The Scoundrel Takes a Bride

by Stefanie Sloane

  Nicholas knew she referred to the Afton file. He just didn’t know why.

  The door hinge creaked, drawing Sophia’s attention.

  “Under the bed again?” Nicholas asked softly, stepping inside and closing the door to Mouse’s room behind him.

  Sophia rose from the wing-back chair and took the candlestick in hand. “Follow me,” she whispered.

  She pointed to the farthest corner and moved ahead of him across the Aubusson carpet, tiptoeing around the bed. “There,” she said quietly, pointing to where Mouse lay on his stomach, the bed linens pushed to his waist. The featherbed pillows were lined up in a row, forming a barricade between him and the room.

  “Why?”

  Sophia shooed Nicholas back toward the fireplace and motioned for him to sit. She couldn’t be bothered to return the chair she’d moved nearer the door should Mouse attempt an escape. So she’d followed Nicholas’s tall form and sank to the carpet in front of the hearth.

  Nicholas instantly stood up.

  “Do sit down,” Sophia urged, halfheartedly arranging her skirts about her. “I’m too tired to stand up, so you’re wasting your time.”

  His eyes narrowed with displeasure and he lowered to the floor, backing up until the velvet upholstered chair supported him.

  “He’s never slept in a bed.” Sophia rubbed the back of her skull where a wayward hairpin had been poking and worrying the spot all day. “Even after swallowing the entire tumbler of brandy, he would not yield and climb beneath the covers. So we moved the blankets to the floor. The pillows, I suspect, are for protection.”

  She expected Nicholas to respond with a caustic remark. Instead, he nodded in agreement.

  “As ridiculous as it sounds, I believe you’re correct,” he said. “With his back in the corner, two sides are safe. That left two more to guard. Sleeping in the rookery must have presented a dangerous proposition.”

  Sophia wanted to cry. Instead, she allowed her fingers to fumble once more through her hair. Despite her efforts, the menacing pin remained at large. She bit her lip in frustration.

  “It’s all right if you need to cry.”

  Her breath caught. His voice was soothing, considerate, and tempered with concern. “Who are you?”

  Nicholas’s eyes flared in surprise. “Do you mean to tell me I’m responsible for your tears, not Mouse’s insufferable existence?”

  “No,” Sophia replied, swiping at her wet cheeks. “That is, yes. Oh, Nicholas, I don’t know. I cannot bear to think of his life before this,” she added, looking around the beautiful room. “But there’s more; there’s you. India changed you, I believe. Your affection for Mouse and Mr. Singh is quite revealing.”

  “Affection?” Nicholas parroted as if to deny any such silly notion. “I am hoarse from trying to convince Singh to return to his village. And as for Mouse, the boy fell into my lap. I had no other choice.”

  Sophia watched as he averted his eyes, knowing every word was a lie. “You care for them, Nicholas. There is tenderness beneath your bluster. You cannot deny it. I’ve seen it for myself now—and, to be entirely honest, it is befuddling. I feel unsure of where I stand with you. Does that make any sense?”

  He dismissed her claim with a subtle shrug of his shoulders.

  “Don’t,” she added, the tears she’d valiantly fought off up to that point threatening again. “Please don’t hide from me.”

  Nicholas yanked the knot in his neckcloth free and pulled the linen off. He leaned forward, one big hand cupping her chin while he carefully dried her tears with the cloth.

  Sophia’s breath caught. His lashes were lowered over his eyes as he concentrated on the task, and she could study him unobserved. A faint shadow of beard darkened the line of his jaw. She badly wanted to test it with her fingertips. Would it be rough against her sensitive skin? His mouth was a firm line, echoing the concern in the faint frown that drew his dark brows lower.

  He looked up, his gaze meeting hers, and went still. Sophia was instantly mesmerized by the depth of emotion that blazed in his dark eyes.

  The backs of his fingers brushed over her heated skin in a sensual caress, fingertips tracing the line of her jaw before his hand cradled her cheek.

  “I don’t know that anything would make sense at a quarter past three o’clock in the morning,” he answered gently. He bent by slow degrees until his lips nearly brushed hers.

