Midnight Pleasures (27 page)

“Fine. You don’t question me and I won’t question you. It’s a lovely marriage you’re planning for us,
my love
.” Patrick emphasized the last phrase with bitter sarcasm.

Her face paper white, Sophie turned and walked out of the room. Rage touched Patrick’s backbone again, like a whisper of fire. With a shock, he realized that he was unconsciously baring his teeth.

“Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered with suppressed violence. One thing was very clear: He could not tolerate the idea of Sophie finding another “amusement.” Not with Braddon or with any other man.

Patrick paused. Without thinking, he had started to follow Sophie up the stairs. Instead, he spun on his heel and headed out the front door. Grimly he started walking south toward the river.

A half-hour later, he was feeling much better. True, he still winced every time he thought of Sophie saying she married him for lust. But Sophie would never take a lover. Her personal integrity was one of his favorite things about her—that and the way she was so devilishly vulnerable at one moment and sophisticated at the next.

However, if he returned to the house now, he would arrive around three o’clock, and Sophie would think he was watching for Braddon’s arrival. Whereas he didn’t give a toss whom she went riding with, Patrick reminded himself. What he should do is go to his offices on the West India docks. His man of business, Henry Foster, had left some fifteen notes for him, which had escalated in urgency as the
Lark
continued to meander around the coast of Wales.

Instead, Patrick jumped into a hackney and directed it to the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. He might as well see what was putting Breksby into such a twist that two notes had awaited his return from Wales.

But Patrick’s temper was not mended by the interview with Lord Breksby. Breksby took the news of the haphazard fortifications stoically. He hadn’t expected anything different.

“We’re very grateful to you, my lord,” the foreign secretary said punctiliously. “It is a pleasure to have my views so ably confirmed, and in such a timely manner.”

Patrick inclined his head. “Will that be all?” he asked.

“No, no.” For the first time in Patrick’s recollection, Lord Breksby—the capable, pompous Breksby—looked somewhat discomfitted, almost anxious. “The other matter … the matter of the gift.”

There was a pause as Breksby rethought his plan to keep Patrick Foakes in the dark about Napoleon’s attempted sabotage. The man was so—so
formidable
in person.

“Yes?” Patrick asked impatiently. He ought to return to the house before Sophie went out with Braddon. Then he could be generous about the whole matter, perhaps inviting Braddon to join them for supper. That would show Sophie that he didn’t care a fig whom she spent time with.

“There has been some unpleasantness surrounding the gift we are sending to Selim’s coronation,” Breksby said, making up his mind once again to avoid a discussion of Napoleon’s substitute scepter. “In fact, it appears that there may be a plan afoot to steal the scepter. That being the case, we naturally intend to guard it very carefully. We hesitate to put you at risk, given the scepter’s vulnerability to thieves; therefore, we will transport it abroad through an alternate route. Our representative will bring the scepter to your dwelling in Constantinople a few hours before the coronation.”

“You consider theft to be a serious possibility?”

Breksby nodded. “Exactly.”

His tone did not invite questions, and Patrick asked none. “I plan to travel to Turkey in the beginning of September,” Patrick noted. “I assume that your representatives will have no difficulty contacting me in Constantinople.”

“I do not foresee any problem,” Breksby replied.

Patrick stood up.

“Mr. Foakes,” Breksby said gently. “There is still the matter of your dukedom.”

Patrick sat down again, his stomach knotting with impatience. Damn it, Sophie would certainly have left with Braddon by now.

“I have set the process in motion,” Breksby said. “I might add that, to this date, I have had nothing but favorable responses.”

Patrick nodded.

Breksby stifled a sigh. It cut him to the quick to grant a dukedom to a man who clearly considered the honor to be a trifle. “The only question that has been raised is whether the future Dukedom of Gisle will be a hereditary title.” He paused again.

Patrick simply waited.

By Jove, Breksby thought, the man’s unnatural. Anyone would make a push to ensure that his son inherited the title! “I will do my best to confirm the title as hereditary,” he said.

