Chapter Eighteen
Sophia paced across the drawing room of Roxboro’s estate, barely noticing the gorgeously tufted rug beneath her feet. Every so often, she would stop, glance out the window, and then resume her marching back and forth.
Roxboro had yet to arrive at The Pillory.
She shouldn’t even have had a shred of concern about the coward.
Roxboro couldn’t even inform Sophia himself that he wanted her to leave without him, instead he’d had his devious, calculating uncle inform her. Staring down Damon Viceroy, she’d asked why the duke would bother coming to the country at all if that were the case.
Lord Damon merely raised a brow, looking down at Sophia without an ounce of emotion, handsome features as closed as a sphinx. “I doubt he’ll stay long. There isn’t much at The Pillory to interest him.”
Sophia, to her credit, didn’t flinch from the politely delivered insult.
“Give my regards to Lord Canterbell. Be sure and write to him of the joy you’ve found in your new home.” Then Lord Damon spun on his heel and sauntered away, but not before instructing Timmons, who’d been lurking in the shadows, to make travel arrangements for the duchess.
So Sophia journeyed to The Pillory on her own the day before Roxboro, save for Ann and strangely enough, the duke’s valet, Stone.
Stone was a lovely man, spare and neat with a dry wit.
He explained it wasn’t unusual for him to leave a day or two before the duke when Roxboro visited The Pillory.
His family lived in the area and the duke was gracious enough to relieve Stone of his duties for a short time so that he might pay them a visit.
Seemed out of character for Roxboro, to be so gracious, but Sophia accepted Stone’s explanation.
The Pillory left Sophia awestruck.
Papa had a large country estate, a place Sophia had spent a glorious childhood before being forced to spend more time in London.
It wasn’t that The Pillory was only massive in size, stretching out along the top of a hill, but Roxboro’s ducal seat was the most interesting, outlandish bit of architecture she’d ever seen.
Three stone towers, just as Roxboro had said.
Two of the towers were barely more than rubble, but the third stood with its notorious cut holes in the stone.
The Pillory, or parts of it, was old. The main house consisted of a hodgepodge of various styles, having been built in stages over the decades.
Each generation of Viceroy’s had left their mark, adding a new wing or extending a room, but the towers remained and were never torn down.
The curved stone of the second tower, what was left of it, made up part of the wall in The Pillory’s drawing room.
The estate was spectacular. Sophia did nothing but walk about and explore on her first day. A lifetime could be spent here and she might never find all of The Pillory’s secrets.
When she found the library, Sophia squealed in delight, though upon further examination, there wasn’t much to her taste on the shelves…but that could be fixed. One of the maids, Lizzy, helped her unpack the crates of books sent ahead from London, placing them carefully on the shelf.
Sophia took long walks through the extensive gardens, waving at the team of gardeners employed to keep every inch lush and green. The gardens turned to gentle rolling hills and if Sophia walked far enough, the hills eventually gave way to rugged cliffs overlooking the sea below.
If she were destined to remain here, Sophia could be happy.
In fact, she wouldn’t care if she never saw London again.
Her family could visit her at The Pillory.
Roxboro could continue to indulge in his gambling hells and courtesans.
Maybe that was what had caused his delay, a visit to a brothel or an opium den.
Sophia decided she didn’t care if he ever arrived.
But after a few days, when Roxboro should have appeared and did not, Sophia’s curiosity got the best of her. Barstow, The Pillory’s butler, would know the duke’s…plans.
Barstow was nothing like Timmons, which meant she liked Barstow immediately upon introduction. He was tall and broad with the bearing of a man who’d once been a soldier, which Stone, who’d known Barstow for ages, assured her was the case. His craggy features softened at her approach.
“Your Grace,” he bowed.
“Barstow. The duke,” she’d started, unsure how to proceed. “Was due to arrive before now. I grow concerned. Have you received word on his delay?”
Difficult to admit her husband wouldn’t send her a note, but Sophia supposed she and Roxboro would communicate through the servants going forward. When her parents argued, Mama left notes to be delivered to Papa by their butler.
“Do not worry, Your Grace,” Barstow assured her. “The duke decides at times, to take the long way to The Pillory.”
“The long way?”
“Not take the train. The journey by carriage is less than two days, which gives the duke ample opportunity to sample the shepherd’s pie or lamb stew at the Sheepshead Inn which is located along the main road.
