Page 2 of Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart

The April rain lashed against the windows of Sinclair Manor with a fury that almost matched Sophia Sinclair’s own turbulent thoughts. Standing in what remained of the drawing room—a chamber once resplendent with Brussels carpets and gilt-framed landscapes—she took inventory of her diminished circumstances with the cold precision of a merchant tallying losses after a shipwreck.

“Milady.” Abigail ‘s soft Scottish lilt pierced the gloom as she entered with a meagre tea tray. “I’ve brought ye something warm. You’ve not eaten since yesterday.”

Sophia turned from the window, summoning a smile that belied the hollow ache beneath her ribs. “That is kind of you, Abigail. Though I fear we must soon accustom ourselves to simpler fare, if we are to have any fare at all.”

The young maid set the tray upon a small rosewood table—one of the few elegant pieces not yet seized by creditors—and straightened with the quiet dignity that had endeared her to Sophia these past three years. Where other servants had fled at the first whisper of financial ruin, Abigail had remained steadfast, her loyalty unwavering despite wages now more promised than paid.

“I’ll not be leaving ye, milady,” Abigail declared, as though reading the melancholy direction of her mistress’s thoughts. “Not when you need me most.”

“Need you I certainly do,” Sophia admitted, accepting the offered cup with hands that betrayed only the slightest tremor. “Though I cannot imagine what I have done to deserve such devotion.”

“Aye. You treated me as a person when others saw only a wee servant,” Abigail replied simply, smoothing her already impeccable apron. “And you taught me my letters when no one else thought a maid should know how to read. Such kindnesses are not forgotten, milady.”

Warmth bloomed in Sophia’s chest at the girl’s words—a momentary respite from the chill that had settled there since her husband’s untimely passing. Six months a widow, and still the reality of Gilbert’s death struck her anew at unexpected moments.

Not that theirs had been a love match; convenience and mutual respect had formed the foundation of their brief union. Yet his absence had left her unmoored in a society that valued women primarily as extensions of their male relations.

“We still have each other,” Sophia said, more to herself than to Abigail . “And I still have my wits, my health, and my paintbrushes. Many have rebuilt fortunes with less.”

“That’s the spirit, milady,” Abigail encouraged, her youthful face brightening. “And you paint like an angel. Surely there are those who would pay handsomely for your talent.”

Sophia sipped her tea, allowing the familiar ritual to calm her frayed nerves. “Perhaps. Though I fear it will take more than a few charming watercolors to satisfy Lord Shropshire’s demands.”

The mere utterance of the man’s name sent a shiver of distaste through her slender frame. Silas Fletcher, Earl of Shropshire, had emerged from the shadows of Gilbert’s past like a vengeful specter, brandishing promissory notes signed in moments of desperate folly across gaming tables in London and Brussels.

“Two thousand pounds,” Sophia murmured, the sum still as shocking as when she’d first learned of it. “Gilbert must have been mad with desperation to wager such an amount.”

“Or deep in his cups,” Abigail added with uncharacteristic bitterness. “Begging yer pardon, milady, but the late master had no head for spirits, nor cards neither.”

“No,” Sophia agreed softly. “No, he had not.”

Gilbert Sinclair had possessed a kind heart and gentle manner but the same yielding nature that made him an amiable husband had rendered him fatally susceptible to vice. Their marriage had been brief and childless, leaving Sophia without even the security of an heir to safeguard some portion of the estate.

The rain intensified, drumming against the roof with increasing urgency. Sophia moved to the hearth where a modest fire struggled against the damp chill that had invaded the old manor house. Most rooms now stood empty, their furnishings sold to satisfy the more reasonable creditors.

The few servants who had not already sought positions elsewhere had been dismissed with only the references Sophia could provide, leaving herself and loyal Abigail to rattle about the echoing corridors.

“I’ve finished organizing your painting supplies, milady,” Abigail reported, gathering the tea things with practiced efficiency. “Everything is packed as you requested. Though I confess I don’t quite understand why we’re leaving for the countryside estate when it’s in even worse repair than this one.”

“Because each day we remain here costs more than we can afford,” Sophia explained, her green eyes reflecting the dancing flames. “The country house is smaller, more manageable, and crucially, much further from Lord Shropshire’s regular haunts. Distance may not deter him indefinitely, but it shall buy us precious time.”

