Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (35 page)

Lady Neeley let out a cry—something about her bracelet’s clasp being broken.

Max reluctantly released her hand, gave John a respectful bow, then returned to then: hostess’s side.

As soon as Max was out of earshot, John said, “Sophia, we don’t have to stay if you don’t wish. I’m certain everyone would understand.”

No they wouldn’t. Oh, they would
pretend
to understand and offer their support, and all the while they’d laugh behind their fans. Sophia knew exactly what the world thought of a left-behind wife—a horrid concoction of pity and superiority, all of it bitter and none of it palatable. She lifted her chin. “Never let it be said that a mere Hampton had rousted a Throckmorton from the field of battle.”

John adjusted his cravat as if it had grown a notch too tight. “Do you think he’ll grant the annulment?” “Not without cost.” John appeared troubled. “What cost?” “That,” Sophia said grimly, “is the question.”

And as if the excitement of the missing bracelet wasn’t enough to fill a column, allow This

Author to be the first to inform
—Viscount Easterly has returned to London!

Indeed, the prodigal nobleman appeared quite unexpectedly at Lady Neeley’s ill-fated supper

and surely would have remained the prime source of gossip had Lady N’s bracelet not gone so inconveniently missing. By all appearances, Lady Easterly was unaware that her husband planned to attend, and according to several witnesses, the pair were shooting positive daggers

at each other throughout the supper—or rather, throughout the soup course, which is all the guests were allowed to eat before the evening fell quite apart.

Indeed, one lady commented (quite callously, in This Author’s opinion) that it was too bad the evening was forced to a premature end; surely the Easterlys would have provided excellent entertainment had their fury been allowed to continue unchecked. It would have been, the aforementioned lady added, a scandalous scene to end all scandalous scenes.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 29 MAY 1816

The next morning, Mr. Prichard entered the sparsely furnished antechamber of his office. He halted on seeing a visitor standing beside the window, face tilted down to observe the street below. A high brimmed hat shadowed the man’s face, his broad form blocking the early morning light.

“I am sorry,” Prichard said, trying not to sound surprised. It was a rare occurrence that anyone reached the office before he did. “May I assist you?”

The man turned his head, the early morning light slanting across his face.

Prichard took a startled step forward. “My lord! How wonderful—when did you arrive— I—” His

voice would go no further.

A deep ripple of laughter broke from the viscount, the somber expression dispelled with a peculiarly

sweet smile. He removed his hat, the sun lighting the planes of his face and glinting off his black hair.

“I am informing you of my return this very instant.” He spread his arms wide.

“Behold, the prodigal

son returneth.”

It had been years since the solicitor had visited Viscount Easterly in Italy. The intervening years had changed the man; he had grown broader of shoulder and leaner of appearance. There was a hardness, a straight line of lip and brow that was far more somber than the man’s thirty-two years warranted. Of course, that was only natural, considering everything that had transpired. Indignation filled Mr. Prichard’s heart. “You should have never been forced to leave. It is a disgrace that—” He faltered to a halt. The viscount had just thrust his hand forward, as if to shake hands.

Mr. Prichard gulped. “I— It would be unseemly if I were to—”

Max took the man’s hand and shook it firmly. Living on his own had shown him several things, one of which was the value of a true heart. “Come, Prichard! I’ve entrusted you with my soul, as it were. The least I can do is shake your hand.”

Mr. Prichard’s thin face heated. “Your father never would have approved of—”

“My father lost the family fortune by the time I was sixteen. While I esteem his worthy qualities, there were things about him that I have chosen not to repeat.” At one time, Max would have cut out his own tongue rather than admit such a home truth about his father. But the time for politeness was long past. “Had you been a lesser man, you might have robbed me blind whilst I was gone. You did not and for that, I thank you.”

Prichard gulped a disclaimer before gesturing toward his office.

Max tucked his hat under his arm as he preceded the solicitor into the warmly lit room and found a chair nearest the desk. As he took his seat, his gaze wandered to the window, to the familiar sight of London’s soot-covered buildings and the welcome sound of English voices raised in greeting as street vendors lined the cobblestones.

