What was he thinking, when he looked at her? Surely not that she was weak and helpless; he was too much the gentleman to hold her collapse against her. But he knew she would never agree to work with him, and he probably believed she hated him… but she didn’t hate him, she was angry with him, only she was having trouble hanging on to that anger—
“—so let us begin!” Eleanora said, and Sophia tried to remember the rest of it. Something about a hat—oh, no, she had brought out the old hat with the creased brim no one with any taste would wear, which was why she only used it to hold slips of paper for games. Was it charades? She simply could not remember. Daphne brushed past her, clutching her paper. “Isn’t this fun?” she said, but was gone again before Sophia could acknowledge her.
The crowd pushed her forward to where Eleanora stood, and she dipped her hand into the hat and pulled out a folded paper. It was only women doing the selecting, she realized, and unfolded the paper to read LORD CHUMLEIGH written on it in elegant script. It surprised her that Eleanora had invited him, and surprised her further that he had accepted the invitation. He was not a bad man, but he preferred gambling to dancing, drinking to good conversation, and it was unlikely he would find either of those things here.
“Now, find your partners, ladies!” said Eleanora, and a great giggling went up on all sides. Sophia’s mouth went dry. Partners for what? All around her, women were approaching men and displaying their papers. Well. It was an unorthodox way to choose dance partners, but Sophia could endure Lord Chumleigh for half an hour, then move on to more pleasant pursuits.
Lord Chumleigh was standing near the fireplace, talking to two other young men Sophia knew to also be fond of gambling. He was short, but well-featured, with blond hair arranged neatly around his face and a sprinkling of freckles across his cheeks that made him look like a boy, though he was a year or two older than she. His coat and knee breeches were of the finest make and his neckwear was a starched and folded dream of a cravat that shoved his chin unnaturally high, making him look disdainful. Sophia concealed a smile when she saw his watch fob was almost identical to Lord Endicott’s. He was a bit of a dandy, and completely self-absorbed, but harmless.
She approached him and extended her paper. “I seem to have drawn your name, my lord,” she said.
Lord Chumleigh took the paper from her and examined it with a golden quizzing glass. “You have indeed,” he said. “But I believe I am the winner, Mrs. Westlake.”
“Is this Mrs. Westlake?” one of the other young men said. Aside from having black hair, he was the virtual twin of Lord Chumleigh.
“Hah, Florian, you’re a damned fool if you can’t see the gloves,” the third man said. He was fat where the other two were slim, with the look of a former athlete gone to seed.
Florian scowled. “I meant—”
“Never mind what you meant,” Lord Chumleigh said. He extended his arm to Sophia. “Will you walk with me, Mrs. Westlake?”
“Certainly, my lord.” She expected him to take her to where the couples were lining up for the dance, but there did not seem to be a line forming at all. Lord Chumleigh began strolling around the perimeter of the room, nodding to people but not engaging in conversation. It took Sophia almost half a minute to work out that he was displaying her, as if she were a prize, and then she nearly flung his arm away in her anger. Was this what Eleanora had in mind? She was going to have strong words with the woman later.
“Will the dancing begin later?” she said, thinking It had better be sooner than later, or Eleanora and I will have more than words.
“After the supper,” Lord Chumleigh said. “Gives us more time together, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t understand.”
Lord Chumleigh patted her hand where it lay on his arm. “Partners for the night, you and I! Just as well you drew my name. Anyone else, and a certain someone—” he tapped the side of his nose and winked “—well, he wouldn’t be so understanding of you standing up with anyone but me. Us being such good friends, of course.”
Partners for the night. That explained so much. She was going to pull Eleanora’s hair out by the roots when she got her alone. But certain someone made a different kind of horrible sense. “I believe I am free to partner with whomever I like, my lord,” she said, pretending ignorance.
Lord Chumleigh laughed. “I’ll bet that’s what you tell everyone, isn’t it? Don’t worry, I know it’s a secret. You can trust me not to talk.”
“Can I, my lord?”
