Chapter 33

33

The rest of the day dragged by. Lord Drake did not attempt to reopen the conversation that Sophie had so emphatically refused to engage in, and there was inevitably a certain amount of constraint between them. They sat together in the library as night fell, and she tried to pretend that everything was as it had been before, though it was not. Eventually he said rather sadly, ‘I will not say what you don’t wish me to say, my dear. The last thing in the world I want is to make you unhappy, and yet I have done that, and I regret it bitterly. Let’s go to bed, and hold each other, and take comfort from that if we can. We must get past tomorrow. I can’t believe matters will go as smoothly as you seem to think. I have all sorts of fears that I can’t put into words. Anything might happen. We should not be at odds, then, tonight of all nights, in case it is our last.’

She did not answer him in words, but rose and put her hand in his, and went up the stairs with him in silence, through the big, quiet house. They caressed each other with a sort of fierce desperation that was new to them, and their pleasure was intense and mutual, but afterwards when he held her and felt her cold tears trickling down her face onto his bare chest he whispered, ‘You have the right to refuse to hear me, and I respect that, as I must, but one thing you cannot ask of me.’

‘What, Rafe?’ She could not see his face in the darkness.

‘I will not cease calling you my love. You are that and you always will be. If you leave tomorrow and I never see you again, or if one of us does not survive the day that is coming, you’ll still be my love. I won’t pretend that isn’t true. Not even for you.’

‘I can’t…’ she said brokenly.

He sighed, and kissed her hair. ‘I know. Go to sleep, Sophie. You need your strength, and so do I.’

She couldn’t sleep, and didn’t think he was sleeping either, though he stayed still and feigned slumber. She lay in the darkness, feeling the warmth of his body, so close and yet so far away, and wishing, for the first time in years, that things could be different. She’d come here with a very clear plan in mind, and she’d succeeded in carrying it out against all the odds. A few weeks ago, she’d known she was a honed weapon, a dangerous woman with depths nobody would suspect until it was too late, and she’d gloried in that – felt strong and powerful. Nothing that could happen at Wyverne Hall could possibly overset her, she’d thought. She was prepared for anything.

But she hadn’t been prepared for Rafe. The place would likely be full of predatory males, she’d known, indiscriminate in their attentions, entirely prepared to use force, and so she’d had her sharp knife at the ready. But she’d been wrong to think him one of them. He’d distrusted her, with good reason, but he’d never taken advantage of her, and that first kiss had been a mutual acknowledgement of a growing bond between them, beyond all sense or reason. Every meeting after that had shown her, little by little, that he wasn’t the man she’d thought he must be, and certainly he was nothing like his father. She’d made so many assumptions, and they’d all been wrong.

Her certainties had been shaken to pieces. She’d built a life and an identity for herself that had been based on hatred and revenge, and she’d never imagined that coming to Wyverne Hall – the seat of all that was evil in the world – would rock all that she had so painstakingly constructed to its foundations. She hadn’t cried in years before arriving here, had refused to, and here she was weeping like a lost child again. Like Clemence.

He’d destroyed her with his declaration of love. She’d told him that there was no world in which they could be together, and it must be true, so what use was it for him to tell her that he loved her? Though he did not mean to be cruel, he hurt her by it. She felt in this moment that she didn’t know anything, not even who she was any more. Her revenge had so possessed her that she’d had no idea what she would do when it was fully executed. It was impossible to consider becoming Clemence de Montfaucon again, but was she then Sophie Delavallois? Might there be a third identity lying in wait for her? It surely, surely, couldn’t be Lady Drake, and then in the course of time Lady Wyverne. A country lady, wife, mother. A member of the haut ton – a paragon of respectability. The idea was preposterous, grotesque, impossible. Even if Rafe overcame his doubts and decided to set aside all his plans for his family’s respectable future, it would be wrong and wicked to let him do so. The next Lady Wyverne must be nothing at all like the present one; she must be a woman of unimpeachable background and reputation.

Sophie fell into an uneasy sleep at last, made all the more unrestful by strange dreams. She was wearing the gown she’d worn at the ball eight years ago, the ridiculous pink and green confection that she’d sold to pay the doctor who had failed to save her mother and her brother. About her neck, heavy, was the Stella Rosa. She was being presented to Queen Charlotte. She’d never met the lady, never experienced a costly court presentation, she’d only seen prints of her likeness, but the fact that the old lady was seated on a throne and wearing an enormous crown made the identification fairly certain. The event was taking place in a large room, thronged with people, though she couldn’t see any of them clearly. Sophie – perhaps in these circumstances she was Clemence again – advanced in a dignified manner, head held high, but when she sank into her deep curtsy the knife she carried in her garter fell out and clattered across the floor to the Queen’s feet, shockingly loud in the silent chamber. The expression of outrage on the illustrious lady’s face might have been amusing in other circumstances, if Sophie hadn’t been the cause of it. The whispers from the crowd began then, the taunts, the slaps, the spitting…

The vision dissolved into a familiar nightmare of pursuit and frantic evasion, of leering faces looming over her, Lord Wyverne’s and his wife’s among them. She was glad when she awoke at last to see morning light creeping though the worn patches in the old curtains.

