“Including suggesting she marries you?” inquired Theo.
“I do not deny it.” With a shrug, Peregrine sat down at the table. “I’m a notable figure in society and, while Sophie’s not as up to snuff as I’d like her to be, and possesses an unfortunate degree of
spirit, I’d soon bring her to heel.” Theo ground his teeth.
“My mother thought it would be a good match and I agreed,” continued Peregrine blithely. “Sophie’s a pretty package, but if she will have none of it I’ll be dashed if I’ll press the issue now.” He offered Theo a wink. “Matter of fact, been thinking about it this evening. It’ll need further discussion, of course, but I can’t see why she shouldn’t be allowed to go to London if that’s what she wants. I’ll talk my mother round to the notion tomorrow.”
Mr Grey glanced up at this, but stayed silent, shuffling the deck of cards he had drawn from his pocket.
“Indeed?” observed Theo, in a dry voice. “This is an abrupt volte-face. A short time ago you were demanding Miss Devereux return home.”
Peregrine shrugged again. “Perhaps my anger at pursuing the little baggage made me hasty. Now I have had time to consider, dragging her back immediately might not be the best course. Show a filly like Sophie too much whip and she’ll bolt. She needs more skilful handling to break her in.” He smiled genially then at both men, rubbing his hands together, his protuberant eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Now shall we begin? What say you to vingt-etun, Luc?”
Grey nodded his agreement and the game commenced.
Later, Theo realized with dissatisfaction that he was no wiser. Sloane’s propitious mood had continued. He had won well and drunk steadily, but not enough to let his tongue run on too much. He had not mentioned Sophie again.
Grey had been drinking, too, but with no obvious effects. Theo, who had had drunk sparingly to remain watchful, observed him through narrowed eyes. Mr Grey was acting as banker and Theo was astounded by the man’s capacity to stay sober after sharing three bottles of wine with Peregrine. There was no tremor in the hands dealing the cards and his gaze was as perceptive as ever. Only a touch of heightened colour on his cheekbones and a loosened cravat gave a clue to his potations.
Theo was as certain as he could be that Grey had let Peregrine win several times, but whether this was through Grey dealing Sloane an advantageous hand or by Grey throwing in his own cards early, he could not tell. Grey was an expert and Theo, well versed in the ways of card sharps, detected no flaw in his play or his dealing. His expression remained the same whether he was winning or losing. His speech was still precise; no slurred or stammered syllable was uttered. His conversation was sparse, but what he did say was intelligent and witty and raised the occasional boisterous laugh from Peregrine, who was red-faced and sprawled back in his chair.
“I’ll bet ten,” said Peregrine, frowning over his cards.
“Double it.” Grey slid some of the gold coins at his elbow into the centre of the table.
Sighing, Theo threw his cards down. “I’m out.”
Peregrine flicked a triumphant look at his companions and spread his cards out on the table. “Vingt-et-un!” he announced gleefully. “Luc?”
Peregrine’s eyes glittered when he saw Grey held the ten of diamonds and ten of clubs. He slapped his palm on the table in delight. “Ha! Upon my word, if I haven’t won again! I’ve had the devil’s own luck tonight.” Cupping his hands together, he drew the coins towards him before stowing them in his pockets.
Peregrine stood up and lurched heavily towards the table, gripping it for support. “Well, gentlemen,” he drawled, beaming idiotically at them, “Thank you for a pleasant evening. It’s time I retired before my good fortune runs out. Wish you both g’night.” He gave a ragged bow and zig-zagged out of the room, knocking over a chair in the process. Moments later, he could be heard staggering up the stairs.
“I’ll be off to bed, too,” murmured Lucius Grey, collecting up his remaining coins. “It’s been a long day.”
“An eventful one, certainly,” said Theo, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He looked across the table at his companion. “Do you know Sloane well? He seemed remarkably pleasant tonight, very different from his demeanour when he arrived. I wonder if he is usually given to capricious moods.”
“I know him enough not to trust him, drunk or sober,” replied Grey.
“He’s well and truly jug-bitten. Surprised he can stand up.”
Mr Grey gave Theo a long, assessing look. “Look in the coal scuttle.”
“Eh?” Theo stared at him, a puzzled crease between his brows.
His companion nodded in the direction of the hearth. “The coal scuttle. Peregrine was sitting next to it. Take a look.”
Theo jumped to his feet and peered into the copper scuttle. A small pool of wine surrounded the coal in the bottom.
“What the deuce—!” Theo jerked his head up. “Did Sloane put that in there? When?”
“When he thought we were studying our cards,” observed his companion. “He tipped in a third of his glass at regular intervals. He’s not as foxed as he would have us believe.”
“To what purpose?”
Mr Grey pursed his lips contemplatively. “An old trick, Mr Cavanagh. If you think your opponent is drunk, it encourages you to lower your guard.”
“So he could cheat?”
“Probably. I cannot, for the moment at least, think of another motive.”
Theo gasped. He was amazed by Peregrine’s sleight of hand. He was even more amazed Grey had spotted it. The man carried his wine remarkably well.
“How did you stay sober? You’ve had the same amount as
Sloane.”