” Barstow cleared his throat. “At such times, His Grace invariably decides to stay the night. Rarely does the duke send word ahead, unless he’ll be longer than two days.
I’ve received no note. I expect him tomorrow. ”
“Thank you, Barstow.” Sophia inclined her head and retreated. Fuming.
Ann informed Sophia, while preparing her for bed, that the scullery maid, Bertie, mentioned there was a barmaid at the Sheepshead, who Roxboro favored far more than the shepherd’s pie.
Vile, drunken cur.
Sophia kept up a brave front until today, when she caught sight of Barstow staring out the window, his rough features drawn into lines of concern. Roxboro had exceeded his usual lateness by an entire day, which according to Ann, who heard it from the cook, was highly unusual.
Later, right before tea, Barstow sent two footmen out to see if the duke’s carriage had gotten stuck or thrown a wheel.
“Or,” she’d heard him say in a low tone. “How long he meant to linger at The Sheepshead.”
That had been hours ago, while Sophia enjoyed tea in the elegant drawing room, a book in one hand.
But the sun was starting to sink towards the horizon and Roxboro still hadn’t appeared.
Nor had the two footmen returned. Something was wrong.
If Roxboro hadn’t meant to come to The Pillory at all, Damon would have taken great delight in telling Sophia.
Or Timmons would have sent word to Barstow so that she could be informed.
That was how things were done.
Counting her steps, Sophia paced across the large, rectangular rug, absently admiring the blue and gold swirls that made up the design.
Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two.
She paused at the sound of shouts coming from outside. Carriage wheels struck the gravel of the drive.
Twenty-three.
Sophia took a shaky breath and smoothed her skirts, refusing to give Roxboro the satisfaction of knowing she’d been distressed at his late arrival.
Her husband would probably fall out of the carriage, reeking of brandy and barmaid.
Sophia planned to inform Roxboro that in the future, she objected to Lord Damon as an intermediary.
She would not tolerate any further disrespect.
Then she would make a rather grand exit and proceed to ignore the duke, which wouldn’t be difficult given the size of The Pillory.
Resolve firm, Sophia stood before the window, watching as Roxboro’s mud-stained carriage, missing one of the horses, halted before the front door.
Barstow stepped onto the gravel drive, hurrying toward the carriage, shouting instructions to the footmen who rushed outside.
Sophia pressed her fingertips to the window pane.
Servants swarmed the vehicle. A footman leapt down from the driver’s seat, the same young man Barstow had sent out to search for the duke earlier today. Another bedraggled footman, his livery torn and dirty, arrived on the missing horse.
Stone appeared, sprinting towards Barstow as the carriage door was opened.
Roxboro’s driver tumbled out, the side of his face bruised a deep purple, a thin trickle of red streaming down one cheek.
Blood. A great deal of it. On the driver. On the footmen. The carriage door.
Sophia didn’t hesitate. She ran outside, heart in her throat, just in time to see Roxboro, unconscious, the fine lawn of his shirt, stained crimson as Barstow and Stone pulled him from the carriage.
*
“Your Grace.”
Sophia looked up at the exhausted face of Dr. Reading. He’d been summoned while enjoying a pie his wife had made. Cherry, according to the stain dotting the napkin still suck in his collar as he arrived at The Pillory.
One footman, Milburn, dead. The driver, John, injured from a blow to the head. The remaining footman had been fortunate. He’d been stabbed but the wounds were shallow, according to Dr. Reading.
But Roxboro.
“I’ve done all I can for now, Your Grace.” Dr. Reading placed a hand on her shoulder. “The rest, I’m afraid, is in God’s hands. We’ll be on the lookout for infection. Fever.” He pressed his lips together in consternation.
“What is it?” she said, taking in Roxboro’s pale, bloodless countenance. Her anger towards him was still there, sitting in her mid-section, but the sight of her husband like this had torn at Sophia in a way she hadn’t expected.
“The duke’s love of drink will make things worse. His body will notice the absence of spirits. It will make his recovery that much more difficult, Your Grace.” Dr. Reading looked to Barstow.
“I had an uncle who required care when he gave up the bottle. I understand,” Barstow replied.
“What must I do for both…illnesses?” Sophia asked. She’d never nursed a soul except for one of her dolls when Mara tore the arm off. That experience was unlikely to assist her in this instance.
You’ve the courage. Patience and comfort are required.