Rafe was no longer beside her, but before she had a chance to untangle the complicated feelings this evoked in her, he was shouldering his way into the room bearing a heavy tray. ‘Breakfast,’ he said with an attempt at cheerfulness that fell sadly short of being convincing.

She didn’t think she’d have much appetite for it, but the coffee at least would be welcome. ‘You’re too good to me,’ she said with a wan little smile, and then wished she had not when he replied, his voice rich with emotion.

‘I couldn’t be.’

This seemed likely to set her weeping again, but he said no more, and after making a show of eating she was able to regain her precarious composure and maintain it though the long morning. She sat with the Dowager as usual and read to her, and if the old lady noticed that she was sadly distracted and kept breaking off because she’d lost her place, she made no comment on it, for which Sophie was grateful. She didn’t want to lie to someone she had come to care for, but it would be most unwise to tell her the truth, not least because if Delphine remained in ignorance she would be safer.

She retrieved the heavy little bag from its hiding place at the last possible moment, and spent a while dusting the grime of decades from it and from her gown so that she didn’t present a suspicious appearance. A more suspicious appearance. Rafe had by agreement waited for her where the staircase led out onto the corridor of unused bedrooms, and stopped her as she descended. ‘You have cobwebs in your hair again,’ he told her, brushing them away with the gentlest of touches. The lump in her throat prevented her from replying, and though she felt a strong impulse to reach up and kiss him, she resisted it, even though she was painfully aware that it might be their last kiss. It was time. She fetched her pelisse and plain bonnet, and they set off.

She hadn’t sewn the Stella into her clothing to conceal it. She’d thought of it, but some impulse she didn’t fully understand had led to her to wear it as she had not done for so long, though she tucked it inside the neck of her gown so that it could not be seen, and buttoned up her pelisse securely over it. Though it was undeniably rash to have it on her person, it seemed fitting. The precious thing was hers by right, and it would give her courage. If it was cursed, let the curse fall on Lord Wyverne.

There was no point sneaking out of the house. They would be seen and apprehended immediately, or they would not. Sophie and Rafe set out boldly down the steps that led out from the Marble Saloon – she had a fleeting thought of that night when she had taken the jewels from Lady Wyverne, which seemed like months ago now – and made their way, Lord Drake carrying the bag, down towards the lakes, from which the path led up to the Gothic Tower.

‘I have a sensation,’ said Sophie as they walked, ‘a most disagreeable sensation, of being watched. As though unfriendly eyes were boring into my back between my shoulder blades.’

‘So do I,’ said her companion grimly. ‘But nobody has tried to stop us yet. We must be slow, and casual, or as casual as two people can be when carrying a travelling bag for no obvious reason. Has it occurred to you that this could be a trap?’

‘Yes,’ said Sophie. ‘Of course it has, for all my trust in Nate. But to what purpose? He wouldn’t gain anything from us being captured by Lord Wyverne and his men – he certainly couldn’t guarantee to get away with the jewels.’

‘I know. But did you notice how very familiar your friend was with the estate? He spoke as easily of the Gothic Tower and its setting as I might, or anyone else who’s lived here all his life. I don’t know what’s going on, Sophie, but I am very sure that something is, and we neither of us have the least idea what it might be.’

As he spoke they passed among the trees, and Sophie breathed a little easier, though she knew it was irrational – this was where she’d first seen the men concealed, and they could very well be hidden here now, lying in wait. She darted anxious little glances about, and said distractedly, ‘I did notice that, but I have no idea what it signifies. Nate has never mentioned to me that he has any familiarity with Wyverne Hall. It had never occurred to me before yesterday that such a thing was possible. Perhaps it isn’t that at all – perhaps he was just very well prepared. He usually is.’

It was a few long minutes’ walk to their destination, and they completed the rest of the journey in tense silence. The folly was set atop a hill, and though it was not terribly steep they were both breathing hard when they reached the top and stood looking at each other with a ridiculous sense of anticlimax. They were quite alone, and Sophie found herself struggling with a desire to burst into hysterical laughter.

‘This is a preposterous building,’ said Rafe conversationally, setting down the bag upon the ground at his feet and leaning back against the wall as he scanned the landscape around them. ‘I can’t imagine what my grandfather was thinking. It’s quite out of keeping with everything else here.’

‘What was it built for?’ Sophie asked, looking up at the battlemented tower, embellished with leering dragon gargoyles, that crowned one side of the edifice, and the curious domed steeple that topped the other. ‘It looks like a church designed by a madman. Can it really be triangular, as it appears to be from this angle? I don’t feel greatly inclined to go and inspect the rest of it at the moment.’

‘It is triangular,’ said Nate, stepping out from around one of the corners, Fred close on his heels. ‘I believe I’m right in thinking it’s a temple to your illustrious ancestors, am I not, Lord Drake? Such arrogance, such pride of lineage! Which makes it entirely appropriate that you should here hand over the ill-gotten jewels to me.’

‘Gladly,’ said Rafe shortly, picking up the bag and swinging it in Mr Smith’s direction. Nate took it from his hand, but what he had been about to say next was destined never to be heard, for at that moment Lord Wyverne appeared from behind the other corner of the facade, and stood, chest heaving, confronting them. He had a silver-mounted duelling pistol in his hand, and he was pointing it at his son.