Chapter Eight

Nash sat in the chair beside the bed with his head in his hands. At least now he knew how she truly felt about him. But that precious truth was a double-edged sword. Thankfully, she loved him. Unfortunately, she would never admit it unless drugged, because she was so sure he would eventually cast her aside, or break her heart in some other manner. Her girlhood feelings had not been the stuff of childish infatuation. When his wonderful Sophie loved, she loved with all her being. And the more he was around her, the more he needed her to love him without fear because, against all good judgment and no small amount of fear of his own, he was most assuredly falling just as deeply in love with her.

He lifted his head at the sound of the bedroom door opening. “Lady Rydleshire,” he said, keeping his voice low as he pushed himself to his feet. “She seems to be resting peacefully at last.”

The dowager countess didn’t acknowledge his presence with even so much as a glance. She moved to the other side of the bed and stared down at her daughter with something akin to sheer terror. Ever so gently, she straightened the already straight covers, brushed an errant curl away from Sophie’s temple, then gently kissed her daughter’s forehead. “Praise the Almighty,” she whispered. “No sign of fever yet.”

“She is the strongest woman I have ever met. Even with the pain making her ill, she kept saying she was fine and merely needed time to gather herself.”

“Gather herself,” the countess repeated with a soft, sad laugh. “My beloved girl has never been gathered a day in her life. That is but one of the many things I love about her. Her spontaneity. Her stubbornness. I have often wondered how she can be both graceful and yet awkward as a newborn lamb at the same time.” A pained sigh left her as she pulled her gaze from Sophie and leveled it on him. “I will not rest until I have the head of the individual who did this to her. No one harms my child and lives.”

“I swear I will find who did this—and with your consent, I shall enlist the help of an old friend of mine. Actually, I consider him more brother than friend. He is a Bow Street Runner. One of their finest. I trust him completely, and he is the epitome of discretion.”

The dowager eyed him as if doubting his word. Or perhaps it was something else, something in the way she held herself, as if waiting to be attacked. He found the way she looked at him rather disturbing. Her expression was indecipherable. “What is it, my lady? Is there something more?”

She looked away as if no longer comfortable meeting his gaze. “Forgive me, young Bromley. I am not myself this evening.” Once again, she leaned over Sophie and lightly touched her daughter’s abundance of curls splayed across the pillow. “I will sit with my darling child while you examine the garden and the perimeter of the street side of the wall. Find out how they accomplished this.” She spared him another glance. “And by all means, have your friend help us—if you are certain he can be trusted.”

“I do not feel comfortable leaving Sophie, my lady.”

The dowager rounded the bed with a quickness that bespoke of rage simmering just beneath the surface. “I am her mother and would never harm her.” Her furious scowl threatened to reduce him to ash.

He backed up a step, lifting his hands in confused surrender. “No, my lady. That was not my meaning at all. Please do not think such.” The lady had to realize Sophie’s feelings about him, all the reservations her daughter harbored. The two shared such a closeness. How could she not know of Sophie’s fears? He turned and gently touched his sleeping wife’s cheek, then bent and pressed a kiss to it. “I fear if she awakens, and I am not here, she will think even worse of me than she already does.”

His mother-in-law bowed her head and pressed a hand to her heart. “I must beg your forgiveness, Bromley. As I said, I am not myself after this evening’s events.” She reached out and gave his arm a gentle pat. “I know her fears. Unfortunately, my Sophie shares my greatest fault. She never forgets anything that hurts her. Try to be patient with her. All you can do is show her you are no longer that unlicked cub determined to bed every young beauty he meets. She will eventually come to see you as the honorable man you have become.”

“I hate it when I see the past in her eyes.”

“Then you must do everything possible to keep her anchored here in the present.” She pointed at him, reminding him of how she used to give pertinent instructions during training. “No flummery. She has little patience for overt flattery.”

“Yes. I am well aware of that.” He would not go into detail how he had already erred on that front.

She smiled down at her sleeping daughter, then turned back to him. “Her laudanum rest seems quite deep. But she’ll not stay that way long. She never does. Please have a look at the garden and the outer wall. Your eyes are trained far better than those who have already looked over the area.”

“As you wish, my lady.” He turned back and kissed Sophie again, lingering for a moment with his lips pressed to the coolness of her forehead and willing her to find the courage to trust him. “I shan’t be long from your side, my swan,” he whispered. “Rest easy.”

