those occasions that made the pieces of his puzzled disbelief fall into devastating place. The tale was true. It had to be. It simply made too damn much sense, something that Quentin and his cohorts woefully lacked.

  “You know, Lyndhurst. I always thought Miss Barrington a singularly stupid creature,” Freddie remarked, clearly trying to hearten him. “That she’d prefer Oxley’s priggish looks to your noble ones merely proves me correct.”

  Slowly Nicholas lifted his gaze from his now empty glass to fix his friend with a cynical stare. “You always thought her lovely and charming. You must have said so a hundred times.”

  Freddie shrugged. “That’s only because you were so set on having her.”

  “Well, if she’s stupid, then I’m a bloody idiot,” he shot back. “So idiotic that I attributed her reluctance to look at me to schoolgirl shyness.”

  “As would I, I assure you. One does expect a Bath Miss to be somewhat reserved around men.”

  “Maybe. But even the greenest of girls will at least glance at a man when he speaks to her, something that Miss Barrington seldom did.”

  That any woman could find him so repulsive stung Nicholas to the very core, and he couldn’t help wondering how many of the women who claimed to find his scar dashing secretly agreed with Miss Barrington, lying in hopes of gaining his wealth and title. The very notion leveled a serious blow to his confidence.

  Always an optimist, Freddie leaned over and clapped him on the shoulder. “We should all be thankful that this happened, eh? Imagine if you’d actually married the girl?”

  Nicholas cast him a jaundiced look. “Thankful? For being publicly humiliated?”

  “Pshaw! You’ve been nothing of the sort. No one thinks any less of you for any of this. Indeed, there isn’t a man in the ton who wasn’t taken in by Miss Barrington, and they all feel just as foolish as you.”

  “Perhaps. But none were corkbrained enough to actually propose to her.”

  “They would had they thought there was a chance she might accept.” Smiling weakly, Freddie refilled the glass clenched in Nicholas’s hand. “Look, Lyndhurst. If it’s any consolation, Miss Barrington is ruined. By this time tomorrow the news of her hoax shall have reached the ears of her creditors. Unless she and that aunt and cousin of hers find a way to settle their debts, they will probably be hauled off to prison at the end of the week.”

  Though Nicholas knew the news was meant as a balm to his wounded pride, it did nothing to reduce the sting. In truth, he didn’t believe in the practice of incarcerating debtors, especially women … not even one whom he despised as much as he currently did Miss Barrington. To his way of thinking, it made far more sense to allow a person to work off his obligations, a point that he’d been known to expound upon on more than one occasion.

  Heaving a weighty sigh, he tossed back the entire contents of his glass in one fiery gulp. Ah, well. It was none of his affair what happened to the chit now.

  “Look on the bright side of things. Since Miss Barrington is ruined, you can finish out the Season with the assurance that you shan’t be meeting her anywhere,”

  Freddie persisted, as if by her mere absence the scandal would magically disappear.

  Nicholas eyed his friend in consternation. “You don’t honestly think that I shall remain in Town after what has happened, do you?”

  “Why ever not? You yourself said that this has been a particularly lively Season. Besides, it’s not too late for you to find another bride, if you’re still of a mind to do so.”

  A bride? Nicholas felt physically ill at the notion of courting. What if whomever he chose the next time found his face as hideous as Miss Barrington did? That thought deepened the dull ache in his belly to a torturous wrench.

  Shaking his head as much in response to his pain as in reply, he gritted out, “No. I shall spend the remainder of the Season in Scotland. Fishing.”

  Where no one would have to look at his face.

  As Freddie predicted, every tongue within the fashionable district between Grosvenor Square and St. James Street was a-wag over the Barrington-Marwood hoax by the
following afternoon. The merchants, upon hearing of the trio’s insolvency, merged upon their residence en masse, banging on the door and bellowing for payment. When it became apparent that they would receive neither money nor a response, they retreated one by one, each shouting threats of arrest as he stormed off down the street.

