Chapter 19
The next morning, Sophie forced herself to think through the situation. Yes, her husband had deserted her bed for that of a courtesan. But the important thing was to stay on good terms, because otherwise the unborn babe would be doomed to the kind of childhood she had had. And it would be best if no one guessed that she cared a fig about Patrick’s whereabouts. A show of jealousy on her part would start the kind of loathsome gossip that trailed after her parents.
“Dearest Maman,” Sophie wrote on her best stationery. “I trust that you and Papa are enjoying a pleasant sojourn in the country. Your account of Mrs. Braddle’s spring fête was very amusing. Patrick is remarkably busy these days, and so we cannot join you, but thank you so much for your invitation. London is still rather thin of company, but I have been spending a good deal of time with Madeleine Corneille, who is the daughter of the Marquis de Flammarion. You must meet Madeleine as soon as you return to London. I am persuaded that you will find her as delightful as I do. Henri is very well, and I thank you for asking about him. He is excited about beginning the term at Harrow. Patrick will drive him there next week. I will do my best to find the glassware that you desire and have it sent immediately.” She signed the letter, “Your loving daughter, Sophie.” It was not without a qualm that she sealed the letter and gave it to a footman. If her mother had any idea that she was carrying a babe, she would arrive in London by nightfall.
Eloise read the letter with a tiny frown. Sophie rarely mentioned her husband in her frequent missives, and Eloise couldn’t decide whether she was simply getting a bee in her bonnet about it, or whether her daughter’s marriage had somehow gone awry.
“George,” she said that night at dinner, “what do you know about Patrick Foakes?”
George gaped at her. “Eh, my dear?”
“Does Foakes frequent the muslin company?”
Eloise always could be counted on to call a spade a spade, George thought to himself. He chose his words carefully. “Foakes got up to some shenanigans when he was young, m’dear.”
“I’m not interested in his youth,” Eloise replied impatiently. “Do you think that he has set up a mistress on the side?”
Given George’s knowledge of the ton, it would be a very unusual thing indeed if Patrick was not supporting a mistress. His pause answered Eloise’s question.
“Well, I knew it,” she said, half to herself. “I advised Sophie to marry a rake, didn’t I? What a fool I was!”
George jerked his head at the footman, and then appeared at Eloise’s elbow, drawing her up. “Eloise, love, perhaps Sophie takes after her mother.”
Eloise looked up at him, perplexed.
George bent his head, brushing his lips across hers. “Her mother has all those courtesans beat to flinders,” he whispered.
Eloise’s expression grew annoyed. “Now, George,” she said reprovingly. “Don’t you think that I can be lured off to the bedchamber in this harum-scarum manner. Your doxies might have missed their dinner in order to … to frolic with you, but I shall not.” She lowered herself back into her chair, back straight as a marble pillar. “And ring the bell, if you please. Philippe appears to have deserted his post.”
George grinned and circled the table back to his chair. Damme, but he was enjoying this endless fencing match with his marchioness. She was as obstinate as a mule.
“I don’t think we should worry about young Sophie,” he said comfortably, taking an apricot tart from the platter before him. “She’s got her head screwed on right.”
“You’re a fool, George,” Eloise replied. But her eyes were tender.
Chapter 20
Monsieur Foucault turned about and showed his pointed white teeth to Mole. “Remember, my dearest, you speak only Turkish.”
Mole nodded. Given his grasp of the Turkish language, he figured on presenting himself as the silent type.
Monsieur Foucault disembarked from the carriage and drifted his way up to the open door of Patrick Foakes’s town house. He was a vision of elegance in his striped waistcoat. His hair was cut à la Titus, and a lace handkerchief drooped from his fingers. Unfortunately, Mole did not achieve a matching elegance, although he too wore a striped waistcoat, courtesy of the long-suffering François.
“We are,” Monsieur Foucault explained to Patrick some minutes later, “representatives of the court of the great sultan, Selim III.”
Patrick bowed with grave courtesy. “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance,” he murmured. He was well versed in the tedium of international courtesies and steeled himself for a long half-hour.
