Chapter 4

Sophia came to some rather quick conclusions about Lady Pilkington. She was like many English women in that she held a definite sense of British superiority and she believed her worth lay in furthering her husband’s career and hosting the most impressive parties. She had been born to privilege and, despite marrying slightly below her station, still found herself in a position to be envied by many. Her husband was a Resident, sent to act as a liaison to one of India’s many regional princes. The mansion was grand—larger than most of the other families’ bungalows, she was quick to point out—the servants plentiful, and the environment lush and exotic.

She was now Miss Sophia Elliot’s sponsor, and she couldn’t have been more proud of the fact, as she mentioned numerous times before reaching Sophia’s room. She’d always wished for a daughter, she said, and was honored to temporarily stand in for Sophia’s dear mother for a time.

For her part, Sophia felt a sense of cautious fondness for the woman, who seemed, above all things, sincere.

The women’s guest rooms were situated adjacent each other on the far north end of the mansion’s second floor. Thatched screens—tatties—on window shutters that in the summer were continually wet to catch crosswinds and cool the rooms, were absent now, which provided an unobstructed view of the grounds. Shade trees and flowers were abundant, and the world outside the windows was a splendid wash of vibrant color.

Sophia cast an appreciative eye about her own room, which was soothing. Relaxing. The walls were white, the floors a deep cherry color; decorative accents on the walls and pillows on a window seat overlooking the back of the property provided beautiful flashes of color. Mosquito netting hung around the bed, and the white cotton bedding was offset by the same bright pillows that graced the window seat. The whole of it looked very comfortable and, though she was tired, she was determined to avoid sleeping until nightfall.

Loath as she was to admit it, she didn’t want to miss a potential moment spent in Anthony’s company. Perhaps if she were with him, she might divine some clue as to his reason for his abrupt departure. She desperately didn’t want to believe he had left London to escape her company. Since his desertion, the fear at the back of her thoughts was that London wasn’t smothering him, she was.

She made her way to a small vanity that also doubled as a writing desk and sat down. Had she known for a certainty ahead of time that Anthony was going to be here, would she have still wanted to come? As much as she desired answers, she feared them. She also felt a flash of anger that her own get-away-from-England plan was now for naught; she had wanted to leave to distract herself from memories of Anthony, which were everywhere, only to encounter the man himself a world away.

And oh—

Sophia looked at herself in the mirror and shook her head. “You are hopeless,” she muttered to her reflection. He was so handsome it took her breath away. When she had climbed from the carriage and saw him standing there, she thought her heart might burst. The familiar sound of his voice had washed over her like warm rain, and it had taken true restraint to keep from launching herself at him. Whether her intention would have been to envelope him in an embrace or to pummel him, she wasn’t certain.

He had been affected by her appearance; she knew it without any sense of guile or conceit. There had been a flash of something in his eyes that he had quickly masked. She was forced to admit he was good at it. Apparently he had been masking the truth for a long time. Perhaps from the very beginning.

She put her chin in her hand and tried to decide whether or not to let herself sulk. Had he ever been honest? About anything? She thought back to the first time they’d met. Jack had taken a nasty fall from a horse, and Anthony had been standing at Jack’s bedside, elbow deep in blood-soaked towels and grim as anyone she’d ever seen. His fear for her brother’s life had been genuine. That much had been true. She didn’t doubt Anthony’s authentic affection for Jack, and truthfully, he had said he held her in affection as well. Why should she punish him for her own misunderstanding? He’d never claimed to be anything more than her friend, had never even kissed her. He may have occasionally pushed the bounds of propriety but had certainly never crossed them.

She tried to believe his attention had been nothing more significant than that which he paid to other women, but he had spent nearly all of his free time with either her or with the Elliots together as a family. She closed her eyes against a sudden sting as memories flooded and threatened to swamp her: humorous observations regarding certain ridiculous members of their social set, the deep timbre of his voice spreading warmth through her limbs and igniting a slow burn in her abdomen as he murmured in her ear; the way he took her elbow as they walked, placed her hand on his arm, brushed against her at the dinner table; the light touch of his hand on her back as they left the theater or made their way through the crowds on Bond Street; the touch of his hip against hers as they rode in his phaeton through Hyde Park; the lingering manner in which he bowed over her gloved hand with the slight pressure of his fingers against hers . . .

