Dash patted her on the head as he’d done since they were four and three, respectively. “There is nothing to be sorry for, my dear Sophia.”
Sophia attempted to ignore the slow, steady intake of breath that gave away Dash’s relief.
And failed. “Though Nicholas’s proclivity for troublesome behavior would make anyone wary.” Sophia caught the telling flare of Dash’s nostrils with dread. “Please, go and find your wife. Ply her with champagne and allow her to repay you in kind. Forget all about this regrettable conversation. Langdon and I will deal with Nicholas—”
“Bourne has taken himself off to the Primrose Inn. Again. Which is hardly cause for concern,” Dash interrupted. Only mild annoyance colored his tone but emotion darkened his eyes—and gave him away. “There is no need to bother Stonecliffe with such uneventful news.”
Sophia smoothed her gloved fingers over the silk skirt of her gown nervously. “You are lying, Dash. To me. Why?”
“Let it go, Sophia.”
She turned toward the crowd with every intention of joining Langdon and Carmichael. “We are not children any longer, Dash—you admitted it yourself only moments ago. There’s no need to protect me from the truth, whatever it may be.”
Dash’s hand closed over her forearm before she took one step. “It concerns your mother’s killer,” Dash warned in a low voice.
Sophia could not have been more shocked by Dash’s words. Her vision narrowed, her mind rejecting all other thoughts until its only focus was Dash’s sentence. The buzz from the chattering members of the ton gathered in the salon blurred into incomprehensible syllables. She leaned into Dash’s grasp for support as the room swayed precariously.
And then everything went black.
A sharply medicinal scent filled Sophia’s nostrils and her eyes flew open in response. “Dash?” she cried out, bracing her palms against the soft cushions of a settee and pushing herself upright.
“Calm yourself, Lady Sophia. You fainted,” Dash’s wife explained from where she sat on the Aubusson carpet at Sophia’s side. “My husband told me you had an aversion to weddings. Not that I would blame you. It is my own wedding and I find myself in need of a quiet room and a good book. But fainting? Stroke of genius, if you ask me,” she said dryly.
“It does appear rather drastic, doesn’t it?” Sophia answered hesitantly. She glanced about the room, recognizing the graceful lines of the Adams fireplace surround, the delicate curves of a feminine writing desk, and a beautifully rendered portrait of Dash’s grandmother that hung over the mantel. “I see I’ve been spirited away to the viscountess’s quarters, no less. My, I do know how to draw attention. I must apologize, Lady Carrington. I had no intention of ruining your wedding celebration.”
“There is no need to apologize. First, you managed to extract me from the festivities, which as I mentioned before was not a wholly unwelcome thing. And secondly—and rather more importantly—you received some startling news.”
Elena’s statement quickly brought Sophia back to her senses. “Then you know about my mother’s killer?” she asked, her heart beginning to pick up speed with equal parts anticipation and fear.
The viscountess nodded again. “That is why I am here—and why Dash is currently keeping Langdon occupied. Not an easy task, as I am sure you are aware. He is a most congenial man in all matters, with the exception of you. I suspect he will soon be pounding at the door, demanding entry.”
“Then we haven’t a moment to waste, wouldn’t you agree?” Sophia asked, carefully swinging her legs from the settee and settling her slippered feet firmly on the carpeted floor.
Elena rose from the lavender patterned carpet and joined Sophia on the sofa, her expression cautious, but resolute. “Very well. In the interest of time, I will be brief. A journal belonging to Dash’s late father was recently discovered. In it, he recounts a visit from a prostitute who sought him out in an effort to clear her conscience. She’d suspected for years that one of the brothel’s clients was in fact the man who’d murdered your mother. Though his true identity had been concealed from her, Dash and Nicholas were able to successfully piece the clues together and identify the killer.”
“Why did Dash not come to me?” Sophia protested. “He should have—from the very moment the journal was discovered.”
Elena reached out; her upturned palm a silent request for understanding. “Lady Sophia, you do know how dearly Dash cares for you, do you not?” she asked plainly.
