Chapter 3
“They are engaged.” Alice, Viscountess Guildthorpe, pressed Sophia’s hand, her eyes bright with excitement. “Lord Collingsworth proposed to Lady Kirby yesterday evening. The whole ton is buzzing about it. It’s another triumph for Lady Fairhart.”
Sophia nodded. The parlor of Brimsey House felt too warm, and the afternoon light too bright. “That is good to know. I am pleased they found happiness together.”
The words emerged flat and hollow. Alice’s smile faltered. She exchanged a glance with her husband, Thomas, who sat across from them, his spectacles perched on his nose, his expression gentle with concern.
“Sophia.” Alice squeezed her fingers. “You have not been yourself all week. Please talk to us.”
Sophia stared at their joined hands. Alice’s fingers were warm, steady, alive. Jane’s fingers would never hold hers again.
“I should have been there.” The confession scraped from her throat. “The funeral. I should have gone. Jane was my dearest friend, and I could not even say goodbye.”
“You stayed for your mother.” Thomas leaned forward, his voice low and kind. “After what happened with Drakeston, you could not leave her alone. Jane would have understood.”
“Would she?” Sophia pulled her hand free and rose, moving to the window.
The street below bustled with carriages and pedestrians, all of them carrying on with their lives as if nothing had changed.
“I matched her with Leonard. I brought them together. And now they are both gone, and their son is an orphan, and I cannot even—”
Her voice broke. She pressed her palm against the cool glass and closed her eyes.
Alice appeared at her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “You gave them five years of happiness. Five years they would not have had without you.” She looked up at her husband for an instant. “That matters, Sophia. That matters more than you know.”
Sophia wanted to believe her. She wanted to find comfort in those words. But the guilt sat heavy within her chest, a stone she could not shift.
A soft knock interrupted them. Sophia’s lady’s maid, Betsy, hovered in the doorway. “My lady? Might I have a word? In private?”
Sophia excused herself and followed Betsy into the corridor. The maid glanced both ways before speaking, her voice hushed.
“I heard something while I was out on errands, my lady. The Duke of Heatherwell arrived at his townhouse this morning. And he brought a small boy with him.”
Sophia’s heart lurched. Oliver. Jane’s son. Here in London.
“Thank you, Betsy.” She gripped the maid’s arm. “Thank you for telling me.”
She returned to the parlor, but her mind was already elsewhere. Already planning. Already determined.
She would see Oliver.
No matter what it took.
The dining room stretched long and silent around them. Edward sat at the head of the table, Oliver to his right, the chair swallowed by the child’s small frame. Between them lay an expanse of polished mahogany and the wreckage of an untouched meal.
Edward watched his nephew push a piece of roasted chicken across his plate. The boy had Leonard’s eyes. The same shade of blue, the same way they crinkled at the corners. Looking at him felt like staring at a ghost.
“You need to eat.”
Oliver shrugged. He pushed the plate away. “I’m not hungry.”
“You have barely touched your food all week.” Edward kept his voice level, though frustration simmered beneath his ribs. “Eat what is served.”
Oliver crossed his arms. His lower lip jutted out. “I don’t want it.”
“If you continue this behavior, you will go to bed hungry.”
The boy slumped in his chair. He pushed the plate further away, rattling the silverware. “I don’t want it.”
“That is enough.” Edward’s palm struck the table. “Sit properly and eat your dinner.”
Oliver scrambled to his feet, standing on the chair. His small hands balled into fists. He kicked the table leg, and his fork clattered to the floor with a sound that rang through the empty room.
“Sit down.”
“I don’t want the food!” Oliver’s voice rose to a shriek. “I want Mama!”
Edward went still. The words hung between them, sharp and raw.
“This is not how peers of the realm behave at the table.”
“I don’t care about peers!” Oliver stomped his foot on the chair. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “I want Mama! I want Mama!”
The grief in that small voice cracked something inside Edward’s chest. He rose from his seat, his throat tight.
“Shouting will not bring her back. Sit down at once.”
Oliver’s face crumpled. He slid off the chair and ran.
Edward strode after him with the nursemaid rushing to keep pace. “Oliver! Return here this instant!”
He rounded the corner into the entrance hall and froze.
Oliver clung to a woman in a dark cloak with his face buried in her skirts and his small body shaking with sobs. The woman had crouched to his level, her arms wrapped around him, her hand rubbing slow circles on his back.
“There now,” she murmured. “You’re safe. I have you.”