Was it all done in the name of platonic friendship? They were small things, but between men and women in the courting stage of life, they meant much. At least, she thought they had.

Sophia shook her head and straightened in the chair, focusing on the tranquility of her bedchamber through blurred eyes. Enough, already. She had cried her tears over the Earl of Wilshire. Her pride demanded she pull herself together and lift her chin. She would not beg for a man’s affections. Perhaps she might fall in love with another man someday, but she had her family, her niece, her girls’ school with Ivy, and now a holiday to an exotic location—she had much for which to be grateful.

“Sophia?” Rachael stood in the doorway, her brow creased with concern. She crossed the room. “What is it?”

Sophia shrugged and turned back to the mirror on the vanity. She tried for a smile that was wobbly, at best. “Men are rather awful, are they not?”

Rachael smiled. She looked at Sophia in the mirror. “You love him still.”

Sophia nodded miserably, not bothering to prevaricate or pretend she didn’t understand what Rachael meant. She’d confided in her new friend during their ocean voyage and felt a sense of relief that she had someone to talk to now that she was thousands of miles away from Ivy. “He bid me good-bye as a friend. In the letter he gave me before he left.”

Rachael winced.

“He so firmly placed me in that category that he couldn’t have been more clear had he said straight to my face, ‘I will never have a romantic interest in you.’”

Rachael let out a breath, and gave Sophia’s shoulders a gentle squeeze. “You and I both know that is a lie. We are women, and we are not stupid. I took note of the way he behaved outside. Nary a glance for anyone but you.”

Sophia’s brows came together, and she didn’t even care that it would leave a crease. “Then why did he leave me?”

Rachael’s eyes narrowed, and she drummed her fingers absently on Sophia’s shoulders. “There is something afoot, Sophia. I shall ferret it out of my cousin. I have methods.”

Sophia’s lips twitched, and she met Rachael’s gaze in the mirror. “Blackmail, perchance? Secrets from childhood?”

Rachael grinned and winked. “Dylan may not be privy to all the details of Anthony’s life, but whatever he does know, we shall also know before long. Sad, really, that he fancies himself so invincible.”

“My lady?”

Sophia and Rachael turned at the sound of Sophia’s lady’s maid. “Yes, Briggs?”

“Lady Pilkington asks that you and Miss Scarsdale join her in the drawing room to meet some of the other ladies who have just returned from the bazaar.”

“Please tell her we shall be there straightaway.”

Rachael met Sophia’s gaze squarely. “Now, then. We shall solve this mystery of the mercurial earl and discern every last one of his secrets.”

Sophia laughed—how could she not? She grasped Rachael’s fingers and gave them a quick squeeze. “Thank you, Rachael. How lucky I am to have found such a friend.”

Rachael put her arm around Sophia as they walked to the door. “Besides, what we cannot discover by coercion, we can certainly gain by force.”

Sophia choked back a laugh as they made their way to the drawing room. “You frighten me, Rachael Scarsdale. What will you do? Make use of medieval torture devices?”

“Oh, Sophia, what nonsense.” They reached the drawing room and Rachael smiled. “I don’t have access to any of those.”

The next several hours passed fairly quickly as Sophia and Rachael met a few of Lady Pilkington’s bosom friends. Some were married to military officers, while others were visiting from home. Many of the other Fleet women joined the group, and Sophia knew their names from time spent with them on the long voyage. The women were a varied collection, ranging from pretty to plain, charming to gauche, quiet to loud. In short, much like society anywhere. Many were delightful, and Sophia regretted for them the necessity of traveling across the world merely to secure a husband. Surely something must have been amiss with the men in England who overlooked them. And there were also a few girls who, like Sophia and Rachael, had wanted simply to get away, to see something beyond the borders of their own island.

