by Mary Balogh
Nathaniel guessed that his reluctance to enter into an affair with her had become an annoyance to her and she was putting an end to the acquaintance in an amiable manner.
He could have gone to a concert that Georgina and Lavinia were to attend with Margaret and John, but he was glad of a free evening for a change. He was going to sit with his feet up in the library, he decided, with a book. He might even close his eyes and have a sleep. Even if the night ahead was not going to be quite as sleepless or as energetic as last night, there would still be some expenditure of energy, he did not doubt, and some wakeful hours.
He remembered after seeing his family members on their way after dinner, of course, and after settling to his quiet evening that there were letters on the desk in his study. He would read them in the morning, he decided. But in the morning he was going to call upon Pinter with his friends—Eden had found out the man’s address and Kenneth had already delivered Nathaniel’s copy of the statement against Pinter. Ken should be a full-time politician, Nathaniel had decided after reading it. He certainly knew how to make dirt appear filthy indeed.
He would read his letters in the afternoon, then, he decided, finding his page in his book. But tomorrow afternoon he had promised to take Lavinia and Georgina to the Tower of London, weather permitting. Lavinia wanted to the see the armory while Georgie wanted to see the crown jewels. Besides, tomorrow would bring its own pile of letters.
He sighed and got to his feet. If he was fortunate, he thought as he made his way to the study, there would be nothing from Bowood today, or at least nothing that needed much time and attention. He yawned noisily. He might not have felt tired earlier in the day, but he was deuced sleepy now.
There was nothing from Bowood. He took the few letters there were back to the library with him and settled thankfully into his chair.
There were a couple of bills Georgina and Lavinia had incurred during the past week—both modest. There was a letter from Edwina at the Bowood rectory, doubtless written in her small cramped hand and crossed so that the words would be next to impossible to read. And when he made the effort to read them anyway, he would find the letter as dull as one of her husband’s sermons. He felt guilty. At least she had made the effort to write. He forced himself to spend fifteen whole minutes proving that he had been right in the first place.
There was another letter. He opened it and read it. And dropped it to his lap while he set his head back and closed his eyes.
Was this too, he wondered, because she feared Pinter?
She had not feared him last night. And Pinter could not know about last night unless he kept a constant surveillance on her house—an absurd idea even for him, surely.
Why then? If not because of fear, why?
Because she did not want him?
She had wanted him last night.
I must thank you again for every kindness you have shown me.
She might as well have slapped his face. Was that what last night had been all about? Had she been thanking him for returning her ring and her pearls?
I will remember you fondly.
Oh, Sophie. The letter sounded so very like her—calm, practical, cheerful. Somehow the image he had of her in his mind now was of the old Sophie, plain, rather dowdy, slightly disheveled—Walter’s wife.
He could not associate this letter with last night’s vibrant, passionate lover.
Had she merely wanted a night to remember? Had she known even this morning before he left that she would write this letter? Had she used him—as he had used countless women years ago?
There would be some justice in such a thing, he was forced to admit.
But not Sophie. Not Sophie.
They had decided, he and his friends, that they would not let her know of their visit to Pinter tomorrow. She would discover she was free, but she would not know that they—that he—had had any hand in it. There would be no excuse to call on her.
He would never see her again, then, unless he ran into her by accident.
He would see to it that that did not happen, he thought. If Georgina became officially betrothed within the next while, she would perhaps wish to return to the country to prepare for her wedding there. Perhaps they could all return to Bowood. He did not believe Lavinia would object to being deprived of the rest of the Season.
Or if Georgina preferred, then perhaps she could stay in town with Margaret and he and Lavinia could return to Bowood and begin the process of setting her up on her own somewhere reasonably close. She would surely be eager now that he had mentioned the possibility to her.
He was desperate to leave town. To be back in the tranquil security of Bowood.
Sophie, he thought, realizing suddenly that he did not need to rest now as there was nothing and no one to rest himself for. Ah, Sophie. It was such a pleasant dream, my love. I thought perhaps you were dreaming it too. How foolish of me!
But he stayed where he was, his eyes still closed. There was nothing else to do.
NINETEEN
BORIS PINTER HAD HIS lodgings on the second floor of a house on Bury Street, behind St. James’s Street. Sophia arrived in the middle of the morning, alone and on foot. Those facts did not endear her either to the servant who answered her knock or to the woman who came out of a downstairs room to examine her appearance—presumably the landlady. But Sophia had dressed with care and wore the voluminous cloak she had always worn in the Peninsula—it had a somewhat military look, she thought. And she introduced herself with cool confidence as Mrs. Sophia Armitage, wife of Major Walter Armitage, come to call upon Lieutenant Boris Pinter.
Somehow, Sophia thought with what might have been amusement under other circumstances, she awed both of them into submission. The landlady even preceded her up the two flights of stairs to the second floor, just as if she were a servant herself. She knocked on the door that presumably opened into Mr. Pinter’s rooms and waited until his man answered her knock.
