“And a fine idea, that,” Harrison said. “Especially, since we do not yet know if he is an innocent pawn or working for Kasai. But I do not recall suggesting you involve Lavinia in the mess at all.”
“What one Fury knows, they all know.”
Harrison snorted. “True. The duchess believes the latter of Lord Eustace, by the way. She is convinced he will use his ‘triumphant’ return to manipulate the duke. She will not reveal why, but clearly enmity exists between her and Eustace Worthington.”
He sat down into the chair Randolph had been holding, and propped his crossed ankles on the table.
“By all means,” Randolph grumbled, “make yourself at home.”
Harrison grinned. “Lavinia said you would be beside yourself with worry about Sophia.”
Of course, she had. “What plans have the remaining Furies concocted?”
“The Wynchester estrangement runs deep, as everyone who has set foot in London for the past few years knows. The duchess cannot just pack up her belongings and reunite with the duke.”
“But she is willing?”
Harrison pursed his lips. “Willing is not quite the word. If the duke dies, Lord Eustace is next in line. She fears for the duke’s life. She does not intend a full reconciliation—just the assurance the duke is under no threat from his brother.” He shrugged. “Call it loyalty to the title. Call it patriotism. Or call it hatred of Lord Eustace. No matter—she and Lavinia are devising a plan—a plan which requires Sophia.”
Five years in service to the Company and, occasionally, the crown, and all of a sudden three women had upended his life and his career. He shook his head.
“In Parliament,” Randolph said, “the duke is well protected.”
“Even Wynchester cannot work all day,” Harrison said. “Servants report the duke’s every move to the duchess. If he ventures from his routine, she will intercede, but despite her protections, she is anxious to implement a plan. Any luck finding Sophia?”
“That boy,” Randolph pointed to the closed door. “Was the bet most likely to yield fruit—and he gave me nothing.”
Harrison dropped his feet to the floor. “She cannot have gone far, but before we discuss Sophia, I have other news of interest.”
“Yes?” Randolph asked.
“I have combed my contacts at the Company. Turns out, Sullivan, Lord Eustace, and I were not the only ones in England who survived imprisonment by Kasai.”
The skin on the back of Randolph’s neck tingled. “Tell me everything.”
“There is a survivor of the same raid Lord Eustace, Sullivan, and I survived—one of the men who pledged his loyalty to Kasai. Interestingly, he was confined to the madhouse by Baneham.”
“Where?”
“Not ten miles from here.”
“Interesting, indeed,” Randolph said.
Harrison cocked his head. “I know Baneham worked for the Company, but I cannot discern the apparent connection between Sophia and Kasai. There is a connection, isn’t there?”
Randolph exhaled. “You do not know the half of it.”
“Well then,” Harrison said, “if you want my help, you had better start talking.”
Grimly, Randolph recounted the history between Baneham and Kasai through Baneham’s final mission for the Company. How Baneham’s accidental death may have been murder-in-disguise, and Baneham’s cryptic warnings.
“So the woman I met at the brothel who called herself Helle was actually Helena, and is Sophia’s half-sister?”
“Yes,” Randolph said.
“She had seemed familiar—family resemblance, I suppose.” Harrison grew contemplative. “Does Sophia know about Helena?”
Randolph ran his hand through his hair. “I have no idea. But one thing is certain: Helena certainly knows about Sophia—and no matter who she is working for, her intentions cannot be good.”
“We’ve got to find out what Baneham knew about Kasai.”
“I know,” Randolph said. “But Harrison—I am not sure who can be trusted. What I have told you stays between you and me.”
“Of course,” Harrison said. “Garrett—the man in the madhouse—may provide additional answers.” He smiled. “You are welcome, by the way.”
Randolph cast him a dangerous look.
Harrison laughed. “We will have a round of boxing later. You need an antidote to that glower.”
Randolph nodded. “I could use one, I think.”
Harrison’s smile faded. “Sophia is formidable. Wherever she is, you have to assume she is safe.”
Did he? Right now, he had no other choice. As for the thought that she could protect herself as well as he could protect her, well, that was absurd. Keeping her safe was his charge. A charge he intended to keep. And his reason had nothing whatsoever to do with the way she moved.
“Now that you have calmed,” Harrison said, “how about we call beardless back in and ask him some additional questions.”
“Harrison, are you telling me I do not know how to interrogate?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Randolph. But, just for argument’s sake, when was the last time you slept for more than an hour?”
Just the question made him aware of the burn in eyes he knew were bloodshot. Who could sleep when Sophia was unprotected and a killer was on the loose?
“Very well,” Randolph said reluctantly. “You have a go.”
Harrison called in the messenger.
“Since I was not present for your conversation with Lord Randolph, would you review the interviews you conducted with me? Did anyone mention any unusual travelers?”
The lad looked insulted. “I said no people matched the descriptions I was given—”
“Yes, yes, I understand. No person fit the description of the people we are seeking, but was anything else out of the ordinary—a young male traveler, perhaps, with a feminine way of walking?”
Randolph frowned. Dwelling on the thought of Sophia in tight buckskin was a very bad idea.
“No one,” the lad said, “reported anything out of the ordinary.”