When time came for an afternoon rest, Rachael asked Sophia if she would like to accompany her to the nursery. Rachael had several nieces and nephews in England and held them in the highest of affection, and she missed them terribly. Sophia felt a pang in her heart for her unmarried friend—Rachael wanted so much to have a family of her own, and as Sophia watched her interact with the guests’ children, she realized Rachael was as natural with the little ones as anybody she’d ever seen.

The little master of the house, Charles Pilkington, or Charlie, quickly became Sophia’s personal favorite. He was six years old but slight of stature and possessed an irrepressible smile and a quick laugh. He was charmingly articulate for one so young, and, unlike some of the other boys, he was comfortable sharing his toys and playing companionably with the other children. There was a spark in his eye, something bent on perhaps a small amount of mischief, that spoke to Sophia’s spirit, and she sat near him and his ayah, Amala.

The nanny was nearing middle age and clearly enjoyed the delight of playing on the floor with a child. Her hair was drawn back in a long, thick black braid with a few wisps of gray at her temples. Her face was gentle; her smile easily given. She wore a traditional Indian sari, made from a beautiful combination of orange, yellow, and purple silk. Charles had called her “Amala Ayah” and the name stuck, and she laughed when Sophia said, “Amala Ayah, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The woman’s English was very good, and her affection for Charlie was evident.

Lady Pilkington, who had accompanied Sophia and Rachael to the nursery, espoused the virtues of having a retinue of Indian servants who were extremely devoted to the children. So devoted, in fact, that they often were lax in disciplining their charges and created little terrors who tended to “run amok.”

Amala Ayah smiled, but remained silent.

“I also instruct the Indians to speak only their native tongue to Charles. I don’t want him adopting the chee-chee accent with which they speak English.”

Sophia glanced at Amala Ayah, whose expression hadn’t changed. Lady Pilkington’s attitude evoked a familiar emotion in Sophia—frustration. Here was another lady of the house making comments about her servants as though they were not present or were void of feeling or the finer emotions that made one a human.

One of the other toddlers playing in the nursery, Ruth, suddenly stumbled and fell, resulting in a bloody nose and much wailing. Lady Pilkington vacated the nursery immediately, murmuring something about checking on dinner preparations.

Charlie’s attention riveted on the little girl with the bloodied nose, and his face paled. Amala Ayah put an arm about his shoulders and pulled him close, whispering in his ear, followed by a gentle smile and a tap on the nose. She looked at Sophia and said, “Master Charlie does not so much like to see blood.”

“Ah.” Sophia smiled at him. “I do not care for the sight either, Charlie. I noticed earlier this wooden toy horse you were playing with. Will you tell me his name?” She ran her finger along the smooth edges of the horse’s back. “He’s a very handsome horse, to be sure. If he were mine, I should name him Lightning because I’m certain he is very fast.”

Amala Ayah caught her eye and missed only a beat before nodding. “Yes, indeed. He is very fast. And while Lightning is an excellent name, this horse already has a different one. Charlie, will you tell Miss Elliot the name of your horse?”

Sophia looked at Charlie and then at the toy as though she did not mean to pressure the child to speak. When she glanced up again, Charlie met her eyes and nodded.

“His name is Chestnut,” Charlie said, and Sophia shifted closer to him with the toy, effectively blocking his view of Ruth. “My father had a horse named Chestnut when he was a boy, and he gave this toy to me for my second birthday.” Charlie scrunched his nose. “I do not remember, of course, because I was quite young.”

“I think this is the finest toy horse I have ever seen.” Sophia extended the toy to him. “Thank you so much for allowing me to hold him.” She smiled gently as Charlie took it from her and cradled it close to his chest. The color slowly returned to his face, and the red splashes standing out in stark relief to the white pallor of his cheeks gradually faded into a healthy pink.

Charlie’s eyes regained some of the spark and he grinned at Sophia. “Captain Miller has come to visit again, and he promises not only new stories but a toy for each of us. I hope it is a wooden cutlass. When last he visited, he said he would bring a wooden cutlass.”

Amala Ayah retrieved a wet cloth that she used to gently sponge Charlie’s brow. She murmured to him, the sound comforting and the bangles on her arm tinkling together quietly. Once Charlie was settled, she sent him back to play with the others.

