Jilting the Duke (17 page)

Aidan raised an eyebrow in question.

“Let me explain. It ought to show the plant in its various states at once: seeds, fruit, flower. This is just the plant in flower. And the reference in the text to this plate is to a rose.”

“Would Tom have made such a mistake?”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Only if his illness affected his memory more than I imagined. But then he died shortly after, so . . .” She shrugged. “I can't be sure. But the errors I've found in the proofs are all in his fair copy.”

“You didn't make the fair copy?”

“No, Tom always copied the manuscript out himself. He joked that I could draw a fine line and sign my name with aplomb. But more than that, and my script turned into a messy scrawl worth neither the ink nor the paper.”

“Did you use Tom's regular printer? Perhaps Tom's printer would have known what to do with these errors you are finding.”

“Tom always used a subscription printer, a bear of a man named Holst. I always thought that Tom's books had a big enough market that he didn't need to publish them by subscription. And Holst was the only bookseller from whom one could order the books. I always insisted that the books needed a wider circulation than Holst could give. So when I returned to England, I contacted Murray, and he agreed with me. This time, at least twenty shops will sell Tom's book.”

“Could it be that Holst would have known how to deal with these ‘errors'?”

“What are you saying? That Tom added gibberish to his fair copy and added plates that make no sense, just so that the publisher had to take them out before printing it?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying. You say that Tom wasn't affected mentally by the illness.”

“No, not even at the end.”

“Then there's something else going on here. May I escort you to Mr. Holst's?” He held out his arm.

Despite knowing she might regret it later, she took his arm.

But Holst wasn't in. In fact, his shop was closed up entirely. A sign in the window indicated he was on a provincial tour distributing books. He would return in a fortnight. Or a week after they left for Aidan's estate. But there was something here; Aidan could feel it. He might have just found the very information Walgrave needed.

Chapter Nineteen

It was the night of Phineas's dinner party; his guests would be arriving in only an hour.

Sophia and Aidan waited in the library for the Hucknalls and the Masons to arrive. She'd invited them to come earlier than the other guests. In part because their presence would give her courage for her first dinner party without Tom, but it also ensured that Phineas's guests would find ready conversation when they began to arrive. Ian was on his way to Kensington to visit Nate—he didn't like Phineas either.

Sophia's dress was the blue one Tom had made for her and Phineas had approved. Madame Elise had been unable to finish any of her dresses in time. Sally had taken special care with Sophia's hair. A halo of soft curls surrounded her face, and more curls were tied up with dark string around the beads she wore in her hair.

Aidan amused himself browsing through her books, picking up one, flipping through its pages, then turning to another. It was odd, really, for a man with a rich collection of his own to spend so much time examining her books. But, he was doing no harm, and due to his coming and going through the garden entrance, no one knew how much time he spent in her house.

Almost no one had refused her invitation. She wondered if that had more to do with the fact that the Duke of Forster had let it be known he would be in attendance or if Phineas really had so many friends. Either way it was the largest party she'd held in a very long time. For years in Italy, she'd hosted a salon, bringing together local Italians of good birth, representatives of the Austrian government, the occasional English travelers living in Naples, and every itinerant artist whose work she'd found intriguing. Tom had named their villa
il museo
, the home of muses. But with Tom's illness, the salon had proved too taxing, and she'd let it go. To find herself back in the role of hostess after so much time was daunting.

A tap at the door signaled Dodsley's presence. “My lady, the Masons and the Hucknalls have arrived.” Ophelia and Audrey entered with arms intertwined, already laughing over some joke. Both women embraced Sophia, greeting her with kisses on both cheeks. Their husbands followed, debating a parliamentary vote to be held on the Bank of England's monetary practices. After kisses and handshakes, Sophia noticed that Dodsley remained.

“The modiste has sent round your dress for this evening, my lady. I've placed it in your dressing room. The seamstress is waiting in the kitchen if you need her.”

“Thank you, Dodsley. As for the seamstress, let her go. I'm already dressed, and Phineas will prefer this gown.”

Aidan intervened. “Sophia, why not look at the dress?”

Suddenly suspicious, she nodded assent to Dodsley.

* * *

Sophia didn't bother to close the door to her dressing room. She didn't intend to wear the dress, only to look at it.

