by Joanna Shupe
“Nonsense. More than likely it’s a mouse.”
“I do not have mice, at least not ones large enough to break glass.” He lifted his foil and removed the cap covering the tip for safety. “And you are being illogical, Sophie. Do as I say now, or we waste precious time in an argument I will undoubtedly win regardless.”
She’d seen Quint in a debate and he was very, very good. And they both knew it was not a mouse. Reluctantly, she lifted the other weapon. Quint was already to the door, so she had to hurry to catch up. He stopped abruptly and she nearly slammed into his back. “Quiet,” he said over his shoulder.
He crept into the hall and Sophie followed, staying close. Silence echoed throughout the house, and the carpet muffled their footsteps as they traveled toward the stairs. Quint’s home tended toward the austere, she’d noticed. The furnishings and carpets were all in excellent condition, but the space held no life. There were no flowers to brighten it up. No family portraits or other artwork she’d seen, and his study seemed the only room he actually used. Heavy covers concealed the furniture, as if the lodgings were temporary and he planned to move at any moment.
At the bottom of the stairs, he paused to listen. She waited on the first step, feeling ridiculous. The odds that a person had gained entry to his house—
A floorboard creaked somewhere near the back of the house, and Sophie held her breath. Perhaps one of the servants was not abed yet. Foil raised, Quint started in the direction of the sound. Before they’d taken a dozen steps, a shadow slipped out of Quint’s study and into the corridor. A man. He was wrapped in a brown cloak pulled low over his forehead. The shadow glanced their way and froze, and Sophie saw he was wearing a black mask, like some sort of highwayman.
“Do not move,” Quint ordered the man and took a step toward the study.
In an instant, the intruder bolted. He ran toward the dining room, which Sophie knew would lead to the terrace. Quint sprinted after him, Sophie right behind. He was faster, though she did her best to keep up. In the dining room, she saw the figure throw open the French door and disappear outside. Quint skidded to a halt at the threshold, and she heard him utter a curse.
“Why are you stopping?” she shouted. “Go after him!”
When she came alongside, he was standing there, still as a statue, his face contorted in anger and misery.
“What is wrong? Are you ill?”
“No,” he snapped.
“You are letting him get away?”
He said nothing, his lips pressed tightly together.
Confused but determined, she ran out onto the terrace. “Then I shall get him myself!”
Quint stared, mouth agape, as Sophie streaked across his terrace like some sort of avenging Valkyrie. He hadn’t thought for a moment that she would give chase, alone. Had she no sense at all? Whoever that man was, he would not want to risk discovery, which meant he’d hurt Sophie without remorse. Christ, she could be hurt. Killed.
For God’s sake, man, he told himself. Just go. She should not be forced to risk herself because he was too bloody afraid. What kind of a man was too scared to leave the house? Do it, his brain shouted.
He took a deep breath and placed his foot on the stone beyond the dining room. Before he could take another step, his heart tripped and cold perspiration broke out all over his body. No, not now. He swayed, determined not to give up, and gripped the frame. Brought another step forward. Focus on the logic. You’ve done this a thousand times before. A breeze fanned his skin, an unwelcome reminder that he was partway out of the house, and his vision sparkled. The sense of panic intensified a thousandfold and, with a desperate lurch, he threw himself backward into the safety of the house.
Bent at the waist, he placed his hands on his knees and struggled to draw air. Shame and guilt washed over him. He could not do it, could not go out there, no matter how much he needed to. Was this to be the rest of his life, then? Ruled by unfounded fear and uncontrollable physical reactions? Perhaps he should go ahead and put a ball in his brain now.
Anger rose in his blood, sharp and fierce. At himself, at Sophie, at the person who’d dared to break into his home. And where was his damned staff? He stomped to the bell pull and nearly yanked it off the wall.
He was waiting at the terrace door when a slightly winded footman appeared. “You rang, my lord?”
“An intruder has gained access to the house. He ran into the gardens, most likely headed to the alley. Take this sword”—he pointed to the foil on the ground—“and make sure he has gone. Take care not to engage him in a fight, however. It’s not worth your life.” He turned to add over his shoulder, “When you’re done, see that Lady Sophia returns home safely. Then report to me in the study.”
“Very good, your lordship,” the boy said, taking up the weapon.
Quint retreated to the study. The one room in the house that he enjoyed. The one room in which he spent most of his time. And the one room just invaded by a footpad. So what had the intruder been searching for?
The study sat at one end of the library, the stacks of old, familiar tomes more precious to him than a lover. He’d read all of them, most more than once, and had discovered a passion for learning in this very space. Even though his parents had hired the best tutors, Quint had preferred to teach himself. Reading at the age of two and fluent in four languages by the time he’d turned eight, he’d studied alone for long hours.
His father had died when Quint was six. Quint had begged his mother not to send him away to school, to let him stay with her, and for a few years she had allowed it. But when Quint turned ten, she would hear no more arguments and he was shipped off to Eton.