He bounded out the door without looking back. If he looked back, he would not be able to leave her. Fear that she would awaken without him would overcome his control and paralyze him. He rushed down the stairs and found himself unable to go any farther without knocking the Duchess of Hasterton, Sophie’s friend Celia, out of the way.

“I simply would not leave without speaking to you first,” she said as she snagged hold of his jacket and tugged him over to one side of the hall. “Thank goodness you finally came down. Elias and I really should get home to little Oliver soon. He has been quite fractious with Nanny of late.”

“What can I do for you, Your Grace?” He itched to examine the outside wall as expeditiously as possible to get back to Sophie before she awakened.

The duchess stared up at him, frowning as if not quite able to settle on how to broach the subject she wished to discuss.

He expelled an impatient huff, not giving a damn if he appeared rude or not. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I am not comfortable leaving Sophie’s bedside for any length of time. I am merely headed to examine the grounds at the behest of her mother. Might you get to what you wish to discuss? Please?”

The lady’s eyes flashed. “As you wish, Sir Nash.” She resettled her grip on her closed fan as though preparing to smack him with it. “If you hurt my beloved sister again, you will regret the day you were born. We of the Sisterhood take care of each other, and you will not only have me to answer to but also the Duchess of Lionwraith. And she threatened to shoot her husband on their first meeting, so do not mistake her for a helpless female who will tolerate the mistreatment of a dear friend.” Her scowl hardened even more. “And do not underestimate Sophie or myself. We lead. We do not follow. Nor do we meekly retire to our parlors and bemoan unfortunate circumstances brought on by the carelessness of men. We take action. Am I quite clear, Sir Nash?”

“Madam…” Nash paused, fighting his temper and the urge to use words not appropriate for a lady. “I understand you and Sophie are quite close. Close as sisters, even. But I refuse to stand here and discuss my relationship with my wife. To put it as plainly as possible, Your Grace, it is none of your affair.”

Rather than fly into a petulant rage and storm away as he had expected, the duchess became dangerously calm. Her icy demeanor grew even colder as her chin jutted higher. “So you like to speak plainly, do you? Fine. I hereby put you on notice, Sir Nash. You have just declared war against a force you will never defeat—sisters who care for one another.” She spun and gave him her back, then marched down the hall while calling out to her husband, “Elias, darling. I am ready to leave now.”

“Sisterhood,” he repeated under his breath, then shook off the frustrating encounter and stormed out the front door. He would think about the duchess’s threats and her mysterious sisterhood later. For now, he had to investigate the garden so he could get back to Sophie.

As he entered the dimly lit mews behind the townhouse, he halted, then backed up a few steps, pressing against the wall surrounding Rydleshire House’s sizeable garden. Silent as death, he peered around the corner. A tall figure slowly moved in the deep shadows along the garden wall. Every few steps, the individual would bend and touch the ground as though in search of a fallen object.

Nash eased around the corner and followed, determined to catch the trespasser before they even realized he was there. Whoever it was had a great deal of answering to do. Before the sneak thief turned, he immobilized the fiend with one arm around the man’s throat, and the other locked around his shoulder. “What the blazes do you think you are doing here?”

“Sir Nash!” Thornton sputtered. “It is I!”

“Bloody hell, Thornton!” Nash released the butler immediately. “Why the devil are you out here?”

“Because I would trust no one else with the task of trying to discover who harmed Lady Sophie.” Thornton tugged his coat back into place, then straightened and squared his shoulders. “All the staff are quite concerned for our lady, but none have been with her and Lady Rydleshire as long as myself and my wife. Our footmen are ample but young and sometimes scattered. They might have missed something earlier when sent out here by her ladyship.”

Nash studied the older man, sensing nothing but a deeply ingrained sense of loyalty and true concern for the mistresses of the house. “And did you find anything else that might be useful in identifying the intruder?”

The man snorted with disgust. “Sadly, no, sir, and I fear that the footmen stomping around muddled any possibility of unique footprints.”

Nash turned and eyed the wall. Even in the darkness, he could discern it would be difficult to scale.

“The hawthorns, sir,” Thornton said before Nash asked him his opinion. He pointed at a section of hawthorn trees that exceeded the height of the wall. “It would not be an easy climb due to the thorns, but if the person were determined, they would manage it.”