“I regret to say that my dearest companion, Bayrak Mustafa, has not yet mastered the English language,” Foucault remarked. “He is a devoted acquaintance of Selim’s. I wonder if you speak Turkish, my dear sir?”
“Unfortunately, I have not the pleasure,” Patrick responded. He bowed toward Mole, then turned back to Foucault. “May I offer you and Mr. Mustafa some refreshments?”
Foucault turned to Bayrak Mustafa; Turkish flooded from his lips. Patrick watched with interest. For a moment, he had thought that Foucault might be an impostor, but he clearly spoke fluent Turkish. Patrick could tell that Foucault’s manner was not that with which one addresses an equal. Bayrak Mustafa must be some sort of lowly satellite to the so-elegant Foucault.
Mustafa grinned and bobbed his head toward Patrick, replying in Turkish.
“My companion and I,” Foucault said in his languid manner, “would be charmed to further your acquaintance.”
Patrick rang the bell. “I must compliment you on your grasp of the Turkish language,” he said, turning to Foucault again.
Monsieur Foucault tittered and waved his lace handkerchief. “Oh la, sir, as you noticed, I am no Turk by birth.”
At Patrick’s enquiring gaze, he continued. “I met my dearest Selim when he traveled to France in 1788. We found ourselves to be … kindred spirits.” A smile curled Foucault’s thin lips. It was true enough. He had met the absurd Selim as the Turk racketed about Paris, pinching women and generally raising mayhem.
That explanation made sense to Patrick. He too had met Selim, and this sleek Frenchman was precisely the sort of man with whom Selim surrounded himself.
“When the unfortunate events took place that necessitated Selim breaking off relations with France”—with just a wave of his white hand, Foucault dismissed Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt, one of the Ottoman Empire’s chief holdings—”Selim begged me not to abandon his friendship. In fact, I have long had a burning desire to live in the English capital, and so he was kind enough to make me his envoy. Dearest Mustafa is my devoted acolyte; between us, we await Selim’s missives. Occasionally, we fulfill some small request. Selim has such an affection for hussar boots, for example, and everyone knows that the best boots are made by the English.” Foucault paused and cast his own boots an affectionate glance.
“Selim has been made aware that you, my dear sir, will travel to the Ottoman Empire for his coronation—such a splendid occasion!—and so he naturally desired me to make your acquaintance.” Foucault sipped delicately at his ratafia.
Patrick nodded. He was beginning to wonder what Foucault wanted from him. There was just the faintest air of tension about the man that set Patrick’s nerves on alert. And his companion looked like a rabble-rouser, to Patrick’s mind. Likely Foucault was some sort of procurer for Selim, and he’d be damned if the only English products Foucault sent to Turkey were made from English leather.
But there was no rushing Monsieur Foucault. After what he judged to be an appropriate number of pleasantries, he finally came to the point. “I would adore to attend dear Selim’s coronation,” he said, “but alas, my presence is required in London.”
He managed to convey the impression that he was eagerly awaited in every great house. Whereas, Patrick thought rather sourly, he himself had yet to meet Monsieur Foucault in any respectable setting that he remembered.
“That being the case,” Foucault cont
inued, “I wonder whether I might impose upon you to convey a small token of my appreciation to the sultan … or shall I say, Emperor Selim? I am loath to have my dearest Selim think for a instant that my heart is not with him on this most momentous occasion.”
Patrick sighed internally. Clearly, Foucault wanted to ensure a warm welcome in Turkey, should he be forced to leave England. Because unless he missed his guess, Foucault was a sharpster, if not an out-and-out criminal.
But Patrick assured Monsieur Foucault that he would be more than happy to convey a gift to the coronation and present it personally to Emperor Selim.
At length Foucault bowed himself out of the room, leaving behind only a faint scent of ambergris and the promise of returning in two months, bearing his gift. “Selim is so fond of rubies,” he said earnestly. “I am considering a silver inkwell set with the gems.”
