The Scoundrel Takes a Bride

by Stefanie Sloane

The man bowed before the woman as if born to do so. “My lady, you are too kind.”

  “And you? You are not afraid to face me, are you?” Sophia asked warmly, turning her attention to Mouse.

  Mouse’s eyes widened and he backed up until his thin shoulders hit the wall. “Gov said I was to be quiet. And that’s what I’m doin’, you see.”

  This statement earned Nicholas a second glare from Sophia.

  “Do you know my head is pounding—harder by the moment, if you were at all wondering,” Nicholas said to no one in particular. “But by all means, let us not forget our manners. Mouse, do step forward and meet the nice lady,” he instructed impatiently when the boy seemed to hesitate.

  The lad jumped to attention and stepped forward three steps, hesitating before taking a fourth. “I’m not prepared for meetin’ no ladies,” he explained, glaring down at his torn and dirty clothing. “Never met no lady before.”

  “Well, Mouse, may I tell you something?” Sophia asked, leaning forward with friendly intent. “You are the absolute first person I have ever met with the name Mouse. So this is a day of firsts for us both.”

  “Is that right, then? Well, I s’pose there’s no need for names like mine where you come from,” Mouse confided, his inhibitions fading. “In the rookery? I’ve mates named Hook, Badger, Knuckles, Penny Pete—”

  “Thank you, Mouse. That will be quite enough,” Nicholas assured the boy, gesturing for him to rejoin Singh.

  “Sahib, I do not mean to interrupt,” Singh whispered loud enough for the whole of London to hear. “But you’ve forgotten the beautiful lady’s name.”

  “My apologies,” Nicholas groused. “May I introduce …”

  He paused, garnering a look of confusion from each of the three.

  He didn’t know why, precisely, Sophia was in his house, nor how she’d secured entry, come to think of it.

  And while it could be said that Mouse was somewhat endearing—if one were partial to filthy, thieving children—the fact remained that Nicholas knew very little about him. It simply was not safe to reveal Sophia’s true identity.

  “Might I be of assistance?” Sophia offered helpfully.

  Rather too helpfully, if Nicholas was being honest. God, he needed a drink.

  “No, that’s quite all right, Sophia …” He paused again, reaching for a suitable surname. Nothing too regal, nor too plain. His gaze landed on a serving spoon lying next to the steaming pot of stew and inspiration struck.

  “Sophia Spoon.”

  To her credit, Sophia merely blinked at the sound of her new name, and then smiled with friendly interest at Singh and Mouse. “That’s right. You may call me Miss Spoon.”

  “Never heard of such a name for a doxie. I like it. Simple. Not too flow’ry,” Mouse commented before returning to his stew.

  Singh cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I am not familiar with this word ‘doxie.’ Miss Spoon, please, if you would be so kind as to elaborate—”

  “You’re quite mistaken, I’m afraid,” Sophia interrupted, her placid demeanor intact though her cheeks were pink with embarrassment. “While my presence here—and at such a late hour—certainly does appear improper, I assure you I am no light-skirt. I am, in fact, Mr. Bourne’s secretary.”

  Now Nicholas needed to sit down.

  “Mr. Bourne’s extended stay abroad made quite a tangle of his affairs here at home,” she continued, the fanciful tale flowing from her lips with ease. “It will take no small effort on my part to tidy up, but it is what my father would have wanted.”

  “Your father?” Singh asked, thoroughly engrossed in Miss Spoon’s history.

  “Didn’t you know?” Sophia countered, as if everyone knew the Spoon family’s business. “He was Mr. Bourne’s secretary. When Papa became ill, I promised to continue on in his place.”

  Singh nodded in understanding.

  “Yes, it is all rather touching, I’ll give you that,” Nicholas offered sarcastically, “still I believe it is time for Mouse to be abed.”

  “I don’t have no bed. Don’t have no curfew, either,” Mouse protested, picking up his bowl and tipping the last of the stew into his mouth.

  Nicholas would have roared with irritation if not for the damage the noise would do to his head and growing headache. “Singh, if you would, please help the boy to the guest room.”

  “I would be most happy to assist young Mouse,” Singh agreed, holding out his hand. “Come along.”

