Page 13 of Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart

Sophia slowly climbed the staircase toward her bedchamber, her thoughts fixed firmly on Lord Aldeburgh. The day’s portrait session had progressed well, yet concentration had proved difficult. His presence… his way of tilting his head when considering her suggestions, the careful precision of his gestures… distracted her from professional concerns in a manner both troubling and thrilling.

“Foolish woman,” she murmured as she reached her chamber door. “He is your patron, not your suitor.”

Yet she could not deny the connection forming between them. In the weeks since her arrival at Balfour Abbey, they had developed a silent language of shared glances and subtle movements that often conveyed more than written words. Today, when their fingers had briefly touched over a shared brush, the contact had sent awareness through her that had nothing to do with artistic collaboration.

She entered her chamber still lost in these dangerous musings, only to be jolted from them by an unexpected sensation—a cool breeze that sent papers fluttering across her writing desk.

“Abigail?” she called, crossing quickly to secure the latch.

Her lady’s maid emerged from the dressing room instantly. “Oh golly! I’m certain I closed that before going below stairs.” Abigail hastened to help, shutting the window with a decisive click. “The latch must be faulty.”

“Strange,” Sophia agreed, though her attention had already shifted to something more intriguing—a small package wrapped in brown paper resting upon her bed.

“What’s this?”

Abigail brightened. “It arrived while you were painting. I thought perhaps another gift from Lord Aldeburgh, like the sketch he left in your notebook.”

Hope quickened Sophia’s pulse as she took up the package. Could he have crafted another drawing?

She unwrapped the parcel with careful fingers, revealing a small portrait—her own likeness rendered on canvas scarcely larger than her palm. Yet as she studied it, confusion rather than pleasure furrowed her brow.

“This isn’t Lord Aldeburgh’s work,” she said, examining the harsh lines and clinical precision that bore no resemblance to his sensitive style. “The technique is entirely different—colder, somehow.”

Abigail peered over her shoulder. “Perhaps a commission? Though why would his lordship engage another artist when his own skill is considerable?”

“Precisely my thought,” Sophia agreed, turning the canvas to search for a signature or explanation.

A folded note slipped from behind the portrait, falling to the floor. Abigail retrieved it, handing it to Sophia with a curious glance.

“Perhaps this will explain matters.”

Sophia unfolded the paper, recognition of the bold, slashing handwriting sending an immediate chill through her before she had read a single word. Her eyes scanned the brief message, blood draining from her face as comprehension dawned.

“My lady!” Abigail exclaimed, alarmed by her sudden pallor. “What is it?”

The letter trembled in Sophia’s hand, the words blurring before her eyes as their import overwhelmed her composure:

My dear Lady Sinclair,

Did you truly believe a mere change of scenery would release you from our arrangement? How delightful to discover your present accommodation—and in such elevated company. A wounded earl and his fortune make for interesting neighbors to a widow in dire financial straits.

Our business remains unfinished. The debt comes due in a fortnight, and I shall collect what is owed me one way or another. Two thousand pounds... or yourself. The choice, madam, remains yours until the appointed day.

With sincere anticipation,

Silas Fletcher, Lord Shropshire

The room tilted alarmingly around her, darkness encroaching at the edges of her vision. She heard Abigail’s voice as if from a great distance, felt hands guiding her toward a chair as her knees threatened to buckle.

“He is never going to stop she whispered,” the single coherent thought penetrating the fog of terror that descended at the sight of Silas Fletcher’s handwriting. “Even my presence at Balfour Abbey… it is not enough to deter him. Nothing… Nothing will make him stop.”

The realization proved too much for her overtaxed senses. As Abigail’s concerned face swam before her eyes, Sophia surrendered to oblivion.

***

“There now, easy,” Abigail’s voice filtered through the darkness. “Come back to us, milady.”

Sophia blinked against the sharp scent of smelling salts, awareness returning with unwelcome clarity. She lay upon her bed, Abigail’s worried face hovering above her.

“What happened?” she asked faintly, though the memory returned even as she spoke—the portrait, the letter, the horrifying discovery that Silas Fletcher had found her sanctuary.

“You fainted dead away,” Abigail replied, setting aside the smelling salts. “That letter—what did it say to affect you so?”

“Lord Shropshire… Despite the protections of Balfour Abbey, despite my foolish belief that he would be deterred knowing we had an income, thinking we had protection… Despite all of this, he managed to get into my bedchamber?

What else is he willing to do if he can go this far?” Sophia said, sitting up despite Abigail’s protests. The movement sent a wave of dizziness through her, but she forced herself to remain upright. Weakness was a luxury she could ill afford in their present circumstances.

Abigail’s face paled, her freckles standing in stark relief against suddenly bloodless cheeks. “But how? It is meant to be safe here!”

“It scarcely matters now,” Sophia replied, her mind already racing ahead to more pressing questions. “What matters is what we do next.”

“We must leave at once,” Abigail declared, already moving toward the wardrobe. “Tonight, if possible.”

“No.” Sophia’s tone halted her maid mid-stride.