Grey smiled. “I am a tad disguised, but nothing of consequence. I topped up my glass whenever I had drunk half its contents. That also gives the illusion you are drinking more. I would have preferred not to, but it was important that Sloane relaxed—” He halted, and then continued in a voice of careful selfcontrol. “I must be more drunk than I thought. Excuse me, Cavanagh. I’ll take myself off to bed and hope for an undisturbed night, although I’m not sanguine about that.”
Theo gave him a sharp look. “Why?”
“Instinct.”
With this succinct response, Mr Grey got to his feet and slid his remaining coins into his pocket.
“I’m for bed too,” said Theo, with a sigh. “There’s a deuce of a mess to sort out tomorrow and, despite Sloane’s words, I’m not sure his mother will agree to Miss Devereux going to London. I don’t trust the fellow.”
Grey gave him a searching look. “What makes you think you can trust me?” he drawled softly, before sauntering out.
Chapter 7
Sophie lay in bed, still wide awake. Earlier, a large moth had flown in through the window. She hated moths, particularly the large furry-bodied variety with which this part of Berkshire seemed overpopulated. The warm night and candlelight had brought an army of them fluttering against the window pane and before she could fasten the latch, the biggest, most hirsute member of the advance party had slipped in and taken delight in tormenting her.
It had danced around her head, making her heart pound like a drum. This irrational terror had been with her since childhood and Sophie knew she could not relax, let alone sleep, until the creature was out of the room.
Resisting the urge to get under the bedclothes and lie there quivering like a jelly, she had somehow managed to usher the moth out. Then she snuffed the candle and climbed between the sheets, only to discover the encounter had ended any immediate possibility of sleep. So she plumped up her pillow, drew back the curtain a little way to let the moon spill in its silvery hue and glanced around the shadowy room.
It was of a good size and boasted a large, comfortable feather bed, hung with blue silk curtains and covered with a thick quilt. The other furniture consisted of several chairs, the dressing table and a wash-stand complete with jug and basin, lavender-scented soap and two cloths. An old fashioned mahogany wardr
obe sat in the alcove on the opposite wall. Despite the warm evening, the remains of a fire glowed in the grate.
Having set out this morning in a cheerful mood, Sophie’s spirits were now low. She was as determined as ever to reach London, and there had been no other way of getting to Bath quickly and unobserved, but even so she regretted behaving in a manner which Theo must think impetuous and foolish. Not content with that, she had embroiled him in a brawl.
He must think her lost to any notion of ladylike conduct, worlds away from the refined young women he was accustomed to. Oh, he might find her unsophisticated ways amusing for a while—he might even want to alleviate the tedium of the journey with a little romantic dalliance—but nothing more. She didn’t possess a title, nor was she rich, elegant or accomplished. All she had brought to Theo Cavanagh’s life was havoc.
A blush stole over her face as she recalled her reaction to him. She had never experienced anything like it before. She had almost kissed him in the parlour and would have done so but for Perry’s arrival. Sophie nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip, considering why this should be so. Perhaps she felt an exaggerated sense of gratitude, or had been caught up in the thrill of being away from Ludstone? Whatever the reason, she needed to concentrate on James and forget her rescuer, admittedly not an easy task when he seemed to be always in her thoughts.
Sophie did not relish tomorrow’s confrontation with her aunt and Peregrine. She lamented the early discovery of her escape but, in her heart, she had always known they would not give up easily. She refused to bow to Eudora or Perry’s demands and there was little they could do about it now, short of physically abducting her. Theo would never let that happen. He might consider her a nuisance, but he had promised he would escort her to London and he was a man of his word.
And what of the mysterious Mr Grey? He reminded Sophie of an engraving of a panther she had once seen in a book: lean, dark and unpredictable, a predator with a hint of danger clinging to him. She could not bring herself to trust him, despite Olivia’s inclination to give him the benefit of the doubt. It was also wise to watch any friend of Perry’s. He did not keep the best company.
The silence surrounding her was profound. Sophie’s room was at the end of the passageway, too far from the stairs to hear conversation drifting up from below. There was no murmur of voices or footsteps outside her door, nor even the rumble of carriage wheels in the courtyard outside. It was eerily quiet.
She tried closing her eyes and in her mind’s eye saw Theo standing before her, bright amusement in his eyes as she told him about the moth. Then, he laughed, a throaty, seductive sound, before he caught her in his arms and began to kiss her, slowly and thoroughly. A pleasurable moan escaped her.
Sophie’s eyes flew open in shock. Pressing her hands to her cheeks in an effort to subdue the colour burning there, she wished she could subdue the strange, warm ache inside her as easily.
Stop this, she told herself sternly. Her aunt must be right in one respect—she was utterly without propriety. Such fantasies were inappropriate for a lady, especially one going to meet her sweetheart.
She tried and failed to conjure up a clear image of James‘s face. She had not seen him for years and his boyish good looks must have developed into the leaner, sharper, if still handsome, features of a man. A man she did not know, true enough, but that would soon be remedied and meeting James again would put an end to this foolish fascination with Theo Cavanagh. She seized on the thought and, yawning, felt her eyelids begin to droop. She turned on her side, letting the feather bed and quilt billow around her in a cocoon of warmth.