Abigail nodded, though her expression betrayed lingering concern. “And you truly believe we can raise two thousand pounds through your painting?”

“Not immediately, no,” Sophia admitted. “But I’ve written to several acquaintances in Devon and London. Surely among them, someone must know of a respectable position for a lady of reduced circumstances but considerable artistic education.”

The very thought of seeking employment would have scandalized her mother, whose rigid adherence to propriety had shaped Sophia’s girlhood. A gentleman’s daughter, subsequently a gentleman’s wife, did not soil her hands with trade. Yet necessity had a remarkable way of sweeping aside such niceties. Better to work with dignity than to surrender to Shropshire’s increasingly improper suggestions.

“You’ve a gift that few possess, milady,” Abigail asserted with fierce conviction. “Why, I remember how Lady Harrington herself declared your portrait of her daughter the finest likeness she’d ever seen.”

Sophia smiled at the memory. “Let us hope her ladyship’s praise translates to practical recommendations. I shall need more than compliments if we are to survive.”

The mantel clock chimed three, its elegant tone incongruously genteel amid their reduced circumstances. Sophia straightened her shoulders, drawing strength from the simple action. The daughter of Baron Talbot would not be defeated by misfortune, however dire. She had weathered her mother’s early death, her father’s subsequent neglect, and a marriage entered with clear-eyed pragmatism rather than romantic illusion.

She would weather this storm as well, even as the waters rose ever higher around her.

The sharp report of the door knocker shattered the momentary peace, its commanding rhythm unmistakable even from the drawing room. Sophia and Abigail exchanged a glance of mutual dread.

“It’s him again,” Abigail whispered, her freckled face paling. “That’s his knock, sure as I’m standing here.”

“Perhaps if we remain quiet, he will assume the house empty,” Sophia suggested, though she harbored little hope of such a fortunate outcome. Lord Shropshire was not a man easily discouraged, particularly when pursuit of his desires coincided with his financial interests.

The knocking ceased abruptly, replaced by a more ominous sound—the groan of the front door opening unbidden. Heavy footsteps echoed through the entrance hall, accompanied by the distinctive tap of a walking stick against marble.

“I’ll go and send him away, milady,” Abigail declared with more courage than caution, setting down the tea tray and squaring her slender shoulders.

“Abigail, wait—”

But the maid had already slipped from the room, her chin raised in defiance that belied her eighteen years. Sophia followed swiftly, heart hammering against her ribs as she entered the hall in time to witness Abigail ‘s confrontation with their unwelcome visitor.

“The mistress isn’t receiving callers today, my lord,” Abigail stated firmly, positioning her slight frame before the drawing room door. “If you’d be so kind as to leave your card—”

“Stand aside, girl,” Lord Shropshire commanded, his imposing figure swaying slightly as he loomed over the maid. Even at this distance, Sophia could detect the sour reek of spirits emanating from him. “I’ve business with your mistress that won’t wait for the niceties of calling hours.”

Silas Fletcher cut an impressive figure despite his evident intoxication—tall and broad-shouldered, with the military bearing that had served him well on the battlefield and in London’s drawing rooms.

Dark hair swept back from a high forehead, and his features might have been handsome were they not marred by the perpetual sneer that twisted his mouth. His scarlet regimentals, adorned with the medals that proclaimed his valor, seemed calculated to remind all who encountered him of his heroic service to king and country.

“My lord,” Sophia stepped forward, unwilling to allow Abigail to bear the brunt of his displeasure. “This is most irregular. Gentlemen do not force their way into ladies’ homes, regardless of any business between them.”

Shropshire’s gaze swept over her with insolent appraisal, lingering on the modest swell of her bosom beneath her morning dress . The familiar scrutiny made her skin crawl, though she maintained the serene countenance that had become her armor in society.

“Ah, the lovely widow emerges,” he drawled, executing a mocking bow that sent him teetering precariously before he righted himself with the aid of his walking stick. “Forgive the intrusion, Lady Sinclair, but when one’s letters go unanswered, one must resort to direct methods.”

“I have answered your correspondence, my lord,” Sophia countered coolly. “I explained that while I acknowledge my late husband’s debt to you, I require time to arrange payment.”

“Time,” he spat the word as though it offended him. “Time is a luxury afforded to those who possess either wealth or youth and beauty sufficient to barter for patience. You, my dear Lady Sinclair, are fortunate to retain the latter two in abundance.”

