by Joanna Shupe
Julia rocked back in her seat. “He asked you to marry him and you said no?”
“Yes,” Sophie forced out, the lie burning in her chest.
Both women seemed to struggle with this. They exchanged a worried glance, so Sophie said, “I am not sure we would suit. I’ve been unmarried for so long that it seems foolish to rush into something at my age.”
“You told Colton that Quint hadn’t asked.”
“I lied.”
“If that is true,” Julia said, “then why do you look so terrible? You look as if you haven’t slept all night.”
Because I didn’t.
Julia didn’t give her a chance to answer, saying, “Colton told me of the luncheon and how you and Quint behaved around one another. He said he’s never seen Quint this way over a woman. He actually dueled for you. And I know you. You would not enter into something like this, not with a man like Quint, if you did not have feelings for him.”
“He dueled?” Sophie’s stomach dropped. “When? And against whom?”
“You didn’t know?” Maggie asked.
“No,” Sophie breathed. My God, he could have been killed. Why on earth would he duel when he believed the practice barbaric?
“He bested the Earl of Reddington. In his ballroom—with swords. Nearly killed the man, from what I understand. Colton and Winchester stood as his seconds.”
Shock robbed Sophie of words. He’d fought Reddington for her—for Sir Stephen, actually—and had won. How had he explained Sir Stephen to Colton and Winchester?
She thought back to last evening.
Do you love me?
No.
She knew now he had lied. Quint would not engage in a duel over her honor unless he loved her. A tiny portion of the unhappiness weighing on her heart lifted. She wished she could’ve been there, to see Quint best Reddington, the swine.
Not that this information changed anything between them. She meant what she had said—she deserved someone who wanted more than a quick tumble. While Quint believed he was saving her from a terrible fate, she needed a man who couldn’t live without her. A man who would rather stand together against life’s ups and downs.
A man who wouldn’t give her up so easily.
“Quint and Simon have been close the last few years, Sophie,” Maggie said gently. “And my husband is concerned. And upset. Quint has said he cannot marry you, that he cannot marry anyone, and Simon believes it is related to why Quint is a recluse these days. Do you know anything about it?”
She should’ve known the issue would not go away so easily. However, she would not allow everyone to turn Quint into a rake, seducing women at every turn, nor did she want to be the cause of tension between Quint and his two closest friends. Better they think worse of her. “To be clear, he asked and I have refused. And I do not know what Winchester is talking about. In fact, Quint took a carriage ride with me only a few days ago. He has most assuredly left the house.”
Julia blew out a heavy sigh and Maggie frowned. Guilt pressed heavily on Sophie, both for the lie and for the other secrets she was keeping about Sir Stephen. It made her even more miserable.
“And you say it’s done?” Julia finally asked, though she still appeared dubious.
“Yes. Without doubt. We both came to our senses.”
“Well, that’s something,” Maggie said. “I suppose it’ll all blow over in a few weeks’ time. I wish you would reconsider, however. Quint is a fine man. He’d make an excellent husband. You’d never be bored and he’d never take a mistress.”
“My wishes hardly matter because my father has decided on a husband for me.”
“Who?” Julia screeched. “Has the betrothal been announced?”
“No, not until the end of the Season. And he refuses to tell me the man’s name. Papa’s convinced I’ll find a way to scare him off.”
“Wait, allow me to understand,” Maggie said. “Your father is forcing you to marry someone you don’t know when you could instead marry Quint? That makes no sense, Sophie.”
Indeed, it did not—unless one considered Quint’s feelings on the subject. “I hope to convince my father otherwise. I don’t seriously think he’ll go through with it.” But really, what did it matter now? She could not have Quint and anyone else was a poor substitution. Perhaps she should just give in and be done with it.
Which only proved she’d truly gone and lost her mind.
Maggie and Julia exchanged a concerned look. Then Julia glanced away, crossed her arms, and thrust up her chin—a move Sophie recognized from their years of friendship. Julia was hurt.