“Yes,” Sophia answered reluctantly, accepting Elena’s hand in hers.
“He knew you could not be kept from searching for the man if you were told. And putting you in such a dangerous position was something Dash wished to avoid at all cost.”
Sophia wanted to rail against the woman’s reasoning, to put into words the fiery indignation building in her chest. But it was no use. In the same position, it was entirely possible she would have spared Dash for her own selfish means.
“And the murderer’s name?” Sophia asked, squeezing Elena’s hand tightly in hers.
“Francis Smeade,” Elena said warily, clearly watching Sophia for signs of distress.
Francis Smeade? Sophia had known very little of the man, his unappealing personality having discouraged her from pursuing anything beyond mere acquaintance. Then Mr. Smeade had managed to get himself shot and killed …
Sophia closed her eyes against the oncoming wave of nausea. “Is that it, then? The reason Nicholas decamped for the Primrose Inn? Did he shoot Smeade?”
“Dear me, no,” Elena instantly assured her. “Both Dash and Mr. Bourne were there that night on the bridge when Smeade was killed. In fact, Dash was the last to speak with Smeade; their conversation lasted long enough to confirm that he’d been hired to murder your mother.”
“For money? Then Smeade had been hired by someone else. Who?”
“We do not know,” Elena answered. “Mr. Bourne pursued the shooter, but the man jumped into the Thames before he could be captured.”
“And Nicholas blames himself?” Sophia’s heart ached with a swift stab of empathy.
The abject silence that met her question confirmed Sophia’s fears. She gently released Elena and folded her hands in her lap, striving for calm even as tension tightened her fingers.
“So that is why he is at the Primrose.” Her voice trembled. She found it surprisingly difficult to speak clearly. “I cannot imagine how deeply the man’s escape has affected Nicholas.”
“Deeply enough that he refuses to speak with Dash—or is unable to due to drink,” Elena replied in a somber, almost regretful tone. “Which is why I must ask a favor of you.”
“Anything,” Sophia answered distractedly, her mind attempting to keep pace with the volume of information.
“Though I understand you and Mr. Bourne do not often see eye to eye, I need you to convince him to take up the case again,” Elena implored Sophia. “I cannot ask Stonecliffe; he is too dedicated to keep such information from the Young Corinthians. And Lord Carmichael would never stand for his involvement, as you well know. There is no one else but Mr. Bourne now.”
Years before, Lord Carmichael had expressly forbidden all four of the children from pursuing the case. He’d assured them that time and distance was what they required.
“And, should you wonder why I’m being so monumentally selfish, I am with child,” Elena finished, sinking down to the carpet until her wedding gown pooled all about her. “I cannot ask Dash to abandon the case. Still, I am terrified he’ll come to harm. And how can I ask Mr. Bourne to continue in Dash’s stead when I know the danger he will surely face?”
A storm cloud had settled on the woman’s brow, tears threatening to break through at any moment. Sophia may have fainted at her dearest friend’s wedding, but she would not make his bride cry.
She fought down a rising tide of dread at the knowledge that it was up to her to convince Nicholas. Such an appeal would take time and patience, two things that were always in short supply whenever
they conversed.
Sophia focused instead on the surge of elation she felt over the very idea of joining the search for her mother’s killer. After too many years of being told to let the matter rest, she would at last be involved.
“Please, Lady Carrington,” Sophia crooned, patting the woman’s hand reassuringly. “Do not worry yourself. Nicholas and I have our differences, that much is true. This is one matter, though, on which I feel certain we will agree.”
Because she would give him no choice.
2
May 26
THE PRIMROSE INN
EDGWARE
MIDDLESEX
OUTER LONDON
The Honorable Nicholas Bourne could not decide which was worse: the rattle of metal rings over the curtain rod as the rough linen hangings were pulled back, the excruciatingly loud crash of the shutters slamming against the outer stucco and timber siding of the Primrose Inn, or the sudden flash of blinding sunlight.
“Mrs. Brimm, are you trying to kill me?” he asked the innkeeper’s wife in a low, even tone as he willed the relentless pounding in his head to stop.