“Of course!” He turned her to face him, and she realized he’d had a little, or possibly a lot, to drink before coming here tonight. “Faithful until the end, is what I am. Ivo knows that.”
Sophia closed her eyes and turned her head away so she did not have to inhale his stinking breath. Ivo. Ivo, Lord Endicott. Lord Chumleigh was his good friend. Lord Chumleigh believed she and Lord Endicott were not only attached, but secretly engaged. Sophia wanted to scream, and then beat Lord Chumleigh senseless.
She opened her eyes and once again found herself looking directly at Mr. Rutledge. His waistcoat is so ugly, she thought irrelevantly, if he is so wealthy, one would imagine his clothing would reflect that, then hated herself for the spiteful thought. He was still expressionless, intent on her. She had no idea how she looked: furious, resentful, aggressive?
Then he smiled. It was so unexpected and yet so familiar—how often had he smiled like that at something she had said?—that she smiled back at him in reflex. Her heart beat a little faster, light as a bird. Then he turned his head to face his partner, a tall, slender brunette Sophia did not know, and she realized his smile had been directed at that stranger instead. She closed her eyes again. Of course he would not smile at her. No matter how much she might wish otherwise.
“—otherwise it’s all for nothing,” Lord Chumleigh was saying. “Don’t you agree?”
“Of course,” Sophia said. “Are they forming up for charades over there? I do love charades.”
“I don’t care for them myself,” Lord Chumleigh said, but she dragged him with her to join the others and ignored his protests. She hated charades; she was as terrible at guessing the riddles as she was at cards, but Mr. Rutledge and his lovely companion were conversing with a few other people near the door to the dining room, and this put her as far from them as possible. She laughed, and exaggerated her follies, and pretended she did not feel sick with misery and embarrassment and hatred of her chance-won partner.
The announcement of supper came as a surprise to her, absorbed in the game as she had become. “Shall we go in, Mrs. Westlake?” Lord Chumleigh said into her ear. His breath was hot and still stank of old alcohol, and she closed her eyes for a moment to regain her calm. He might as well have been Lord Endicott himself, hovering over her shoulder to prevent her enjoying herself in his absence. Could she reject his offered arm? Eleanora would be devastated. As angry as she was at her situation, she liked her friend too much to make a scene; everyone else seemed happy with the game. So she smiled, accepted Lord Chumleigh’s escort, and they made their way into the dining room with the rest of the throng, customs of precedence ignored for the evening.
They sat near the middle of the table, across from an enormous silver epergne filled with hideously expensive white and gold roses. It blocked much of Sophia’s view of the table and made her feel as if she and her companion were sitting in an arbor, sheltered on all sides and suffocated by the cloying fragrance. Lord Chumleigh never asked her which dish she would like, but heaped food onto her plate faster than she could eat it, saying, “Wouldn’t want you to feel neglected, Mrs. Westlake, our mutual friend would be disappointed in me,” and that oblique mention of her nemesis twisted Sophia’s stomach into a knot of anger.
She began plotting an early departure. Perhaps she could persuade Cecy to pretend to illness—no, there she was near the head of the table, laughing at something her partner, Mr. Nevensham, was saying. Ruining her pleasure when she was so rarely in a condition to experience
it was unthinkable. She could endure Lord Chumleigh for a few hours more.
The company rose from the table when Eleanora did and returned to the drawing room together. Lord Chumleigh persisted in clinging close to Sophia’s side like an unwelcome dog convinced of its irresistible appeal despite its odor and dripping saliva. “Will you dance with me?” he said. “I know I’m not the partner you’d like, but might as well protect the secret, hey?”
“You are entirely right, Lord Chumleigh,” Sophia said, and took his hand. I would prefer any partner but you.
Lord Chumleigh was a terrible dancer, always missing his step and laughing foolishly at his mistakes. Sophia’s face began to feel numb with smiling encouragingly at him. Surely Eleanora will not expect us to dance only with one man all evening, she thought, and to her relief someone else solicited her hand for the next dance, and Lord Chumleigh retreated to a seat along the wall, where his friends joined him. He never stopped watching her, though, and now it was Sophia’s turn to stumble through the steps, burdened by the weight of his regard. This evening could not have been more miserable if it had been designed with that intent.