“Cut them down. All of them.” Nash stepped back from the wall to get a better view of its entire expanse. “Once the sun rises, I shall examine the barrier for further weaknesses.”

“Yes, sir. I shall inform the gardener to have the trees removed by dawn.” The butler tipped his head in a polite nod. “Is there any other way I can be of service, sir?”

“Yes.” Still peering at the garden wall and scanning the entirety of the mews, Nash decided not to wait until tomorrow to contact Wethersby. “Send your most trusted and least scattered footman to Bow Street. Have him ask for Mr. Merritt Wethersby and request him to come immediately. Give him my name.”

“Yes, sir.” Thornton bowed and hurried away.

Nash moved closer to the cluster of hawthorns, but in the poor light, there was little he could make out other than a few smaller branches that drooped as though broken. The butler was right—the bold blackmailer had climbed the thorny tree and probably stayed in the safety of its branches until the deed was done. Well, there was nothing more to be done here. Time to get back to his Sophie.

He tried the gardener’s gate at the back of the property and found it locked. At least they’d had the foresight to secure the only other entry into the garden. He continued around the house, hurried up the front steps, and discovered himself locked out. Before he had the opportunity to pound on the door, Thornton swung it open.

“Do forgive me, sir, but I believed you would wish it locked now that all the guests have gone home.”

“Quite right, Thornton. Notify me when Wethersby arrives.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nash took the stairs two at a time, charged down the hall, and shot through the sitting room as if storming an enemy’s stronghold. But when he came to the bedroom door, he gingerly eased it open.

Lady Rydleshire looked his way, then silently rose and met him at the door. “She has not stirred so much as an eyelash.”

“Good.” He went to the bedside and stared down at the amazing woman he had once been foolish enough to think of as an annoyance. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her steady breathing, finding it somewhat eased the worries of his heart.

“I shall be in the sitting room,” the dowager countess said. “Call out if you should need me.”

“My lady—”

“Yes?”

“I intend to make her happy.” He gently tidied the blankets across his sleeping swan even though they were still quite straight.

“See that you do.” Lady Rydleshire slipped out the door and closed it quietly behind her.

He settled into the chair, moving it closer so he could rest his folded arms on the bed and lay his head beside Sophie. He breathed her in, finding her scent immeasurably soothing.

“You would be much more comfortable here in the bed,” she said so softly that he lifted his head and stared at her. The candle on the nightstand bathed her in an ethereal golden glow, making her seem more spirit than flesh.

“Sophie?”

She didn’t open her eyes but shifted with a deep breath that caused her to flinch. “Several years ago, I suffered an injury that revealed I have a high tolerance for laudanum and such. Those medicines affect me, but not nearly as strongly or for as long as they affect most.”

“How are you feeling? Do you need another vial to help with the pain?”

“No. I am still rather floaty, and if I try hard enough, I am sure I could sleep.” The faintest of smiles played across her mouth. “When you rested your head beside me, your scent awakened me. Sandalwood. Citrus. And you.”

He wasn’t quite sure how to take that. “Are you suggesting I need to bathe, my lady?”

“No,” she said as softly as a kitten’s purr. “You smell like you. Like you did when we…” Her voice trailed off.

Had she fallen back to sleep? A smile came to him, but he didn’t prod her to finish her thought. He knew what she had meant to say, and she needed her rest. He laid his head back down on his arms but shifted so he could watch her. Never would he tire of losing himself in the vision of her.

“If you do not wish to rest in my bed, then go back to your room,” she said in a breathy whisper. “I am quite fine. Just a little sore.”

“This is also my room now, my lady. Have you forgotten I am your husband?” He reached out and grazed a fingertip across her cheek, unable to resist touching her even though she needed to go back to sleep.

“Husband,” she repeated in a drowsy little chant. “Most sleep in their own rooms, don’t they? Celia and Elias are an exception, of course, but that is because they love each other. Frannie and Lion sleep in the same bed too because their match was also rooted in love.” She went still again, breathing slow and steady as if already returned to her dreams.

“We will share the same bed too, my swan,” he whispered. “When you are healed.”

“Healed,” she repeated on a sleepy, whispery exhale. “You fuss too much.”

“I can never fuss enough when it comes to you, my lady.”

She rewarded him with a faint smile that lightened his heart.