Oliver’s cries quieted to hiccups. “I want my mama.”
“I know, sweetheart.” Her voice caught. “I know you do.”
“Step away from my nephew.”
The woman looked up.
Edward’s breath caught. He knew that face. The stubborn tilt of that chin. The flash of defiance in those green eyes.
She was the woman from the alley.
“Step away from him.” His voice hardened. “Now.”
She pulled back, but Oliver clutched her skirts and refused to let go.
“Your Grace.” Hartley appeared at his elbow. “Lady Sophia Readthorpe arrived moments ago and asked to see you and Master Oliver.”
Edward’s gaze remained fixed on her. Lady Sophia. The woman had a name. A title. And apparently, a connection to his nephew that he knew nothing about.
He stepped closer. “Why are you in my house?”
She rose to her feet, keeping one hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “Oliver’s mother was my dearest friend.”
“She knows me!” Oliver tugged at her cloak. “Sophia is the nicest lady I know. She visits, and reads to me, and brings me sweets.”
Edward absorbed this. His mind raced, connecting pieces he did not want to connect. This woman knew Jane, knew Oliver, knew Leonard. And she prowled the streets of London at four in the morning.
“Mrs. Palmer.” He addressed the nursemaid without looking away from Sophia. “Take Oliver upstairs.”
“No!” Oliver’s grip tightened on Sophia’s skirts. “I want to stay with her! Don’t make her go!”
Sophia crouched again, meeting the boy’s eyes. “It’s all right, darling. I will visit again, I promise. But it’s late now, and you should rest.”
“You promise?” Oliver’s voice wobbled. “You really promise?”
“I promise.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Now go with Mrs. Palmer. I will see you soon.”
Oliver hugged her once more, then released her. He turned to Edward, his small face fierce with four-year-old determination. “Don’t be mean to Sophia.”
The nursemaid took his hand and led him toward the stairs. Edward watched them go, watched Leonard’s son climb the steps with his mother’s stubborn spine, and felt the guilt twist deeper.
“Follow me.” He turned and strode toward his study. “We need to talk.”
The study door closed behind them with a sound like a cell door slamming shut. Edward rounded on her.
“Explain yourself. How do you know Oliver? What was your connection to Jane?”
“Jane was my closest friend.” Sophia kept her voice steady, though her heart raced. “I visited her and Leonard many times after Oliver was born. I have known that boy since he was an infant.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. He moved closer, using his height to intimidate. “You will stay away from him.”
“Excuse me?”
“You remind him of the past. Of the parents he lost. Your presence will only cause him pain.”
“Yes, clearly he was in great pain as he clung to me,” Sophia retorted. “Or perhaps I remind him of happier times. He needs someone familiar. Someone who knew his mother and father. Someone with more patience than you seem to possess.”
His eyes narrowed. “You know nothing of my patience.”
“I know I found a four-year-old child sobbing in your entrance hall while you barked orders at him to sit down.”
The words landed like a blow. Edward’s face darkened. “You have no right to judge how I handle my nephew.”
“And you have no right to keep me from him.” Sophia stepped closer, matching his intensity. “I am not some stranger off the street. I loved Jane like a sister; I love Oliver like a nephew. I will not abandon him simply because you find my presence inconvenient.”
“Inconvenient?” A harsh laugh escaped him. “You wander the most dangerous streets in London at four in the morning. You appear in dark alleys surrounded by cutthroats. And now you show up at my door expecting me to trust you with a grieving child?”
“You were in that same alley.” Sophia tilted her chin. “At that same hour. Doing what, exactly?”
His mouth snapped shut.
“How curious.” She folded her arms. “The Duke of Heatherwell prowls the streets at night, and he dares to lecture me about propriety. We are both hypocrites, Your Grace. The only difference is that I admit it.”
They stood close now, too close. Sophia became aware of the heat radiating from his body, the scent of leather and something woodsy beneath it. His blue eyes burned into hers, and for a moment, the anger within her shifted into something else. Something that made her pulse quicken.
He stepped back. His expression shuttered. “Leave.”
“I will not abandon Oliver.”
“Leave. Now.” He strode to the door and yanked it open.
Sophia paused at the threshold. “That boy has lost everything. His parents. His home. And now he is trapped in a house with a man who does not know the first thing about caring for a child.” She held his gaze. “I pray you learn quickly, Your Grace. Before he loses what little remains of his heart.”
She swept out before he could respond.
The crack of bone against flesh echoed through the cellar.