“Is this a common occurrence?” Sophia asked Amala Ayah quietly.

“No, my lady.” The nanny shook her head. “He simply cannot abide the sight of blood. Inherits it from his father, I understand.”

“Well, there is certainly no shame in it.” Sophia smiled again at the sight of Charlie playing with Chestnut. Her lady’s maid, Briggs, appeared at the door to summon her to prepare for an early dinner to precede the costume ball. “Charlie, I should love to visit you again and see Chestnut. Would that be acceptable to you?”

The boy smiled, a small dusting of freckles stretching across his cheeks as his face brightened. “I would welcome the visit, my lady. Perhaps by then I shall have lost this tooth.” He wiggled his front tooth, which was indeed loose.

Sophia ruffled his hair, her heart most effectively melted, and motioned to Rachael, who reluctantly bid a pair of young twin girls good-bye with promises to return. As Rachael left the room with Sophia, her eyes were bright and liquid. “Alice and Annie are of an exact age with my sister’s children,” she said. “Thank you for indulging me with the visit, Sophia. I know it is not at all the thing one does, but children are sweet, and I do adore them.”

“My pleasure, truly. I confess I find myself entirely charmed by young Master Charles. What an adorable child. I know little about children, other than the bits I have observed. My own niece, Catherine, is still quite small. I suspect I shan’t recognize her when I return home.”

Sophia and Rachael parted ways outside the nursery, and Sophia returned to her room to change and freshen up for the early dinner. But rather than anticipating the costume ball, she felt like a schoolgirl eager for a glimpse of a handsome lord. Even in his absence, Anthony proved himself irritating.

She made her way to the drawing room, where she waited with the other ladies until, after what seemed an eternity, Lady Pilkington announced that the time to dine had arrived.

As she descended the stairs to the main floor, Sophia saw Anthony chatting with Major Stuart and Lord Pilkington. She imagined he must have felt her gaze, because he looked up and immediately found her in the group. He swallowed noticeably before managing a nod to her. Then his eyes moved past her and he smiled at the other ladies behind Sophia.

How awkward it was—knowing she held him in higher esteem than he did her. She smiled, determined to reestablish their relationship according to the boundaries he had set. They would be friends, lighthearted and fun, and if he blurred the line by standing a bit too closely or allowing his hand to linger on her back when the waltz was finished, she would admonish him that such was not appropriate for friends. Because in truth, it hurt too much, and if he didn’t intend for a deeper level of association, she wasn’t about to allow it. She didn’t think her heart could manage the strain.

They entered the dining room in pairs by rank, matched with their social equals. Lady Pilkington had made matters perfectly clear from the moment Anthony arrived that formalities and rank were as strictly observed in her household in Bombay as they would be in London. Though Lady Pilkington consulted her copy of Warrant of Precedence religiously, as did any self-respecting British woman of important rank and status in India, she told him as an aside, she did, on occasion, mix the arrangements according to her own whim once they were actually in the dining room. It would never do to have her guests complain of dull dinner company, and as she knew quite well nearly each guest attending, she was adept at orchestrating the mix of people to the benefit of all.

Thus Anthony found himself paired with Sophia, a fact he had actually guaranteed beforehand by paying Lady Pilkington a few carefully chosen compliments and offering a single pink rose. The lady had blushed and giggled and told Anthony that she had intended to pair him with the sister of an earl anyway, of course, but a little token of affection went a long way to securing the match.

Sophia grasped his arm lightly, and he fought the urge to place his hand over her fingers. He glanced at her, wondering if she would set the tone for their evening or if he should attempt something to set her at ease. To set himself at ease. In the end, she decided the matter for him.

She gave him a smile that seemed genuine and void of her earlier discontent. “I’ve spent the time since your departure from London looking high and low for a friend and confidante to replace you, Lord Wilshire, and I’ve had a most vexing time of it. I do hope you’re prepared to apologize very prettily to me.”