Patrick grinned. Breksby was a good-hearted sort, and Patrick knew well that he wasn’t playing to the secretary’s sense of proper gratitude. “I am indeed indebted to you for your efforts in this matter, Lord Breksby.”

Like many before him, Breksby fell prey to the beguiling charm of Patrick’s smile. “Ah, well,” he said, “I always strive to do my duty.”

Patrick’s grin widened. “I am certain that my son, should I ever have one, will be even more grateful than I.”

Breksby almost smirked. “
There
you are correct!”

Lord Breksby parted with the future Duke of Gisle well satisfied. He was right not to have informed Foakes that they were worried less about the theft of the scepter and more about its substitution. He himself found the whole possibility remote, anyway. Why would Napoleon bother to pack a scepter with explosives? The plan had a far-fetched ring that didn’t appeal to Breksby’s sensibilities. Likely nothing would happen at all—and saying naught about it would save his own reputation. What if Foakes spread it about that Breksby had got the wind up unnecessarily?

The sky was threatening rain as Patrick left the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. He had undoubtedly missed Sophie and Braddon. He walked down the great marble steps leading to the Thames and stood looking at its muddy depths for a moment. Then he turned and summoned a hackney. What on earth was he thinking, to neglect his work? Normally, after being out of town, he would have visited the warehouse immediately. He’d been married only six weeks and already he was overlooking his responsibilities.

When he reached the West India docks, his portly man of business trotted over to him with a look of acute relief. “By George, I’m glad to see you, sir!”

And Patrick was swept into the hurly-burly air of the warehouse. One of his ships had run aground off the coast of Madras with the loss of a cargo of cotton; his man in Ceylon had sent an urgent message about the availability of black tea; Foster had an inkling that the master of the
Rosemary
was bilking them out of a cargo of sugar. Patrick settled down with a will. There, in the dusty, bustling offices that resounded with shouts and thuds from the warehouses next door, there were no disturbing wives, reproachful glances, or guilty consciences. He ate a light supper at his desk and continued working far into the evening.

Sophie looked suspiciously about the street before she stepped into Braddon’s landaulet, but there was no sign of her husband. Tears still burned at the back of her throat, but she was perfectly collected. Without hesitation, she agreed to meet Madeleine’s father the following day.

“Perhaps, if it is agreeable with Miss Garnier,” she said, “we could meet once or twice a week after that point.”

Braddon agreed eagerly.

“I have only one requirement,” Sophie said.

Braddon squirmed. He’d seen that sort of look before, coming from females, and he hated it. “Anything,” he said with a silent groan.

“My husband is to know nothing.”

“Patrick? You mean Patrick?”

“Of course I mean Patrick,” she snapped. “What other husband do I have?”

“But, but—” Braddon was utterly nonplussed. “Why on earth not? Patrick has always been in on m’schemes. Not to say that he approves of ‘em, but …”

“If he is to find out, then I will not be available to tutor Miss Garnier,” she stated, her tone allowing no room for argument.

But obstinacy was second nature to Braddon. “Look here, Sophie. How are you going to explain where you are in the afternoon? What is Patrick going to think about the time you spend with Madeleine?”

Sophie shot him a stinging glance. “Husbands don’t watch their wives as if they were lapdogs. My mama does precisely as she pleases.”

There were a few seconds of silence as Braddon tried to decide how to point out that Sophie’s parents were not an appropriate exemplar.

“My mama couldn’t have gone somewhere every week without my father findin’ out,” he finally said lamely.

“I am quite certain that Patrick and I will have no disagreements over the matter,” Sophie replied. “I doubt he will express any interest in my whereabouts during the afternoons, but if he does, I will inform him that I am visiting the children’s section of Bridewell.”

“Bridewell! Patrick would never let you go to Bridewell,” Braddon exclaimed, thinking of the hospital for the poor, which was located in a highly disreputable area.