And that silent censure wounded Sophie like nothing else. She and Julia had become fast friends all those years ago, sort of a secret club of imperfect women who were different from the rest: Julia, abandoned by her husband but a virgin, and Sophie, not innocent but unfit for marriage. She’d never contemplated a world without her closest friend. “I apologize,” she blurted. “I know this is a lot to take in.”
“It is,” Julia admitted, never one to prevaricate. “And that’s not even the whole of it. Maggie saw Pearl Kelly recently as well. So maybe you’d care to explain what you and she are involved in now?”
Quint finished the deep breathing, his body relaxed, his mind peaceful. His heart rate had slowed considerably until it became a steady, pleasant tap in his chest. After he rose and stretched he had to admit there were tangible benefits following even a few meditation sessions. He felt . . . calmer. Every joint and muscle loose, as if he’d just spent himself inside Sophie.
And didn’t that reminder depress the hell out of him.
He walked along the garden path toward the house. The night was crisp and quiet. Canis trotted near his feet, even his dog strangely subdued. Quint half-hoped Sophie would disregard last evening’s speech and come barreling through the gate. Yell at him. Tell him he was wrong. Kiss him.
Do you love me?
No.
What an unequivocal lie that had been. He’d loved her almost from the first moment he’d seen her seven years ago, in a white and pink gown at a ball. She’d watched him from under thick, brown lashes, studying him, and he’d felt her assessment down to the marrow in his bones. Nevertheless, better not to tell her. He could not marry her and prolonging this . . . dalliance between the two of them only hurt her further.
As he came up the terrace steps, he noticed the faint glow of a candle along the main corridor, near his study. One of the servants? He had strict rules about the study since the break-in. No one was allowed in it without him present. He watched as the light faded. Odd, that. Hurrying forward, he glanced around for the source of the light.
His eyes were well adjusted to the darkness so he had no trouble seeing in the shadows. The study door remained locked. The entry was empty, the stairs clear. He checked the small closet used for coats. Nothing.
From where had the light come, then?
He rubbed his forehead. This made no sense. He’d seen a light . . . hadn’t he? But no one was here, that was a certainty. Was his mind playing tricks on him?
And here he thought he’d been getting better.
“Damn it,” he muttered to absolutely no one.
The knocker on the front door sounded, startling him. It was nearly midnight. Who in the world . . . ? His heart picked up in rhythm, hopeful. Without thinking, he went over and jerked open the door.
The Earl and Countess of Winchester stood on the stoop. Winchester’s jaw was tight, while Maggie’s forehead was creased in concern. Quint sighed inwardly.
“Good evening, Quint. May I come in?” Maggie asked.
Quint took a step backward. “Of course.” He held the door, allowing them entrance. Both his friends stepped in, but Winchester turned to his wife. “I’ll be in the carriage, darling.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and threw a glare full of warning Quint’s way. Quint nodded in understanding. He would listen to Maggie and take care not to hurt or offend her in any way, et cetera.
Winchester
spun and went out the front, closing the door behind him. “Shall we sit?” Quint asked the countess, retrieving the study key from his pocket. He unlocked the door and opened it for her. “I’d offer you a drink, but I don’t have any spirits handy.”
“That’s fine. I had enough champagne at the boring political dinner we attended tonight.” She removed her cloak and threw it over the arm of the sofa, revealing a dark emerald evening dress. “It was the only way I could get through it.”
“Sadly, I’m afraid you’ve loads more of those in your future.” He dropped into an armchair after she settled on the cushions.
“I know, but I drag him to art exhibits and lectures, so I cannot complain. Speaking of, have you seen the Guardi exhibit?”
“No.” He shifted uncomfortably. How much had Winchester told his wife? “I’ve been occupied with a project these days.”
She folded her hands in her lap, looking incredibly prim for a woman the ton had dubbed the Half-Irish Harlot. Fitting that it should be her to come and see him, as she’d had a number of tribulations in her short life. He liked Maggie. She was intelligent and honorable, not to mention she kept Winchester humble. Hard to hate a woman who could do that.
