Twenty-Two.

O NE OF THE most difficult things Claudia had ever done-ranking right up there with facing Julian after Sophie's elopement-was to keep the latest news of Sophie from him. Throughout supper and well into the late evening hours her mind warred with it. Every time she looked at him, she felt the crush of guilt and uncertainty. In the drawing room, she sat staring blindly at the pages of a book in her lap, preoccupied to such a degree that Julian actually asked if something was wrong. That startled her; she turned her head to look at him, unsure if he had actually inquired after her. "I beg your pardon?" she asked.

Miracle of miracles, a faint smile turned the corners of his mouth up. "I asked if you were quite all right. This is usually the point in the evening when you try and impress upon me how very pleased you are to have made my acquaintance. As you have not offered any evidence of it tonight, I cannot help but wonder if you are perhaps unwell."

Good God, he was jesting with her! Stunned, Claudia shook her head. "I beg your pardon, sir. I never meant to imply I was that pleased to have made your acquaintance."

Julian chuckled softly at her quip. His eyes quickly flicked the length of her before he returned his attention to the manuscript he was reviewing. A faint yearning swept her as she shifted her gaze to the book again, but she pushed it aside, spending the next several moments anxiously reviewing the escape plan she and Sophie had devised. Stanwood planned to leave midday on the morrow. Claudia would meet Sophie and her maid, Stella, at the corner of Park Lane and Oxford Street, where they could easily slip into an unmarked hack, unnoticed.

"All right, what are you thinking? You look positively frightening with your face all scrunched up like that."

Startled again, Claudia's gaze flew to Julian. "Scrunched up?"

He smiled. "You seem lost in thought."

"Ah," she said, confused by his companionable demeanor. "Well, yes. Yes, I was thinking. About Sophie. I called on her today." The pleasant atmosphere between them suddenly dissipated, and Claudia regretted her words at once.

Frowning, Julian glanced at his manuscript. "Oh? And how did you find her?"

Having already trod upon forbidden ground, she had nothing to lose now. "Wretchedly unhappy," she said softly.

Julian's frown deepened; he removed his eyeglasses, and closing his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. "Yes, well, unfortunately, that is her own doing."

"There must be something we can do," Claudia continued carefully. "Surely there must be grounds for a separation of some sort."

Julian gave her a piercing look. "You know as well as I that their union is impossible to dissolve if Stanwood is unwilling."

"But he is cruel to her. He corrects her constantly and keeps her confined in that house."

"All rights afforded to him by the law!" Julian responded sharply, growing visibly angry.

Deep breaths, she reminded herself. "She could sue for divorce. It's been done before."

"On what grounds?" He came abruptly out of his chair, stalked to the hearth. "Insanity? Impotence? Sodomy?" Claudia gasped, but Julian continued, "Do you honestly think I haven't considered it before now? There is no reason! She chose him! She cannot unchoose him because she has discovered they do not suit, and I, for one, hardly know if that is true! Perhaps she has confided in you, Claudia, but she tells me very little other than she is getting along swimmingly."

The raw anger unnerved her, and gripping the arms of the chair in which she sat to keep from shaking like a coward, Claudia stubbornly continued. "There is cruelty. She could sue on the grounds of cruelty."

Julian suddenly braced his arms against the mantel and dropped his head between his shoulders. "Do you even know what that means?" he asked hoarsely. "It would require evidence of physical violence to her person. I'll grant you that Stanwood is a cur, but there is no evidence he hits her. And if he does, there is no evidence that it is any more than routine discipline."

"Routine disciplined she gasped, wildly affronted by the implication it was all right to beat a wife into submission.

With a groan, Julian tossed his head back and stared at the ceiling. "I do not condone it, Claudia! It is an ugly truth, but hitting one's wife does not constitute violence in the eyes of the law!"

Dear God, if only she could tell him the truth. Claudia bowed her head, struggling to keep Sophie's confidence, remembering her frantic promise to her. When she lifted her head, she flinched-Julian was staring hard at her, trying to read her thoughts. "There is no evidence of violence . . . is there, Claudia?" he asked quietly.

A million thoughts crowded her mind. "No." Dear God, how easily the lie rolled off her tongue. She instantly dropped her gaze to the arm of the chair, fidgeting with the embroidery of the upholstery. "But if there were, would you do it? I mean, would you help her to seek a divorce?"

Rubbing the back of his neck, Julian moved restlessly to the window. "Divorce," he said simply, as if testing the word in his mouth.

