The whole long journey had been a waste of time. He had not even stepped foot on Italian soil. Storms had plagued them, followed by a dead calm that delayed their progress. And then the ship had turned back at the island of Sardinia. The captain heard reports of Napoleon’s escape and imminent return and insisted on turning around before war broke out and made the sailing route dangerous or impassable. Of all the bad luck . . . Or perhaps it had not been luck at all, but a sign. Or a punishment. God telling him to quit running and go home.
A part of him had been oddly relieved. He would see Sophie even sooner than he thought. He hoped she had received the letter he’d posted, and had accepted his apology.
Reaching Plymouth about a month and a half after he’d left it, Wesley traveled overland to Lynmouth by stage coach, rehearsing what he would say to her. Imagining, anticipating her smile. Her shy lovely eyes shining with surprise and happiness to see him back so much sooner than anticipated.
When he’d alighted at the Lynmouth coaching inn at last, he claimed his bags and strode along the harbor, a spring in his step. How he’d missed her. He could not wait to take her in his arms.
He drew up short. The Duponts’ place was dark and empty. A Closed notice sat propped in the lower window, printed with Mr. Dupont’s Bath direction, for those who wished to contact him there. Wesley frowned and squinted through the glass. He knew Dupont had returned to Bath. But where were Sophie and that sniveling Maurice? He knocked, in case the lazy young man was sleeping midday.
No answer.
Wesley shifted his increasingly heavy luggage and walked up the steep hill to Mrs. Thrupton’s place, remembering Sophie had been sleeping in the woman’s spare room to avoid being alone at night with her father’s assistant. He knocked, but no one answered there either. Strange.
He went to the cottage he’d rented and where he’d left his recent paintings and the supplies he’d not taken with him on the trip. The door was locked, as it should be. He had left his key under the planter, not knowing when he’d be back, but it was not there now. He finally found a maid he did not recognize cleaning one of the other cottages and asked her where everyone was. Mrs. Thrupton was gone to sit with her ailing mother, she told him. And no, she was not acquainted with the Duponts nor knew where they were. Only that they had gone, and she and Mrs. Thrupton were tending their cottages for them until they returned. There was nothing in number one, she told him, but he did not believe her. His pleading smile and a coin had persuaded her to unlock the door.
“I told you, sir. I cleaned it myself. There was nothing personal in here save some rubbish and one old stocking. You may have it if you like.”
He had been astounded and unhappy. Surely Sophie had not thrown away or burned all his belongings as some sort of revenge. He hoped she had crated them up and stored them somewhere, probably in their studio. No, the maid did not have a key to the Duponts’ studio and wouldn’t be opening it for a stranger even if she did. He could wait for Mrs. Thrupton to return, if he liked, but there was no telling how long she’d be, illness adhering to no schedule.
Wesley had mustered his manners and thanked the woman. From there he had decided to head back to Overtree Hall. Not knowing what sort of reception he might receive—especially from Sophie’s father—he was not eager to show up in Bath unannounced. And he was running dangerously low on funds, not to mention clean clothes. He was also distracted and concerned about the fate of his missing paintings and wanted to discover if the Duponts had sent them to Overtree Hall. That would have been kind of them. And they were kind people. Once that possibility had occurred to him, he decided he would find Sophie as soon as he’d assured himself his paintings were safe.
He assumed Carlton Keith would have made his way to Overtree Hall by now, probably shorter on funds than he was and in need of a place to stay. Not to mention access to a wine cellar. He had left Keith behind in Lynmouth, so hopefully the man would know if Sophie had received his letter, where she was now, and the whereabouts of his paintings. Perhaps Keith had taken it upon himself to have them sent home, though he doubted the man would take his role as nursemaid that far.
Whatever the case, Wesley made up his mind to spend a few days at home, wash the travel dust from himself and his clothes, and then seek out Sophie.
Wesley now passed through the Overtree Hall gate and looked up at the house, admiring its grave lines and pleasing symmetry.