Prichard took his seat behind the desk, curiosity burning brightly in his gaze.

“My lord, I am so glad to

see you! Have you been to see the viscountess?”

“We dined together last night, after a fashion.” And what a shambles that had been. Lady Neeley’s blasted bracelet had gone missing and she’d raised such a rude fuss that everyone had left the dinner in high dungeon. Which was fine, as far as Max was concerned. It had been pure hell sitting in a room so close to Sophia, and yet not being able to even look her way.

He shifted in his seat, restlessness making his knees ache. “She looked well.”

Better than well. She had appeared radiantly healthy.

“So the viscountess was happy to see you?”

“She did not flee the room. I took that as an encouraging sign.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded missive, and handed it to Prichard. “Read this.”

The solicitor took a pair of wire spectacles out of his pocket and placed them on his nose, then squinted

at the letter. “She has your uncle’s diary? The uncle who supposedly had an affair with the queen?”

“Yes. The diary was locked in the vault and I didn’t think to take it with me when I left so quickly. Apparently, Sophia found it. If the diary is made open to the public, the parentage of half the
ton
could be called into question.”

The solicitor handed the missive back to Max. “Would she do such a thing?”

Max smiled faintly. “She is as pigheaded as I.”

“You seemed the perfect couple. I have often wondered if perhaps you’d been a trifle precipitous in deciding to leave the viscountess.”

“What else could I have done? Take her with me into exile? Condemn her to the same hell to which she had condemned me? I couldn’t—” He clamped his mouth closed. Damn it, it had been twelve years. He should be used to this feeling, the sense of loss, of betrayal. But somehow, he wasn’t. “Lady Easterly made her decision and I made mine.”

“My lord, I do not blame you for leaving; you had every right.” The solicitor shifted in his chair. “Whatever the circumstances, I must say that you have been more than generous in dispersing funds to her ladyship. I find it curious how you have managed to bring in such sums of money in these uncertain times. You have never explained that to me.”

“No,” Max replied calmly, “I never have.”

Prichard pursed his lips and then said in a slow, cautious manner, “Last month I went to visit Lord Shallowford. His lordship has an extensive art collection.”

Max kept his expression perfectly bland. “How pleasant for him.”

“He is quite proud of his collection. While I was at his estate, I saw a painting he had recently acquired.” Prichard paused meaningfully. “In Italy.”

“Many paintings come from Italy.”

“Not like this one. It was a pastoral scene, exactly like a painting I once saw in your lodgings almost ten years ago. If I remember correctly, the paint was still wet. In fact, I believe you were debating the placement of a certain tree.”

Damn. How clumsy of him.

“Lord Shallowford said the painter went by the name of Bellacorte.” Prichard coughed delicately. “Bellacorte is one of your family names, I believe.”

“My great-grandmother was Italian. But then you know that.”

“Of course,” Prichard said with a deprecating air. “Lord Shallowford mentioned the value of the painting, too. May I say you are certainly coming up in the art world?”

“I am doing well, thank you.” Better than well. In every way but one.

The solicitor cleared his throat. “Will you give her ladyship the annulment?”

“No. Not yet, anyway.” Max leaned back in the chair and crossed one booted leg over the other.

“I have things to discover before I take that step.”

“But the diary?”

“While I’m here, there is little danger she’ll act. The mere hope that I might cooperate will keep her from doing anything rash. Meanwhile …” Max pursed his lips. “What do you know about a fellow by the name of Riddleton?”

Prichard’s gaze shadowed. “I know a little. He is well liked by bis peers.”

“I think he is a portentous windbag. And his spelling is atrocious.”

“Spelling? Are you saying Riddleton has written to you?”

“Four long, pompous pages outlining all the reasons I should grant my wife an annulment.” Max absently rubbed his chest, where a hollow ache had formed.

He’d known the day would come when Sophia would wish to be free. He’d known it the day he’d left. But when and if Sophia found another man, Max would damn well make sure it was someone worthy.

“My lord, if you are concerned that Mr. Riddleton is a fortune hunter, you may rest easy on that score. He is a very wealthy man.”