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Are you planning to browbeat Madeleine like this?” she asked sweetly. “Because you might wish to know that ladies visit Bridewell regularly and play with the foundling orphans. We are welcomed by the hospital staff.”

“Oh Lord,” Braddon said, flustered. “Are you sure, Sophie? Why not simply tell Patrick, and then things will be so much easier?”

“I won’t. And if you tell him, I won’t lift a finger to help your Madeleine.”

“Of all the stupid crotchets!”

Sophie’s frayed temper mounted. “If it’s a stupid crotchet, then you can find someone else to help you, can’t you!”

Braddon cast her an appalled look. Trust a woman to start screeching just as a fellow had to transfer the reins to his whip hand.

“Don’t give it another thought,” Braddon said, once he had made the delicate maneuver and his horses were gently trotting through the archway and into St. James’s Park. “I’m sure you’re right. Now I think on it, Patrick wasn’t at all nice about my last scheme.”

In fact, the more Braddon thought about Patrick’s reaction to his “broken leg,” the gladder he was that Patrick would never know about his newest scheme. The expression on Patrick’s face when Braddon started smashing his adhesive plaster was not to be forgotten, but neither was the lecture he read him afterward. Fairly made his ears peal, it did.

“Yes, you’re right,” Braddon said with sudden vigor. “The fewer people who know the truth, the better. You, Madeleine’s father, and I are more than enough.”

Just then Sophie leaned over, waving her gloved hand. “Oh, do stop, Braddon. Look, there’s Charlotte and Alex!”

Braddon drew up and Sophie watched eagerly as Alex drew their two-wheeler parallel to Braddon’s landaulet.

“Nice rig you have there,” Braddon said to Alex. He was a friend of Patrick’s, rather than of Alex’s, and he remained a little in awe of Patrick’s twin brother. Patrick had a ready temper an’ all, but Alex had a steely glint in his eye that always made Braddon feel like squirming.

“Where’s Patrick?” Charlotte called cheerfully from the far side of the two-wheeler.

Sophie squirmed. If only it weren’t an egregious break in decorum for a woman to dash out of a carriage and run across the grass to another vehicle. She just shook her head, trusting that silence would tell Charlotte that something was wrong.

Her friend’s response was immediate: “Will you join us for a light supper tonight, Sophie?”

Sophie leaned forward, trying to see around Braddon’s considerable bulk. “I would be happy to do so, Charlotte. I’m not quite sure what Patrick’s plans are, however. We arrived in London only yesterday.”

“It’s early days in the marriage,” Alex said. “I’m sure Patrick will trail after you. At any rate, we must return to the house, Charlotte.” He winked at Sophie. “Some people are henpecked by their wives, but we are henpecked by our nanny. It’s time for Sarah and Pippa to pay a visit to the drawing room.”

Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “Poor dears. Pippa appears all starched and miserable, and must act like a true lady for a brutal half-hour. Shall we see you at eight o’clock?”

Sophie nodded.

When Patrick had not returned by eight o’clock, Sophie left a neutrally worded note with the butler, Clemens, said good night to Henri, and directed the carriage to her brother-in-law’s house.

When she arrived, Sophie surprised herself by not blurting out all the details of their quarrel. She had been longing to tell Charlotte … but did she really want Charlotte to know that her husband had forthrightly admitted to marrying her for lust? One had to maintain a corner of dignity, somewhere, somehow.

Dinner passed in chatter about baby Sarah’s new tooth and the French soldiers rehabilitating in Wales. So it wasn’t until Alex retreated to his study that Sophie met with a challenge.

Charlotte didn’t bother with niceties. “Where on earth is he, Sophie? Have you quarreled?”

Sophie sat down on a low settee, constriction burning in her chest. “Oh, Charlotte,” she said, trying not to sound pitiful, “I have the devil of a temper, you know that.”

Charlotte’s grave eyes looked straight past the light comment and into Sophie’s eyes. “Sophie,” she said ominously, her voice a command.