"Is it the scandal that gives you pause?" she anxiously interjected-too anxiously-he shot her a curious glance over his shoulder.

"I would not welcome scandal, by any means," he said. "My father's good name has withstood enough in the last six months. Have you any idea what would befall Sophie if she sought divorce? Even if she had legal reason to seek it, her life would be ruined. No gentleman would have her- no gentleman. She would be forced to live tucked away in my house like a diseased relative. No children. No friends to speak of, as no lady would consort with a divorcee. She would not be able to go out into society a'tall. What sort of life is that?"

"A far cry better than what she has now," Claudia muttered.

"God help her, then, Claudia," he said, his voice dangerously low. "God help us all, because that girl knew what she was doing the moment she rode off with him. She made her choice, good or bad, and now she must live with the consequence." With that, he moved restlessly to the door. "I've some work to do," he mumbled, and quit the room before she could say more.

But his words remained with her. Staring into the flames of the fire, unseeing, Claudia struggled with her decision. He would not help Sophie; he had resigned himself to her fate, perhaps thought she was getting what she deserved for her impetuosity. It was galling that if Sophie had been a young man and made this very same mistake, everything would be different. The whole ugly matter would be neatly resolved with separate houses and perhaps the occasional joint appearance at holidays for the sake of propriety. But as a woman, she would give her life for it, and there was nothing in between. The world would not forgive Sophie Dane her mistake.

William was irate.

Sophie watched him from beneath half-closed lids as he ranted about the missing purse and the forty pounds that were in it. Forty pounds that he would lose at the horse races on the morrow. "I haven't time to go to the bank now!" he shouted at her. "The mail coach departs at one o'clock!"

"You had best hurry along, then," Sophie suggested.

"Don't tell me what to do!" he snapped. "What of that maid of yours? Where was she last evening?"

Her heart skipped a beat. "She had a free day, my lord. Her mother is quite ill, and she was caring for her," she lied.

"The kitchen boy, then. He looks like a little thief!"

"I think you have simply misplaced it-"

William spun around, his hand lashing out and catching her squarely in the jaw. The impact of the blow knocked Sophie backward and crashing into a wardrobe. "Do not speak to me as if I am stupid!"

Unable to speak, Sophie slowly raised her hand to the burning pain in her jaw. The darkness suddenly faded from William's face and he reached for her. Frightened, she flailed her arms at him, but as usual, she was helpless against him-he pinned her arms to her sides in a tight embrace. After several moments, he raised a trembling hand to her face and gingerly touched the spot where he had struck her. "I'm sorry, darling, I'm so sorry," he pleaded. "But I'm under quite a lot of pressure-you know that! Why do you say things to upset me?"

She merely shook her head.

"God, does it hurt terribly?" he asked softly, wincing sympathetically. He gently pressed his lips to the swelling. "It won't leave a mark, I am certain of it." He smiled tenderly, brushed her hair from her forehead, then kissed her. "I'd best be along now if I'm to make the bank and that coach." He walked over to the bed and picked up his coat. "Mind you, look very hard for that purse," he said amicably. "I'll want to know you have found the culprit when I return Saturday."

Swallowing past the nausea in her throat, Sophie asked, "You'll not return until Saturday, then?"

William stopped mid-way to the door and looked heavenward with a weary sigh. "I've asked you not to henpeck me, Sophie! I'll be home when I have finished my business. Perhaps Saturday. Perhaps later." He extended his hand, gestured her to him. Somehow, Sophie made her legs move, made herself go to him and stand still as he kissed her. "Take care, my dear," he said, and walked out the door, as if it was perfectly natural to strike one's wife, then trot off to the races.

She stood in the middle of his room for what seemed an eternity, unmoving, straining for any sound to suggest he might be returning. When she was at last convinced he had gone, she walked to his wardrobe, rummaged among his many new coats, and pulled his purse from the pocket in which she had hidden it. She opened it, checked to make sure the forty pounds were still there. Forty pounds. In a matter of hours, that would be her entire fortune.

The escape was much easier than Claudia had imagined. It was quite cold and wintry, but Sophie and Stella appeared at the appointed time, looking for all the world as if they were out for a casual stroll. Claudia instantly found a hack and the three women climbed inside, feeling as nervous as if they were stealing the crown jewels.