When he reached the door and let himself in, the butler stepped out from his nearby pantry, disapproval etched on his face until he saw who it was.
Wesley nodded to him. “Hello, Thurman.”
“Sir. Welcome home.” The old retainer took his coat and hat. “I believe your parents are in the white parlour. Would you like me to announce you?”
“No need. I’ll just—”
“Wesley!” Here came his mother, arms outstretched and a smile brightening her thin, weary face.
“Hello, Mamma. Miss me?”
“You know I did, impertinent boy. What a question! Worried about you too. Sailing all that way on your own. And you’re as thin as a rail, did they not feed you? I thought the Italians were known for their food.”
“I did not reach Italy, Mamma. With Napoleon back in France, the captain insisted on returning to England before war broke out again, so—”
“Wesley, my boy!” his father boomed across the hall. “How good to see you whole and hale. We didn’t expect you.”
“Hello, Papa. How are you? In good health, I trust?”
“I am well, thank you. And—”
“He is not well,” Mamma interrupted. “It’s his heart. That’s why we sent Stephen to find you and bring you home.”
Wesley frowned. “Stephen? I never saw him.”
“Yes, we know that now. He returned from Devonshire empty-handed.”
His father tucked his chin. “Not quite empty-handed, my dear. Don’t forget whom he brought with him.”
Wesley nodded. “I knew Keith would have turned up by now.”
“Yes, but that’s not who I meant.”
Perhaps hearing his name, Carlton Keith appeared in the threshold of the billiards room, stick in his hand, leaning on the doorframe. “Well, well. Hello, Wesley. Didn’t expect to see you for months.”
Wesley turned and narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Are you the presumptuous person I have to thank for emptying my cottage? I couldn’t believe my paintings and things were not there. Worse yet, neither was Miss Du—”
“Yes, well, things change,” Keith interrupted. “The captain had your things crated up and sent back here since you made no arrangements to do so.”
“I would have done. I wasn’t planning to stay away forever.”
“You haven’t heard the news, then?” Keith asked.
“What news?”
“Your brother is married. Went looking for you, and came home with a bride instead.”
“What?” Incredulity washed over Wesley. “Captain Black found some poor wretch willing to marry his sour self? I don’t believe it. What sort of woman would marry Marsh? Did no one warn her?”
“I tried to.”
“Yes, it’s quite true,” his father said. “Your younger brother beat you to the altar.”
“Please remember he is serving his country, Wesley,” his mother scolded mildly. “And in his absence we must all make every effort to accept his new wife and make her feel at home here. In fact, I think you may have met.”
Wesley smirked. “That bad, is she?”
“Wes, um . . .” Keith jerked his head to the side. “Perhaps you and I could step away and have a word, before—”
His father looked toward the staircase. “Here she is now.”
From the corner of his eye, Wesley had noticed motion on the stairs. A slender figure in white floating gracefully down. He had taken in only the vaguest impressions—female. White dress. Fair hair. For some reason, he would have expected a woman as dark and broad as Marsh himself.
&n
bsp; Carlton Keith hissed something urgently under his breath, but Wesley didn’t make out the words. He turned and gaped.
The female on the stairs stopped abruptly on the half landing, staring down at him with mouth ajar, her expression mirroring his own no doubt.
Twin waves of emotion struck him at once. Sophie was here! Sophie was . . . here? A trickle of foreboding snaked up his spine. Had she come to take him to task for his abrupt departure? He could not blame her but was astounded at her boldness.
His sister came down the stairs. She paused to glance at the statued Sophie, then looked down to see what had arrested her attention. “Wesley!” Kate’s face split into a toothy smile, and she ran down the stairs and flung herself into his arms.
“Hello, poppet,” he said, embracing her. “Don’t break me.”
“What a lovely surprise! Oh, and you must meet Sophie!”
She turned and gestured to the stairs with a wave of her hand.
As eyes turned toward her, Sophie began moving again, slowly descending the remaining stairs, looking nearly as pale as her frock.
“Sophie, come and meet my other brother.”
“Hello, W . . . Mr. Overtree,” she said woodenly.