School had been excruciating, especially the first few years. The absurdly facile lessons had frustrated him, and the other students had mocked him for the questions he asked during instruction. The boys had been merciless, both in and out of class, though Quint had tried his best to ignore them. Kept to himself. He was there to learn, after all, not make friends. And though he was physically capable of fighting back, why on earth would he lower himself to such a base display of unenlightened behavior?
Everything changed the day four older students locked him outside in his smalls. Mid-January, the weather was near freezing and his bare feet had begun turning blue when two boys from a neighboring house took pity on him. They brought him inside, warmed him up, and gave him clothes and tea. When he recovered, his two saviors marched over to Quint’s hall, busted down the door, and proceeded to beat the stuffing out of the boys responsible. It was the most fearsome and humbling sight Quint had ever witnessed in his eleven years.
And a lifelong friendship had been born.
Nick Seaton, then just a duke’s forgotten second son, and Simon Barrett, the prized future Earl of Winchester, soon taught Quint everything one could not learn in books. How to throw a proper punch. How to cheat at cards. How to sneak out without getting caught. Quint, on the other hand, helped both boys with their studies. The three of them were inseparable, and school grew tolerable.
Fate had thrown them together, and Quint remained grateful for the two men who’d saved him on more than one occasion. Now, however, he thanked providence that both of his childhood friends were in absentia, that they would not bear witness to his humiliation. He still felt like the eleven-year-old boy out in the unforgiving cold, trying to comprehend what made him so different, so broken. And he’d rather no one saw his failing struggle, his desperate attempts to remain sane.
Sighing, he brought his attention to the present. On the far wall stood a glass curio case, which he kept locked. Inside were various bits and mementos he’d picked up in his travels over the years. Nothing particularly valuable, but the intruder must’ve thought otherwise because he’d broken the thing open. So that was the crashing sound Quint had heard earlier.
He was inspecting the shelves for missing items when Sophie’s voice shattered the silence. “Well, I lost him in the mews,” she panted. “Dratted man was fast. He turned up
Charles Street and disappeared on me.”
Quint could not look at her. Could not withstand the questions or the pity. He stared intently at a small refracting telescope from Rome. “Regardless, I thank you for your effort. John will see you home.”
Silence descended, and he sensed her waiting. What in the hell did she want him to say? He had no explanation, no answers. And he absolutely did not want to have a damned conversation about it. Everything inside him wanted to howl, to scream, in anger and frustration as misery boiled inside him, rising like a tide he struggled to contain. One crack and the levee would burst . . . and no telling what would happen then.
“Are you dismissing me?”
Her dismay caused more emotion to leech out, a sliver in the wall of his composure. He straightened and crossed his arms. “Hard to believe I would dare to speak rudely to such a paragon, the perfect daughter of a marquess out running amuck in men’s clothing. But dare I shall. Consider yourself dismissed, Sophie,” he snapped. “The lessons are over. The advice, the exercise, the everything . . . it is over. Leave and do not come back.”
“You stubborn man,” she said, her eyes narrowed to slits. “I have done nothing but try to help you. Why are you so unwilling to accept it?”
Fury and embarrassment roiled inside his gut, and he clenched his hands to keep from throwing something. “I do not need your help. I do not need anyone’s help.”
“Is that so? Because this paragon noticed how you fell apart at the report from a pistol. How you refused to give chase—”
“Enough!” he roared and snatched the first thing within reach—the crystal ink pot from his desk—and hurled it against the wall. Dark blue spattered on every surface, gruesome evidence of a bestial violence he’d never displayed before. Chest heaving, he closed his eyes against the sight. God, he was no better than an animal. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyelids. It was getting worse. She was making it decidedly worse.
“Quint,” she said quietly. “Let me help you. Whatever is wrong, it can be fixed.”
He shook his head. So optimistic, his Sophie. She’d been indulged and pampered her whole life, her father allowing her to do as she pleased without consequence. He was beyond redemption, however. How could he make her understand?
“This—I—cannot be fixed. The sooner you believe me, the sooner you will cease interfering in my life and leave me alone.”
“Is that what you think I’ve been doing, interfering?”
He hated the way her face fell, how her shoulders slumped. Most of all, he hated himself for the disease rotting his brain. He needed to drive her away, when what he really wanted was to pull her into his arms and never let her go. But this was how it had to be.
“My lord.” Taylor knocked on the open door and peered in. “I thought I heard a crash. Is anything amiss?”
Quint swallowed and dug for composure. “Everything is fine. See that Lady Sophia gets home, will you, Taylor? I am going to bed.” Without a backward glance, he strode out of the study and toward the stairs. One thing he knew, sleep would be a long time coming.
Noises pulled Sophie up from the depths of sleep. She fought it, snuggling in deeper, until light spilled into the room. “Go away,” she mumbled and flipped the bolster over her head.
“My lady,” Alice said, “his lordship is requesting your presence in his study when you’ve dressed.”
Her father wanted to see her—and so early? That jolted her awake. “What time is it?”
“Nearly one.”
Sophie blinked. “It is? I cannot believe I slept so late.”
“That is what happens when you stay out all night,” Alice muttered.
“I was not out all night. I returned at a fairly reasonable hour.” Only, then, she hadn’t been able to fall asleep. The evening’s events with Quint kept turning around and around in her head.