By the time they reached the house on Upper Moreland Street, their respective nerves were frayed to the very ends. Each time the hack shuddered to a halt because of heavy traffic, they flattened themselves against the grimy squabs, fearing that someone might recognize them. That seemed highly unlikely the farther from Mayfair they rode, but Stella frequently imagined she saw someone she knew through the dingy window, and their hearts would pound mercilessly all over again.

At Upper Moreland Street, Claudia gave the driver a gold crown for his excellent driving and another to wait for her, which he happily agreed to do. As they climbed out of the hack, Doreen appeared on the stoop, her hands planted firmly on her hips, stoically watching as Sophie and Stella trudged up the steps with the two small bags they had dared to take away. She took one look at Sophie and shook her head. "Poor dear. You'll be wanting some tea," she said, motioning them inside. Sophie hesitated and looked over her shoulder at Claudia, her eyes full of trepidation. Claudia understood-they were in a part of town Sophie had never seen before, one of decidedly lower class than that to which she was accustomed. And in spite of having a heart as large as the moon, Doreen's stern demeanor hardly instilled a sense of warmth in strangers. Claudia tried to assure Sophie with a nod-which apparently worked for the moment, because Sophie very cautiously crossed the threshold.

Inside, a woman took Sophie and Stella's cloaks, then ushered them into the parlor with cheerful chatter, insisting that they warm up by the fire. As the woman helped Stella drag another chair to the hearth, Sophie leaned toward Claudia and whispered, "What is this place?"

Doreen overheard her and flashed one of her rare smiles as she patted Sophie's arm. "Let's have us a tea. We'll have us a tea we will, and then we'll talk all night if you like." With a furtive look at Claudia, Sophie nodded uncertainly, and took a seat in the chair nearest the small fire. It was then that Claudia saw the bruise on her jaw.

Astonished that she had not noticed it before now- the ribbon of her bonnet had covered it, she supposed- Claudia tried very hard not to stare at Sophie. It was a new mark, one that Stanwood had put there sometime between her call yesterday afternoon and their escape. It made Claudia's stomach churn with revulsion; she could not conceive of the beast that would beat someone so much smaller than he. He was a coward, a bloody coward, and as she tried to put Sophie at ease by pointing out interesting things-some children's watercolors, the women's needlework scattered on pillows about the room, the piecework piled next to Doreen's rocking chair-she wished someone bigger and stronger than Stanwood would beat him into submission.

Her attempts to calm Sophie were not having the desired affect-the poor dear's eyes were growing wider and wider with consternation. It had to be very difficult for her-Sophie was a lady, the daughter and sister of an earldom that had its roots in centuries of English monarchy. She had been raised in luxury, had never been exposed to the working class except to receive their services. Never like this, certainly, and it was all quite foreign to her. Claudia began to worry that she might not stay, might feel as uncomfortable here as she did in Stanwood's house.

A woman appeared in the door carrying an old tarnished tea service. As she moved into the room, Sophie's eyes rounded impossibly with what seemed like sheer terror. She fixated on the woman, staring intently at her as she placed the service down and poured a cup of tea. As the woman offered the cup to Sophie, Claudia saw what she saw-the white of the woman's left eye was bloody red, the skin around it black and blue.

Sophie lifted her hand to the bruise on her chin. The woman slowly lowered the proffered tea to the table and sank into a chair, folding her hands tightly in her lap. The two women stared at each other until the woman muttered softly. "You ain't alone, miss."

And Sophie began to sob.

Claudia stayed an hour, until the snow began to fall. Sophie had calmed considerably, but nonetheless clung to her tightly as she took her leave. "It will be all right, Sophie," Claudia whispered fervently.

Sophie nodded, trying hard to believe it, and the truth was that Claudia could only hope it would be all right. As the hack pulled away from the curb, a sick feeling of dread filled her to the back of her throat. As powerful as she knew Julian to be, he could not single-handedly change the laws of Great Britain to accommodate Sophie. Worse, there was the little matter of telling Julian what she had done.

That engendered an entirely different sort of panic in her.

Twenty-Three.

J ULIAN'S EYES STRAINED to make out the meticulously scripted letters of the ancient manuscript; his brain labored to translate the text into English. In two hours of work he had succeeded with one stanza. Just one four-line stanza. He removed his spectacles and restlessly ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. How long could he continue like this?

His hands slid from his eyes to the back of his neck, and hanging his head, he rubbed the taut muscles, feeling the shaft of tension down his spine and into his legs. This constant anxiety was killing him, this wild discomfort with everything and everyone around him. It was her fault, he thought bitterly, her fault because he could not stop loving her, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how hard he fought to put a steel cage around his heart, she just kept squeezing in.