“I don’t quite know why I’m here, Quint. I’m certainly not going to take you to task.” She chuckled and raised her hands in surrender. “God knows, I am the last person who would ever throw stones at impropriety. But I do feel as if I’m able to see the situation a bit more objectively. My husband is . . . well, I’ve rarely seen him so angry and frustrated. And Julia is equally hot-tempered about it. They’re of a mind to lock you and Sophie in a room with a parson and not let you out until you’re good and married.”
Quint exhaled, shook his head. He would not put it past the duchess. Or Winchester. “I cannot marry her.”
Maggie nodded. “Interesting. She said you asked and she refused.”
His chest constricted, lungs burning for one interminable second. Sophie had tried to protect him, to cast the blame on herself rather than him. While the gesture touched him, he could not allow her to lie for his sake. “She is attempting to keep Colton and Winchester from throttling me. I have not asked her, nor will I.”
“Why not?”
She asked it calmly, reasonably, her green eyes full of curiosity rather than fury. He suddenly had the urge to share the truth rather than hide behind more lies.
“My father went mad. Did you know?”
“No, but he died when you were . . .”
“Six.”
“A bit before my time. And my sympathies, Quint. That must have been traumatic for a small child to see.”
“It was,” he admitted. “It tore my mother to pieces. They loved each other very much. And for me, well, I had always hoped that if I worked at it, remained focused and studied, I would avoid the same fate as my father. But I was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
He told her of the fever after the shooting, nearly dying, the fits, the terror, and the desire to remain inside his house. Now that he’d started, he couldn’t hold it all back.
“Oh, that’s terrible,” she breathed when he finished. “I am so sorry. I had no idea. We assumed you had recovered and we did not think . . . We wanted you at the wedding, of course, but Simon rushed for a special license and knew you were—”
“Do not worry,” he interrupted. “You and Simon were happy, deservedly so. I do not begrudge you for focusing on that, after so many years apart.”
“And Sophie,” she urged. “Where does she fit?”
He hesitated, and Maggie continued, “I know of Sir Stephen and her investigations into the river killings. I understand she’s come to you for help. Tell me what I am missing.”
He opened his mouth to lie, to pretend Sophie meant nothing to him—and he couldn’t do it.
“I see,” Maggie said, the lines of her face softening. “I thought as much. You do realize you’ve bungled the whole business, don’t you? Her father plans to marry her off at the end of the Season. She’ll be marrying a stranger when instead she could be marrying you.”
He didn’t want to think about Sophie marrying someone else. Couldn’t begin to contemplate another man between her thighs, bringing her pleasure . . . giving her children. A pomegranate-sized lump settled in his chest. She deserved to be happy; he just didn’t want to have any knowledge of her marriage.
“I cannot—”
The door burst open and Taylor rushed inside. His eyes were wide with fear. “My lord, I apologize, but I thought I should fetch you straight away. Lady Sophia’s maid is at the back door. Sir Stephen’s been taken.”
Alice stood wringing her hands, her face pale. “The boy, the one from The Black Queen, she pays him for information. He saw them take her tonight, my lord.”
Quint’s stomach plummeted. “You spoke with the boy?”
She nodded. “Not even fifteen minutes ago. He came straight to me after it happened.”
“She was at The Black Queen?”
“Yes. Right outside. Said he dragged her into an alley—” Her voice hitched on a sob and she pressed her fist to her mouth.
“Quint, bring her inside,” Maggie said from behind him. “Alice, do come in and sit down.”
Quint led her to the kitchens and helped her onto a stool. Winchester had now joined them, along with Taylor, but Quint didn’t pay attention to anyone but Sophie’s maid. “Did he say what happened then?” Different scenarios acted out in his head, none of them good.
“They tied her up, sack over her head. He said she fought but they got her into a carriage. Headed toward Bishop’s Gate. That’s all he saw before he came to me.”
“Who are ‘they’? O’Shea’s men?”
“A man he did not recognize and Lord Tolbert.”