  Mouse set the bowl down and stood, a scowl pinching his pale lips. “All right, then. I’m tired, anyway.” He refused Singh’s hand and instead fell behind him, the sound of his reluctant footfalls echoing on the polished floor.

  Nicholas emitted a deep, weary sigh. “All right, Miss Spoon. It is time to pay the piper.”

  Sophia’s gaze followed Singh as he quit the room with Mouse in tow before she took the seat opposite Nicholas. A subtle sense of panic at being left alone with him settled in her chest. She smoothed her skirts, folded her hands in her lap, and contemplated him as he eased back in the wooden chair and negligently crossed one leg over the other.

  An illustration of a black panther she’d once seen in a book came to mind as his strong, muscular form effortlessly settled into the space while his intense gaze remained fixed on her. It was always so with Nicholas; he projected an air of uninterest and ease while beneath the casual façade, his mind worked swiftly, all at once dissecting, analyzing, and understanding whatever problem lay before him.

  This time, that problem was Sophia.

  “First, let me apologize for my behavior at the Primrose,” Sophia began, hopeful that taking the reins of the conversation would ease her nerves.

  He continued to stare at her silently for a moment, then, finally, he spoke. “You broke into my home to apologize? Really, Sophia. A letter would have sufficed.”

  “Nicholas, please,” Sophia sighed. “I’m asking you to forgive me. I shouldn’t have pushed you. It was childish and rash.”

  “Is that what happened?” Nicholas asked, his gaze sharp.

  “Do you forgive me?” Sophia pressed, avoiding his question.

  “Will doing so move this conversation along?” Nicholas teased, one eyebrow lifting in sardonic inquiry.

  Annoyed—and oddly comforted to be so—Sophia pursed her lips in disdain and narrowed her eyes at him. It was now her turn to remain stubbornly silent.

  “Yes, I forgive you,” he shrugged dismissively, continuing to watch her with unwavering intensity. “Now, why are you here?”

  “I could wait no longer, Nicholas,” she answered, shaking her head in frustration. “I know I’ve only just apologized for invading your privacy. But I needed to move forward, and familiarizing myself with the case seemed the logical first step.”

  Nicholas went still, his eyes sharpening with disbelief. “Do you mean to tell me—”

  “That I broke into your home, located your notes in the study, and proceeded to read them?” Sophia interrupted, realizing as she listed her offenses just how serious they sounded. She cringed with chagrin. “Yes, that is precisely what I am telling you.”

  He leaned forward in his chair. “How the hell did you even know they existed?” he growled.

  A buzzing sounded in Sophia’s ears and heat gathered at her temples. The pulse at the base of her throat pounded faster. “I saw them in your room at the Primrose. I did not read one line then, I promise you.”

  “What does that matter now?” he jeered.

  “It has been three days, Nicholas,” Sophia explained, her arms now prickled with perspiration. “Why would you make me wait three days? Did you believe I would relent, even after I expressly told you otherwise?”

  Nicholas chuckled low in his throat. “I know you too well to believe you would be reasonable. Still, I had hoped.”

  Sophia glared at him, her palms itching with the urge to punch him squarely on the chin.

  “No response?” Nicholas asked.

  She was overheated
and anxious. Her head felt filled with angry bees, her stomach captured by butterflies. And she was tired. So very tired—physically, mentally, and more important, emotionally. “I do not want to fight with you anymore.”

  Nicholas closed his eyes. “But you’ve given me no choice.”

  Sophia stared at him, noting the angular cheekbones so much like Langdon’s, and yet his sun-kissed skin was so very different from his brother’s.

  The undeniable sense that she was seeing him for the very first time returned. When she’d informed Lettie that he was no longer the Nicholas she’d known she’d felt confused. Now she was curious. And dangerously so.

  He opened his eyes, his gaze unreadable.

  “There never was a choice,” Sophia finally whispered, captivated by the minute gold flecks within the sea of umber of his irises. His thick black lashes half lowered and she felt the force of his gaze as he stared at her mouth for one long, torturous moment. When his glance lifted to meet hers again, the heat in his eyes seared her sensitive skin.

