Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Max rang the Marquess of Shefford’s bell, knowing he was inviting trouble.
He only wanted Lady Tabetha’s help in researching Sophie’s family. However, as the son of a duke, even the second son, calling on the daughter of a marquess was complicated.
The butler opened the door, inviting him in for Lady Tabetha’s calling hours. He left his card with the man and then made his way to the sitting room where Lady Tabetha sat alone.
His brows lifted. She was the daughter of a marquess, so she ought to have a room full of friends and admirers. She waved him in, adjusting her shawl.
“Lord Maxwell, nice to see you again.”
He gave a quick nod. He nearly asked if he’d come at a bad time, but that would require speaking, and he’d save his words for only the most necessary bits of conversation.
“Are you here to discuss Sophie?”
Another nod.
Tabetha sighed, and then he watched as she undid her shawl. She wore a puffed sleeve day dress with a high neckline. As the silk of the shawl fell away, Max could clearly see the angry red burns that colored her left arm.
“They’re on my side and chest too,” she murmured. “It’s why no suitors are here.”
His brow furrowed. “S-surely m-many men….”
“Let me save you the words. I’m sure a great deal of men would overlook my scars to gain access to my dowry or my family’s connections, but who wants to be tolerated? Certainly not me.”
He sat down across from her, his jaw loose as he stared into her bright green eyes. She’d said plainly the thought he’d been circling but never quite able to articulate for years. “I don’t seek the company of women.” He was surprised to hear his own voice come out perfectly clear. “Sooner or later, I realize they have only just been t-tolerating my stutter.”
She nodded. “I understand. Just like I understand why you like Sophie. She doesn’t give a fig about my scars. There was no moment of hesitation when I met her, no doubt, no revulsion. She just accepted me. Maybe it’s her past, or perhaps her naturally sunny disposition, but she’s the first person I’ve met since this…” she said, waving her hand down her arm, “happened that I felt liked me without reservation.”
He closed his eyes. Was it true? Could Sophie care for him without reservation? Would he at some point learn that she hated the thing he disliked so much about himself? He had a difficult time believing it was true.
“When did you receive those scars?” he asked, opening his eyes again.
“Two years ago,” she answered, turning her face toward the far wall.
“I’ve stuttered since the age of four. My father found it repulsive, he…” Max stopped. It didn’t discount Tabetha, but how did he explain that his entire childhood he’d known the people who were supposed to love him could hardly stand him? That he was a blight on the family name? It was ingrained deep within him to believe he could not be loved.
She looked back at him. “I understand. I mean, I think I do. But consider this. Help Sophie now, the woman who I know doesn’t give a fig about your stutter, and she will be devoted to you. I promise you that.”
He nodded again. “She needs to find another relative.”
Tabetha’s eyes widened. “Right! Why didn’t I think of that?” With that she was up, crossing the room. On one side sat an ornate table with a single volume on its surface. He knew it was a history of the great families of England. His childhood home had the same book. He followed, standing just behind her.
“Let’s see, her mother is the daughter of the Earl of Wingate.”
She slid her down the page, stopping at the earl’s name. But a different name caught his notice. “Wait,” he rumbled, moving closer. “Does this say that Lord Whitehouse has a son?” His blood ran cold.
“Of course. Lord Cranston.”
Max blinked several times. Lord Cranston was a member of the Duke Fraternity. The one man who’d refused to go to the ball. The ball where he knew Lord Whitehouse would be in attendance. “But?—”
“They are estranged. Lord Whitehouse is known for his religious beliefs, and Lord Jameson for his hedonistic tendencies. They haven’t spoken in at least a decade, to my knowledge. It must offend Whitehouse greatly that the son, who drinks, gambles, and whores, will be the next earl.”
Max scrubbed his face with both hands. Two of the seven members were already dead and a third had been attacked.
Max and Ironheart had long suspected that Whitehouse intended to kill them all.
Was it possible that Lord Whitehouse’s motivations were far more personal than he’d imagined? Could this be an elaborate disguise to kill his own son, marry Sophie, and create a new heir? Or just get rid of the club so that he could point his son on the right path again? Why marry Sophie now after years of being without a wife?
“I have to go.”
“Where?” Tabetha asked.
He didn’t know. Should he go to Sophie first or Ironheart? Lord Cranston? He stopped, pulling out his watch. “I promised to meet Sophie in the garden, give her a name.”
“We don’t have one yet.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he shook his head, making his decision. “I’m going to remove her from that house. You find a relative who can care for her.”
Tabetha clapped her hands. “On it.”
Decision made, he strode out the door and back to his waiting carriage. He parked several streets away, slipping through the alleys that led to the earl’s back gate. Then, scaling the wall, he dropped down into the garden.
It was quiet, the only sound was a babbling fountain and the call of birds. He stayed by the wall, and then positioned himself by the back door, hidden behind some bushes. From there he could watch people come and go from the kitchen path.
The day was mild and several of the windows in the house were open. He wasn’t certain how long he’d have to wait, so he leaned against the wall, removed his hat, and wiped his brow. He found himself, once again, excessively eager to see Sophie, and to his surprise, Abigail too.
She was a delightful miniature version of Sophie. For the first time in his entire life, he wondered what it might be like to have children. To his utter shock, he smiled at the notion. His breath held in his lungs. His hand shook as he swiped it over his face. What had happened to him? Had he gone from a stone that felt nothing for anyone to daydreaming about babies?
