turned their collective backs on her and Sophie, shunning them both. Sophie cared nothing for herself; in fact, what had taken place with Lord Coulter this very day proved she was no longer fit to be in society. Some widows indulged in discreet liaisons with gentlemen of the ton, yet she was no widow, and now Lord Coulter knew that fact. What if she were to fall pregnant? Was it a possibility after making love only once? Burying her face in the pillow, Sophie let the tears fall. What was she going to do?
Sophie Beams was someone she had worked hard to put behind her. The housemaid with no future, just endless hours of backbreaking work from dawn till dusk. Closing her eyes, she felt a wave of exhaustion thinking about the evening ahead. She would have to pull on her best and most haughty demeanor to fool everyone, and use all her skills to avoid the Earl of Coulter, for only he seemed to be able to rattle the usually ice-cold façade of the countess. He would want answers to the questions that even now must be filling his head, but Sophie had none for him. To explain would only complicate matters, so she must instead ignore him.
Then there was the blackmailer. When would he next show his hand? Could Jack Spode be behind this? He was more than capable. But would he come to London to get her like he had vowed when she had run from him so long ago?
It was a relief when her eyes grew heavy; she sighed as the sweet oblivion of sleep finally overtook her. Sophie’s last thought was that maybe she could take the full force of her exposure and Letty could be spared, just an innocent party in Sophie’s trickery.
* * *
Patrick rolled his eyes as Stephen mimicked Sir Milton Hapforth’s lisping drawl into his ear.
“ ’Tith thorely a beautific day, my lordths.”
“ ’Tis a most unbecoming trait to find faults in others when your own are so vast,” Patrick said, his eyes searching the other boxes for Sophie.
“The man’s a blithering idiot.” Stephen fell into one of the seats at the front of Patrick’s box. “Good God, did you see what he was wearing?”
“Yes, he is surely color blind,” Patrick said absently. Where the hell was she? He knew for certain she was to attend the theater tonight; Lady Carstairs had let it slip.
“You would think his friends would tell him that he is making a cake of himself.”
“Friends?” Patrick queried.
Stephen snorted. “True, Brownleigh and Dapples are complete fools, both struggling to form a single working brain between them.”
“Well,” Patrick drawled, still looking around the boxes. “I am not always honest with you.”
“What!”
Patrick hid his smile at Stephen’s bellow. It came as naturally as breathing to both men, this constant ribbing of each other.
“I have never dressed in anything other than sartorial elegance,” Stephen vehemently declared looking down at his midnight superfine jacket with matching midnight and burgundy waistcoat.
“As you say,” was all Patrick said, but it was enough.
“At least I do not dress as though I am in a constant state of mourning!”
“I dress conservatively, Sumner. Unlike you, I have no driving need to be the constant focus of all attention.”
“Conservatively! Old Squire Pillsby has more flair than you, and he’s eighty.”
Seeing a flurry of activity to his left, Patrick said, “Your mummy has arrived.”
“Lord have mercy on my blighted soul,” Stephen groaned, as two boxes along from them a group of women burst into the Sumner box. All were dressed in the height of fashion and each was talking and giggling at an alarming rate. Patrick smiled as the sounds of laughter and loud voicesreached them. Beside him Stephen slumped deeper into his seat. Patrick made a small noise that was a fairly accurate imitation of a chicken and sounded ridiculous coming from a man of his size.
“Come,” he said. “We must welcome your family.”
“Must we?”
“You are the head of your family, man. For
Sophie Beams was someone she had worked hard to put behind her. The housemaid with no future, just endless hours of backbreaking work from dawn till dusk. Closing her eyes, she felt a wave of exhaustion thinking about the evening ahead. She would have to pull on her best and most haughty demeanor to fool everyone, and use all her skills to avoid the Earl of Coulter, for only he seemed to be able to rattle the usually ice-cold façade of the countess. He would want answers to the questions that even now must be filling his head, but Sophie had none for him. To explain would only complicate matters, so she must instead ignore him.
Then there was the blackmailer. When would he next show his hand? Could Jack Spode be behind this? He was more than capable. But would he come to London to get her like he had vowed when she had run from him so long ago?
It was a relief when her eyes grew heavy; she sighed as the sweet oblivion of sleep finally overtook her. Sophie’s last thought was that maybe she could take the full force of her exposure and Letty could be spared, just an innocent party in Sophie’s trickery.
* * *
Patrick rolled his eyes as Stephen mimicked Sir Milton Hapforth’s lisping drawl into his ear.
“ ’Tith thorely a beautific day, my lordths.”
“ ’Tis a most unbecoming trait to find faults in others when your own are so vast,” Patrick said, his eyes searching the other boxes for Sophie.
“The man’s a blithering idiot.” Stephen fell into one of the seats at the front of Patrick’s box. “Good God, did you see what he was wearing?”
“Yes, he is surely color blind,” Patrick said absently. Where the hell was she? He knew for certain she was to attend the theater tonight; Lady Carstairs had let it slip.
“You would think his friends would tell him that he is making a cake of himself.”
“Friends?” Patrick queried.
Stephen snorted. “True, Brownleigh and Dapples are complete fools, both struggling to form a single working brain between them.”
“Well,” Patrick drawled, still looking around the boxes. “I am not always honest with you.”
“What!”
Patrick hid his smile at Stephen’s bellow. It came as naturally as breathing to both men, this constant ribbing of each other.
“I have never dressed in anything other than sartorial elegance,” Stephen vehemently declared looking down at his midnight superfine jacket with matching midnight and burgundy waistcoat.
“As you say,” was all Patrick said, but it was enough.
“At least I do not dress as though I am in a constant state of mourning!”
“I dress conservatively, Sumner. Unlike you, I have no driving need to be the constant focus of all attention.”
“Conservatively! Old Squire Pillsby has more flair than you, and he’s eighty.”
Seeing a flurry of activity to his left, Patrick said, “Your mummy has arrived.”
“Lord have mercy on my blighted soul,” Stephen groaned, as two boxes along from them a group of women burst into the Sumner box. All were dressed in the height of fashion and each was talking and giggling at an alarming rate. Patrick smiled as the sounds of laughter and loud voicesreached them. Beside him Stephen slumped deeper into his seat. Patrick made a small noise that was a fairly accurate imitation of a chicken and sounded ridiculous coming from a man of his size.
“Come,” he said. “We must welcome your family.”
“Must we?”
“You are the head of your family, man. For
Similar Books