  No biting remark or cutting comment. He’d remained in plain sight, revealing a part of himself Sophia had only ever imagined was real. The distance between a kiss was no more than one foolish flex of her muscles and a monumental leap in judgment.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. It has been a rather trying day,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on his full, sensuous mouth.

  “A rather trying number of years, Sophia,” Nicholas corrected. “There will be time to make sense of all that has happened, once you’ve rested.”

  She closed the small expanse that separated them and placed her lips against his. The contact did nothing to lessen the perplexing need growing within her. She pressed into him harder, her lips seeking relief from the turmoil he’d inspired.

  He lifted a fraction, his breath ghosting over her damp, parted lips as he tilted his head to press his mouth against hers at a slightly different angle. The dizzying flick of his tongue as he opened her mouth and tasted her communicated his own primal need.

  Sophia’s nipples hardened at the sensation and she instinctively grabbed at his shoulders, pulling him in closer.

  Nicholas suddenly stopped and tore his mouth from hers, his eyes flashing with anger. “Christ, Sophia. Here you are, exhausted, vulnerable. In need of nothing more than comfort. And what do I do? I take advantage of you.”

  He sat back against the chair and brought his knees into his chest.

  Sophia felt foolish. Exposed. Confused. Grasping for a reprieve, she adopted a calmness not one measure of her body nor mind felt and shook her head. “It is all right, Nicholas. A moment of weakness on both of our parts—a very human need, I would think, in such a situation. Let us agree to forget this moment altogether, shall we?”

  Nicholas nodded in agreement, though he looked loath to do so.

  Sophia cleared her throat. “Did you find the sketches I left with your case notes?”

  Nicholas hesitated, the cravat dangling from his fingers in the space between them. “I did,” he finally answered. He dropped the neck cloth on the floor. “Quite remarkable on your part.”

  “Not really,” Sophia said, picking up the linen and folding it as she consciously slowed her breathing. “A bit of mindless drawing, really. And it could still be sheer happenstance and not connected to Mouse’s brand. Still, I think it’s worth looking into.” She offered the neat square to Nicholas, smiling nervously when he accepted it.

  “I agree.” He laid the cravat on the chair cushion behind him and looked at Mouse. “We’ll not question him—not yet.”

  “Not ever. I would never forgive myself if we caused the boy more anguish. We’ll need to find another way to secure the answers we seek,” Sophia countered firmly with a worried shake of her head, glad for the distraction of conversation. “What you witnessed was only the beginning; Mouse slipped into some sort of waking nightmare, as if fear had consumed him. He wasn’t the same boy, not even after drinking the brandy. Calmer, yes, but still altered. I won’t willingly put him through that again.”

  Nicholas turned back toward Sophia and nodded, his gaze grim. “Perhaps we won’t have to. I’ll see what I can find out through my street contacts.”

  “As will I,” Sophia answered. “Mrs. Mason is very familiar with the St. Giles gangs.”

  He frowned and looked as if he would protest.

  Sophia pushed to her knees and rose before he had the chance to speak. “It’s too late to do anything further tonight, and I confess, I am exhausted. Please call a hackney for me, won’t you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll see you home.”

>   Sophia could not bear to be alone with him any longer. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “If you’ll not allow me to accompany you, then I insist Mr. Singh go in my place,” Nicholas pressed. “I trust the man as I do Langdon. And I’ve told him the truth—he knows who you are and will keep our secret from Mouse, so there is no need to be concerned in his presence.”

  Sophia nodded, unable to argue anymore.

  8

  The Queen’s Head Tavern

  SEVEN DIALS

  ST. GILES PARISH

  LONDON

  “What do you mean, the boy got away?”

  Robby Filchum didn’t like it much when he had to talk to the master. For one, the boss went by “the Bishop” instead of his real name. True, everyone in the gang had themselves a nickname. Robby himself was known on the streets as Stonehenge for his thick, massive build and what he could do to a man with his fists. That didn’t mean he’d given up his Christian name. Would he want a doxie crying out “Stonehenge” with him on top of her?