  Of course the Marwoods blamed Sophie for their fix, Edgar with a rage that exploded into violence the instant he read Lyndhurst’s note accusing them all of fraud and calling off the wedding. Indeed, had Heloise not shielded Sophie from his wrath, he’d have no doubt added murder to his growing list of sins. It was during that volatile outburst, as she lay sobbing in her aunt’s arms, that he’d banished her to her chamber, vowing to throttle her should she remain in his sight a second longer.

  And she was still there, though many hours had passed.

  Her eyes welling with tears for the hundredth time that day, Sophie rolled over onto her belly and buried her face in her pillow to smother her anguished wails. If she’d only been sensible and married his dreadful lordship, they wouldn’t be in this coil … this hopeless, tangled coil.

  She also wouldn’t be suffering the pain of discovering Julian’s true character.

  As happened every time she thought of Julian, raw, savage grief clawed at her heart. Better she’d wed Lyndhurst and spent her life mourning for Julian’s love than to have learned that it had never truly been hers. At least then she’d still have her dreams.

  But now she had nothing. Literally. And by this time tomorrow she would be sailing for the wilds of America, fleeing the country like the criminal she was. She’d overheard Edgar and Heloise plotting their escape to the New World when she’d tiptoed past the library earlier that evening.

  Mind you, she hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. Indeed, had they still had servants she’d never have ventured forth from her exile. But the servants were gone, every last one of them, all having quit the instant they learned of their employer’s straitened circumstances. That meant that there was no one to bring her her meals. And since neither Heloise nor Edgar had thought to do so, she’d been forced to forage for herself.

  So forage she did, though, in truth, she’d had no real appetite. No. What drove her to the kitchen wasn’t hunger, but craving; one for the Shrewsbury cakes the cook had baked the day before. There was always something comforting about their sweet, buttery taste, something that reminded her of her father’s laughter and her mother’s hugs — of picnics and Christmas and stories by the fire. Their taste took her home again: home, where she’d always been safe, happy, and loved.

  Filled with bittersweet longing for those peaceful bygone days, she’d gorged herself on the remainder of the cakes. Full to the point of bursting and exhausted from her emotional turmoil, she’d crept back to her room, where she’d fallen into a restless, dreamless slumber sometime around eleven o’clock.

  Lifting her face from her pillow, Sophie wondered what time it was now. As tired as she felt, she couldn’t have slept more than an hour or so. That would make it what? Twelve or one? Close to the time her aunt would be coming to bid her to ready herself for the voyage. She’d heard Edgar say that they would leave the house promptly at three to catch the four-fifteen coach to Dover. If it were indeed one o’clock, she had but two hours to prepare. Best she stop moping and start her packing now.

  Though she felt boneless from fatigue, Sophie somehow managed to force herself from her bed. After tossing on a white cashmere wrap, she lit a candle and dragged herself to her dressing room. For several beats she stood drowsily surveying her surroundings, wondering what to do first. Then she caught sight of her reflection in her dressing table mirror, and her vanity decided for her. Was that really her hair or had a bird nested on her head?

  Grimacing at what had mutated from a fashionable crown of curls into a matted horror, Sophie sat before the table. No wonder mademoiselle always insisted she take it down and brush it before bed. It turned impossible when left up.

  Wishing that mademoiselle were there to help her now, she dug through the knotty wad and extracted what hairpins remained. She then picked up her brush and launched her attack. She had finished taming the golden chaos and was pinning it up when the hall clock began to chime.

  One, two, three … four?

  With a gasp she dropped her hairpins, scattering them across the table to lay like the wire skeletons of long defeated tin soldiers. The clock was wrong. It had to be! Desperate to confirm the fact, Sophie rushed to her jewelry case to check the time on her watch.

  It was gone. All her jewelry was gone save the paste coronet she had worn to a costume ball at the beginning of the Season.

  Certain she’d been robbed by the servants, Sophie dashed to the door and flung herself out into the corridor, frantic to inform Edgar. Her thin white wrap chasing behind her like a ghostly shadow, she ran down the hall at neck-break speed, coming to a sliding stop when she reached her destination.

  Her frenzied voice mingling with the bruising whack of her knuckles against the door, she cried, “Edgar!” over and over again.

  No response.

  Dropping her now numb hand to her side, she leaned over and pressed her ear to the door to listen for signs of life within.