And the last of Patrick’s doubts were assuaged, for hadn’t Breksby talked of Selim’s love of rubies? It was not his concern how the unsavory Foucault would acquire such an expensive item.
Patrick stared blindly at the closed door. He hadn’t given Selim’s coronation a thought in days. But now it took on an entirely new significance. He would have to leave Sophie. Travel to Turkey. Be gone for months. By the time he returned, she’d be living in Braddon’s pocket, most likely.
That evening, as his valet carefully smoothed a coat over Patrick’s broad shoulders, Patrick made up his mind. Alex was right. Bloody hell, he was acting like an adolescent girl. Wasn’t his plan to make his wife fall in love with him? Deserting her bed wasn’t a very sensible way to go about it.
When he walked into the drawing room, Sophie was standing on the other side of the room, looking out the window. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of pale green silk. The room was rather dimly lit, with not enough candles; rain had suddenly started to pour down at twilight, and the servants apparently hadn’t had time to return and light the candelabra lining the walls.
Sophie’s dress wasn’t provocative. It didn’t have the dipping neckline of the gold opera gown. She even had a little shawl draped around her bare arms. But Patrick was rooted to the floor by the way the soft fabric almost strained over her breasts, tucking up under their curves and then falling to the ground.
“Is Henri dining with us tonight?”
Sophie turned about, startled. “No, he—”
Patrick strode across the room and pulled Sophie into his arms.
With a startled cry she dropped her shawl. Patrick’s mouth descended on hers and took her breath. She opened her lips to him as if it had been yesterday when they last kissed. Fire danced down Sophie’s legs. He was back. He was back. Gratitude, triumph, love, desire: they all mixed together as she melted into Patrick’s embrace.
Slowly, slowly he released her, settling her back on her feet.
He looked down at her, one finger tracing the swollen curve of her lower lip. His eyes were black as midnight, unreadable.
Sophie looked back, afraid to say a word. Now that Patrick had suddenly noticed that he had a wife, accusations were trembling on her tongue: Where do you go at night? Why are you kissing me? Is your courtesan unavailable? Sternly she governed her face into a smile.
Patrick didn’t say anything, so Sophie half stammered, “That was very … very … pleasant, Patrick.” Still he didn’t reply, so Sophie took his arm and they walked silently to the dining room.
Patrick was floored. When Sophie melted so sweetly into his arms, he felt a great upswing of joy. When she gasped against his mouth, and pressed herself fiercely to his body, it felt right.
But when she looked at him with that mild expression and told him his kisses were “pleasant,” he felt like walking out of the room and never coming back.
He drank about three times his normal amount of wine at supper. Every time he looked at Sophie, across the table from him, his groin throbbed and he reached for his wineglass. The only thing going through his mind was exactly what he was going to do to his wife after this interminable meal was over.
She had tied up her honey curls in a careless knot on her head, and glimmering ringlets were escaping, falling in lazy spirals past her shoulders. One elusive curl was caught on the high back of the dining-room chair, clear amber against wood that had aged to near black. Patrick stared at it, mesmerized by the memory of Sophie rubbing her hair over his chest.
Clemens removed the fillet of veal and brought in a haunch of venison.
Sophie squirmed in her chair as if ants were crawling over her body. Something about Patrick’s glance made her uneasy and excited at once. Chilly rain was tearing against the windows of the dining room, rattling the small diamond-shaped panes and making it difficult to talk. All of Sophie’s clever conversation had deserted her. Moreover, whatever subject she brought up was ground to silence by Patrick’s monosyllabic replies.
Desperately she strived to think of something to say, but Patrick cut in.
“Alex came to town yesterday.”
Sophie’s face lit up in a blinding smile. “How is Charlotte?”
Why doesn’t she smile at me like that? “I didn’t ask.”
Sophie hesitated. “The children?”
“Forgot.”
Sophie sighed and tried to think of another subject. Truly, being married wasn’t easy. She racked her brain. Perhaps literature? They still had another course to get through before Patrick left for his evening entertainment….