He’d gone mad after all.
The door to the kitchen opened and he craned his neck to see who it might be.
* * *
Sophie wrapped a shawl about her shoulders, preparing to make her way out to the garden. Next to her, Abigail stood, bouncing on her toes. With a shake, Sophie let go of all the worries she’d been carrying all day and tried to focus on this moment. This little trip out to the garden was one of the few opportunities for them to spend time together, and Sophie cherished these moments, as did Abigail. It was some of the only times the child was allowed to simply play.
This was no life for Abigail, despite the amount of wealth that surrounded them, but Sophie had made little progress on how she would remove herself from the situation. She’d not even been allowed out to tea yesterday, and she certainly wasn’t allowed to leave the property with Abigail, that much had already been made clear. She could only hope that Lord Maxwell came and that he had answers.
Giving Abigail’s hand a squeeze, she smiled down at her sister. “Ready?”
“Ready,” Abigail answered back, her eyes dancing. “Can we sit under the tree with the pink flowers?”
“Of course,” Sophie said, lifting her sister and swinging her around. “And we shall tell stories, and?—”
“Sophie,” Lord Whitehouse appeared in the kitchen, his stern countenance more severe than usual. “I’d like a word.”
Her stomach fluttered with nerves as Abigail tugged on her hand. “Of course, my lord.”
“But…” Abigail said, her lip jutting out. “I want?—”
“Quiet, child,” Lord Whitehouse said, snapping at the child. Then he gestured toward Abigail. A nanny appeared from behind him, and Sophie’s stomach sank. Abigail needed this time.
The nanny took Abigail’s hand, tugging her away as Abigail cried loudly.
“I said quiet,” Lord Whitehouse said again, taking a step toward Abigail.
Disappointment turned to fear as Sophie took a step forward, holding out her hands. It was one thing for Abigail to be confined by nannies, and quite another to have her yelled at by grown men. “My lord,” she said, wanting to explain that the child needed a bit of freedom.
With her quick steps forward, she reached Lord Whitehouse in time for him to bring his hand down hard across her cheek. If she’d thought her uncle’s slap had been severe, this one sent stars sparking behind her eyes as she crashed down to her knees on the stone floor.
“You will not argue with me.” He grit the words out between his teeth. Then, he had her by the arm, dragging her back up on her feet. “And you will tell me what happened to my guard last night.”
Lord Whitehouse had asked at the ball last night when she’d returned to his side alone. When she’d said she didn’t know, he’d sent her home with a footman and the remaining guard. “I told you last night, I don’t know.”
“Liar,” he yelled in her face, spraying her skin with spit. “God does not approve of lying, Sophie.”
“I’m not lying,” she cried, several small broken sobs punctuating the words. “He was right outside the repose when I went in, but when I came out, he was gone.”
He shook her. Hard. “And you saw nothing? No one?”
“No.” She gasped, knowing this time, she did lie. It wasn’t something she did often. She hated it now, but Lord Maxwell felt like her only chance. He was the one person who seemed able to breach the walls Lord Whitehouse had put around her.
“If you’re lying and I find out, I shall take your sins out on your sister’s skin. Do you hear me?”
Cold, hard dread weighted her limbs. Sophie could endure a great deal, but Abigail was just a child. “No.”
“Oh yes,” he said, sneering. “I know that Elsa told you of my plans for you. Obedience will be rewarded, sin punished.” He let her go, her knees giving way so that she slumped back to the floor.
Hot tears tracked down her cheeks, her hands supporting her on the cool stone as she tried to calm her breathing. She had to think. She looked about to find the usually bustling kitchen empty. Had everyone left when Lord Whitehouse entered, or had they gone when he knocked her to the ground? Either way, she knew she’d find no support from the staff.
Her uncle was no ally. Despite all her gratitude, it was becoming obvious that he’d cared for her and Abigail for reasons other than familial duty. She sank until bent in half, she could press her forehead to the cool stone. What was she going to do?
“Sophie.”
She recognized the deep baritone of Lord Maxwell’s voice. She’d protected him just now with Lord Whitehouse. If he couldn’t help her, she courted danger every time they spoke.
“You should go, Lord Maxwell, before you’re seen.”
He crouched down next to her, his hand sliding gently down her back. “Call me, Max.”
That made her lift her chin enough to turn and look at him. “Max. You should go.”
“This w-was because of the guard?”
She nodded even as he brushed his fingers over the swelling skin of her cheek.
“Come right now. Leave. I’ll hide you away.” The fierceness of his gaze might have frightened her, but she understood that his anger was in her defense.
“No.” She shook her head, sitting up, and straightening her spine so that his fingers fell away. “Not without Abigail.”
“Tonight? C-come to the garden.”
Sophie shook her head. “There is a guard outside my room. And if I’m caught—” She shivered. She didn’t need to ask to know what Lord Whitehouse would do to her or Sophie if she were caught trying to escape.
“What floor do you sleep on?”
“Second.”
He frowned. “Too high.”
What was he thinking?
He only leaned closer and, to her complete shock, brushed a kiss over her temple. “Can you have Abigail with you in the evenings?”
“Yes.” Their rooms are connected.
“Be ready. I’ll be back and I will see you both out of this house.”
Then, he was gone.
Sophie stared after him. Did he really think he could? What if he couldn’t? Lord Whitehouse’s wrath frightened her half to death.
What if he could?