It was lovely. The smoke-gray silk made half-mourning beautiful. The bodice was scooped from her shoulders to her décolletage with a narrow black-trim border, a design repeated in the black sash at her waist, and in the black border at the bottom of the skirt. Dark red vertical stripes, so narrow as to be imperceptible at more than a small distance, gave the fabric depth and richness.

But it wasn't one of the dresses she had ordered. Only Aidan could have convinced Madame Elise to ignore her requests and make this . . . this beautiful dress. Sophia let the fabric run through her fingers. So soft.

She held the dress up before the full-length mirror.

“You must wear it.” Aidan spoke from the doorway.

“Why?” She hadn't realized he'd followed her.

“Because it's beautiful. Because it suits you.”

“No, I meant why did you . . .”

“It seemed the right thing. Phineas forced you into having this party. No woman should have to reenter society in a gown her guests have already seen.”

“There isn't time. I've sent the seamstress away, and Sally has left for Kensington with Ian and Mr. Grange.”

“Knowing Elise, the dress will fit perfectly. But the seamstress is still here. I've called for her.”

Shaking her head, Sophia looked at the dress once more. “Phineas will not approve. . . .”

“Phineas never approves. Accept it . . . as a gift to the mother of my ward. No one will ever know. Or if you prefer, Elise can send you the bill. But wear it.”

She was torn. She hadn't had a dress so beautiful in years—not even Tom's cerulean blue one—but to accept such a dress as a gift . . . After the tryst in his garden, she should be wary of taking gifts, of suggesting he might think of her as a mistress. She was saved from deciding by the sound of Ophelia's and Audrey's voices.

“Forster, what are you doing at my sister's bedroom door?” Ophelia demanded with mock seriousness.

“It's her
dressing
-room door, sweet ladies. And you would both approve. Help me convince her to wear the dress her modiste has delivered.” Aidan stepped aside to let Ophelia and Audrey see the dress.

“Oh, it's lovely. Of course you must wear it,” Audrey exclaimed.

“Yes, there's no choice,” Phee agreed.

“Come now. It won't take long. We'll help you into it.” Audrey took the dress from Sophia's hands and laid it out gently over the ottoman.

“And you”—Ophelia turned back to Aidan as she shut the door in his face—“you go down to entertain any guests who arrive early.”

* * *

The fire was low, but still burning when Sophia returned to her dressing room hours later. The house, which only an hour ago had rung with the sound of voices, was now quiet. Exhilarated by the conversation and the success of the party, even if it were not one she would have chosen to give, she had thought she would be too awake to sleep. But the moment the last guest had taken his leave, she found herself spent. Ophelia and Sidney had chosen to return to Kensington rather than spend the night, so she was alone.

The design of her dress made it simple to remove on her own: the black sash under the bodice covered a drawstring that tightened the dress to fit, and covered buttons secured the bodice in the back. She undid the buttons, then loosened the sash, and stepped from the dress. She laid it over the ottoman, smoothing out the fabric.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd worn a dress so lovely. Of course she would pay Elise for the gown. It was time to set a limit to Aidan's liberties.

As she changed into her nightdress, she thought of Aidan. All evening, aware of Phineas's watchful eye, she'd taken care not to look in Aidan's direction. But she could not be unaware of him, her ear always listening for his voice. A number of the guests had spoken highly of Tom, several claiming his friendship from Harrow. Phineas had increased the guest list, inviting a number of men whose names she did not know. One, a slender man with a thick raised scar across one hand, had told her a tender anecdote of Tom's school days that had brought tears to both their eyes. It had gratified her to hear Tom spoken of so well. She'd felt almost guilty to have Aidan present.

She covered the nightdress with her favorite Italian robe and picked up the book Mr. Murray had sent her that afternoon: George Crabbe's
Tales of the Hall,
out only a month.

Artemisia came howling, pushing open the door between the bedroom and the dressing room. The cat headed for the ottoman. “No, no, no, you don't. No walking on the beautiful dress.” Sophia caught the old tortoise shell in her arms and turned her belly up to scratch her chest. “What has sent you from your balcony before breakfast? Is it raining again?” She looked to the window, but saw no rain. Odd. “Well, you and I are going to read before bed.” Holding book and cat together, she entered the bedroom, kicking the door to the dressing room shut with her foot.

Inside her bedroom, she caught the fading notes of a cologne, not hers. She stiffened. The smell was too strong to have lingered from Ophelia or Audrey.