Randolph’s eyes narrowed. “Your breath hitched.”
“Well there was an old, bent-over governess who disappeared off a private coach a half-day’s ride out. But the man at the posting house said odd people occasionally sought shelter at a local Quaker farm.” The boy shifted nervously.
Randolph stood so fast the chair clattered to the ground. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
The boy swallowed. “Like I said, the man told me the traveler was old and hunched with grey hair and spectacles; his description did not match any of the people we seek.”
He exchanged a look with Harrison. All could be faked—and to think he’d almost let the information slip through his fingers.
Harrison stayed him with a look and dismissed the boy. “That will be all.”
“I am going,” Randolph said before the door shut. “Now.”
Harrison blocked the egress. “What are you going to do—charge in and drag her off in the middle of the night?”
“Yes.” Charge in there and drag her off was exactly his plan.
“What if this woman really was an old lady seeking shelter?”
He gave Harrison a look conveying just how little credit he gave the possibility.
“Just wait,” Harrison said. “I have had dealings with Quakers. Obstinate bunch. Once they feel they are in the right, there is no moving them.”
“What would you have me do? Twiddle my thumbs?”
Harrison considered. “Let me go.”
“No.” Using her desire, he might convince her to stop her madcap flight. Harrison, on the other hand, had no influence. “If my suspicions are correct, I need Sophia to entice Lord Eustace and Helena.”
Harrison’s blue gaze turned icy. “Is that all Sophia is to you? An enticement?”
Heat traveled up his cheeks. Confess the deeper connection he was starting to suspect? Never. He could not reveal the extent of his potential weakness—not even
to Harrison.
“I made her my wife, Harrison. My countess,” Randolph emphasized the word. “What do you think?”
Harrison rubbed his chin. “Then go, but I would advise you not to act on your intention to drag her off.”
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
“Go as if on unofficial business—just a man in search of his lost wife. Form an alliance with Sophia. You are going to need her consent to keep her protected.”
Randolph snorted. “Her consent will take longer than an afternoon.”
Harrison rubbed his jaw. “Take the time you need.”
“You jest.”
“Not at all,” Harrison said. “You have to admit no one would think to look for the infamous Lady Scandal on a Quaker farm. You two should be safe enough, and while you are there, I will take over the search for Helle—I mean, Helena—and Lord Eustace, and make arrangements to see the other survivor. If he has any information or if I need your assistance, I will send word.”
Randolph blinked, his mind blank.
Harrison clapped a hand on his back. “You are no use to this mission in your state. Resolve this. Get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, go hat-in-hand to meet your lady. Fix things with Sophia and come back renewed.”
It galled him to admit Harrison was right, but, Randolph considered, if he were to win Sophia to his side, he would be able to concentrate on the mission. And if anyone was as qualified to take over the hunt for Kasai as he, it was Harrison.
Then again, was seducing a woman on a Quaker farm even possible?
He hoped so.
“Thank you, Harrison.”
“Don’t muck it up this time.” Harrison’s expression darkened. “I am not talking about the mission, either. If you hurt Sophia, you will have to answer to me…and worse, the other Furies.”
“I would never,” he said, “harm my wife.”
“I speak of more than just the physical,” Harrison said. “The Furies will not give you an inch.”
Randolph snorted. “I do not suppose they would.”
“One more thing,” Harrison’s lip turned up in a wry smile, “clean up before you go. You stink.”
Chapter Six
Earl Baneham’s Rules for Winning
“Be prepared to bribe.”
Randolph cupped his hands and splashed cool water over his freshly-shaven skin. The resulting tingle invigorated. The day had dawned with a new, though tentative, hope.
He tied his hair back with a simple ribbon, and left off his hair powder—Harrison assured him the formality would be out of place at the Quaker farm. He peered into the small looking glass and frowned. The severe reflection was about as pleasant as a gin-bitten grimace from a rookery drunk. He lifted and sniffed the shirt he had removed the prior night, just before he had quite literally fallen into his first restful sleep since Sophia had run.
Harrison, damn him, had been right about at least one thing. He had stunk.
Understandable, really, since he had been without the services of a proper valet for two full weeks. And those two weeks had ravaged the perfectly turned out gentleman who had caught Sophia’s eye.
What if his assurances and arguments failed? What if Sophia told him, once again, to go to Hades?
Worse still, what if the be-spectacled woman hadn’t been Sophia at all, but was some unfortunate woman seeking refuge after having been tossed to the streets without a reference? A strange weight sank like a tossed stone through his chest. He frowned, unable to identify the heavy feeling.
He brushed aside the questions and the feeling. No use wasting time arguing against one’s plan. But, he could use something more enticing than his sorry self to win Lady Sophia’s compliance.
Lady Randolph, he corrected silently. For a moment, he surged with the sense of power inexorably connected to the Randolph name and title. By law, she must obey.
Right.
A woman who had braved the wrath of the Duke of Wynchester by taking in his estranged wife, the woman who had survived by ensuring her illegal gambling parties were among the most sought after events in London, was simply going to follow him home because the law compelled her to do so.