  “I’m waiting for your answer,” the Bishop pressed, not bothering to look up from the papers he’d been examining when Robby had arrived in his office.

  “Rex and I had him run down—nearly, anyway,” Robby began, pushing all thoughts of doxies—and him on top of doxies—from his mind as best he could. “We split up before hitting the Seven Dials with plans to catch ’em on Bowl Yard. I was on his heels, ya see, as we hit the Litchfield. So was one of the gents. And—”

  “Gents?” the Bishop asked, interrupting Robby’s exciting tale. “Not from St. Giles, then?”

  “Not from the looks of him. Fancy clothes and all. And when he talked, it was all proper and such. And the other weren’t from around here. He had an accent—a foreign accent. Indian, I think. He wore an odd white hat and had dark skin.”

  The Bishop looked up from his work, a spark of interest in his eyes. “You talked with the gents? And how did that opportunity present itself, considering you were meant to be capturing Mouse—not making conversation?”

  “Didn’t have no choice,” Robby replied simply. “The foreigner knocked Rex to the ground. Done more than that, come to think of it. Rex was alive. He just couldn’t move nothing. Not his arms nor legs. The foreign fella with the odd hat said he’d done something having to do with a snake.”

  “A snake?” the Bishop repeated disbelievingly.

  Robby had never gotten to know the master well, but he knew enough not to test the man’s patience. “Not a real snake, no. Like a punch, only not—something what Miss May’s boys do. You know, the oriental arts? That fancy fighting instead of what works best; plain old punches and jabs what does the trick.”

  The man never lost his temper with no one, Robby thought. No, he stewed all quiet like when he was angry, then had someone else do his dirty work.

  And the master was looking a might too calm for Robby. “The foreign fella did the same thing to me that he’d done to Rex. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t move. I could hear, though. The three of them talked a bit before running off. From the sounds of it, the posh one knew Mouse. Called him by name even.”

  Robby felt a tug of regret for adding that last bit, not sure if the master would be happy with the idea of Mouse working for a man outside the Kingsmen. Either way, the boy was already dead in the Bishop’s eyes. Nothing Robby could do about that. And it was Mouse’s own fault he was in such a mess.

  If the boy had followed orders and not gone poking about in the man’s private business, Robby and Rex never would have been sent after him in the first place. But Mouse had to be clever. And fast. Two things the master found useful. He should’ve just stuck to the tasks he was best at doing.

  “And how do you plan to retrieve Mouse?” the Bishop asked, his voice controlled and quiet.

  Robby didn’t like quiet. He’d never been anywhere that wasn’t filled with screaming and fighting. It wasn’t natural, to his way of thinking.

  Nor was it natural for him to do his own planning. He wasn’t ever asked to think. Only do.

  He wasn’t sure he liked it. There wasn’t nothing to be done about it now, though. “Well, there can’t be too many gents with foreigners for friends wandering about St. Giles, now, can there?”

  “And?” the master pressed, turning his attention back to the papers on his desk.

  “And we’ll find them. Once we do, I’ve my ways of convincing people to give me what I want. We’ll get Mouse, don’t you worry.”

  The Bishop dipped his quill into an ink pot and tapped it efficiently. “Oh, I’m not worried. Because you’ll have Topper along with you. Rex will be busy elsewhere.”

  Robby did his best to hide his disappointment, though his bulbous nose wrinkled at the mention of Topper. He was smart enough, that Topper, but mean as a baited bear. Some said he was in league with the devil. Robby figured if anyone was working hand in hand with the Old Scratch, it would surely be Topper.

  “All due respect, sir. But Rex and I can take care of things.”

  “You’re mistaken, Stonehenge,” the Bishop said, his pen scratching as he wrote on the paper before him. “If you did, Mouse would not be lost. Surely even you can see the sense in that.”

  God, but Robby got tired of thems with brains reminding him that he was dim, he thought. As far as he was concerned, smarts only got you in trouble. Look at Mouse, for crying out loud. Besides, the saddest people Robby knew were those who thought too much. A curse, intelligence.

  “Suppose so,” Robby reluctantly agreed. “Still, Topper’s a mean ’un. You sure you want him chasing after Mouse?”