“No?” Abigail turned, bewilderment evident in her expression. “After what happened at Sinclair Manor—his threats, his behavior—surely you can’t mean to stay where he can reach you? My lady, you read his note, did you not?”

“I did,” Sophia admitted with a shudder. “And it is troubling. Telling me he has grown tired of a pale imitation, creating my likeness from so far away… but we have few choices. We cannot leave. Where would we go? With what funds?” Sophia countered, forcing steadiness into her voice. “Our resources are too limited for flight, especially with no certain sanctuary awaiting us.”

“But Lady Sinclair, the danger—”

“Is no less wherever we might flee,” Sophia finished firmly. “No, Abigail. Running would only hasten our ruin, not prevent it.”

Abigail approached, her young face grave with concern. “What will you do, then?”

Sophia pressed her fingers against her temples, seeking clarity through the fog of fear still clouding her thoughts. “I shall complete Lord Aldeburgh’s portrait as commissioned. The fee—”

“Will not come close to two thousand pounds,” Abigail interjected, practical even in distress.

“No,” Sophia agreed quietly. “But it will provide us some means while I consider alternatives.”

Abigail hesitated, then retrieved the fallen note. “Could you not speak to Lord Aldeburgh about this matter? Surely, he would—”

“No!” The vehemence of Sophia’s response startled them both. She moderated her tone with effort. “I will not bring my troubles to Lord Aldeburgh’s door. His kindness toward me has been significant. I will not repay it by entangling him in my difficulties.”

“Is it merely consideration for his lordship that prevents you seeking his assistance?” Abigail asked, uncomfortably perceptive. “Or is it pride?”

“Perhaps both,” Sophia admitted after a moment. “But there is more. Lord Shropshire’s military achievements have earned him connections that render him nearly untouchable despite his vices. What could Lord Aldeburgh do against him without risking his own reputation?”

“His lordship is an earl,” Abigail pointed out. “Surely his rank—”

“Would only ensure the matter became fodder for London gossip,” Sophia finished. “I will not subject Lord Aldeburgh to such attention, not when he has deliberately withdrawn from society.”

Abigail’s expression remained troubled. “Then what shall we do?”

Sophia straightened her shoulders, drawing strength from necessity as she had done so many times since Gilbert’s death. “We shall continue as though nothing has changed. I will complete the portrait, collect my fee, and use that time to devise a solution.”

“And if Lord Shropshire comes before then?” Abigail’s question hung between them, giving voice to the fear that coiled in Sophia’s chest.

“Then we shall face that obstacle when it arises,” Sophia replied with more confidence than she felt. “Now, help me dress for dinner. We must not give Lady Aldeburgh reason to suspect anything amiss.”

As Abigail moved to retrieve the blue silk gown, Sophia caught sight of the portrait still lying upon the bed. Silas Fletcher’s rendering of her face stared back with unsettling accuracy—a reminder that he had observed her closely enough to capture her likeness with disturbing precision.

With a sudden decision, she snatched up the portrait and note, crossing to the fireplace where embers still glowed from the morning’s fire. She thrust both items into the grate, watching as flames consumed canvas and paper alike.

If only the threat they represented could be so easily destroyed, she thought grimly. But Fletcher himself remained very much alive, his presence now a shadow across the tentative happiness she had begun to build at Balfour Abbey.

And most troubling of all was the question that had plagued her since reading his note: How had he managed to get past the footmen and servants and enter the manor, not to mention the bedchamber?

The dinner gong sounded as Abigail secured the final pin in Sophia’s hair. The blue silk, altered from last season’s fashion, brought out the green of her eyes, though her face was still pale from her earlier faint.

“There,” Abigail declared, stepping back to assess her work. “You look lovely, milady. No one would suspect anything amiss.”

Sophia studied her reflection with critical eyes. “Will you be well enough without me?” she asked, concern momentarily displacing her own fears. “I could find some pretext—”

“And have Lady Aldeburgh questioning why you require your maid at dinner?” Abigail shook her head decisively. “No, I shall manage perfectly well. Use the time to make an inventory of our possessions. We must know exactly what resources remain to us.”

With a final adjusting touch to her gown, Sophia departed, each step toward the dining room an exercise in composure. By the time she reached her destination, her mask was firmly in place—the serene countenance of a lady with no greater concern than whether the soup might be served at the proper temperature.

Lord Camden and Lady Aldeburgh were already seated, the former rising with a warm smile at her entrance. “Lady Sinclair! We had begun to fear you might be indisposed.”

“Forgive my tardiness,” Sophia replied, taking her place with a graceful nod to the dowager. “The day’s artistic exertions required additional preparation time.”

Lady Aldeburgh’s response was interrupted by Lord Aldeburgh’s entrance. He moved to his new seat at the table—across from the other guests, to accommodate him, though this was never mentioned. He looked up, his blue eyes meeting Sophia’s briefly as he settled into his chair. Something in his expression—a question, perhaps, or concern—suggested he had detected her distress despite her careful composure.

“Lady Sinclair’s portrait work progresses admirably,” Lord Camden offered, smoothly directing conversation as footmen began serving the first course. “I had the opportunity to observe this morning’s session, and I must say, Alexander has never been captured with such perception.”