Something soft yet painfully unwelcome landed on his face in response to his query. Nicholas cautiously opened his eyes but could see nothing through the folds of his linen shirt. “I see no need for clothing at this juncture, my good woman, as I intend to stay abed for at least another two hours. Now, off with you. I’m sure there are other guests who would welcome your attention.”
“I am neither Mrs. Brimm nor am I trying to kill you. Not yet, anyway.”
Nicholas startled at the sound of the woman’s voice. He grabbed the bedcovers, yanking them higher over his bare chest as he levered himself upright. “Sophia?”
Lady Sophia Afton stood in front of the open window, illuminated by the late-morning sun. The warm golden rays silhouetted her graceful form against the gloom and dark of the rented room. All about, empty bottles of brandy and Cognac, sheets of foolscap and discarded quills, and Nicholas’s clothing were carelessly tossed hither and yon—the evidence of a messy and misused life.
And in the middle of it all stood Sophia. The faint pink of her rosebud printed gown appeared to be the exact hue of her full lips. Her dark hair, gleaming like autumn’s burnished oak leaves, was artfully pinned up, a few stray curls expertly arranged about her face. And below the feathered arch of brows, her eyes were the deep green of emeralds, framed with dark lashes and spaced just far enough apart to give her an exotic air. One could get lost in those immeasurable depths, a fact Nicholas knew all too well.
Sophia stole his breath away. She always had and without even knowing that she did so. He’d long ago learned it was useless to fight the fascination. His sanity would return again. Or not. It did not matter in the least.
“Surely you’re not surprised,” she said, slowly walking toward the bed until she stood within touching distance. “Someone had to fetch you.”
Nicholas fought the urge to disappear beneath the coarse bed linens, aware that doing so would only make him appear even more the fool. “Well, someone usually means Carrington or my brother. How on earth did you draw the short straw—and where’s your Mrs. Kirk? This is feeling more scandalous by the moment.” He gestured abruptly. “Turn around, Sophia, while I make myself decent.”
With an unfathomable glance from beneath her lashes, she did as he bade her, turning to face the opposite wall.
Nicholas tossed back the covers and swung his bare feet to the plank floor. He swore under his breath as the sudden movement sent his head spinning. Then swore again as he reached for his shirt from the pile of clothing flung carelessly on the edge of the bed and pulled it over his head, tugging it into place.
“Mrs. Kirk is waiting in the coach so that we may speak privately,” Sophia replied, her back to him as Nicholas buttoned his breeches. “As for Dash, he’s celebrating his wedding trip.”
“Dammit,” Nicholas cursed for the third time in as many moments. “I thought he was to be leg-shackled on the twenty-fourth.”
Sophia turned back to face him, pity pooling in her eyes. “He was, Nicholas. Today is the twenty-sixth.”
He froze, staring at her, shame snaking its way around his heart. He’d lost a week. In the past there had been a day here or there that had disappeared into the ether, consumed by drink and his need to forget. Never before had there been so many lost days in a row. Too many days.
Sophia crossed the room to a slat-backed chair. She turned it around and clasped the worn wood, tipping the chair onto two legs and dragging it toward the bed.
Nicholas winced as the scrape of wood against wood set hammers pounding inside his skull.
She placed the chair to face Nicholas, then took her seat.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “What are you up to, Sophia?”
“Do you promise to listen?” she asked sternly, extending her arm, her palm up in silent plea.
He scrubbed his hand across his unshaven jaw. “Are we children again, then?” he growled.
“Do you promise, Nicholas?” Sophia pressed. “Or have I come all this way for nothing?”
“Honestly, Sophia,” Nicholas muttered, reaching out and taking her hand in his. “I don’t recall inviting you, so yes, I would say you have.”
Sophia laced her fingers with his and shook four times, just as she’d done during their childhood. “Say it.”
“I promise to listen with open ears, wide eyes, and a closed mouth,” Nicholas bit out, his displeasure with her presence clearly conveyed in every last syllable. “There, will that do? They’re only words—strung together by children, if you’ll remember. Hardly anything that would hold water.”