Wesley searched her face in confusion. “Sophie, what are you doing here?”
Mr. Keith elbowed him in the side. Wesley scowled at him, feeling befuddled, and then returned his raised-brow gaze to Sophie.
She hesitated. “I . . .”
His sister’s gaze swiveled from one to the other. “Oh! That’s right. You two know each other from Devonshire.”
Sophie faltered, “Um, yes.”
Kate turned to him. “Stephen went there to find you and instead found Sophie! What luck!”
Wesley could fashion no suitable reply. He only stood there like a fish tossed up on shore, gaping in disbelief.
“Oh!” Kate grasped Sophie’s arm. “Tell Wesley how you and Stephen met and your whirlwind courtship. I love that story!”
“I’m sure he cannot wait to hear it,” Keith said dryly, coming to his rescue. “But another time, perhaps, Miss Katherine. Your brother has just arrived and is no doubt exhausted.”
Wesley’s mind whirled. Sophie—his Sophie—fell in love with Marsh? Married him? Slept with him? The news struck him like a kick in the gut.
“But . . . I don’t understand.” Wesley winced in thought, trying to make sense of it. “When did all this happen?”
“It was all very sudden,” Sophie replied, fingers primly clasped. “We met the day you left for Italy.”
Wesley fisted his hands. “I can’t believe it. He lost no time, did he.”
“Em, Wes, old man, let’s have a drink, shall we? Catch up a bit, ay?”
His mother protested, “Really, Mr. Keith. My son has just arrived home after months away. I believe we have priority—”
“I know, Mrs. O,” Keith persisted. “But just . . . trust me. I need a little time with him. I promise I will see him cleaned up and dressed and all yours in time for dinner.”
“Dinner?” She frowned across the hall at the long-case clock. “Good heavens. It is time I went up and changed. Oh, very well, Mr. Keith, but I expect to have Wesley’s undivided attention then. I cannot wait to hear about his latest work.”
“I’ll go up as well,” his father added, with an uncertain look from Wesley to Keith.
His parents were barely up the stairs when Wesley wheeled on Sophie.
“What in the world were you thinking?”
Keith hooked his arm through one of Wesley’s. “Come on.” He pulled him toward the billiards room. “A stiff drink is what you need. Even if I can’t join you.”
“Mr. Keith?” Sophie spoke up. “Only give him one, if you please?” Worry pinched her face.
“Ah. Right you are, Mrs. Overtree. Best to avoid loose lips. He might rant and storm in his cups.”
In the billiards room, Wesley jerked his arm from Carlton Keith’s grasp. “Thunder and turf, CK. I leave her for less than six weeks and this is what happens?”
The former officer went to the sideboard and unstopped the decanter.
“What were you doing at the time?” Wesley went on. “Having a great laugh at my expense? Or were you struck mute? You might have said something to Marsh. Warned him off.”
Keith turned to him, not appearing at all sheepish or repentant as he would have guessed. “Why are you so angry? You left without word—left her to go off and find a new muse.”
“I left to paint in Italy. And I didn’t leave without a word. I left her a note.”
“A note. How touching. Any promises in that note? Any declarations?”
“I am not likely to dash off such important sentiments in a note, am I?”
“Did you ever make her any promises? Promise to return for her? Or to marry her?”
A pinch of guilt cramped Wesley’s gut. He had said plenty of warm words. He didn’t like to think of all he’d said in the flush of passion. “Not . . . initially. But I did send a second letter from Plymouth. Apologizing. Asking her to wait for me.”
“That’s an important message to leave to chance. Or the post.” Keith handed him a small glass.
Wesley gulped it down, hoping the burn in his throat would ease the pain in his heart. Did Keith know he’d been intimate with Miss Dupont? The man couldn’t know for sure, but they’d given him plenty of reason to suspect—the locked cottage door, his affectionate attention, her blushes. And all those paintings. . . . Wesley chose his words carefully. “Did Marsh know that she and I had spent a good deal of time together?”
