The Firstborn

Chapter Twenty-Two

There was nothing for it. Sophia had made an attempt at seeking out every possible distraction to fill up the minutes that slowly ticked away her morning, but it was all to no avail. Books had been perused and tossed aside, newspapers and gossip sheets ignored, breakfast and nuncheon both toyed with and finally pushed away in disgust.

Haughton and Mr. Winston had left from St. James's street after taking their own breakfast in Haughton's study. At first, Sophia had considered demanding that they allow her to accompany them to their meeting with Lucy, but her sister was more likely to give in to hysterics and absurd demands if Sophia were present. Haughton, she hoped, with his firm demeanor and stoic attitude would not allow a few tears on Lucy's part to sway him from his purpose: to find George and bring him—and hopefully Lucy, as well—home.

Home.

Sophia looked around her, at the walls and furnishings of the drawing room in which she sat. This was certainly not her home. She thought of her cottage in Stantreath, a gift from Lady Rutledge. But that had never truly felt like home, either, only a place to stay, to lay her head and cook her meals until... until...

Well, Haughton and his sister had already offered Denton Castle as a home to her and George, but would it ever really be a place in which she could be comfortable? Would she merely feel like a guest for the entirety of her stay there, even if such a stay stretched into a span of years?

And Haughton... Lord Haughton, she reminded herself, though she knew he was known as Finn to his sister and the enigmatic Mr. Winston. He had presented himself as such a formidable personage upon their first meeting, all stone and ice, an impenetrable wall without compassion or feeling. And now, months later, he had opened his home to her—both his homes, if she wished to be specific—had offered whatever she needed for the care and rearing of George, and was currently dealing with her sister's absurd demands and reckless, thoughtless behavior in wrenching her son from Stantreath only to use him as a means to acquiring what she wanted.

Sophia blew out a breath, tossed aside the piece of mending she'd borrowed from Lady Rutledge's maid in order to occupy her restless hands, and rose from her chair near the window. She began to pace, again, her footfalls quiet on the fine carpets that covered the floors. She had paced enough to have worn grooves in those fine carpets and holes in her slippers, but she could not bring herself to sit still for another minute.

Haughton and Mr. Winston should have been back by now. She knew little of London geography, but she couldn't imagine that their errand to see Lucy should take so many hours. Unless heavy traffic had waylaid them, or Lucy was being particularly truculent, or perhaps they were even having to wait as Lucy packed up her and George's things before returning to Haughton's townhouse. Or perhaps...

With a small huff of impatience, she left the drawing room behind her and made her way towards Haughton's study. She had seen some writing paper and quills in there, and she thought that writing a letter to Lady Rutledge, even a letter that might never be sent, might work towards settling her anxious mind.

She had her hand on the doorknob when something made her pause. A sound from inside the room caught her attention. Not the sound of a servant tidying or of even Haughton himself moving about the room. It seemed to her ears that there was something... surreptitious about the noise. It was a shuffle, and then a brief clatter, and then silence. Someone, she thought, didn't wish to be heard.

Or perhaps that was only what her anxious mind imagined it to be. The last few days of travel and worry and little rest had no doubt left her wits in an addled state. Shaking her head, she grasped the doorknob with renewed strength, gave it a turn, and opened the door.

One step forward was all she took before her progress was arrested by the sight of David rifling through the papers stacked on Haughton's cluttered desk.