It killed him to touch her, her soft, small hand in his akin to torture. Yet he wouldn’t let go. He knew he would never be an honorable man. Never marry nor know the joys of family. He would take his love for Sophia to his deathbed. Even if it destroyed him, which, he ventured to guess, was precisely what would happen.
“Thank you, Nicholas,” she sighed, relief easing the strain from her countenance. She squeezed his hand in hers, then let go.
Nicholas lowered his arm, the tips of his fingers still tingling where they’d gripped Sophia’s mere seconds before. “Well, out with it, then. I don’t have all day.”
“I need your help.”
Nicholas stared hard at the only woman he’d ever loved. He’d often imagined what it would feel like to hear Sophia say she needed him. And the emotion was nothing like the growing sense of unease that crept up his spine now.
“And my brother?” he asked bitterly, desperate to maintain some sense of dignity though he knew it to be a pointless struggle. “I would venture to guess Langdon would be more suitable. Or sober, at the very least.”
“I do not need Langdon. I need you.”
Sophia folded her hands in her lap and stared at Nicholas. When she’d thrown back the curtains earlier and turned to look at him, she’d been stunned, frozen into stillness and too distracted to move or speak. The sunlight had arrowed through the window behind her and directly onto the bed. In that brief moment before Nicholas recognized her, she’d been shocked at the powerful, dangerous man sprawled on the rumpled bed.
The blankets were pushed to his waist, his upper torso bare. Though she’d known him since they were children, he was suddenly unrecognizable. She’d been unable to look away from the flex and smooth ripple of well-defined muscles in his chest and arms as he pushed himself upright. It was only the sound of his sleep-roughened, deep voice as he spoke her name that convinced her she’d not wandered into the wrong room by mistake.
Now that she was nearer, she could see deep crease marks from the crude inn bedding that ran the length of the left side of his face. He’d clearly been abed for some time and yet the dark crescents beneath his eyes intimated exhaustion.
An air of dissipation and soul-deep weariness shrouded his handsome countenance. She wanted badly to know why he felt driven to drink when it only led to this—a
dank room in a hedge-inn, surrounded by nothing that could hope to bring him any peace. Despite their shared history, she felt a reluctance to question him. He’d always held some part of himself back, denying Sophia access for his own personal reasons. And it appeared his years in India had only increased the territory she was not allowed to traverse.
He rubbed his knuckles over his jaw for the second time in as many minutes, the muscles beneath the unshaven skin rigid. “I find such a notion impossible to believe.”
He was clearly exhausted. Still, there was more. There always was with Nicholas. Her presence at the Primrose wasn’t merely an irritation to the man; was he angry? Or perhaps embarrassed?
Sophia felt her nerves tighten with the queer tension that always accompanied their interactions. She was never quite sure how he would respond to her. He was a wild animal and she the hapless human who’d had the nerve to disturb him. It could not be said that Sophia ever felt fearful in Nicholas’s presence, though at the moment the sudden quickening of her pulse gave her reason to pause.
Theirs had never been an easy friendship. Her unqualified need to be near him was matched in intensity by his impatience at her very existence. Sophia had come to believe that he truly disliked her, although she’d never been able to discover what she’d done to earn his enmity.
Despite the distance he kept between them, she found herself unable to ignore the inexplicable pull his presence always exerted on her. “Langdon would refuse me. And as much as I chafe at the very idea, I cannot do this alone,” Sophia replied honestly, willing her heartbeat to slow.
Nicholas captured her with a look of shock. “I’m sorry, Sophia. I don’t believe that I heard you correctly. Did you just say that you could not accomplish something on your own?”
His eyes glinted with sudden amusement. There he was, the Nicholas she liked best. Capricious. Irreverent. Clever. He was the only man who could always make her laugh, no matter the circumstances. “I missed you terribly while you were away in India. Do you know, I believe I didn’t laugh once while you were gone,” Sophia countered, relief and an affectionate smile curving her mouth. “But I will not relent, Nicholas.”
The Scoundrel Takes a Bride Page 2