Mrs. Armitage, the valet informed the landlady, was expected. He opened the door wider, and Sophia stepped inside. Her heart, which had been thumping for some time, threatened now to rob her of all breath. She declined to allow the valet to take her cloak. She would not be staying long, she told him. He showed her into a salon, a large square room with heavy furnishings and dark draperies. She was left alone there for a while.
She was standing a little to one side of the door when it opened again. She had been tempted to cross the room to take up her stand before the window or the fireplace. She could not bear the thought of being anywhere close to him. But she did not want him between her and the door either.
“Ah, Sophie, my dear,” he said, closing the door behind him, “what a pleasant surprise it was to know that you were coming here—and sooner than you might have. But you have come alone without even a maid?”
He looked rather handsome, she thought dispassionately, dressed in well-tailored clothes, his dark hair freshly brushed, his face smiling. A new acquaintance might consider him a charming young man.
“You have no answer,” he remarked. “Will you have a seat?” He gestured toward a sofa.
“No, thank you,” she said. “Where is the letter?”
“Here,” he said, patting the right side of his chest. “But you do not want to read it, do you, Sophie? Have you not put yourself through enough of such torture? You may see it, of course, if you do not trust me and wish to verify its authenticity. One hates to be vulgar, but do you have the money?”
He had crossed the room as he spoke and sat down in a low chair close to the window, though she had not sat herself. A deliberate discourtesy, of course.
“No,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows, crossed one leg over the other, and swung his booted foot. “Oh?” he said softly. “No money, Sophie? But you have come for the letter? And what, pray, do you have to offer in exchange for it? Your less-than-delectable person? I am afraid that would be worth less to me than one comer torn from one letter.” He smiled his most charming
, white-toothed smile at her.
She understood something then, something that explained everything, something that she should have realized far sooner—the reason Walter had blocked his promotion, the reason for his intense hatred of Walter and all who had been close to him, the reason for his determination to use these letters in any way he could for their destruction.
Most villains, she supposed, were not just blackhearted incarnations of evil. Most of them had some justification for what they did, however misguided. She understood his justification.
“I want all the remaining letters,” she said. “Every one of them. For a simple price. I will take them in exchange for your life.”
His foot stilled and his smile became immobile. “My dear Sophie,” he said, sounding amused, “where is your gun?”
“Here.” She drew Walter’s gleaming pistol from one of the large pockets inside her cloak, holding it steady with both hands and pointing it at the center of his chest, both arms extended.
There was one big problem, she realized. He had only one letter inside his coat. The others would be in another room. She was going to have to go with him, the pistol trained on him the whole way, to get them. And there was that large valet in the rooms somewhere. But she had thought of all that ahead of time and had been unable to think of any way to simplify matters.
She must simply be firm. She must not lose her resolve by one single iota.
His boot had resumed its swinging. His smile had broadened. “By Jove,” he said, “I can almost admire you, Sophie. You had better put it away, though, before I come over there and take it from you. I might feel constrained to send you home with a few bruises to remind you not to so waste my time in future.”
“You forget, Mr. Pinter,” she said, “that I am no ordinary woman. I followed the drum for seven years. I have seen battle and death. I have handled guns and used them. I am not squeamish at the thought of shedding a little blood. If you believe I am bluffing, you may come over here and take the pistol from me. But you may get only a hole in your heart for your pains. Now. I will take that letter first—the one you have on you. Toss it across the floor.”
He still looked almost insolently at his ease. But Sophia, sighting along the barrel of the gun, her eyes intent on him, could see beads of moisture above his upper lip and on his forehead. He shrugged and chuckled and reached inside his coat. A letter came spinning across the carpet toward her.
“I will humor you for a few moments,” he said. “I must say I find this vastly diverting, Sophie. It is, of course, the last letter. I suppose I might be generous this once and allow you to have it. Shall we shake hands on it?” He half rose from his chair.
“Sit down!” she commanded him.
He sat and folded his arms. He was grinning.
“In a few moments,” she said, “we will go to fetch the other letters. I am well aware of the fact that you will try to keep back at least one or two of them so that you may continue your game in future. But I wish you to know something first. I have grown tired of keeping this secret to myself. I have written a letter of my own and made several copies. They are all with a lawyer I visited yesterday. He has instructions to have the letters delivered immediately on my instructions or on my death or unexplained disappearance. I will give those instructions as soon as your next attempt at blackmail is made or as soon as you publish one of these letters for all the world to see. And that, Mr. Pinter, is no bluff.”
“But the scandal would be just as scandalous, my dear,” he said. She wondered he had not grown tired of chuckling.
“Yes,” she agreed. “And I believe that my brother, Viscount Houghton, Sir Nathaniel Gascoigne, Lord Pelham, Viscount Rawleigh, and the Earl of Haverford would be interested to learn the identity of the author of that scandal. I would not wish to be in your shoes on that day, Mr. Pinter. It might be kinder if I were to shoot you now.”
Her conviction that he was nothing more than a coward and a bully had been well-founded, she could see. His posture and manner had not really changed, but he was clearly uneasy. His foot was jerking rather than swinging freely. His eyes were darting about, seeking ways to distract or disarm her. Perspiration was beginning to drip into his eyes and onto his cravat.
