by Joanna Shupe
“Yes, my lord. Vander is from India. Bombay, specifically. And—”
“And he is able to speak for himself, I’m assuming.”
The tips of Taylor’s ears turned red, but he bowed and moved aside. Vander straightened and held Quint’s gaze. “As Mr. Taylor said, I spent most of my life in Bombay. I am a practicing Hindu, my lord. Is your lordship familiar with our teachings?”
“A faith based on fate, purity, self-restraint, among other things.”
“Indeed, that is so, my lord. We also believe in the concept of samadhi.”
“Sanskrit, loosely translated as ‘to acquire wholeness, ’” Quint said, and Vander’s eyebrows rose. “I am not completely ignorant of those cultures outside our shores.”
“Then your lordship is aware of how some meditate to achieve this wholeness.”
“Yes, though I fail to see how that should interest me. I do not ascribe to any religion, Vander. If you are thinking to convert me, you are wasting your time.”
The valet’s eyes flicked to Taylor, and the butler stepped forward. “We are not trying to convert your lordship. Merely make a suggestion.”
“The meditation. You think I should try it.”
Both men visibly relaxed at Quint’s understanding, happy they need not explain it to him. He sat back, considering. Indeed, the idea had merit. Quint had been thinking of European methods, such as herbs and other remedies, but meditation had been favored by Eastern cultures for centuries. The practice was considered an exercise of the mind—and wasn’t that precisely what he needed?
He couldn’t prevent his skepticism, however. How could it help him? Sitting under a tree with his eyes closed for a protracted amount of time . . . how did that equate to getting better?
“My lord, I understand your hesitation. But meditation is about breathing and centering one’s self,” Vander said. “We use it to get to the place beyond thought, where peace and tranquility remain.”
Quint sighed. The words meant little. What Vander spoke of wasn’t quantifiable in Quint’s world. One couldn’t measure it or present it to a room full of people. And his initial reaction was that it would be a waste of time.
I love you.
There were those words again, resurfacing. He’d recalled them often in the last twelve hours. It seemed so improbable, so unlikely that a vibrant, intelligent woman such as Sophie would fall in love with him. And no doubt if you gave her the choice, she probably would wish she hadn’t. He was not an easy person to love under ideal conditions, let alone now. What could she possibly see in him that would foster such a depth of profound emotion?
It didn’t matter what he felt, or that there would never be another woman for him. He could not be what Sophie needed or what Sophie deserved.
He had lived his life searching for answers in books and experiments. He’d always believed that science and reason could explain everything. To date, however, he hadn’t found answers on his own condition. Perhaps there were no answers. But didn’t he owe it to Sophie to keep trying? He wanted to be the man she thought she knew, the one she believed herself in love with. Because until he was that man, he had to stay away from her.
You are a disappointment. I expect better from you, Quint.
Winchester had been right, damn it.
“I have seen Vander after his meditations, your lordship, and I must say that he appears very calm.” Taylor turned red once again, almost as if he had said too much.
“Fine, Taylor. I can see this is the dog all over again. You’ll not be happy until you get your way.” He said to Vander, “I should like to separate the spiritualism from the practice. Is that possible?”
“Of course, my lord. You need not chant or pray, though if you do not, your lordship may not achieve moksha.”
“I require freedom, Vander, but not of the kind you speak. Will you show me what to do?”
That evening, long after dark, Sophie was nearly bursting with excitement as she let herself in to Quint’s gardens. The ring was the key. She had visited four pawnbrokers’ shops this afternoon after seeing Tolbert in order to locate Pamela’s shamrock ring. If she could find it and get the pawnbroker to describe the man who’d sold it, Tolbert would be facing a noose.
She couldn’t wait to share the news with Quint.
His house was dark. No lights were visible through the windows, and the unusual stillness made the back of her neck prickle. Silly, really. Perhaps he’d gone to bed earlier than . . . ever. Well, the man did sleep at some point, didn’t he?
She tried the terrace door and found it locked. Withdrawing a pin from her hair, she bent the metal into the necessary shape to work the tumbler. It took but a minute to spring the catch and then she was inside. Odd to be locked out. With a laugh, she realized she’d come to think of Quint’s home like her second residence.
The space familiar and deserted, she slipped into his study and was surprised to discover it empty as well. Not that she’d expected to find him sitting in the dark, but the grate had gone cold. Was he in his chambers? So as to not be caught wandering the halls, she went to the bookcase next to the hidden stairs and triggered the latch. The door popped open and Sophie stepped into the corridor. Perhaps she’d find Quint in bed. Naked.
The image nearly had her licking her lips. The last time, the night she’d been thrown out of Madame Hartley’s, seemed like ages ago. She ached for him—ached to feel his skin against hers, his weight pressing her into the mattress. No doubt about it, he’d turned her into a wanton.
At the top of the stairs, she felt for the latch in the dark. Finally, she had it and the door sprung open with a whisper of sound. A fire burned low in the grate, casting shadows about the dim room, and she immediately saw Quint on his bed. Fully clothed, he was stretched out with his eyes closed, Canis resting by his side. Was he asleep?
“I’m awake,” he said as if he read her mind.