Humor sparkled in her eyes, and he realized, his heart sinking, that she must truly believe every word he’d written to her in that awful letter. She seemed to have accepted it, to have found the wherewithal to move forward, despite what Jack had mentioned about the state of her heart. It was for the best, of course, because her safety was paramount, but Anthony had hoped, somewhere in the back of his mind, that she would come to him in fury, demand to know what he was about, why he’d left, express her hurt and dismay and anger, thereby proving that she cared for him as much as he did for her and that perhaps when he found the Janus Document they might resume their path.

He returned her smile and dredged up a show of charm, hoping it didn’t sound forced. “I shall put every effort into such an apology then, my dear lady, and hope that in time you will find it in your heart to forgive me.” He wanted nothing more than to take her by the hand down the hallway and into the library where they could speak alone, where he could explain.

Anthony pulled out Sophia’s chair at the table and waited until the footman had seated her before taking his own seat. Conversation buzzed around the group, which was large enough to require two tables that accommodated twenty-four people each. Usually skilled in monitoring several exchanges at once in a small crowd, Anthony found himself struggling to pay attention to anything but the woman seated next to him. Sophia said something to him, but he was at sea like a fool. Had her dark lashes always framed those tawny eyes so beautifully? Had her expressive face ever truly looked at him with joy and affection? Might he, even now, be her husband if Lord Braxton hadn’t interrupted his life that fateful night and thrown his plans awry?

He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

She wrinkled her brow. “Are you feeling well, my lord?” She paused. “I asked if you have enjoyed your time in India thus far.”

“Yes, very much.” He scratched under his collar with one finger. “Sophia, please no ‘my lording.’ There was a time when I believe we considered ourselves the very best of—”

“Friends. Yes, I know.” When she reached for her glass and took a swallow, her eyes narrowed. Or perhaps her expression hadn’t changed, for when she looked at him again, she was all things flirtatious and light. “I suppose I shall make an exception in your case. Propriety would insist we address each other more formally, given the time that has passed since we last were together, but as Jack holds you in such high regard, I will not take you to task for using my Christian name without permission.”

Blast. Was she in earnest? Were they truly reverting back to the beginning of their relationship? They had very likely had a conversation similar to this one right after Jack and Ivy’s wedding when they began to spend more time in one another’s company. His frustration mounted, his anger at Braxton and the Millers reaching new heights.

He had no choice but to follow her lead. “I thank you for your permission, of course. How crass of me to have made presumptions.” He managed a tight smile and a wink. This is ridiculous. They were speaking as strangers. The woman knew more about him, about his views on life, and his struggles as a youth with his family, than anyone alive or dead. There was nothing he hadn’t shared with her except for his status as a spy during his war years. And keeping that from her had been more force of habit than anything, an instinct to protect her from the espionage and danger that had dogged his heels. He had put it behind him. It was finished.

Except now it wasn’t.

Anthony stifled a sigh and leaned back slightly as the footman placed the first course before him on the table. He ran his customary glance around the room, unconsciously taking note of who was seated where, who conversed with whom, who seemed out of sorts. He looked for anyone who acted differently than they had in the short time he’d known them.

The clergyman and his wife seemed stiff, but he couldn’t truly say it was an anomaly. Mr. Denney ruled his congregation and—one might assume—his family with an iron fist. Mrs. Denney was a woman of relatively few words and no strong opinions.

The First Cavalry Light Brigade was represented by its usual cast of characters, mostly favorable fellows with a few rowdies thrown into the mix. Lady Pilkington was firm about rules of conduct at the Residency. Where their military training left off, her edicts took over, and according to Dylan, there had been no incidents of note at the Pilkington mansion.

There had been a time when Anthony would have shared every detail with Sophia and solicited her opinion on the characters in play. Perhaps in the coming days or weeks, he and Sophia might find their way back to that place where they knew what the other would say, would think. And she would tease him for bothering to care about mundane details of elite social gatherings, and he wouldn’t tell her that he didn’t truly care, but he only wanted to hear her laugh, to listen to her talk, to gauge her assessment of people that was as good as any operative he’d ever worked with in the field. There was the ultimate irony, he supposed with a small shake of his head as he spooned the last of his soup. Sophia would have made an excellent spy.