“I believe I mentioned it. But he doesn’t exactly ask me for permission before he acts, does he?”
Wesley pounded the table. “How dare he? I’ll kill him.”
“You’ll have to get in line behind Boney’s men for that. Doubt you’ll have a chance.”
Wesley ran a hand over his face. “What do I do now?”
“Nothing, my good fellow. Not one blessed thing. Like it or not, she is Miss Dupont no longer. She is Mrs. Overtree.”
Wesley grimaced to hear her referred to by that name—especially when he was not the man who’d given it to her.
“If you care for her at all—even a little—don’t say or do anything,” Keith urged. “Why ruin her life? You cannot go back and change things, or undo the marriage. Why would you expose her in front of your family? They hardly approve of the captain’s choice of bride as it is. If you were to cast doubt on her character, as well as her situation in life, that would be cruel. And avail nothing but heartache for her. You cannot be that selfish. At least I hope you are not.”
Wesley stared at the man, taken aback. He’d been prepared to overcome his parents’ objections to Sophie’s family and station in life but was stunned to hear Keith defend her so earnestly.
“What’s got into you, CK?” he asked. “You were my ‘live and let live’ good-time companion. Now you sound like a moralist. Or like Captain Black himself. You’re taking his side.”
Mr. Keith shrugged, but his eyes glinted. “I am not taking anyone’s side. I’m on my own side—and that’s whichever one is enjoying themselves more.”
Wesley didn’t believe his bravado. He studied him through narrowed eyes. “Did you know ahead of time? Did she say anything to you?”
“She never mentioned she was thinking of marrying the man, only wondered what I could tell her of his character. Like you, I was stunned to learn they were engaged to marry.”
Wesley slumped into an armchair, shaking his head. He wondered if she had married his brother to spite him. More likely Marsh had done so, getting his revenge at last.
An hour later, anxiety needled Sophie’s stomach as the seven of them took their seats in the dining room. Wesley’s parents sat at head and foot as usual. The colonel at Mr. Overtree’s right. Kate beside Wesley. His friend Mr. Keith beside her. There Sophie sat in the middle as Stephen Overtree’s wife—with her lover directly across from her. How unreal. H
ow unsettling. When she lifted her glass, her hands were not quite steady.
They began the first course of ox-tail soup. Sophie took three sips she barely tasted before she found the courage to look up from her bowl. Wesley was even more handsome than she remembered. The portrait in the corridor did not do him justice.
His golden brown eyes held hers over the table, even as his voice was intentionally casual. “And how long have you been in residence, Mrs. Overtree?”
She licked dry lips. “We arrived in March.”
“You came here directly after your . . . marriage? No wedding trip?”
“We visited my family in Bath, of course, and then came here. Captain Overtree did not have much time before he needed to rejoin his regiment.”
“Or so he thought,” Kate interrupted, a sparkle in her eyes. “But Grandfather arranged for Stephen to have another fortnight of leave so they could spend more time together.”
“Did he?” Wesley looked at his grandfather, irony in his voice. “How good of you, Colonel. But then you always had a soft spot for Stephen. The star in your eyes—and among your collection of medals.”
Colonel Horton gave him a knowing look. “I care equally for all my grandchildren, Wesley. But yes, I take great satisfaction in the fact that one of them followed me into the army.”
“Destroying one’s fellow man is more estimable in your view than creating something of lasting beauty. I know. You needn’t remind me.”
The colonel frowned. “No honorable man likes the inevitable bloodshed. It’s about serving and protecting one’s country.”
“We shall never agree, Grandfather. So perhaps we ought to let the matter drop.”
“Hear, hear,” echoed Mr. Overtree.
“Come, Lieutenant Keith,” the colonel said. “You agree with me, surely?”
Keith shook his head. “Oh no. You’ll not draw me into this debate, Colonel. How do you think I survived this long? It’s knowing when to duck and when to retreat.” He lifted his glass of water in salute.
Sophie noticed Wesley narrow his eyes at Keith’s glass. He’d probably never seen the man drink water in his life.