He dropped his hands and slowly lifted his head, his gaze inevitably landing on the little pot of violets that sat on the corner of his desk. He leaned back, templing his fingers, studying the silly little thing. Someone tended the pot every day, watering it faithfully, pruning the dead blooms. Every day, more blooms appeared, their numbers now practically bursting from the confines of the little porcelain pot. Even that was different-it was painted with sunshine and trees and flowers, and if he wasn't mistaken, a godawful rendition of the front facade of Kettering House.

The roots of those violets had, miraculously, twined around his dead heart, had squeezed a little more life into it each day, forcing him to remember that he loved her, that for all her peculiarities and crimes of passion, she was what he wanted in this life. It was the blasted blue and purple blooms that caught his eye every morning, dragging his attention to them, drawing him closer to their beauty . . . just as he was drawn to Claudia. And it was the crude little paintings on the porcelain pot, all things warm and bright, carefree and indifferent, but beautiful all the same.

Just like Claudia.

Julian abruptly shoved the old manuscript away from him and stood, moving unsteadily away from the desk and the violets. He did love her. Certainly he was angry with her for having so thoughtlessly influenced Sophie's decision to elope. Yet he knew that the bad advice had not been given malevolently; Claudia had done it out of a passionate belief she was right. No, he no longer held Claudia responsible for Sophie's misfortune.

So what exactly, then, did he continue to fight? What made him struggle to avoid her, labor to keep her from his every waking thought? Julian paused in front of the windows, staring blindly at the snow that covered St. James Square.

Perhaps if he were honest with himself-an endeavor in and of itself-he would acknowledge that there was a part of him that simply could not bear to know that she did not return his deep affection. He suspected her recent and sudden declarations of love to be the product of her guilt. She was blaming herself for Sophie's tragedy, and her sudden attention was her way of atoning. Eventually, she would tire of her self-imposed penance, and when she did, he was certain things would return to the way they had been. She would despise her circumstance, think of Phillip often, and flit through Julian's life and his heart like a butterfly, taunting him with her prettiness while she eluded capture. When that happened, he was quite certain he would crumble like earth between his fingers, disappearing into the tall weed-infested grass that had become their life.

So he clung to his survival instincts and held her at arm's length.

Which was just as well, because there was another, equally desperate part of him that remained certain he would, eventually, ruin her, too. The dark forces of nature that seemed to govern his life would find a way to harm Claudia, just like others he had loved. He had been pushed to the limits of his sanity when Valerie died, shoved over the edge into the black abyss with Phillip's death, and was now spiraling down into darkness with Sophie's ruin. When misfortune at last found Claudia- and it would, if he loved her-his soul would surely burn in hell for it.

It was better, he had concluded, to keep her out of his mind and his heart. It was better to bury himself in ancient tomes, never lifting his head, blocking out all sound and light.

He turned away from the window and glanced at the clock on the mantel, then scowled deeply. Unfortunately, in a lighter moment, he had felt compelled to accept an invitation to join the Albrights and guests this evening for supper and cards. As much as it repulsed him, it was a fact that appearances among the ton were everything. Because of Sophie, he had accepted the invitation, knowing that if he were to keep up the pretense of her marriage, it had to seem as if everything was fine with the Kettering family.

Twenty-four hours had done nothing to bring about a brilliant idea, nor had the passage of time done anything to ease Claudia's panic, which was now a full-blown raging hysteria. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she had committed a crime by taking Sophie away from her home! An unpardonable crime, and worse yet, under English law, her crime was Julian's crime. He was guilty for stealing his own sister, for which he could lose his lands or his liberty or maybe even his head, and he didn't even know it!

Several times Claudia almost left her rooms in search of Julian, prepared to confess all and beg his help. Cold, hard fear had stopped her each time-fear that he would ultimately force Sophie home after he had throttled his wife. Claudia could bear his wrath and whatever punishment he might mete out, but she could not bear to see Sophie's return to Stan wood. No, she would die first before she allowed that to happen.

Her indecisiveness had kept her in a state of agitation all day, and she dressed thoughtlessly for the Albright supper party. She hardly noticed the elegant hairstyle Brenda gave her, weaving strands of silver ribbon through her dark hair that picked up the embroidery of her bodice. When she fastened the aquamarine and diamond earrings to her lobes that matched the necklace she wore, she at last forced herself to look in the mirror. The rose-colored velvet and brocade gown went well with her complexion, she supposed, but nothing could erase the lines of worry around her eyes, the pale skin, the guilty set of her mouth. Other than that, she did not think she looked particularly like a criminal.