  Rumor said Mouse was a favorite of the Bishop’s. Some claimed the boy was being groomed to take over the master’s job when he eventually moved up the ladder of the Kingsmen.

  “We all have our talents, Stonehenge,” the boss answered. “Topper’s on the north side, taking care of something for me. I’ll let him know to find you once he returns.”

  Whatever Mouse had seen, it was worse than Robby ever could have imagined. Either that, or being the man’s favorite didn’t pay.

  “Right,” Robby replied, a sinking feeling settling in his gut. “I’ll be waiting at the—”

  “He’ll find you, Stone. No worries on that regard.”

  Robby envied Rex. Why was it him, Robby, who’d been sent for by the master? Rex had as much to do with the shambles they’d made of the situation as he did. Maybe even more, if one thought about it hard.

  Robby wasn’t one to hold a grudge, though. Never had been, and never would be, he thought staunchly. He liked Rex well enough and wished him no harm. Hell, they’d had the same chance to be standing where Robby stood now. It wasn’t Rex’s fault he’d come up lucky.

  “That’s all for now.” The man’s voice was its usual chilly and calm tone.

  Robby turned around and made for the door, closing it quietly behind him. No, it wasn’t nobody’s fault that he was in the master’s black books and stuck working with Topper. But it sure was a crying shame.

  May 29

  THE HALCYON SOCIETY

  BLOOMSBURY SQUARE

  LONDON

  “Shall I see to the bed linens now, Lady Sophia?”

  Sophia ceased running the quill along the seam of her still-sensitive lips and laid the writing instrument down. “Yes, Milly, thank you.” She smiled at the young woman’s perfectly executed curtsy and turned her thoughts of last night’s regrettable kiss to focus on the charming girl. Her rough cotton skirt was caught up at precisely the right angle, the gray material and white apron lifted just enough to clear the top of serviceable black boots without exposing her stockings. She lifted her head, color flushing her round cheeks as she peered at Sophia in inquiry.

  Milly was one of the less heartbreaking cases at Halcyon, if such a term could be applied. Milly’s sickly mother, once in service to the Duke of Marley, had sent her illegitimate child to Mrs. Mason in the hope that she could learn the skills necessary to one day secure a pla
ce for herself in one of the grand households.

  And though Mrs. Mason did not typically take on such girls, Milly’s cheery attitude and dimpled smile stole the woman’s heart and she’d agreed.

  “Lovely,” said Sophia.

  “Thank you, my lady, you are too kind,” Milly answered, bobbing again in an abundance of exuberance, her face flushed with pride. Then she dropped another curtsy, once more for good measure.

  “Milly, your curtsy is coming along quite nicely,” Langdon commented as he entered the small study at the back of the house.

  The girl emitted a cheep of embarrassment. “Lord Stonecliffe,” she uttered before dipping a low, final show of respect and quitting the room.

  Sophia gave Langdon an amused look and shook her head, hopeful her sudden unease at his appearance was not noticeable. Would he sense her growing guilt over the altogether foolish kiss?

  “It was a compliment,” he argued, clearly mystified—both with Milly’s predicament as well as Sophia’s.

  “From a lord—and a handsome one at that. She’s terrified of you,” Sophia explained with mock censure, relief easing her nerves. She took in the gleam of his polished boots, his perfectly fitted coat, his intricately tied cravat, and smiled. “Surely you’re aware of just how intimidating you really are, aren’t you?”

  Langdon’s brow furrowed as he feigned serious consideration of Sophia’s accusation. “Hmm, is that right? Is it the ‘lord’ part or the ‘handsome’ bit?”

  “Both,” Sophia replied, laughing as an endearing grin broke out across his face.

  Langdon leaned casually against the door frame and folded both arms across his chest. “Really? And yet, I’ve failed to convince you to give up your work with the Halcyon Society. I cannot be as scary as all that, then.”

  Sophia sighed. Langdon meant well; he always did. And if Sophia would simply live in a heavily fortified castle with a moat full of crocodiles and her own personal dragon? Well, such conversations as the one they were about to engage in, for the 221st time, would not be needed.