The bedroom door eased open. “Bromley,” the dowager countess softly called. “Your Mr. Wethersby is here.”

Nash was impressed. The footman must have gone on horseback rather than wait to rig out a carriage. And Merritt had wasted no time because knew he would never be called at this time of night unless the matter was urgent. Nash rose and caressed Sophie’s cheek. “I shall only be away for a moment, my swan. Sleep and heal.”

“Do not fuss,” she whispered, her lashes barely fluttering. “I am fi…”

He smiled. She was indeed fine. She just didn’t realize how fine and priceless she was. He hurried into the sitting room, offering the dowager a grateful nod as she went into the bedroom to take his place.

Standing just inside the door was his most trusted friend, Merritt Wethersby, the hulking blond beast of a man whose ancestors had to have been Vikings. He lumbered forward, grabbed Nash’s forearm in the warrior handshake they had used as children, then grabbed his shoulder and shook him. “Married? You? I never thought that would happen.”

“Yes, well, a long story, and the heart of it is why I sent for you.” Nash headed to the cabinet covered in decanters. “Get comfortable while I pour. What shall it be, old friend?”

“Whatever you have is fine, since I intend to limit myself to one glass. It sounds as though I need to keep my faculties about me.”

“My wife, her mother, and our queen are in danger.” Nash selected a brandy he knew Merritt would enjoy. “They are the target of a blackmailer who has stepped up his scheme in an alarming manner. My new wife of less than a day fell victim to him this evening. The attack upon her person could very easily have been fatal.”

“How is she?” Merritt accepted the glass but didn’t drink, concern filling his eyes. “Gunshot?”

“She is very fortunate and will heal. No, it was not gunfire. She was hit with a large, jagged rock between her shoulder blades. The puncture wounds concern me most. You know how quickly infection can set in on those types of injuries.” Nash set his drink aside, his thirst for vengeance far outpacing his thirst for brandy. “And the note attached to the missile warned she would pay in more ways than just coin, and that this attack was only the beginning.”

Merritt leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with a hunger for the hunt. Another reason Nash had called upon him. He knew his old friend to be relentless. “Where did the attack occur?” he asked.

“In our very own garden,” Nash said. “Here behind the townhouse.”

“Witnesses?”

“The Duchess of Hasterton was with Sophie when she was struck, but according to her, they both faced the house with their backs to the devil. Understandably, once Sophie cried out, Her Grace’s only concern was getting aid rather than looking for the perpetrator.”

“How similar are the duchess and your wife?” Merritt finally sampled his brandy, then arched a brow and gave an impressed nod. “Very nice cognac, old man.”

“What do you mean by similar?”

“Stature. Shape. Hair. Are they so different that the suspect would easily know which woman to target even with their backs to him in what I presume was a garden only lit by a few torches?”

Nash smiled and enjoyed a large sip of his own drink. “Think back ten years. Do you recall my grumbling about a fiery-haired brat who was more annoying than any horsefly and took the greatest pleasure in making me look incompetent in front of my chums?”

Merritt eyed him with a confused frown. “Vaguely. Why? What has that impertinent little chit got to do with this?” As soon as the words left him, his jaw dropped. “No.”

Nash lifted his glass in a toast. “Yes. That impertinent little chit is now my wife in all her beautiful, fiery-haired glory. And while she and the duchess are similar in stature and shape, Sophie’s hair gleams like the finest polished copper, whereas the duchess’s hair shines like ebony.”

Shaking his head as though to clear it, Merritt took another sip of his brandy, then frowned again. “Telling them apart would be possible, then. Even by torchlight.” He thoughtfully ran his finger around the rim of his glass. “You said your wife, her mother, and the queen are all targets of this blackmailer. What do the three have in common that the suspect is trying to use against them?”

“My mother-in-law is none other than Lady Rydleshire, one of the best agents ever to serve the monarchy and the founder of the elite Rydleshire Academy, which trains the Crown’s current spies.” He paused and arched a brow. “I believe she is also one of the closest true friends of Queen Charlotte. So close that when she gave birth to a daughter after her husband’s murder, and no heir was left to inherit the Rydleshire title, Her Highness delicately looked the other way and occasionally smoothed circumstances for the dowager countess’s propagation of a fictitious son to prevent the title from going extinct and reverting to the monarchy for King George to mishandle. Once Sophie became old enough to join in on the scheme, she too supported the farce of the fake Earl of Rydleshire and took it upon herself to raise the estate to a glory it had never previously known. I have not become privy to the ledgers yet, but from what I understand, my wife is as brilliant in business as she is in horsemanship and archery.” He wet his mouth with another taste of brandy. “And you remember how I always complained about her besting me in both?”