To be alone in the family suite now felt less like a luxury. She looked to the bell pull at the fireside. No, that's foolish, and what would she say?
Dodsley, would you mind checking under the bed for a monster?
Even if she pulled the bell, Dodsley wouldn't know to hurry.

The low fire illuminated the seating area in front of it. Two tall Queen Anne chairs fronted the fire, facing each other, both empty. She raised the wick of the oil lamps on the wall until they illuminated all the corners of the room.

The curtains on her bed were tied close to the posters; no one there. Nothing. Silly.

Murmuring to the cat, she carried Artemisia to the balcony. The door was open, as usual, but as she drew near, the hint of cologne strengthened. She drew away from the balcony, just as curtains moved.

Two hands caught her, one at the waist and the other over her mouth. She was pulled in against the intruder's body, dropping the cat, which ran under the bed.

She barely heard the rough whisper, “don't scream.” She bit the man's hand and stomped with her ankle flexed back hard on the man's foot. He released her. She fell forward, running to the fireplace and grabbing the iron poker.

The intruder followed her. She turned, poker held high, ready to strike.

“Sophia, it's me.” Aidan stepped back, hands extended in submission. “I didn't mean to startle you. I was waiting by the fire, but I heard your voice in the dressing room and thought your maid might be with you. So I hid.”

Still holding the poker, she walked toward him, fear now turned to anger. Her hands shaking, and her breath ragged. She slapped him across the face, hard.

“I take it you didn't get my note?” Aidan rubbed his face where she'd hit him. “Could you put down the poker?”

“Note?” Glaring, she replaced the poker.

“On your dressing table. I told you I was waiting.” He sounded sincerely apologetic.

Sophia was unmoved. “You left a note on my dressing table where any of the servants, or nosy guests for that matter, could find it, saying you were waiting in my bedroom? Are you mad?”

“I didn't say I was waiting in your bedroom.” Aidan leaned on the edge of her bed, rubbing his foot with the hand she hadn't bitten. For a moment she thought he looked pleased.

“Then what did you do?” Sophia glared. “Write it in code?”

“In a way. I wrote ‘what light through yonder window breaks.' I assumed you would fill in the rest. Or at least remember.”

“I don't want to remember.” But she did, without wanting to. Aidan's using bales of hay to convert the barn loft into a makeshift balcony, then reciting lines from her least favorite Shakespeare play, before he climbed the ladder to kiss her. “I always hated that play; star-crossed lovers, my foot. Just foolish children playing at being in love.”

Aidan's eyes flashed. He crossed the room in only a few steps. Taking her shoulders in his hands, he pulled her against him and kissed her hard on the lips. She could taste his anger. “I was never playing, Sophia.” He set her back away from him.

She retreated to the other side of one of the chairs in front of the fireplace, increasing the distance between them. She began to say something, but stopped. She touched her lips and breathed deeply, one long breath.

Aidan breathed the next breath with her. “I must apologize. I returned to tell you how beautiful you looked tonight, luminous. And to congratulate you on a deft handling of the conversation, particularly when Lord Craven joined Malcolm and Sidney's debate on the economic practices of the Bank of England, and the whole started to turn heated. But I arrived before the last of your guests left.”

“So you hid in my bedroom.” She was not mollified.

“Not intentionally . . . Well, yes, intentionally. I didn't wish for your guests to wonder why I'd returned.” His voice had returned to the level calm she had grown to expect. “I thought this would be the room where I was least likely to be discovered. So, I wrote you the note, and I fell asleep before the fire. I only woke when I heard your voice. Will you forgive me?”

“How did you get here?”

He looked at the balcony.

“You didn't.”

“It's a useful skill, you know.”

“Tomorrow, I'm having that trellis taken down.” She held her arm out and pointed to the window. “But you can use it tonight—to leave.”

He took her hand, though she resisted, and placed it over his heart. “First let me accomplish the task I came for. You looked beautiful. Your handling of the guests was skillful. The meal exceptional. If Phineas doesn't thank you profusely, he's more of an ass than I would expect, even from him.” He kissed her gently on the cheek and walked to the balcony. “Until the morrow, my lady.” And he slipped over the edge.

She followed him out, listened as he climbed silently down, and watched him walk away in the darkness of the garden. After he had disappeared into the shadows, she returned to her dressing room.

She found the note—written on her own notepaper—exactly where he had said it would be.