“But…but,” Sophie said, “you see, he’s notmycaptain. He’s just someone who happened to walk past and felt duty-bound to help.” Although she thought she’d given a calm explanation, heat spread a telltale flush from her face down to her bosom.
Lydia’s grandmother rose and came to Sophie’s side. She placed her hand over Sophie’s clenched fist in her lap. “None of this is your fault, dear girl. Your life has been so unconventional with the events surrounding your birth, the time you spent with your father, your uncle turning away.” Her voice trailed off. “We’ll just have to hope for the best and try to stifle any rumors.”
Sophie unclenched her hand and rose to embrace the older woman. “You cannot know how much I appreciate your belief in me,” she said, and let out a long breath.
“Of course I believe in you.” Lady Howick moved away toward a window overlooking the trees in the square and stood silent for many long minutes staring out at the scene. Before Sophie could explode in suspense, she said, "I intend to do all in my power to help, but if gossip turns against you, there is not much to be done. If you do not receive any offers, and cannot claim your inheritance, perhaps I might find a position for you as a companion, or governess.
“But for now,” she continued, “you have a visitor you should speak with. She’s waiting in the front parlor.”
“Who? I know no one here,” Sophie said.
“She is a very kind lady who is interested in the state of your health. I think you should speak with her.” With that, Lydia’s grandmother glided toward the door to the front parlor, motioning for Sophie to follow.
Honore sat at the edge of an ornate brocade sofa and balanced a cup of tea on a saucer so fine she imagined she could see light through the delicate china if she held it to one of the full-length windows in the Howick drawing room.
When Sophie Brancelli finally smiled and gazed her way after Lady Howick’s introduction, Honore felt a sharp tug at her heart. Now she understood why Arnaud couldn’t forget this young woman.
Except for dark smudges beneath Sophie’s eyes, perhaps from loss of sleep, there was little evidence of what she'd endured the day before. Her naturally smooth, olive-tinted skin glowed with a touch of rose burnish at her cheeks.
Honore could see at once what had attracted her son. This young woman was a breath of warm Mediterranean breezes in a stuffy English drawing room.
"Miss Brancelli,” Honore said, “I’m so happy to make your acquaintance. I’ve so enjoyed your father's books of verse over the years."
Sophie's mouth flew open in surprise. "Which is your favorite?" she asked.
"Il Mio Cuore Semplice, the one based on his time in the Pyrenees." The young woman flashed another smile that filled the room like a basket overflowing with pink roses.
Honore couldn't help smiling along. "Your father was such a romantic. I'm so sorry for your loss. He must have been a bright light."
"My father could be difficult when he was in one of his moods and couldn't write, but when he was charming, he was a joy to live with." Sophie blushed as if realizing she'd said too much. She gave her patroness an apologetic look and changed the subject.
"Your son was very heroic yesterday. I am so grateful he wasn’t hurt,” Sophie said.
Honore laughed. "My son has faced far worse battles at sea. I'm sure he did not hesitate one moment to come to your aid.”
Lady Howick leaned toward Sophie. "Captain Bellingham distinguished himself as a midshipman at the Battle of Algiers in 1816. He helped Admiral Pellew rescue the Christian slaves. He’s also the grandson of the Earl of Middleton,” she added, and patted Sophie’s hand.
Honore’s stomach hardened, the tea and cake she’d just swallowed slicing like a knife. “We live quite simply, on Hanover Square,” she said. “Arnaud’s father was captured by pirates in a raid many years ago against one of our ships.” Her voice cracked, and she had to fight back tears.
She took courage and rallied. “My husband was the third son, and Arnaud has two older cousins in line to inherit. He loves the sea but visits me when he’s not on station with his squadron.”
“Where does he serve?” Sophie asked.
“He spends four months of the year off the west coast of Africa,” Honore said, “and then two months returning by way of additional service in the West Indies.”
“What does the Royal Navy do off Africa?” Sophie scooted to the edge of the sofa, her eyes wide.
“Slavers,” Honore explained. “They chase slave ships leaving Africa and those coming in for another cargo.”
Lady Howick interrupted. “Such dark talk over tea, Sophie. I’m sure Mrs. Bellingham would rather talk of something lighter. Suggestions for your gowns for the upcoming Season, perhaps.” The older woman turned toward Honore, her hand on her silver-capped cane. “I would love to know the name of your modiste. Since you and my ward have similar skin tones, I’m sure she could design something appropriate for our Sophie.”
Honore blessed the trick she’d learned long ago which had served her well in the many skirmishes she’d survived amongst the ladies of theton. She sipped at her tea and remained silent just long enough for Lady Howick to squirm a bit. When Honore finally answered, her voice was smooth and unhurried. “I would be happy to assist with Sophie’s gowns for the Season, but I would beg your indulgence for a favor in return.”
“And that would be?” Lady Howick quirked an eyebrow.
“My son would like an introduction to Miss Brancelli so he may ascertain for himself she was unharmed during yesterday’s incident.”
Lady Howick mimicked Honore’s long pause before finally giving her a knowing smile. “I will send invitations for a small dinner party my son, Lord Howick, and I are having tomorrow night. I would be honored if you and your son would join us.” She gestured toward Honore’s empty tea cup and lifted the silver pot. She refilled the cup Honore extended and returned the steaming liquid to her guest.