“A fake peer.” Merritt’s frown furrowed even deeper. “They could be hanged—or beheaded, depending on Prinny’s mood.” He barely tilted his head to one side, still looking confused. “That does not explain your sudden nuptials, though. By special license, I presume? Since I heard nothing of this until today.”

“The blackmailer sent several notes and also received several payments, but in the face of the fiend getting bolder, Lady Rydleshire took the matter to the queen. Especially since the last missive from the devil specifically threatened Her Majesty with the exposure of her part in the scheme to Parliament and the ton. Therefore, our wily queen put a counterattack in motion.”

“Which was?”

“My marriage to Lady Sophie. The fake Earl of Rydleshire’s unexpected demise, which will take place and be announced within a few days, and the prince regent’s proclamation naming me as the fifth Earl of Rydleshire. Her Majesty’s ability to persuade her son has apparently returned to her in full force.”

“As if she ever really lost it.” Merritt snorted.

“True.”

Merritt shifted in his seat, finished off the last of his cognac, then held out the glass. “Perhaps one more while you explain why our good queen selected you for this monumental and extraordinarily questionable task.” He shook his head. “The legalities alone—gads, man! I understand how letters patent often leave women facing the direst of straits, but to falsify a peer? And now you yourself are in the thick of it?”

“I know.” Nash allowed himself a disgruntled snort as he refilled both their glasses. “Three summers ago I happened to be at Kew when the king had one of his more violent attacks. It terrified the queen and her daughters. So much so that, without thinking, I jumped in and attempted to divert His Majesty by asking his advice on harvesting crops, seasons for planting, and the breeding of animals. I referred to him as Farmer George until he calmed enough to allow me to take the scythe away from him on the pretense of checking the sharpness of the blade. I handed it off to a servant, telling His Majesty that it was in dire need of repair or the barley harvest would surely be damaged.” He scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “We talked for hours, he and I, and the sad thing was, he made perfect sense about everything to do with farming. It was as though he had never been king and was quite happy about that fact.” He lowered himself to a chair across from Merritt. “That day sealed my fate. The queen forbade me from ever traveling farther than a day’s ride from her and her family. Gone was my hope to defend my country by land or sea. I am called upon whenever His Majesty’s days are more difficult than his staff can manage. She cannot bear to see him handled as roughly as was required before I arrived on that fateful day.”

“And as an earl, you would usually be right here in London. At her call year round, if need be.”

“Exactly.”

“And now you are well and properly leg-shackled. No good deed goes unpunished.” Merritt gave him a sad smile. “Isn’t that what your father always said?”

“Yes.” Nash decided not to share that his marriage to Sophie had turned out to be the silver lining of the complicated storm cloud he was now a part of. As astute as his friend was, Merritt would eventually figure that out for himself.

“What information can you give me that will assist my investigation?”

“All the demands were posted through different offices. The postal stamps attested to that, and yet each of them required the same amount of postage to receive, postage for a distance of fifty miles.” Nash tried to remember everything Sophie had told him about the letters, since he had yet to examine them at his leisure. “Same handwriting. Blunt, aggressive wording, of course. And, according to Sophie, knowledge of names, dates, and circumstances that few would be privy to.”

“Have those few been interviewed?”

“I honestly do not know, but I cannot imagine either my wife or her mother leaving something as simple as that to chance.”

“Perhaps I should start with Lady Rydleshire. If she would be up to it this evening, of course.” Merritt tossed a glance at the bedroom door into which the lady had disappeared. “Handsome woman and yet she never remarried?”

“I do not ask those questions, and if you value your life, you will not ask them either,” Nash advised, remembering the fate of the malodorous French courtier. “From what I have surmised, the dowager lost the love of her life when her husband was murdered and has never considered the possibility of another.”

“And some ghosts never rest.”

“Most definitely.” Remembering the malevolent spirits creating the barrier between himself and Sophie, Nash couldn’t agree more. But he was determined to exorcise those foul memories and lay them to rest. He and Sophie could find happiness. He felt it in his bones.