Chapter 30

30

Rafe wasn’t happy about Sophie’s scheme. It was ingenious – there was no denying that – but it was also extremely risky. She was so brave, and she was prepared to accept that risk, so he must be too. If it worked, her plan would release her from concealment and give her a great deal more latitude to move about the house and the estate than she’d had even before she’d fallen under suspicion. She wouldn’t be a servant any more, and so, presumably, she couldn’t be detained here by Lord Wyverne. He might, he surely would, want to search her luggage before she was permitted to leave – that was an obstacle they still needed to overcome – but it was still a step towards setting her free. He’d been horrified when she’d first suggested it, worried most of all about her safety, but she’d been so emphatic in her disregard of herself that he’d been obliged at last to accept that it might be the only solution.

It wasn’t as if he wanted to keep her here in his room. Well, he did, but it was selfish and unfair to dwell on the idea. Of course he wasn’t a man to keep a woman prisoner. He might wish she had a stronger desire to stay, but he dismissed that unworthy feeling and tried very hard not to show her the least hint of it. She was that strange paradox, an honest thief. She’d never claimed to be able to imagine any world in which they could be together forever. For his part he could imagine it, quite easily, but he knew it was no more than a self-indulgent dream.

The truth was, he was torn, and in a state of sad confusion. He was a man who’d lived his whole life up to his current age of one and thirty in the fixed determination not to be anything like his scandalous father. He’d always known this gave him a dilemma that might have been devised by some ingenious demon to torment him. No innocent woman could be brought into his family as his wife while Wyverne lived and Rosanna stood at his side, but if he had any hope of restoring some honour to the family name, which was vital for the sake of his sister and brother and the secure, happy future they deserved, he must marry someone with a far better reputation than his. Only a woman far above reproach, famously virtuous, could help him reverse the damage Wyverne had done. It would be hard enough to persuade such a woman to take him, Rafe; impossible, until his father and Rosanna were gone for good. He’d never found a solution to this problem, other than to wish for Wyverne’s speedy death. Amelia was still young, he’d told himself – she need not think of marriage for a few years yet, and by then, he hoped, the family name would be restored so that she might be free to pair with the sort of man she deserved. As for him, he was lonely while he waited in this limbo, but he could bear it.

But now Sophie had come into his life, and his previous predicament took on the aspect of a child’s puzzle, compared with the tangle he found himself in now. It was quite easy to picture the sort of woman who might take on the Herculean task of reclaiming the Wyverne name; she would most likely be socially ambitious, highly interested in his fortune and conspicuously devoted to the outward show of morality and piety. She probably wouldn’t be enormously enjoyable to live with unless he was luckier than he could hope to be, but one thing was certain: she’d look nothing like Sophie. She would have no sort of a past, let alone a past like Sophie’s. What hurt him was that Clemence de Montfaucon could have been a much more palatable version of that woman, she could have helped him build a better future and they could have shared so much more, they could have made each other happy beyond all his current expectations. Again the vicious elegance of the trap revealed itself, for whose fault was it that Sophie was no longer Clemence? Not hers. He was not the man to blame her for surviving. It was Wyverne, spreading his poison wherever he went.

No, she had to be free to leave, for his sake as well as her own, and he had to do everything in his power to help her, however much it went against his own deepest wishes. He knew he should tell himself it was for the best; at present, he couldn’t quite manage it.

The audacious nature of the plan required that they’d both have to endure a certain amount of discomfort and humiliation – inevitably, she more than he. It would also mean that they’d both be brought into direct and unpleasant contact with Lord Wyverne, and likely with his wife too. Sophie had been worried about that, worried about him, and if he’d said he couldn’t countenance it, he believed she’d have been perfectly prepared to abandon the idea. But it was quite clear to Rafe that as far as she was concerned that was the only flaw in the scheme. And so he’d realised that it would be wrong to refuse. It wasn’t as though his relationship with his father and stepmother could well be much worse. If Rosanna realised at long last that he would never have any sexual interest in her, that would be a relief. And Sophie’s idea had the further advantage that it wasn’t at all likely to cause some final rift with Wyverne, which she knew he could not afford. He’d gladly endure a little unpleasantness for her sake. Look what she was prepared to do.

The stage was set late in the morning. Sophie had now been confined to Rafe’s chamber for some twenty-four hours, while, he understood from what his many allies among the servants had told him when he went to get food, Lord Wyverne searched for any trace of her around his estate with increasing desperation.

When at last the mechanics of the plan began to unfold and the door of his private chamber crashed open – finding another key and ensuring others could plausibly find it too had been ridiculously complicated and caused some delay – Rafe hoped that his own face was a convincing mixture of consternation and anger. But he doubted anyone was sparing him more than a glance.

Sophie was the focus of attention. It could hardly be otherwise. She was clad only in her chemise and covered by a rumpled sheet. Her hair lay spread across the pillows in wild disorder and her eyelids were sultry with satiated passion, her lips red and swollen where Rafe’s unshaven cheeks had abraded her pale skin. She gave the most convincing impression of a woman who’d been most thoroughly pleasured in a manner that she’d very much enjoyed. The room was redolent with the heavy scent of sex, and the rest of Sophie’s clothes, and Rafe’s, were discarded here and there.

Lord Drake himself was clothed in a loose banyan of magnificent dark blue silk – he’d drawn the line at nakedness, given the audience for their little play. There was a large, unmissable love mark on his neck and his hair was in a state of great disarray. Lord and Lady Wyverne had burst into the room in a flurry of movement and stood staring in blank astonishment at the picture thus presented to them. It plainly wasn’t in the least what they had expected to find.