Abigail stiffened beside Sophia, her indignation palpable. “Sir! You forget yourself!”

“Abigail,” Sophia cautioned quietly, placing a restraining hand on the girl’s arm. “Lord Shropshire is just leaving. Aren’t you, my lord?”

Instead of retreating, Shropshire advanced further into the hall, his walking stick tapping an ominous cadence against the floor. The medals on his chest clinked softly with each step, reminders of the esteem in which society held him despite his personal defects.

“I find myself increasingly disinclined to leave empty-handed,” he remarked, his gaze roving the depleted entrance hall where bare patches on the wall marked the absence of once-treasured paintings. “Though I see little of value remaining in this mausoleum. Sinclair truly left you nothing but debts, didn’t he?”

The casual cruelty of his observation stung, though Sophia refused to grant him the satisfaction of a visible reaction. “My financial circumstances are not a subject for discussion, my lord. Now, if you would be so good as to depart, I—”

“Two thousand pounds, Lady Sinclair,” he interrupted, his voice dropping to a silken murmur that was somehow more menacing than a shout. “A substantial sum, to be sure, but one that need not be paid in coin alone.”

His meaning could not have been plainer had he spelled it out in the crudest terms. Heat flooded Sophia’s cheeks—not the becoming blush of maiden modesty, but the burning flush of outrage.

“You insult me, sir,” she stated, each word precise as the strike of a small hammer. “And you dishonor both your rank and my late husband’s memory with such implications.”

Shropshire laughed; the sound devoid of genuine mirth. “Your husband thought nothing of wagering such a sum against me, madam. I merely offer an alternative method of settlement that might prove... mutually satisfying.”

“Get out,” Abigail burst forth, Scottish temper overriding deference to rank. “Before I summon the constable!”

“With what servants, little maid?” Shropshire taunted, his gaze flicking dismissively to Abigail . “I passed no footmen in the drive, no stable boys at the mews. You are alone here, save for your mistress—a fact not unknown in the village, I assure you.”

The subtle threat within his observation chilled Sophia’s blood. They were indeed vulnerable, two women alone in a house too large to secure properly, too isolated for immediate assistance should the need arise.

“Nevertheless, you will leave now,” Sophia commanded, drawing herself up to her full height. “Whatever claim you hold against my husband’s estate, it grants you no license to violate the sanctity of my home or my person.”

Something dangerous flickered in Shropshire’s eyes—a momentary glimpse of the brutality that likely served him well on the battlefield but had no place in civilized society. For a breath, Sophia feared he might disregard all propriety and seize her then and there.

Instead, he withdrew a silver flask from inside his coat and took a long pull, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a gesture that revealed the coarseness beneath his lordly title.

“You have one month, Lady Sinclair,” he announced, returning the flask to his pocket. “One month to produce the sum owed, after which I shall be forced to pursue more... vigorous methods of collection.”

“The courts…” Sophia began, but his harsh laugh cut her short.

“The courts will most certainly favor a man of my standing, foolish girl. Your husband’s signature on those promissory notes is incontestable. And should you flee…” his gaze swept meaningfully over her figure once more, “I assure you, I shall find you. England is not so large that a woman of your... distinctive charms can disappear without trace.”

With that parting threat, he executed another mocking bow and strode toward the door, pausing on the threshold to deliver a final barb. “A month, Lady Sinclair. Consider my alternative offer in the interim. You might find it the more palatable option, in the end.”

The door slammed behind him with such force that dust sifted from the neglected chandelier overhead. Sophia released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her composure finally fracturing as she sagged against the nearest wall.

“Of all the vile, despicable—” Abigail sputtered, trembling with indignation. “To suggest that you—that a lady such as yourself would—”

“Peace, Abigail,” Sophia murmured, though her own hands shook as she smoothed her skirts. “Lord Shropshire’s behavior, while reprehensible, is hardly surprising. Men of his ilk have long viewed women of reduced circumstances as legitimate prey.”

“He ought to be horsewhipped,” Abigail declared, her brogue thickening with emotion. “War hero or nay, no gentleman speaks to a lady so!”

“Which merely confirms what I have long suspected—that Lord Shropshire, despite his title and medals, is no gentleman at all.” Sophia straightened, determination replacing fear as the initial shock of the encounter receded. “His visit only confirms the wisdom of our planned departure. We must accelerate our preparations.”