Wondering Sight (The Extraordinaries Book 2)

by Melissa McShane

  The man released her. “What are you doing here, Mrs. Westlake?” Mr. Rutledge said.

  In which there is an unhappy revelation

  ophia gasped. “What am I doing here? What are you doing here?” she exclaimed, forgetting to speak quietly.

  “At the moment, wishing I had sent Stewart on this errand,” he said in his low rumble. “You are the last person I would have expected to find in this place, though I realize as I say those words that it makes perfect sense for you to be here.”

  Sophia rubbed her arm where he had grasped it. “I am here because I wanted to know why my Vision failed,” she said. “You have no such excuse.”

  “No, I don’t,” he said. “Why don’t we leave before someone notices the activity going on behind these windows?”

  Sophia didn’t budge. “You were surprised to find me here, which means you were not following me,” she said, “and you certainly do not live in this part of London, so you were not investigating a potential burglary near your home. So why are you here?”

  Mr. Rutledge rubbed the bridge of his nose. “My men were watching this building because of your Dream,” he said. “Because it proved so—my apologies—so dramatically wrong, I became suspicious, and determined to watch for anyone approaching this office who might know the truth. I did not consider that you might also be interested in knowing why your Dream had failed, nor that you might pursue that interest directly.”

  “Your men? Watching the building? How do you know of my Dream? Mr. Rutledge, are you with the Bow Street Runners?”

  Mr. Rutledge walked toward the window and leaned heavily on the ledge. “No,” he said, “I work for the Bank of England.”

  Sophia gaped. “But you…” Too many words crowded into her head. “You said you worked for the government!”

  “No, Mrs. Westlake, that was a conclusion you drew. I apologize for allowing that misapprehension to stand, but correcting it would have meant revealing the truth, which, as I said, I was not at liberty to do.”

  “But the Bank—then you are pursuing the forgers!” Sophia put a hand on the bedframe to steady herself against the startling revelation. “Is this what you wanted me to do? To work for the Bank of England?”

  “Ultimately, yes. It was clear to me that one of the counterfeiters is a Seer because they are always two or three steps ahead of me. I wanted to enlist you to counter that person.”

  “Then why all the mystery? It is surely no secret that the Bank has a committee supervising those who pursue forgers on their behalf. Your identity need not be concealed.”

  “The Bank hired me,” Mr. Rutledge said, “because I have previous experience, in a somewhat different capacity, exposing criminal organizations. I do not, however, have any experience in banking, and for me to be publicly associated with the Bank would raise questions I cannot afford to answer. As I said, I wish you had not discovered me. Though I believe I know you well enough to trust you will tell no one of our encounter.”

  I know you. He had said that before, when they had first met. All their interactions, every one of their conversations, presented themselves to Sophia for reevaluation, and she wanted to weep. “You used me,” she whispered.

  “What was that, Mrs. Westlake?”

  “You used me!” she shouted. “You—all those conversations where we spoke of money and forgery and the consequences—you gave me information knowing I would Dream about it and would have to act on it! I told you I would not work for you, and you found a way to trick me into doing so!”

  Mr. Rutledge turned to look at her. “I gave you that information because it was obvious it mattered to you,” he said. “Sir Arthur Rowley sends copies of all reports relating to my task on to me, and that includes your Dreams. I was certainly not going to throw that away simply because you refused my offer.”

  “And am I to believe you were simply a disinterested party, altruistically helping poor deluded Mrs. Westlake with whatever mad obsession has her in its clutches?” Sophia said. “I am certain that makes a comforting lie you can tell yourself when your conscience bothers you, not that I believe you have one.”

  “That is not what I think of you,” Mr. Rutledge said, swiftly crossing the room to take her arm again, roughly. “I have the greatest respect for your abilities. I—” He looked down at where he held her and released her arm. “I knew, if this last Dream of yours seemed false, something was wrong. The counterfeiters made it seem this was a lodging house, didn’t they? They wanted to steer you wrong, or make you seem unreliable, or both. They failed to do so.