The Marquess’s butler, Kemp, had gone to his master a short while ago with a report that he and Rafe had concocted together. Kemp was obliged to tell Lord Wyverne that he had overheard some of the maids whispering, and compelled them to tell him what they were gossiping about: it was their belief that the fugitive Frenchwoman was concealing herself in one of the attic rooms. A light had been seen there late in the evening, and while it was widely known among the staff that Lord Drake kept a chamber high up in the house, they also knew that he didn’t usually spend the night in it. It was all most suspicious, even suggestive. Kemp had not presumed to verify the truth of the rumours himself, but he’d found after some trouble the key to the room in question and brought it straight to his master. It had a rather helpful label on it which said in a bold clear hand ‘Lord Drake’s Chamber’, so there could be no mistake.

When Sophie had proposed the whole misbegotten idea, Rafe had been forced to agree with her main point: it was quite impossible that Lord Wyverne would be able to resist coming to see for himself. If the fugitive should indeed be cowering guiltily in the attic, and if, even better, she should have the jewels with her and be caught red-handed… Rafe supposed that his parent had never climbed a set of stairs so fast in his life. He was flushed and panting now, as was Rosanna, but there was no triumph in either of their faces, only confusion.

It was time for him to speak. It wasn’t at all hard to achieve the appropriate level of incredulous fury for the occasion. ‘I confess, as you can see, we were not expecting visitors. I will not apologise for our deshabille, for after all, this is my private chamber. I don’t come bursting into yours, sir, to interrupt your… activities. What do you want?’

Lord Wyverne was purple in the face, his eyes bulging in a most unhealthy manner, and all but gobbling with baffled rage. But he was not a man to admit defeat, nor one who changed his mind readily. It must be obvious to him that matters were not as he had hoped, but he was hardly about to admit this and slink meekly away with his tail between his legs. ‘What do I want, sirrah? I came to find the impudent doxy who has stolen my jewels! And I have found her, and you with her! I knew you had played some part in this!’

Rafe had to admire Sophie’s perfect composure under this verbal attack, though he doubted this was an emotion shared by anyone else in the room. ‘I haven’t stolen anything, my lord,’ she said coolly, to all appearances entirely unembarrassed by her condition. If anything, she seemed to be quite enjoying herself. ‘If we are to speak of theft, Lord Drake has stolen me and kept me here.’

‘My dear…’ Rafe said indulgently, his tone an enormous contrast with the one he’d used to address his parent. His deep voice was charged with a sort of heavy concupiscence that was most unlike his ordinary mode of speech. He was quite proud of how he sounded: like a man entirely in thrall to the sexual allure of a woman, and uncaring who knew it. Perhaps it was so convincing because there was more than a grain of truth in it.

‘You know I’m right, you wicked creature,’ she said, pouting seductively. ‘You quite overcame me when you encountered me yesterday, and have kept me captive here ever since while you used me at your pleasure.’

‘My pleasure, and yours, wench,’ he growled. ‘Don’t try to deny that.’

‘Oh, Rafe…’ she sighed. ‘I do declare you put me to the blush!’ Despite her words, she didn’t, in that moment, give the appearance of a woman who would be embarrassed by anything in the world.

There was no question that Lord and Lady Wyverne were not in the least accustomed to being ignored in such a manner, and that they did not care for it. ‘You lied to me, girl!’ said Rosanna, her voice high and indignant, determined to take her part in the farce that was playing out. ‘You told me you were a respectable lady companion! But my husband has discovered that you have posed for indecent pictures, and now this! You have betrayed our trust, and you should be whipped for your deception!’

Perhaps fortunately, Sophie had no time to reply to this; Rafe could all too easily imagine what she might have felt impelled to say.

‘Enough of this nonsense!’ grated Lord Wyverne. ‘I don’t give a damn if my mother’s latest companion turns out to be a whore. It makes a change from shrivelled-up old maids. But when I hear she’s a liar and not who she pretended to be, and my most valued possessions disappear within a few weeks of her arrival, then I’m interested.’

‘Sophie didn’t take your blasted jewels,’ Rafe said impatiently. He’d had quite enough of his father’s company, and every reason for showing as much. ‘You suspected her because she vanished – well, she vanished because I got tired of sneaking around with her and wanted her here at my convenience. She didn’t steal anything; she’s had other fish to fry and plenty to keep her occupied. She’s still here, and she’s not leaving anytime soon.’

‘So masterful…’ sighed Sophie soulfully. ‘But to be serious,’ she went on in quite another tone, ‘I didn’t need to steal anything. If I play my hand cleverly, I could end up owning it all, and much more besides. As you did, my lady. I’m only following your excellent example.’

‘Why, you insolent little bitch!’ Rosanna made a lunge towards her, but Rafe reached out one long arm and held her back without the least appearance of effort.

‘I think it’s past time you both left,’ he said. ‘You can search the room if you like, tear it apart if you must, but you must know you won’t find anything. And it seems like a good moment to say that if either of you lays a finger on Sophie, I promise I will make you sorry for it.’

‘I won’t take threats from you, boy!’ Wyverne managed.

‘In this instance, sir, you will. And I don’t wish to hear the word “whore” again in relation to Sophie. After all, you must both know the saying about people who live in glass houses.’

He was still restraining Rosanna, who showed every sign of a continuing determination to lay violent hands on Sophie if he relaxed his vigilance for a second, but when she heard his final words she rounded on him in fury instead, and was still protesting shrilly as Lord Wyverne, his patience clearly at an end, pulled her from the room. Rafe knew him well enough to expect that he would seek to have the last word, and so was unsurprised when his father turned and said, his colour still high and his voice menacing in its conviction, ‘I’m watching you – both of you! Don’t imagine for a second that you can pull the wool over my eyes! If you try to cross me, I will make very sure that you pay for it!’

And then he slammed the door behind him.