“Oh, my God,” Maggie said quietly.
“What am I missing?” Winchester asked.
Quint could only rub his brow. He’d been so certain that Tolbert was not responsible for the killings. He’d obviously been wrong. Tolbert had taken her. But where?
He forced down the panic at her abduction, forced down the anger at not being able to protect her. No time for that now, not until Sophie was found. Think, he ordered himself.
Alice said, “I asked her ladyship not to go back there. Too dangerous, I said. But she got a note, you see. Told her that another girl would be taken tonight. My lady was all too eager to return there after the last time, though.”
“The last time?” Winchester asked, his voice rising.
“Yes, my lord. The other night, her ladyship learned O’Shea’s been sending notes to Whitehall. She thought it was odd. More like dangerous to me.”
“Nothing happens in or around his clubs that O’Shea doesn’t know about,” Winchester said to Quint.
It was as good a place to start as any, Quint supposed. “Then let’s go. We’ll take your carriage.” He hurried toward the stairs.
“I’m coming,” he heard Maggie say to Winchester.
“Absolutely not,” Winchester returned sharply, then softened his voice, murmuring to his wife. Quint didn’t hear what else was said because he dashed up the stairs and into the front entry.
He jerked open the door. Winchester’s carriage waited, the driver atop.
“My lord!”
Spinning, he saw Taylor coming forward with a pistol in each hand. “Here. Your lordship may need these.” The butler held the weapons out—weapons Quint had never seen before.
Quint glanced up at Taylor. “Why does a butler have loaded pistols at the ready?”
A flush rose on the young man’s cheeks. “For protection, my lord.”
That didn’t quite satisfy the questions piling up in his brain, but Quint filed it away to deal with later. “Give those to Lord Winchester, will you?”
“Give what to me?” Winchester asked, coming alongside.
“The pistols.” Quint tilted his chin toward the weapons, which Winchester accepted. He took a deep breath at t
he threshold, bracing himself. “Let’s go.”
Seconds later, the two of them set off for East London. Quint kept his eyes closed, his breathing even and deep. Focused on Sophie. Brown eyes with hints of gold. Long lashes. Her quick smile. The way she laughed. The taste of her. How she shivered when he stroked her.
“I sent Maggie to fetch Colton. He’ll meet us there.”
Quint nodded, lids shut tight. He had to find Sophie before anything terrible happened. This was all his fault.
If it were possible in her current position to kick herself, Sophie would readily do it. She’d been so, so stupid.
An unsigned note had arrived via Alice earlier, informing Sir Stephen that Tolbert planned to take another girl this evening. So when Tolbert had ventured to The Black Queen tonight, Sir Stephen—armed with both a pistol and a knife—had followed. No way would she lose him again tonight. The note could have been a lie, but in case it was not, she meant to see what he did.
Tolbert had spent the evening at the roulette table, losing steadily, until a large man she recognized as one of O’Shea’s gang arrived to whisper in Tolbert’s ear. After a nod, Tolbert had gathered his things and left. Sophie hurried after, only to discover Tolbert hadn’t returned to his carriage. Instead, he strode purposely along the walk, swinging his cane and whistling. She’d followed him at a distance, waiting to see where he went next. Why hadn’t he taken his carriage?
A scuffling noise behind her had been her only warning before a hand clasped roughly over her mouth. Beefy arms enveloped her, the smell of tobacco and sweat so strong it nearly made her gag. She went limp, hoping he’d drop her—and he did, but only for a half second. She screamed, praying Jenkins would hear her, but the man swore and quickly scooped her back up, tighter this time. “Nice try,” he said, squeezing her and cutting off her air. She tried to slide her hand into her pocket to get her knife as he dragged her into a nearby alley.
When he reached for a length of rope, she had fought. Had used her legs to kick at anything she could reach. Bit his hand. Wrenched, twisted, yelled, and did whatever she could think of . . . but another man she couldn’t see joined in behind her and she was quickly subdued. Stomach plummeting, she watched as he tossed away both her pistol and her knife.