  But then he blinked and it was gone. Bewildered, she wondered if she’d imagined the flash of desire. She struggled to speak, relieved when her voice sounded reasonably normal. “My involvement was a foregone conclusion. The question was whether you would help me or not.”

  He lowered his arms to the table, brushing her wrist with his hand. Sophia pressed her fingertips against the hard wood though she wanted nothing more than to touch him back—to experience the delicious thrill his nearness afforded.

  She held her breath and waited.

  7

  He wanted to kiss her. Badly. The embarrassment over their altercation at the Primrose lifted from his obstinate heart as she searched his face. He could see his reflection in the depths of her emerald eyes, and he liked the view this time around. He was not the depraved, pathetic soul she’d encountered at the inn. No, he was soul-weary, but sober.

  He lowered his forearms to the table. His hand brushed torturously against the inside of Sophia’s wrist.

  “How can I say no?” Nicholas asked, his throat suddenly parched.

  Sophia licked her lips.

  He watched as the tip of her tongue dampened her full bottom lip, and then lightly stroked the top lip until it glistened.

  “You can’t.”

  He should have been angry. Enraged, even.

  Instead, he was aroused.

  A loud crash rang out above, followed by a cry of distress.

  Sophia blinked quickly, as if awoken from a dream. “Was that Mouse?”

  Nicholas ran his hands through his hair until his scalp tingled. “It could’ve been Singh. I suppose we should check on them?”

  Sophia nodded as she pushed her chair out and stood. She rounded the table before Nicholas could secure his bearings, and quit the room in a swirl of flying skirts.

  Nicholas hit the table hard with his fist, biting off a curse as he stood and followed after her, feeding his speed with frustration.

  The muffled sound of voices grew more distinct as they turned down the hall. By the time they neared the open guest-room doorway, there was a second crash, followed by Singh’s abrupt wail of protest.

  The two paused just across the threshold, staring in disbelief at the chaos.

  His thin face determined, Mouse stood with his back to the wall on the far side of the fireplace. He held a poker upright, gripping it with both hands as he threatened Singh.

  Singh stood across the room, eyeing the boy.

  The remains of a porcelain pitcher and bowl lay scattered in pieces on the floor between them.

  “What happened?” Sophia asked.

  The two turned to look at Sophia and Nicholas. Mouse’s expression took on a faint edge of fear; Singh’s face one of bewilderment.

  “I suggested to young Mouse that he might be more comfortable if he washed.” He gestured at Mouse’s appearance, covered with grime. “And he broke the bowl. And the pitcher. Have I offended him in some way?”

  “He’s right,” Nicholas told the boy, attempting to hide his amusement. “You’re filthy.”

  “No.” The boy shook his head, a stubborn light in his blue eyes. “I’ll catch my death, I will. I never wash. My mum warned me not to.”

  Sophia moved farther into the room, closer to Mouse, and nodded in understanding. “While I’m sure that’s true, I think your mother would approve of a quick wash-up. The soap and water will do you good.”

  Mouse continued to look skeptical about the whole undertaking and held his ground.

  Nicholas tapped his hand on his thigh and readied to strong-arm the boy into surrender.

  “The men will help you undress, Mouse, while I fetch a second bowl and pitcher. I’ll be back shortly,” Sophia said with calm command.

  All three males watched with varying degrees of astonishment as she confidently strode from the room.

  “Christ’s blood,” Mouse swore, leaning the poker against the brick then letting out a weary sigh. “I’d forgotten what women were like.”

  Surprised, Nicholas laughed, the lingering tension of his time in the kitchen with Sophia melting away. He beckoned the boy to come forward. “We’ve our orders.”

  The boy moved slowly, dragging his feet the entire width of the room to underscore his unwillingness.

  Singh took a length of linen from a sideboard and joined Nicholas. “Perhaps you would hold this up in front of young Mouse while I assist with his clothing?”

  “I don’t need no help,” Mouse grumbled, bending over to untie his boots.

  “Are we ready?” Sophia asked a moment later as she swept back into the room. She set a bowl full of soapy water and a pitcher for rinsing on the floor near Mouse’s feet then handed Singh several clean rags.