  Not so much as a creak or a sigh.

  A frisson of foreboding tingled down her spine as she straightened up again. Had he made good his earlier threat to take his mother and flee the country without her? Had the “we” in his plan not included her?

  As quickly as the thought entered her mind, she dismissed it. Though he was no doubt angry enough to desert her, Aunt Heloise loved her and would never allow him to do so. And Edgar, despite his tyrannical manner, always yielded when she asserted her matriarchal command. Factoring that with the lateness of the hour, it was reasonable to conclude that the plan had been changed and that he was out somewhere modifying the arrangements. Yet — yet —

  Possessed by a sudden chill, Sophie snugged her wrap around her. A change of plans might explain Edgar’s absence, but where was her aunt? All the banging and shouting should have drawn her attention. Growing more uneasy by the second, she opened Edgar’s door. It took only a single glance to confirm her worst fears.

  Every drawer was pulled from its slot, every box and chest stood open, their hastily rifled contents spilling over the sides and across the floor. What little of value there was in the room, the silver candlesticks, the marquetry clock, even the gilt mirror, had been stripped away, probably to pay for passage. The sight left no doubt in her mind as to who had stolen her jewelry.

  With mounting horror she backed away from the threshold, moving step by trembling step across the hall until her back butted against the facing wall. For what felt like an eternity in hell, she stood there, paralyzed by panic. Then she turned and numbly stumbled the short distance to her aunt’s chamber.

  It, too, was ransacked.

  A ragged sob of betrayal tore from her throat. Like Julian, it appeared that Heloise, too, had lied about loving her.

  “No!” she cried out loud, the word echoing forlornly in the forsaken room. No. Heloise loved her. She knew she did. She would never abandon her, not willingly at least.

  Desperately clinging to that belief, Sophie searched the littered chamber, looking for a note, or anything at all, to sanction her faith in her aunt. But there was nothing.

  Shattered by disappointment, she wandered from the bedchamber to the dressing room, though deep inside she had little hope of finding anything there, either.

  At first glance her pessimism looked to be justified, a justification that deepened as she explored the normally overfilled wardrobe. Aside from a few old gowns, a pair of spoiled red dancing slippers, and two broken fans, it was completely empty.

  Her shoulders drooped as she turned away. Ah, well. She hadn’t truly expected to find anything there anyway. Dejected nonetheless, she shuffled over to her last bastion of hope: her aunt’s dressing table.

  Bracing herself for yet more disappointment, Sophie
reached for the silver pull on the top drawer. As she did so, the light from the lone lit wall sconce spilled across the tabletop, lifting the shadows to reveal a sheet of unevenly folded vellum. So homogenous in hue was the paper to the ivory marble surface that Sophie counted it a miracle that she’d noticed it at all.

  Cautioning herself against hoping too much, she picked it up, her hands quivering with both anticipation and dread as she drew it nearer to the light.

  Written in her aunt’s delicate, spidery hand was her name.

  Her breath stilling in her throat, she slowly unfolded it. By the uneven scrawl and smeared ink, it was clear that the brief note had been written in a rush.

  Please forgive me for leaving you so, dear. Were there a choice, I would have taken you with me. Regretfully, our funds are such that doing so is impossible. Therefore, I urge you to go to your father’s uncle at the address below. He is said to be a man of some consequence, and you, dear, are his only living relative. No doubt he shall help you. You will find what I pray is enough to take you to him in the top drawer. Please be assured that I love you and will write you in care of your great-uncle as soon as we are settled. Aunt Heloise.

  Further down the page was the name Arthur Bromphrey and an address in Exeter.

  Her great-uncle Arthur? Sophie frowned, vaguely remembering meeting him at her parents’ funeral. If memory served her correctly, he had been positively ancient back then. So ancient, that it defied logic to imagine him still alive. Did Heloise know for certain that he lived? Or did she direct her to him on nothing more than hope?

  Trying without success to stir her optimism, she opened the drawer and stared at the coins within. Be he a certainty or a hope, she had no choice but to go to Exeter. With luck, she would find him alive and be able to persuade him to help her.

  And if he were dead?

  Well, at least she would be away from London and the immediate threat of arrest.