She turned down her next potential partner, pleading fatigue, which was partly true; it was fatigue of the spirit, though, and not of the body, that drove her to a seat in a quiet corner where she could watch the dancers and feel grateful to have escaped Lord Chumleigh’s supervisory eye for the moment.
Her eye fell once again on Mr. Rutledge—well, it was natural she should watch him, she told herself, because he was half a head taller than any other man in the room, and his graceful dancing made him worth watching. It was not as if she sought him out. He was partnered with the same slender brunette the slips of paper had shackled him to for the evening, though he seemed not to mind it. Sophia made herself look elsewhere. This was the most miserable evening she had endured in months.
“Mrs. Westlake?”
She turned, startled out of her reverie, to find herself addressed by a tall and attractive footman. “A Mr. Vane is here, asking for you.”
Vane. The Bow Street Runner. “Did he say what his business is?”
“No, madam. He apologized for intruding on your evening, and asked if you would give him five minutes of your time.”
His last three words were spoken into silence as the dance came to an end. Vane’s sudden appearance here could mean anything. Had they discovered that Lord Endicott had made her Dreams appear false? “Thank you,” Sophia said, rising from her seat. “Will you take me to him?”
The footman led her through the house and down the stairs to the tradesman’s entrance off the kitchen. “He said he didn’t want to make a fuss, so he’s waiting outside,” he said.
“Thank you,” Sophia repeated, and stepped outside. After the warmth and mugginess of Eleanora’s drawing room, the cold air bit into her skin with needle-sharp teeth. No one was there. Apprehension made her take two steps back and put her hand on the knob just as Elias King emerged from the darkness, lunging toward her.
In which Mr. Rutledge makes another appeal
ophia shrieked and flung herself away, and a cold, sharp pain shot down her arm as his silvery knife slashed her. Her instinctive, terrified movement put King between her and the door, and even in the darkness behind Eleanora’s house she could see he knew he had her at a disadvantage. He changed his grip on the knife and grinned at her, a nasty, evil look that set Sophia’s heart beating faster.
“You destroy me, I destroy you,” he said. “Been butting heads all this time, should’ve known it would come to this.” He slashed at her again, making her jump back. She was trapped back here in this tiny space, unable to outrun him in her thin dancing slippers. Hot blood trickled down her arm, not stanched by her gauzy sleeve.
“Even if you kill me, Lord Endicott will never let you live,” she said. It came out as faint and breathy as the puffs of steam that followed her words.
King shrugged. “Still have the satisfaction of knowing you went first.” He lowered his head and rushed at her.
She ducked, twisted out of his grasp, felt his blade pass next to her ear, and then they were both on the ground, struggling for control of the knife. She had better leverage, but despite his age and the fact that he was smaller than she, he was still stronger. Tears came to her eyes as she strained desperately against his arm bearing down on her.
Someone grabbed King by the shoulders and wrenched him off her. Mr. Rutledge lifted the man as easily as if he were a kitten and slammed him into the rough brick next to the door, making King cry out in pain. With one hand, he kept the man pinioned there. With the other, he grabbed King’s wrist and forced his hand open, the knife clattering to the ground. Sophia staggered to her feet. “Mr. Rutledge,” she began.
“Find someone to send to Bow Street to take him into custody,” he interrupted her. “But don’t go back to the party. It’s obvious you were attacked.”
Sophia nodded and went inside, looking for a footman. She found the man who had escorted her to the tradesman’s entrance; he took in her condition with mounting horror, then ran off without a word when she explained what she wanted. She watched him go, feeling momentarily numb, then remembered Mr. Rutledge. He had not moved since she left except to trap both King’s hands behind him with one of his large ones.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, and pulled a handkerchief out of his coat somewhere. Sophia took it and pressed it over the long slice across her upper arm. It did not seem to be bleeding too badly, but she saw it was on a line with her heart, and then she was shivering harder than the cold could account for and could not stop herself.