  “Mrs. Westlake, don’t you see what we could accomplish if we work together? I have no idea why you chose to pursue these counterfeiters, but I can give you every resource at my command to continue that pursuit. And it would give me great pleasure to share my work with you. Please reconsider.”

  It was hard to see his expression in the moonlight, but he sounded sincere. She had thought him genuinely sincere, all those times he had sought her out. What was the truth, now? She recalled what she had considered in the carriage, how she had thought so fondly of him, and humiliation surged through her. How could he possibly care anything for her, if he could trick her so?

  “You took advantage of me,” she said, barely keeping a quaver out of her voice, “and used my Dreams for your own purposes. You befriended me so you could more easily give me information that would create more of those Dreams you needed so much.”

  Mr. Rutledge took her arm again, this time gently. “No,” he said, “I assure you, my friendship for you is genuine. And I…”

  He took a step closer, apparently searching for more words. She wrenched away from him. “Save your assurances,” she said bitterly. “You cannot possibly expect me to believe you now.”

  “Would it have made a difference had I told you from the beginning who my employer was?”

  “I would…” She looked up at him, at the shadowed pools his eyes were in the dimness, and felt a great weariness descend upon her. “No,” she said. “It would have been more honorable, but I still would have refused your offer. As I refuse it again now.”

  “Why? Tell me the truth, Mrs. Westlake. Why are you pursuing these counterfeiters? Why not work with me to do so?”

  Half an hour earlier, ten minutes earlier, she would have told him the truth about Lord Endicott. Now she could not bear the thought of him looking at her again with disdain or pity. “You did not trust me,” she said. “And I cannot trust you.”

  She turned away from him and walked down the stairs, their creaks now sounding like the wails of the damned, high and long. He didn’t follow her.

  Exiting through the window, trying to find her footing on that unstable pile of brick and board she had created, struck her as ludicrous. She left by the front door and went down the street toward where Peter waited with the carriage, not caring that she was walking alone. The men she passed either could sense her pain and humiliation or could not be bothered to molest her, because no one tried to stop her. She only remembered about halfway to the carriage that she had left the lantern behind in the “lodging house.” Mr. Rutledge could have it for all she cared.

  Peter was still sitting on the driver’s seat, huddled into his coat and scarf as if he were trying to hibernate. “Take me home, please,” she said, remembering the “please” almost as an afterthought. She had good manners. She could be polite. She would never use her friendship with someone to gain the use of that person’s talent.

  The ill feeling had turned into a rocky lump in her stomach. She swiped at her eyes, inwardly cursing how her tears spotted the silk. She had thought him her friend, and he had turned that friendship against her. No, he was not a friend, but someone much dearer to her than that. Forget about love, she told herself, you do not love him, but she knew she was lying. In love with a man who believed her obsessive and unstable; how much greater a fool could she be?

  She leaned her head against the yielding fabric of the carriage top and closed her eyes. S
he had no idea what time it was. The way this evening was going, it was possible she would return home to find Lewis and Cecy already there, Cecy worried or angry or disappointed at her absence, and she would have to explain where she’d gone, and then Cecy really would be furious. Yes, that would be the perfect ending to this day.

  The house was still and dark when she returned, and when she reached her bedchamber, Cecy was not waiting within, demanding an explanation for Sophia’s absence. Relief made her weary, and she undressed in the darkness, feeling too tired to light the lamp.

  Safely in her bed, she stared up at the distant ceiling and pondered what she had learned. Lord Endicott’s Seer had created a false Dream for her; that should be impossible. And yet… the mystery man, the black-haired man who was almost certainly one of Lord Endicott’s associates, and an important one, he had not been false; she had been seeking him out since his existence was first hinted at in Dream. So at least the Seer could not generate entire Dreams; she could only manipulate the circumstances of true ones to trick Sophia. And that would not happen again.