“Oh, good. I need to talk to you.” Smiling, she nearly skipped to the bed in her excitement.
“I need to speak with you as well.” There was something in his voice, a note of somberness not usually present. He still hadn’t opened his eyes to look at her.
Did he not want her here? She stood by the side of the bed, suddenly unsure of herself. “Is something wrong?”
He exhaled, long and deep, then lifted his lids. “You should not be here, Sophie.”
Oh, that again? She waved her hand. “I’d never let a little thing like a locked door keep me away. Now, you must hear my news—”
“The door was locked for a reason.”
She felt her face pull into a frown. “What do you mean? You wanted to keep me out?”
“This has gone too far.” He sat up, sliding back until he rested against the head of the bed. “It’s time for us both to put a stop to it.”
“A stop to what, exactly?” Did he mean her investigations? Because he couldn’t mean to try and prevent her from helping people, even after O’Shea’s warnings.
“To our . . . whatever this is. You being here.”
A strange, twisty sensation knotted her stomach and continued up her throat, like a vine strangling her insides. She searched his face, but his expression remained somber and serious. Resolved. It didn’t make sense. What had changed?
“I don’t understand. You don’t want me to come here again? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes. We’ve let this get out of hand. I had no right to do the things I’ve been doing. I knew it was wrong, and I let my common sense get away from me.”
It was wrong. She struggled not to dwell on those words. “It wasn’t as if I didn’t agree, Quint,” she said, astonished at the steadiness of her voice. “There’s no need to take this squarely on your shoulders.” In fact, she was far more responsible than he.
“I do take it on. It’s entirely my responsibility.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I never thought it would develop into something more.”
Had he . . . ? No, impossible. He couldn�
��t have learned of her feelings for him. So was this about him? “What do you mean, more?”
“You told me the other night, Sophie.” She couldn’t react, frozen with dread. He mistook it for confusion because he went on to explain. “When you were intoxicated. You told me you loved me.”
Oh, no. Humiliation washed over her, her body heating with mortification. She had no memory of it, just bits and pieces of kissing him in the carriage. Yet she’d confessed that she loved him. God above, why would she have let that information slip? Though it was true, she’d known full well that Quint didn’t want love from her. He’d repeatedly stated that he would not marry her. He wanted to bed her, yes, but bedding and loving someone were entirely different—at least for him, apparently.
She swallowed her anguish, tried to shrug. “I say that to everyone when I’m soused.”
“I doubt it. And I cannot allow you to get hurt.”
She was already hurt, but pride would not allow her to admit it. “So what of the investigations? You’ll no longer help me, I suppose.”
“We can correspond by letter, which is what we should’ve been doing all along.” He grit his jaw and shifted his gaze away from her, and she realized it was not nearly as easy for him as she’d assumed. Perhaps he felt more than lust for her.
“And this is what you want, never to see me again?”
“It’s not what I want, Sophie, but it is what has to be. We do not live in a world where we are free to play loose with the rules. You are risking everything, coming here and climbing into my bed night after night. Do you not want a future for yourself?”
“Forget my future. Forget the rules. I’m asking what you want, Quint.”
“What I want does not matter. I am unable to choose.”
“Why?”
“You know why!” he exploded and shot off the bed, his long legs traveling the room. “And until I am, this all must stop.”
He was saving her from him, clearly. Yet he was the very thing she wanted above all else—ill or not. She wanted to point out the strides he’d made in his recovery, the carriage rides and walks in the garden, but knew he would argue those small actions had not been enough. “And what if you are never able to choose?”
“Then you’ll be better off, believe me.”
She stared at the taut line of his shoulders, the rigidity of his back, and her heart broke. Quint was exceedingly stubborn when he believed he was right. Still, she had to try and change his mind. “I won’t, and you deserve to be happy. Let us try to be happy together.”
“No. We will both end up miserable. This was a mistake. I never should have allowed it.”
“Allowed it?” Anger bloomed and she welcomed it. Stoked it. “You allowed it? Really, Quint, that was quite generous of you. I am ever so grateful you gifted me with the opportunity to share your bed.”
“Pettiness does not become you. You know what I meant.”
“No, I don’t know what you meant. You think to say what happened between us was a mistake and that I’ll not argue with you? Slink away meekly? No, I won’t. You are wrong. Just as you are wrong about your illness. You act as if you’re the first person that’s been shot and survived. Yes, you had a fever and you almost died, Quint, but you survived. And—”
“That is the second time you’ve said as much. How did you know of the fever?” He focused on her intently, his piercing gaze burning into her. Then recognition dawned. “My God, it was you.” He rubbed his forehead, grimaced. “I thought I imagined a strange man in my room at night. Convinced myself it had to be a member of the staff, yet it was you. Bloody hell.”
The foul words out of his mouth infuriated her further. “Yes, I saved your life. Nursed you back from the undertaker’s clutches. I bathed you, changed your sheets, fed you . . . and I would do it again, if necessary. It only proves that, even if you are going mad—which I do not believe—you should embrace what time you have left, instead of feeling sorry for yourself.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. I saw my father descend into madness and you did not. I witnessed what it did to my mother.” He shoved his fingers into his hair. “I will not put anyone through that.”