“Go inside, Mrs. Westlake,” Mr. Rutledge said. “I will wait here for the officer they send and ensure this man does not escape custody.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said through chattering teeth, “I have to… I will not be able to sleep if I do not…” She looked at King, whose head lolled to one side as if he were unconscious, gasped, and flung herself at him, slapping and kicking him with all her strength.
Mr. Rutledge took hold of her uninjured arm. “Mrs. Westlake, control yourself.”
“He is a Seer, he is trying to Dream, don’t you see? We cannot let him find a way out of this!” She grabbed his hair and cracked his head against the brick, and he groaned and blinked at her. “You are not escaping me again,” she snarled at him.
“Try to leave him alive, Mrs. Westlake,” Mr. Rutledge said. He shifted his grip and twisted King’s arm painfully high above his back. King let out a pained yelp. “Though I admit this is rather satisfying.”
Sophia took half a step back, keeping within slapping distance of King. “How did you know I—that he would attack me?” she asked.
“I didn’t,” Mr. Rutledge said. “I saw you leave, and I followed you. I wanted to speak to you. What did you mean, escape you again?”
“Why did you want to speak to me?”
“Don’t change the subject. How do you know this man?”
“You are not my superior. I owe you no explanations.”
“Damn it, Sophia!” Mr. Rutledge began, then turned his head away from her. “I would to God I had never taken advantage of you,” he said in a calmer voice. “I truly did tell you those things because I wanted to help you in whatever Dreams you were pursuing. It was a complete surprise to me to find, when Rowley sent me your first letter, that you were on the trail of the same people I was. Yes, I needed the information you provided, and yes, I knew you would object to my using it, but I was desperate, and I told myself you would never find out and that made it all right. That is what I followed you to say. I cannot tell you how much I regret losing your friendship over something so unimportant as all that.”
Sophia gaped at him. She tried desperately to hang on to her anger, but it could not stand in the face of such naked honesty. “His name is Elias King,” she said, “and I was responsible for exposing his use of Dream to blackmail others. He escaped custody once. I intend to make sure he does n
ot do so again.”
“King. At the department store. But your name was not associated with that report.”
“I did not want the publicity.”
“Why not? It might restore your reputation with Rowley.”
He will believe you unstable. Again. “The Dream showed me concealment would bring me success,” she lied.
King coughed, then began to laugh, a creaky sound that matched his appearance. “You can’t tell him the truth, can you?”
“What truth?” Mr. Rutledge said.
Realization dawned. She could not tell the truth, but King could. “Tell him whom you work for,” she said.
“No.” King laughed again.
She grabbed his hair and slammed his head into the brick wall again. “Tell him!”
“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” King said. “I’m going to my death anyway, no way around it.”
“He can protect you. Tell him!”
“Mrs. Westlake, what are you talking about?”
“Already Seen it,” King said. Blood trickled down his face and he licked at it. “No Dream leads anywhere but death. You know why.”
Mr. Rutledge shoved him hard against the wall, making him grunt with pain. “Why should I care for whom you work, Mr. King?”
King laughed again. “Beat it out of me.”
“As if I could trust anything you said under duress,” Mr. Rutledge said, but he twisted King’s arm again, cutting off his laugh.
The sound of footsteps put Sophia on edge again, but it was only a couple of roughly-dressed men, followed by the actual Benjamin Vane. “Mrs. Westlake,” he said, sounding surprised.
“Mr. Vane,” Sophia said. “This is Elias King. I’m sure you have the magistrates’ warrant for his apprehension.”
“We do,” Vane said. “Did he attack you?”
“Yes. I was responsible for exposing his crime.”
“That was Gerald Parris.”
“My Dream told Mr. Parris what to do. And before you suggest what I know you will suggest, which is that I am making claims to bolster my stained reputation, you might ask yourself what other reason a wanted felon might have for risking capture by attacking someone with whom he has no connection.”
Wondering Sight (The Extraordinaries Book 2) Page 21