  Because she can make my Dreams evaporate before I See them, she thought, and rolled over to put the pillow over her head again. This Seer, whoever she was, had a tremendous advantage over Sophia, and now that she was alone and heartsick and exhausted in her bed, Sophia had difficulty not falling into despair. In the morning, she told herself, and forced herself to fall asleep.

  “You were much missed at the dinner party last night,” Cecy said. “The Peabodys—” She stopped abruptly and took an overly-large bite of egg.

  “Yes?” Sophia said, though in truth she did not care about the Peabodys, who were shallow and not very bright and no doubt only missed Sophia because of the social cachet she would have brought to their gathering. She took a bite of her own egg, which had grown cold, and willed her incipient headache to vanish.

  “It was nothing,” Cecy said.

  Sophia laid down her spoon and stared Cecy down. “It did not sound like nothing.”

  Cecy shrugged. “They made such fools of themselves, asking after your health every other minute, and Mrs. Peabody talking of ‘dear Sophia’ as if you were bosom friends. I found it amusing, but you seem not to be in the mood for humorous stories.”

  “Very humorous indeed. How glad I am I did not attend. Though, naturally, if I had been there, Mrs. Peabody would have insinuated herself into every conversation I attempted to have, laughing that horrible whining laugh like having icicles driven into one’s skull. I wonder that we put up with them at all.”

  “They are foolish, but not evil, Sophy,” Cecy said, “and I believe they are more to be pitied than hated.”

  Sophia scowled. “You are far too sweet, Cecy.”

  “And you are far too out of sorts this morning. Did you not sleep well?” Cecy paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, then laid it down, precisely bisecting her plate. “You did not spend the night in Dream, did you?”

  “I did not, and you may stop looking at me that way.” Sophia retrieved her spoon and took another bite of lukewarm egg.

  “I fail to see how you can know how I am looking at you, since you refuse to meet my eyes. Sophy, you promised.”

  “I had but one Dream last night,” Sophia lied, “and then I slept poorly, and now my head aches, and I wish you would leave off accusing me of things I promised you I would not do!”

  Cecy was silent. Sophia risked a glance at her and saw her lips were set and white with anger. “Do not lash out at me simply because I am concerned for you,” she said. “You are not being honest with me. Sophia, seeing Lord Endicott punished is not worth it if you must destroy yourself to accomplish it!”

  “I am not destroying myself. I am being careful. He is simply a difficult quarry to run to ground, that is all.”

  “You have a history of not knowing when you are close to destruction. You make promises, and you intend to keep them, I know you do, but your passion drives you beyond what you can bear. Sophy, perhaps this quest of yours is a bad idea.”

  “How, bad, when it will bring an evil man to justice? Can you truly say that outcome is a bad idea?”

  Cecy leaned forward as if she wished to take Sophia by the shoulders and shake her. “If it ruins your health, how is it worth that price? And is it not a little prideful to insist you are the only one who can reveal Lord Endicott’s crimes? Someone will find him out. It need not be you.”

  “Cecy—” Sophia felt as if her friend had struck her. “I, prideful?”

  “You have a powerful talent. It makes sense you would take pride in it. But you are not omnipotent, Sophy. Let this go. Please. Even if only for a few days, perhaps a week.”

  Sophia shoved her chair back and stood, feeling her hands shake. “I thought you understood,” she said. “The world believes the façade he displays. No one even thinks to look for evildoing beneath that beautiful face. If not I… there is no one else, Cecy! How can you not see this?”

  Cecy regarded her calmly, the clenched muscles of her jaw the only sign that this was not a normal conversation. “I see my dearest friend in danger of tearing herself apart,” she said. “How can you not see I cannot bear to watch that happen?”

  Sophia turned and strode out of the breakfast room, pushing the door open with so much force that it struck the wall and rebounded in her face. She stormed up the stairs and to her room, where she again flung the door open with a satisfying thump. She paced, trying to control her anger. Cecy understood nothing. She was in no danger from Dream; she had pushed herself a little too far last night, but that was in pursuit of important knowledge, and it would not happen again. She would find a way to counter that Seer, and then she would find the black-haired man, and he would lead her to Lord Endicott, and she would have vengeance.