“You have been remarkably eager so far to keep all this to yourself, Sophie,” he said. “I do not believe you have written those letters at all.”
“You may well be right,” she said. “Indeed, it seems very possible that you are, does it not? But you will not know for sure until you put the matter to the test, will you? Is it a bluff or is it not? Do you think you will be able to sleep easily from tonight onward?” She smiled grimly, though she did not relax her concentration on his person. “Am I bluffing, Mr. Pinter, or am I not?”
“Now, Sophie,” he said, “I believe we should talk this over.”
“You will get to your feet now,” she said, “your hands out to the sides where I can see them. I am an angry woman, Mr. Pinter. Not passionately angry, you will understand, but coldly so. I believe I would rather enjoy being given an excuse to shoot you. Perhaps you should be careful not to tempt me. Up!”
She should have practiced, she realized then. She had not thought of it. Her outstretched arms were growing tired. The pistol seemed to weigh a ton. And this was not over yet by a long way. She dug deep inside herself for the fortitude she would need. She would find it. She always had when facing adverse circumstances during the wars.
And then the totally unforeseen happened just as he got to his feet and raised his arms to shoulder height, palms out. Someone knocked on the outer door.
He grinned at her again. “This could be a trifle inconvenient for you, Sophie,” he said.
“Stay where you are.” She did not take her eyes from him for a single moment. If she was fortunate, it would be a tradesman or someone else whom the valet could deal with without consulting his employer. If she was not fortunate, well ... She had no plans.
There was the sound of voices from beyond the door. Not just two. More than two. And they were inside the outer door. Sophia drew a steadying breath. Boris Pinter’s eyes had resumed their darting. His smile had grown a little more assured.
The door opened.
“It is Sophie,” Kenneth said. “She has a gun.”
“Don’t do it, Sophie.” Rex spoke sharply. “Whatever you do, do not shoot.”
“Put it down, Sophie,” Eden said. “There really is no need to use it even if he does deserve to die.”
“Well,” Boris Pinter said, lowering his hands, “the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to the rescue.” But his pleasant tone was utter bravado. His eyes showed more fear than they had shown so far, a fact that Sophia found considerably annoying.
“Get those hands up!” she snapped, and felt a moment’s satisfaction as they jerked upward again. She had made him look foolish, if nothing else.
And then Nathaniel stepped into her line of vision, so that her pistol was suddenly trained right at his heart.
“Give me the gun, Sophie,” he said, reaching out one hand.
“Careful, Nat,” Eden said. “She may not know quite what she is doing.”
“He is not worth it,” Nathaniel said, taking one step toward her. “He is not worth what you would have to live with in your waking life and in your dreams until your dying day. Believe me, my love. I know what I am talking about. Give me the gun.” He took another step toward her and clearly meant to keep coming.
Sophia did not wait for the ignominy of having the pistol removed from her nerveless fingers. She put it back into the pocket inside her cloak.
“An unloaded gun does little damage,” she said, “except perhaps to a man’s nerves.”
Someone was breathing with audible relief.
“She is a madwoman, I tell you,” Pinter was saying. “I was returning something of Walter’s to her, thinking she might wish to have it. Unfortunately it is a love letter old Walter wrote to someone else and Sophie cut up nasty. Taking it out o
n me, I suppose, because Walter is beyond her reach.”
“Save your breath, Pinter,” Kenneth said. “You are going to need it in a short while. Are you all right, Sophie?”
She was staring into Nathaniel’s eyes just a few feet away. She was despising herself for the knee-weakening relief she felt. She tried not to show it. She had not even begun to wonder what had brought the four of them here.
“I could have managed alone,” she said.
“There is no doubt of that,” Nathaniel agreed. “But friends stick together, Sophie. And we are your friends whether you like it or not.”
“So you really did it, Sophie.” Boris Pinter was chuckling yet again, though it was not a merry sound. “Not even by letter. You told them.”
“Was this the letter, Sophie?” Kenneth asked, bending and picking it up from the floor.
“Yes,” she said.
“There are more of them?”
“Yes.”
“They will all be in your possession,” he said, “before many more minutes have passed.”
“They would have been even if you had not come,” she said, her eyes on Nathaniel. Did they know? And did it matter any longer? Soon now she would not have to face the torment of seeing him—any of them—any longer. She would be gone.
“Sophie,” he said, and he stepped forward, set his arms about her, and drew her against him. She felt his lips brush across one of her cheeks. It was only at that moment she realized that she had begun to tremble. She had shown her relief after all. “Would one of you take her home, please?”
“No.” She drew her head back, but it was a weak protest.
Why would he not take her home himself?
“Come, Sophie,” Rex said after a short pause.
None of them, it seemed, wanted to leave and miss what was about to happen here. And what was that to be? she wondered. What were they doing here? Why had they come? What were they going to do to Boris Pinter? Had they stopped her from killing him—not that she could have done so with her unloaded pistol—only so that they might have the satisfaction of doing it themselves?