She awoke with a start some time later. She had no idea how long she had been asleep, but the room was in darkness. The glow from the embers had died and the moon had disappeared behind clouds. Something had roused her, she was certain of it. Raising herself up on one elbow, Sophie listened. She peered into the sepulchral gloom, her senses telling her she was no longer alone. Surely that was impossible when the door was locked? It was only then she remembered that in her hurry to get the moth out, she had forgotten to turn the key.
The creak of a floorboard from the far side of the room seemed to confirm her suspicions. She thought she could discern the outline of a figure. With shaking fingers she groped for the tinder-box on the table. Before she could find it, the sound of a stealthy footfall reached her ears.
“Who’s there?” she whispered.
There was no reply and Sophie hesitated, wondering if the darkness, tiredness and her imagination were playing tricks on her.
Another floorboard creaked, closer this time and when she heard someone stumble, she knew she had not been mistaken. She jerked into a sitting position, only to be flung backwards a moment later when she was pushed down on to the bed. A heavy weight crushed her, forcing the air from her lungs. Frantic terror surged in her chest as she tore at the fingers around her throat and clawed at the gloved hand clamped over her mouth. Blood roared in her ears and she struggled to breathe, writhing and kicking in an attempt to break free.
With unconsciousness fast approaching, she stopped struggling and let her body go limp. This abrupt change had the desired effect. The long fingers relaxed slightly, allowing her to fill her lungs and slide one hand under the pillow. Her fingers found and closed around the cornflower pin, and she drew it out in one smooth movement, jabbing the point into her assailant’s arm with as much force as she could muster, acknowledging with grim satisfaction the resistance as it met with flesh.
Her attacker fell back with a grunt. The bed curtains rustled and quick footsteps followed. A shadow was briefly silhouetted against the glimmer of light from the doorway. It was gone just as quickly and she caught the sound of the key grating in the lock.
Sophie scrambled out of bed. Shaken, she dropped the hat pin on the table with a clatter and found the tinderbox, knocking her reticule to the floor in the process.
It took three attempts to light the candle because her fingers were trembling so much. She lifted the candle up to see the bandbox containing her clothes had been opened and its contents strewn around the floor. Now shivering uncontrollably from head to toe, she stumbled to the door and turned the handle.
Nothing happened.
She fumbled for the key, only to find it was missing. Her assailant had locked her in from the outside.
Sophie’s abraded nerves tumbled over the edge. She banged her hand against the door several times, opened her mouth and, despite her dislike of histrionics, did something she had not done since she was a child and found herself stuck in the attic with a large moth. She let out a long, piercing scream.
Theo was stretched out on his bed, both hands behind his head and staring into mid-distance. He had removed his boots, but was still in his shirt and breeches. He couldn’t sleep.
Sophie haunted him day and night. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was like an illness, but one bringing both pleasure and pain. Her smile, the look in her eyes, her voice, her wonderful low and free laugh, her expressions, the way she sometimes tilted her head when she was about to speak…everything about her called out to something in him, a part of his soul he had not known existed until she had, literally, fallen into his life. Now he felt her everywhere, with his body and his mind. The need to be near her was overwhelming and the memory of her delectable figure pressed against him made his body pulse with need. Restless and full of longing, he ground his fist into the mattress in an agony of frustration.
A blood curdling scream ripped through the silence.
Knowing instinctively it was Sophie, he leapt off the bed and, cursing, pulled on his boots and snatched his pistol from the table. There was enough light from the lamp to see his way and he ran the intervening yards to her room. In the background, other occupants of the inn were stirring. A few cracked open their doors and peeked outside. They too had been awakened by the scream and were anxious to know what was afoot.
Theo tried Sophie’s door. It was locked. He put his ear to the panel and
said in an urgent voice, “Sophie! Are you alright? What the deuce has happened?”
Her voice floated back from the other side of the door. “Thank goodness! I was so frightened. Someone was in my room. They tried to kill me, I think…I-I don’t know because it all happened so quickly. I’m not hurt—I managed to fight them off— but they escaped.”
He swore fluently and profusely. “Let me in!”
“I can’t! The door is locked from the outside…whoever it was must have taken away the key.”
“Stand back then. I’ll see if I can shear the lock off.”
Theo grabbed a chair from the passageway and used it as a battering ram. His final thrust was accompanied by a splintering sound as the lock mechanism and upper hinge ripped away from the wood. He kicked at the lower hinge where the door still clung at a drunken angle, sending it crashing to the floor before stepping over the debris into the room.
Sophie rushed to him. “Oh, I’m glad you have come!”
He gathered her into his embrace and she leaned against him, her brow resting against the centre of his chest. Glistening strands of her hair fell over his arms, trapping him in a fine, silken web and he was aware of her curves through the thin fabric of her nightgown. Her warm, scantily-clad body was impossible to resist and, despite their circumstances, desire coursed through him. He fought to contain a need that threatened to rage out of control, berating himself for a scoundrel and trying to redirect his thoughts towards comforting her instead. His hold tightened and he felt her nestle closer, her sobs muffled by his shirt front.
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