With a weary sigh, she pushed a curl from her temple and slipped lackadaisically into her pale rose slippers, then reluctantly made her way downstairs as if practicing her walk to the gallows.

In the blue drawing room, Julian paced impatiently as he waited for Claudia, his apprehension growing with each step. This was a bad idea, he thought, a very bad idea. How would he endure her at his elbow all evening? What had made him think he could act as if all was well in front of two of the most meddling men in Europe? If there was any one thing that he despised about Adrian Spence and Arthur Christian, it was their uncanny ability to read him like a goddam book.

"Oh, my. You are . . . beautiful."

Her hushed voice startled Julian; he had not heard her enter and turned awkwardly, feeling his breath rush from his lungs as he did so.

Oh, God. She appeared before him like a princess. Very deliberately, he turned to face her fully, unable to look away from the stunning sight of her.

She blushed; smiling faintly, she self-consciously pushed a dark curl behind her ear. "Do I offend? I apologize. It's just that you look so . . . well," she said, and laughed uncertainly.

He could feel the heat of her simple compliment spreading through his body. Still, he could only stare, marveling at how she had managed to captivate him yet again, knock him off-center and send him into a tailspin of desire.

Her fair cheeks began to glow with her flush. "I sincerely hope I didn't offend."

"No," he said, finding his voice. It's just that I was thinking the same thing of you. "Please," he added like a simpleton, and motioned toward one of two leather wing-back chairs directly in front of the fireplace. Her tremulous smile deepened. "It's early yet," he said gruffly. "Would you like some wine?" He flicked a gaze to the footman at the door and nodded curtly, then somehow managed to command his legs to move from the windows to the fireplace.

She hesitated, peering at him warily before following his gesture to sit, fussing with the loose curls of her hair as she glided across the carpet. She sat lightly on the edge of the chair facing the one he had taken, and as she arranged her skirts just so, he admired the ripe fullness of her intricately embroidered bodice-what there was of it, anyway-rising softly with each breath.

The footman appeared on her left, bowing with his silver tray. With a sweet smile, Claudia took a glass of wine, waiting until Julian was served before sipping daintily. He did not drink, but continued to gaze at her over the rim of the crystal glass, feeling the familiar sense of discomfort, the old fright that he might never hold such beauty in his arms.

Claudia lowered her wineglass and fidgeted with the jeweled necklace that rested against her throat. After a moment, she peeked up at him through her thick, dark lashes. "It's almost a year now since I saw you at the Farnsworths' Christmas Ball," she said, dropping her gaze to the wineglass for a moment. "I remember it because you wore all black then, too. Black coat and trousers. Black waistcoat and neckcloth. You looked very much like a dangerous highwayman." She paused; when he said nothing, she nervously cleared her throat. One finger traced the rim of the wineglass, round and round and round.

Julian remembered that ball very clearly. He had arrived at the tail end of some insane excursion, one that had taken him past Dunwoody, where Phillip was buried. What had possessed him to stop at Phillip's grave he would never know, but he had, taking a handful of hothouse flowers. And he had left Phillip's grave, his head aching to the point of bursting-the result, he had told himself, of no sleep and too much drinking. Not guilt.

"And you were still wearing your spurs," she added. "Miss Chatham remarked upon them, too-she rather fancied you had ridden all the way from Kettering Hall just for the Farnsworth Ball."

Julian arched a quizzical brow. "And what did you think?" he asked quietly.

"That you were the most handsome man in all of London," she answered instantly.

He felt the first crack in the ice around his heart. Very calmly, he put the wine aside and asked, "Why do you flatter me so?"

"I do not flatter you, Julian. I admire you-I can't seem to help myself," she said, and drank hastily from the wineglass. "You simply reminded me of that night. I'm sorry."

"I remember you, too," he heard himself respond. "You wore a ribbon of dried hollyberries in your hair."

A smile of genuine surprise swept her lips, one of her many smiles that could lighten his soul in the blink of an eye. "You remember that?" she asked, clearly pleased.

"As well as the hollyberries on your shoes."

Claudia smiled fully then, and Julian could feel the warmth and brilliance of it on his heart, thawing the ice. She laughed gaily, a melodious sound he had not heard in weeks. "Papa was quite displeased with me, I'll have you know. Swore I ruined a perfectly good pair of slippers."