“You are not your father,” she said in a gentler tone. “And I am not your mother. No one knows what the future holds, and loving someone means you’re willing to face an uncertain future together. That you’re better together than apart.”
He shook his head. “I won’t do it, Sophie. I won’t drag you down with me.”
She knew he cared for her, but he hadn’t said the words. She needed to ask, no matter the answer, because it was better to know where things stood. She braced herself. “Do you love me?”
“No.” His gaze never wavered and he almost looked sorry, like he knew how painful the admission would be. “And even if I did, it would not matter. I cannot marry you. I had no right to let things even progress—”
She held up a hand, stopping him. A lump had wedged in her throat and threatened to choke her. She dragged in a breath, her stays poking into her ribs, and dug deep for composure. Really, what more could be said? Escape became paramount, but not before she regained a bit of dignity. “You’re right, then. I do deserve better. I deserve someone who loves me and wants not only to bed me, but to marry me as well. I’ll not make that mistake again.”
She spun on her heel and disappeared into the welcoming darkness of the secret passage. Back into the night, alone, where she belonged.
Chapter Twenty-One
The small square across from Sophie’s house stood empty this late morning, only the birds unfashionable enough to rise so early. Sophie took a seat across from Julia and Maggie, then opened her parasol to keep the rare morning sunshine off her face. Her two friends had arrived suddenly—likely because their husbands had informed them of the luncheon at Quint’s—and demanded to see her. Knowing the direction this conversation was likely to take, Sophie had suggested they quit the house and its ever-present army of vigilant ears.
“How is Harry?” she asked of Julia.
“Demanding. He’s very much Colton’s child,” Julia answered, her beautiful face softening for a moment. “But he’s a dear—and Olivia is thrilled at having a baby brother.”
She smiled, happy for her friend, and turned to Maggie. “And your wedding trip? How was it?”
The Countess of Winchester, stunning with her black hair and green eyes, beamed. “Lovely. I swear, we went to nearly every collection and museum on the Continent. Simon was very patient.”
“I have no doubt you made it worth his effort,” Julia said with a smirk.
“I did, yes.” Maggie grinned.
A heavy silence descended and Sophie knew what was coming next. Her friends had not come to gossip or share stories about the recent events in their lives; they’d come to get answers from her. And the wait was excruciating.
“Quint and I were lovers, but that’s all over now,” she blurted.
Julia’s mouth tightened, her lips white. “Lovers?” she repeated. “You and Quint. He . . . he actually bedded you?”
“Yes. Why is that so surprising? I may be a spinster, but—”
“You’re no spinster,” Maggie interrupted, reaching out to clasp her knee. “You’re beautiful and vivacious, Sophie. What man wouldn’t want you? I think what Julia means—”
“What I mean is, why hasn’t he procured a special license?” Julia snapped, her blue eyes flashing fire. “If he took your innocence, he should marry you. Did your father refuse him?”
“He hasn’t spoken to my father. But all of this is irrelevant because we won’t be seeing any more of one another.”
Maggie blinked while Julia’s jaw fell open. “He . . . broke it off with you after taking your innocence?” The duchess shot to her feet. “I’ll have Colton call him out! That is . . . it is despicable! I never would have guessed Quint for such a reprobate.”
“You cannot have Colton call him out. And how do you know that I didn’t
break it off?” She took a deep breath. “I know you want to help, but this is between Quint and myself.” At least it had been. “And Quint did not take my innocence. That was”—she waved a hand—“quite some time ago.”
Julia dropped heavily back into her seat, her face registering confusion and surprise. “What? When? You never told me. Who was it?”
“It was during my debut, and it was a mistake. He—” She chuckled dryly. “He convinced me that he planned to offer for me, that we were only anticipating the wedding night. But there was no blood and I enjoyed it, so . . .”
“So he assumed you’d been taken before,” Maggie whispered, sympathy swimming in her eyes. “Oh, you poor dear.”
Of course Maggie would understand, having endured a scandal during her come-out that resulted in being married off to someone double her age, though it hadn’t been her fault. Sophie gave them a wan smile. “He married someone else and moved away. In the end, it was a fortunate miss.”
“I cannot believe you never told me,” Julia said quietly. “That was why you were so opposed to marriage, because you didn’t want anyone to find out.”
“Yes.” She could see how much this revelation hurt her closest friend, the knowledge that Sophie had been keeping secrets from her.
“Who was it?”
“I am not going to tell you. Knowing you, you’ll march up to his front door and cosh him over the head with a skillet.” She didn’t mention that she’d punched Robert and would likely be facing him on a field at dawn. “He’s inconsequential.”
Maggie shook her head. “That’s all very well, but you’re no widow or demirep, Sophie. Quint is aware of Society’s rules. If he bedded you, he should marry you.”
A bird trilled nearby, and Sophie tried to decide how much to tell them. Had Quint informed Colton or Winchester of his illness? She could not reveal something so personal, not when Quint was struggling to keep anyone from learning of it. Her friends would not let up, however, without answers. So she gave them the only one she could. “He asked and I have refused.”