“Did you enjoy The Rivals?” They had been to the theater a few days before.
“The play is twenty-five years old and it showed.”
Sophie persisted. “I thought Lydia Languish was very funny.”
“Was she the heroine? The one who kept reading all those rubbishy novels?”
“Yes.”
Patrick snorted. “The Innocent Adultery! The Delicate Distress! What a way to waste time.”
“I read The Delicate Distress.” Sophie’s eyes twinkled. “It’s the memoirs of Lady Woodford. She led quite a sensational life, you know.”
The conversation languished once more. Sophie picked at her venison. The only thing she could think about was Patrick’s kiss. Why did he do it? More important, would he do it again?
Finally she ventured to peek across the table at her husband. He was lounging back in his chair, staring at his wineglass. Dressed all in black, he looked like a devil, his silver-black hair swept into tangled curls by restless hands. A candle winked on the candelabra between them and went out, sending lurching shadows across the table that emphasized the planes of his face. How could she ever have hoped to keep a man as beautiful as this for her own?
Even looking at him made Sophie’s heart start a tip-tapping dance. Maybe he wouldn’t go out tonight. Perhaps her restraint had been rewarded and she could lure him back to her bed.
Before she could think about it and lose courage, Sophie waved the footman out of the room and pushed back her chair. Patrick, deep in thought, didn’t notice.
Softly she tiptoed around the long table, her slippers whispering against the carpet. Liquid warmth had infused itself into every inch of her body, making her bold. With a twist of her hips she inserted herself between Patrick and the table.
He looked up, startled, just as Sophie leaned forward and wantonly traced the curve of his lips with her tongue. Patrick’s hands instinctively reached out and pulled her onto his knee. Sophie hardly noticed. Now that she was touching Patrick, a sensual haze, compounded by weeks of acute, wanting, desperate lust, descended on her.
Patrick savaged her mouth until she moaned. He was dimly aware that his docile, pleasant wife was tearing his shirt off, right in the dining room. Clemens might enter at any moment, not to mention the footmen.
Still, he waited, reluctant to break the spell. Sophie’s warm body was pressed to his again; his hand had swept up her dress without a hint of reluctance and now she was uttering little broken half-shrieks against his mouth.
It was then that Patrick realized
he was about to lower his own wife to the floor and drive into her right there, on the Persian carpet, probably with an audience of a butler and two footmen.
He stood up, easily pulling Sophie into his arms, and brushed by the footman standing outside the door without a word. Undoubtedly the man would be able to judge for himself that no sweets were required in the dining room.
As Patrick walked sturdily up the stairs, Sophie buried her face against his throat, as if to avoid seeing anyone. But in fact her tongue was dancing over his heated skin, and small teeth nipped him in a way that sent quaking tremors of lust down his spine.
Even as Patrick kicked the bedroom door shut behind him, Sophie was wriggling out of his arms. And then, as he watched, Sophie pulled apart the tapes at her neck and waist, ruthlessly ignoring hooks and buttons as she pulled her gown over her head.
There she was … the woman he dreamed of every night.
With a deep masculine groan, Patrick lunged toward her in a surge that carried them straight onto the bed. Sophie’s arms didn’t wind around his neck. They went to his waist, meeting his hands in an effort to pull open the buttons on his breeches. Roughly Patrick freed himself and, without bothering to remove his garments, grabbed his wife’s hips and pulled her to the edge of the bed, burying himself in her wet welcome. Sophie screamed and arched her back; Patrick groaned and drove forward again.
Later Sophie woke to find her husband’s hand languorously cupping her bottom, pulling her to him. And when dawn stole into the room, it was Patrick who opened his eyes to find that a creamy white body, streaked with rosy light, was hovering just above him. He met the speculative blue eyes looking down into his with an answering smile and pulled that body down, down onto him.
Patrick’s man of business arrived punctually at eleven o’clock and dawdled around the library for a half-hour before a poker-faced butler told him that the master was unavailable. Madame Carême waited in vain for Lady Sophie to appear for a second fitting of a lovely costume parisien.