Max’s gaze narrowed. “You seem to have already looked into this matter.”

Prichard colored faintly. “When I heard he was frequently found in Viscountess Easterly’s presence,

I made certain inquiries. I thought you’d wish me to do so.”

“What did you discover?”

“Not much. In fact… he seems devoted to the viscountess.” Of course the fool was taken with her—who wouldn’t be? Sophia was an intelligent, vibrant, beautiful woman. Too much of a woman for a man who would take four pages to ask one blasted question. And a question he had no business asking in the first place. The impertinence of it tried Max’s patience to the limits. “Damn it, but I am long overdue for this journey.” His gaze landed on the clock by Prichard’s elbow. “I must go if I’m to meet her ladyship for breakfast.” He stood.

The solicitor followed suit. “Of course. I do hope you mean to stay in England.”

“That depends on my fair wife,” Max answered shortly. If he closed his eyes right this moment, he knew what he would see—the same thing he’d seen last night. The same thing he’d seen the night before, and the night before that: Sophia’s face, her luminous eyes fringed with thick brown lashes, her soft lips parted. When he’d met her at Lady Neeley’s, it had been all he could do not to sweep her against him

and kiss her senseless, tasting those lips, making her lashes tremble on her cheeks as he brought her—brought them both—to the edge of passion and beyond.

That was the way it had always been for him, from the first time he’d seen her, which was why he’d demanded that they marry so quickly. Last night, seeing her made richer by the years, her body delightfully rounded, her chin still held at that ridiculously proud angle … in that one moment, Max had faced the truth. He had convinced himself he was returning to England to see if this Riddleton fellow

was good enough for Sophia, but that hadn’t been Max’s purpose at all. He’d returned home to stake a claim. Sophia belonged to him and no one else, and he would be damned if he would stand by and let some buffoon try and take his place.

If he found one sign—just one—that Sophia’s feelings for him weren’t entirely spent, then he’d alter

the course of the earth and win her back. Heart set, he took his leave of the solicitor and set out for Sophia’s house.

At fifteen minutes after eight, Sophia was seated at her breakfast table dressed in her best morning gown of blue muslin, her hair done to perfection, her plate piled high with a sampling of every dish that sat steaming on the buffet. She pressed a hand to her stomach; she was too nervous to eat a bite, but she refused to appear anything other than completely at ease when Max finally arrived.

If he
arrived. She eyed the clock with a resentful glare. He was akeady fifteen minutes late. That shouldn’t have surprised her, though it was definitely stretching her nerves. Did he think she’d wait forever while he just—A light scratching sounded at the door. Sophia’s heart tripled a beat. She hurriedly filled her fork with ham. “Yes?”

The door opened and the new butler entered, her brother sauntering behind him. “The Earl of Standwick.”

Sophia dropped her fork back onto her plate. “Thank you, Jacobs.” She barely waited for him to close the door before she whipped a razor-sharp gaze on John. “What are
you doing here?”

“I came to eat your food.” John loped to the buffet and proceeded to lift the silver covers, the gentle clangs filling the air. “There are no kippers.”

She refused to be distracted. “I can handle Max quite well on my own.”

“Of course you can.” He replaced the covers and then turned toward the table, pausing when he caught sight of her plate. His eyes widened an excessive amount. “Good God! Are you going to eat all of that?”

“Every bite.”

He dropped into a chair opposite hers. “Believe it or not, I’m too nervous to eat. I didn’t even sleep.”

“Yes, well, I slept like a rock,” Sophia lied, briskly cutting her ham into small bites.

“Wish I had slept, but I kept dreaming of that night. You know, when Max left.”

John leaned his elbows on the table. “Can’t decide what is worse—guilt or anger.”

Sophia knew exactly what he meant. Whatever the mix was, it was not pleasant. But she still had no

wish to discuss the issue. She needed all of her faculties sharp and ready when Max finally arrived.

“Can we speak of something else, please?”

“Of course.” John rubbed a hand over his face. “The worst of my dream was that this time, I knew Max was innocent, but I couldn’t say anything. It was as if my tongue had been glued to the roof of