She rolled over and then groaned. There wasn’t a part of her that did not ache. Even the tops of her toes hurt. “Do I have time for a bath?”
“His lordship is with his man of affairs. I suppose he won’t notice if you’re a few more minutes.” Alice went to the door and poked her head into the corridor.
Sophie struggled to sit up when Alice returned. “Do you think this is about The Talk?” Sophie’d heard it so many times that she could recite it. You need a husband, Sophia. I won’t always be around to look after you. This year, I expect you to choose one. And while she loved her father dearly, she had no intention of following his orders. Her failure would disappoint him, which she regretted, but there was no hope for it. Marriage was impossible.
Her maid went to the wardrobe. “It’s about that time, I’m thinking.”
Sophie sighed heavily as she swung her legs over the side of the mattress.
“His lordship only wants to see you settled and happy with children of your own, my lady. All fathers do.”
Guilt pressed down on her. She would be married now, if only she hadn’t been so stupid. She’d actually believed Lord Robert would offer for her. Many betrothed couples anticipate the wedding night, Sophia. And we’ll be betrothed as soon as I can speak with your father.
Only, he hadn’t approached her father afterwards. She’d waited and waited, hope fading each day, until she’d finally cornered him a week later at a soirée.
“Robert,” she said once they were alone. “I thought you planned to speak with my—”
He looked at her coldly, his face nearly unrecognizable in its unfriendliness. “Then you misunderstood,” he said. “My wife will be pure when she comes to the marriage bed.”
Sophie gasped. “I—I was pure.”
“Then where was the blood?” he sneered.
“I do not know. I’m told not all women bleed the first time.”
“They do. And you were far too . . . enthusiastic for a virgin. To marry you now would dishonor my family.”
The memory made her cringe. Dishonor. She’d seen the truth in his eyes, that Robert would never believe her. That something was wrong with her. To that point, Robert had married another girl not long after and they had moved to his family’s estate in Wales. And Sophie had vowed never to allow anyone to humiliate her ever again.
She would not inflict her shame on another man.
By the time she’d bathed, dressed, dried her hair, and entered her father’s study, it was near three. “Good afternoon, Papa.”
Her father glanced up from his desk. His secretary was there, pen scratching madly over parchment as the marquess dictated directions. Papa was an important member of Liverpool’s inner circle, and he spent his days on both government duties and estate matters. Though he was busy, however, he always made time for her.
Her father’s face softened as he rose. “Sophia! There’s the beautiful smile to brighten up my dreary day. Come here, my dear.”
She warmed under his affection, as she always did. Her father was demonstrative and loving, never afraid to show how he felt about his family. He was still handsome at fifty-eight, tall and fit, with graying brown hair and sideburns. When she drew close, he reached for her and kissed her cheek. “I hope I haven’t interrupted your busy day. Yates, would you mind giving us a moment?”
“Of course, my lord.” The secretary gathered his things and quit the room.
When the door closed, he said, “Let’s sit, shall we? I have something I need to discuss with you.”
She folded into the chair across from his desk, clasped her hands. Readied herself.
“My dear,” he said, resuming his seat. “I know what it is to be young and enjoy one’s self—believe me, I got into my fair share of scrapes in the day—but you are a lady and the rules are different. Each year I give you the same lecture, and each year you ignore it. So I fear drastic measures must now be taken.”
Sophie blinked. This was not The Talk. Drastic measures . . . whatever did he mean? “Papa, I know you wish me to marry. I will find someone this Season, I promise.”
“That has been yo
ur answer every year since your debut. Yet you remain unmarried. You discourage suitors so handily it could be considered an art. I know I am partly to blame because I’ve indulged you all these years. But after your mother . . .” He took a deep breath and her heart squeezed painfully, both for his loss of a wife and her loss of a mother. He continued, “This Season will be different. I already have someone in mind for you. Therefore, should you not make your own choice, I will be making it for you.”
Her stomach dropped as her jaw fell open. “No! You cannot mean it.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Sophie, I am nearing sixty. I should like to see you settled. Perhaps hold a grandchild or two before I go.”
The idea would’ve knocked her off her feet had she not been sitting. She’d never considered . . . Of course, she knew he would die someday, but that day always seemed so far in the future. He was all she had. Yes, she had a stepmama and a half brother, but it wasn’t the same. This was the man who’d rocked her back to sleep each time she’d had a nightmare . . . the man who had let her slide down the banister in her nightclothes . . . the man who let her keep a pet piglet in the house.
“And the closer you get to thirty,” he continued, “the harder it will be to form a good match.”
Her mind reeling, she wheezed, “Who . . . who is he?”
Her father shook his head. “I shan’t say for fear you’ll come up with a way to scare him off, but this gentleman meets all my requirements in a husband for my only daughter. Just know that you will be married this year, whether you choose him or I choose him for you.” He shuffled a few papers on his desk, unable to meet her eyes, and she realized how uncomfortable he seemed.
She did not believe him. Her father would never marry her off to someone she did not want. She just needed to give him time. Put forth a reasonable effort at this year’s parties. Go for a few drives in the park. Then he would relent, she was sure of it.