“Indeed,” Lady Aldeburgh remarked, her tone suggesting this achievement ranked somewhere between dubious and irrelevant. “How fortunate that Lady Sinclair has these talents to ensure her welfare.”

“Indeed, I consider myself fortunate, Lady Aldeburgh,” Sophia replied with measured calm. “To earn one’s living through work that brings genuine satisfaction is a privilege denied to many.”

Lord Aldeburgh’s mouth curved slightly at her response, his attention ostensibly on his soup. Lady Aldeburgh, momentarily outmaneuvered, redirected her focus to correcting a footman’s wine service.

Sophia was hardly aware of the taste of any of the delectable dishes, her mind consumed by Silas Fletcher’s presence and threat. The moment of reckoning arrived sooner than expected when Lady Aldeburgh, dabbing her lips, remarked: “I understand there was some disturbance the east wing this afternoon. Something about Lady Sinclair that caused quite the stir among the servants.”

Sophia’s hand froze around her wine glass, her pulse quickening painfully. “A small matter,” she managed, her voice steady despite the sudden dryness of her throat. “Nothing of consequence.”

“Indeed?” Lady Aldeburgh’s eyebrow arched with practiced skepticism. “Jenkins seemed to think otherwise. He mentioned something about the coachman being unusually... particular about its delivery.”

Lord Aldeburgh’s attention sharpened visibly, his gaze moving between his mother and Sophia with growing concern. He reached for his notebook, but Lady Aldeburgh continued before he could write a word.

“One hopes that unwelcome associations aren’t following you to Balfour Abbey, Lady Sinclair,” she said, her veneer of social pleasantry doing little to disguise the implicit warning. “We value our privacy most highly here.”

“I assure you, Lady Aldeburgh, I have no wish to disturb the tranquility of your household,” Sophia replied, struggling to maintain her composure. “I was merely feeling a bit ill. It will not happen again, I hope.”

The lie scorched her tongue, but she could see no alternative. To reveal Fletcher’s threats would only confirm Lady Aldeburgh’s suspicion that Sophia had brought trouble to Balfour Abbey—and worse, might prompt inquiries regarding her connection to the man.

Lord Aldeburgh was writing rapidly in his notebook, his expression troubled, when a footman appeared at Lady Aldeburgh’s side, murmuring something Sophia could not hear.

“Excuse me,” the dowager said, rising with regal precision. “A matter requiring my immediate attention.”

As Lady Aldeburgh departed, Lord Camden exhaled audibly. “Lady Aldeburgh can be rather direct in her inquiries. I hope you weren’t too discomfited.”

“Not at all,” Sophia assured him, forcing a smile she was far from feeling. “Her ladyship’s concern for her household is entirely understandable.”

Lord Aldeburgh passed his notebook to her, his expression suggesting he was not deceived by her show of equanimity:

My mother exceeded the bounds of propriety. Please accept my apologies for her intrusion into your private affairs.

“There’s no need for apology,” Sophia replied, touched by his concern despite her determination to keep him safely removed from her troubles.

He wrote again:

Was there truly nothing amiss with the delivery? You seem troubled this evening.

The perceptiveness of his observation startled her. For a moment, Sophia was tempted to confide in him—to share the burden Silas Fletcher had put on her shoulders.

Then she remembered Fletcher’s reputation, his connections, the damage he could inflict on a nobleman who dared interfere with his pursuits. Lord Aldeburgh had endured enough suffering without becoming entangled in her troubles.

“Merely fatigue,” she lied, her smile more genuine for the concern that prompted his question. “I worked too long on the portrait today. Nothing that a good night’s rest won’t remedy.”

He studied her face for a long moment, his blue eyes reflecting doubt and something else—a warmth that made her heart ache with possibilities that Fletcher’s reappearance had rendered even more impossible than before.

Lord Camden rose from his chair. “I believe I shall retire to the library. There’s a volume on local flora I’ve been meaning to examine.”

His departure left Sophia alone with Lord Aldeburgh—a circumstance that would have delighted her earlier but now filled her with trepidation. The more time spent in his company, the greater the risk she might betray her distress.

“I should retire as well,” she said, rising with careful grace. “Tomorrow’s session will require my full attention if we are to make meaningful progress on the portrait.”

Lord Aldeburgh stood, his expression suggesting he wished to say something further. After a moment’s hesitation, he merely inclined his head in acknowledgment.

As she turned to leave, he reached out suddenly, his fingers brushing her arm with the lightest of touches. The contact sent awareness cascading through her. She paused, meeting his gaze with a question in her own.

Lord Aldeburgh hesitated, then raised his hand in their private gesture for well-being—fingers touched briefly to his heart, then extended toward her, palm upward. The simple movement carried more genuine concern than volumes of conventional pleasantries.

Sophia returned the gesture, her throat tight with emotion she dared not express. Without further words, she departed, her steps measured until she was certain she had passed beyond his sight.

Only then did she allow her pace to quicken, her composure to falter, as she sought the sanctuary of her bedchamber and Abigail’s steadfast presence. There, at least, she need not pretend that her world remained unshattered by Silas Fletcher’s malevolent intrusion.