A rotten mess had become of a portentous start. He had gotten himself into her soirees without an invitation and had slowly earned her trust. Convincing her to have him had been no easy feat, which, if he were honest, had earned her his respect.
She had been such a puzzle. Competence and vulnerability. A consummate flirt who made herself entirely unavailable. He had thought her nearly his. She had thought him a licentious rake. He had thought time was on his side. She had thought him easy to manage.
They had both been wrong on all accounts.
He threw his bag on the bed, opened the flap, and pulled out a paper-wrapped garment. Carefully, he pulled back the edges. The blue silk glowed within. The seamstress had argued with him when he described the commission. Argued was a light word—the poor woman had been utterly scandalized.
He had insisted on the creation nonetheless. Although Sophia had lost the final game—a game he had goaded her into playing after she had won their original wager terms specifying the best of nine games—he had thought he owed her a gesture of good will. Not to mention the thought of her in such a garment had kept him sleepless since she had first said the words indigo and silk.
He drew out the night rail and ran his hands over the thin fabric. So soft, so fine. Delicate looking yet surprisingly strong.
To get her to return, he was not above a bribe. He pressed his face into the fabric and inhaled.
Come on, sweetness. You must give me a chance.
…
Earl Baneham’s Rules for Winning
“Always, always use the full weight of your station.”
Sophia curled her newly calloused fingers around a wooden pole and heaved in a carefully calculated push. The soapwort root-infused water sloshed through the aprons with a softly bubbling gurgle. Steam curled upward from the wooden bucket. This time, she had not spilled a drop.
She was getting better at laundry.
She did not mind the heat, did not mind the way water made the aprons heavy, and did not even mind the constant churning.
She stifled an inward chuckle. Thea would be horrified to know she actually appreciated manual labor. To her surprise, Elizabeth had been right: dull repetition was a reliable friend—as soothing as a friend’s hand to the shoulder.
The slow drumming of fear had begun a few years past, after she had found the Earl’s body, and had intensified with time until it had reached a near frenzy when she’d discovered Randolph had been one of Baneham’s men. Now, for the first time in three years, she had silenced her fear.
While she worked, Baneham’s sins and any impending retribution were distant smoke on the horizon. Of course, at night, things were not so simple. A disquieting shiver spidered up her spine.
Randolph came to her dreams, most of the time as a heartless executioner—deliverer of a fate she feared she deserved. Last night, however, he had haunted her dream in an entirely different form.
She had awoken on the cusp of a sigh with his phantom kiss teasing her lips. As she had blinked into the morning sun, she had felt a hollow around her heart. The dream was proof she missed the pleasure she had found in his kisses. A pleasure she would never know again.
She wiped her arm across her brow and banished thoughts of the rogue. They melted into the hot grey water below.
With a deep-breath heave, she forced the water to churn—a churn resembling the sensation in her stomach. Much like memories of Randolph, water was formless and yet almost unbearably heavy.
“Jane!” Anna hurried down the kitchen garden path, waving her arms excitedly. “Elizabeth,” she took in a gulp of air as she reached Sophia’s side, “would like to see you right away.”
Sophia frowned. “I cannot leave the washing.”
“She sent me to take over,” Anna said, not without pride.
Ann
a’s broad smile and excited, little hop forced Sophia to relinquish the washing stick. After all, whatever her story, Anna clearly had as great a need for peace as she.
Sophia wiped her damp hands off on her apron and wandered toward the house. Urgency was uncommon here at Elizabeth’s farm. An urgent summons could mean she had been found.
Sophia stopped walking. Remembering her father’s rule—always use the full weight of your station. She listened for the sound of a peer’s arrogant bombardment.
In the distance, she heard birds. The occasional mournful mmm—baaa of a sheep. The sounds of pots clanging. But no neighing of horses. No hooves stomping as horses driven hard stretched their legs. No angry male voices raised in outrage.
She resumed walking, heart lighter. If Randolph were here, he would have arrived as the earl would have arrived—with all the weight of his office making as intimidating an official presence as he could make.
She swung open the oak door, finding Elizabeth at rest on the table bench. The top of her quill darted to and fro as her words flew across the page. In her former life, Lady Sophia would have announced herself, or rather, a servant would have announced her. Then, all present would have risen.
Those small details had once seemed important to the preservation of civility. Now? Well, the silent respect of waiting to be acknowledged better suited. There were times Quaker simplicity was very beneficial, say when you had no idea why you’d been summoned and no intention of giving your fear away with idle chatter.
Elizabeth’s brow was furrowed, uncharacteristically, as she wrote. When she glanced up, the frown was gone.
“Jane, I did not hear thee enter.” She patted the seat. “Come share the bench.”
“Thank you.” Sophia sat down beside the matron.
Every line on Elizabeth’s face told a story. The lines from her eyes, the dimples now faded to soft wrinkles in her cheeks. There was cheer in her weariness, but great hardship had been written into her skin just as surely as she had written words on the parchment. Her gaze pushed aside all Sophia’s defenses and reached into the pulsing center of Sophia’s soul.
Elizabeth covered Sophia’s hand with hers—plump, warm, and calloused. “I have asked thee few questions.”
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