  Mouse stood up and kicked off his boots, a grim set to his lips. “S’pose so.” He peeled off a threadbare coat and cotton shirt, dropping both on the floor.

  “And your breeches,” Singh mentioned helpfully.

  “Those will stay right where they are, Mr. Singh. Even Miss Spoon won’t change my mind.” Mouse’s chin set stubbornly, a militant gleam in his eyes.

  Singh looked at Nicholas.

  Nicholas looked at Sophia.

  Sophia narrowed her eyes at the boy, her disappointment clear. “That will do—for tonight, that is. Tomorrow you will have a proper bath, in a tub, without a stitch of clothing on.”

  She bent down to retrieve the pile of rags and pair of street-worn boots and carried them to the door, tossing them into the hall.

  “She stole my clothes!” Mouse cried out.

  “If she hadn’t, I would have,” Nicholas replied. “Now clean yourself before my arms grow too tired to hold this up any longer.”

  He looked meaningfully at the length of fabric that concealed the boy’s quantity of bare skin from Sophia.

  “You wouldn’t,” Mouse squeaked, grabbing a rag from Singh and lunging for the bowl.

  “No, he would not,” Sophia answered, glaring at Nicholas. “Still, I will turn around all the same.”

  The boy squeezed his eyes shut and covered his matted hair with the soaked rag. He rubbed vigorously, the soapy water stripping dirt away to reveal a surprisingly light shade of hair. Water ran down his face and over his thin chest, making slim paths of cleanliness through the layer of grime.

  His collarbones protruded like chicken wings beneath his pale skin, each one of his ribs all too visible.

  Nicholas winced at the swift sympathy that pinched his heart. He looked away and grunted deep in his throat. “Turn about, Mouse. Let Singh attend to your back.”

  The boy let out a suffering sigh. “If you must. But I’m ticklish, so watch yourself.”

  He turned around. Singh dunked and wrung out a clean rag. Nicholas returned his attention to the boy and caught sight of something on Mouse’s right shoulder. He squinted in order to make it out beneath the soapsuds. It looked to be a brand of sorts, in the shape of a chess piece.

  “Young Mouse, tell me
,” Singh said, rinsing the boy’s back with clean water from the pitcher. “Why do you have a tattoo of a chess piece on your shoulder? Is this customary for young English boys?”

  Mouse threw himself forward, tripping on the edge of the wool carpet and falling face-first onto the bed. “That’s none of your business is what it is,” he yelled. He rose on all fours and scrabbled across the mattress, dropping off the opposite side and disappearing underneath the frame.

  Singh looked at Nicholas in disbelief. “What have I done now?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Nicholas replied, slapping his friend on the back reassuringly before rounding the bed to reach for the frightened boy. “Mouse, come out from under there and tell us what is wrong.”

  The boy began to sob, the rough, scratchy sounds loud in the quiet room.

  “Then I will have to fetch you,” Nicholas announced, a growing concern making him impatient. He crouched down and reached for Mouse.

  The boy jerked back and Nicholas’s fingertips only grazed bare skin. He swore under his breath and stood just as Mouse rolled out from under the far side of the bed and ran for the door.

  Singh lunged for him. Mouse darted to the left, his bare feet slipping on the wet floor. He lost his balance and fell to his knees.

  “Enough,” Sophia commanded, wrapping her arms protectively around the frightened boy.

  Nicholas moved to help her with the child, but Sophia warned him away with a hurried flick of her hand. He halted, close enough to intervene if needed.

  “You are safe, Mouse,” she said firmly, her tone calm and soothing as he struggled for release. “You are safe.”

  The boy’s terror was obvious and Nicholas had no idea how to help. “What can I do?”

  Before Sophia could reply, Mouse stilled and allowed her to rock him soothingly back and forth. The sobbing began once more, giant gulps of air punctuating the agonizing sound.

  “Mr. Singh, please bring me a tumbler of brandy,” Sophia instructed as she stroked the boy’s pale blond hair. “And Mr. Bourne, I will see to Mouse while you review my notes concerning your accounts. You’ll find them on the desk in your study. The sketch as relates to the men in question should be of particular interest, I would think.”