  She eyed her bed, but her head still pounded, and it was unlikely she would be able to enter Dream at all, let alone find a productive one. She did not want to face Cecy right now; she did not want to go riding, or to the shops, or to visit people. Her head hurt enough that reading or sewing seemed like too much work. And—she groaned—the Duchess of Lenshire was expecting a Vision tonight, and if Sophia sent her regrets, the woman might very well come to Cecy’s house and demand the reason for it. She sat on the edge of her bed and massaged her temples. Why could not the world simply run the way she wanted for once?

  Someone knocked on her door. Beeton entered, and said, “Lady Daphne is here; shall I have Simon show her to the drawing room, or are you indisposed, ma’am?”

  Sophia began to shake her head, then changed her mind. “Tell her I will join her directly,” she said, then squeezed her eyes shut and willed her headache away. Daphne’s chatter might make it worse, but she could not bear being alone with her thoughts for one more instant.

  “Oh, Sophia, you look unwell—you should have said something, I could return another time,” Daphne said, rising from the sofa when Sophia entered the drawing room. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and her blond hair was, as usual, in some disarray.

  Sophia said, “Did you Bound here, or ride?”

  “Oh, I took the carriage, I still cannot Bound to a room as crowded—though it’s not the kind of crowded you probably imagine, it’s different for Extraordinary Bounders, it’s just that its essence is complicated, but in any case I would not Bound into the hallway downstairs, which—yes, I could Bound there, but it’s so impolite, bursting into someone’s home without an invitation—”

  “Sit down, Daphne, and we will have tea,” Sophia said. The fire was a little low, so she poked at it and stretched out her hand as if to caress the flames that leaped up. Daphne sat down in a chair near the fireplace and warmed her own hands.

  “I came to invite you to our Christmas dinner, as you are family—the house is rather full now of relatives of all sorts,” Daphne said. “Papa always likes to have the table crowded round with people, so there are relations we only see once a year—it’s exciting, actually, except for Uncle Ernest, who like
s to pinch my bottom—I can Skip away from him though, so it’s not as if I really mind, except he—really, how dare he take such liberties! But I told Mama you would probably want to dine with the Barhams, so you needn’t feel obligated.”

  “I thank you for the invitation, but yes, I intend to dine here,” Sophia said, feeling a spark of anger at Cecy that for the briefest moment made her consider Daphne’s invitation seriously. “Please do thank Lady Claresby for me.”

  “I will,” Daphne said, turning away from the fireplace as a maid came in with the tea tray. “Oh, I do love a cup of tea on a snowy day like this! Though I hear it will not last—not that it matters to me in my work, but I am sure all those poor horses pulling hackneys would prefer not to drive through the snow. Sophia, are you certain you’re well? Because you—or is it rude to say you look as if you haven’t slept in days? That’s how you look, anyway.”

  “I am quite well, Daphne,” Sophia said irritably. This was a bad idea. Daphne was so unrelentingly cheerful, it made Sophia wish her anywhere but the Barhams’ drawing room. “I wish people would stop commenting on my appearance.”

  “Who—has Mrs. Barham said something, too? I’m sure she’s only concerned for you. Have you been Dreaming much lately? That would explain it, you don’t get any rest in Dream, at least that’s what Viola says—”

  “I have not been Dreaming too much, and will you leave off chattering at me!” Sophia said.

  Daphne set her teacup down and regarded Sophia closely. “Yes, you have,” she said, sounding distant, as if her thoughts were coming to her from a great distance and she had to work at reaching them. “You have been Dreaming several times a night. It’s interfering with your sleep, I can tell. You have this tense look to your eyes, and you keep tapping your fingers on the arm of the sofa as if you’re only waiting for me to leave so you can get back to something more interesting. But what—” She leaned forward. “You are pursuing Lord Endicott, aren’t you? You want to bring him to justice!”