Chapter Nine

Sophie pricked her finger again. She popped it in her mouth and held her tongue against it to stop the bleeding and keep from staining her embroidery even more. Her poor little bluebirds were already so spotted with blood they looked as though someone had shot them several times.

“Perhaps you should discard that piece and start again,” her mother gently suggested, with a sympathetic pat on her shoulder.

“Perhaps I should be out and about doing something productive rather than sitting in the parlor playing at these silly things I have never cared about nor been able to perfect.” Sophie stabbed the needle into the square of material and tossed the tangled mess aside.

Maman pressed a tender kiss to the top of her head as though she were still a child. “Remember, we are in mourning and must be the epitome of propriety. And besides, it has only been a week since the attack. Mere moments ago you said you still suffered from some soreness.”

“No worse than the soreness one gets from overexerted muscles.” Sophie rose from the settee and paced around the room. “When did Nash and Mr. Wethersby say they would return?”

“You know as well as I that they did not give us a time frame because they did not know.” Maman picked up the discarded bit of embroidery and studied it with a loving smile. “Your needlework skills have improved. Somewhat.”

“You are being kind.” She wasn’t a fool. Maman was attempting to placate her. “I could have gone with them. I have ridden under worse conditions.”

“I do not consider the painful cramping of womanly courses a worse condition than the bruising and wounds you possess. Marie described their current state to me only this morning, and Dr. MacMaddenly insists you might very well have fractured bones he is unaware of. He does not advise that you ride for a few more weeks, and you know it.”

Her mother’s tone did not recommend continuing the current line of conversation, but Sophie couldn’t resist. “You have ridden under worse conditions than the injury I have or a bout of painful courses. You rode after being shot.”

“Sophia Davidia Redwell Bromley. I tire of this subject, and you will change it immediately.”

A heavy sigh escaped her. Even at the somewhat mature age of five and twenty, Maman’s use of her full name still stung. She offered her mother a contrite nod. “Yes, Maman.”

“Write to Frannie,” her mother continued. “She would love to hear from you. After all, even though she adores her new babies, I am quite certain she feels removed from everything with the isolation of her lying in.”

“I wrote to her yesterday. Another letter this week would smack of desperation.”

“Review the ledgers? It is nearly the end of the quarter.”

“I did that earlier,” Sophie said as she moved to the window and peered through the sheer panels of lace hanging between heavier damask draperies in a bright shade of blue that matched the poor, ruined bluebirds of her embroidery. Across the way, in the narrow space between Hasterton House and the townhouse next to it, the shadows seemed to move. She eased back a bit to make herself less visible but kept her gaze locked on that particular spot. “Maman, did we bring my archery equipment from Calais? I cannot seem to recall.”

Her mother joined her and stood just behind her, aligning her viewpoint with Sophie’s. “Direct me to the spot, child. I see nothing that warrants shooting.”

“The shadows. Between the buildings. Wait.” Sophie moved forward the slightest bit, baiting the brazen scoundrel to move again. “Nash mentioned having the house watched over while he was away, and Mr. Wethersby said he had a pair of men he trusted for the job.”

“Well, if that is one of them, I daresay they are out of range to offer much protection.” Maman’s tone suggested Mr. Wethersby’s men had sorely failed to impress her. “They should be on this side of the street, their backs to our walls, and ready to spring into action should a trespasser approach.”

“Perhaps that is the trespasser.” Sophie itched to coax whoever it was out into the open. It had been a long while since she last played a rousing game of cat and mouse. “It is a lovely day. Do you not agree?”

“It is not lovely enough for you to traipse up and down Curzon Street and try to be attacked merely because you are bored.” Maman snagged hold of her arm and tugged her away from the window. “Come. Higher ground might provide us with a better view and help us identify the creature.” Her smile took on a decidedly wicked slant. “Or at least ease our boredom for a time.”

They scurried upstairs to Sophie’s private sitting room like a pair of children intent on naughtiness. No, not her sitting room, she reminded herself—her and Nash’s. Not that she had forgotten she was married. How could she when every night, except for the last two because he was traveling, her handsome yet fickle husband joined her in bed yet refused to touch her until she was completely healed? Completely healed, indeed. If he insisted on behaving as if he actually cared before showing his true colors and taking a mistress, the least he could do was treat her to more of the breathtaking pleasures he had shown her on their wedding day. But no. Much to her dismay, the cruel man had chosen chivalry over passion. She had yet to figure out the plot behind his tactics, but she would. Persistence was key. She refused to allow her heart to be caught off guard again.

“I see him,” Maman said soft and low while peering out the window. She eased to one side so Sophie could join her.

Sophie held her breath as she watched the man furtively peek out, glance up and down the street, then sink back into the shadows between the buildings. “I cannot decide if he is nervous, indecisive, or simply cowardly.”

“I do not think cowardly.” Her mother squinted as though sighting a target on the questionable person below. “Note his expression when he emerges again. Like a rat that cannot decide if it is safe to come out or not. I believe he is merely cautious.”

“It would take no time at all for me to slip around the houses and come up behind him in the alley. This black bombazine and crepe might actually prove useful and enable me to easier blend into the shadows.” Sophie cracked her knuckles at the exciting prospect, her heart beating faster.

Her mother swatted both her hands and shoved in between her and the window, completely blocking the view. “You will do no such thing, and how many times have we discussed that annoying habit? If you persist, your fingers will surely become misshapen. Do you wish your hands to become as knobby as roots of an ancient tree?”

Resisting the childish impulse to hide her hands behind her back, Sophie took a defiant stance. “I am going out there. I can tuck my throwing knives into the front of this dreadful corset and keep at a safe distance to withdraw unscathed if need be.”

“As your husband, I forbid it,” Nash said from the doorway.

She jumped and nearly choked as her heart leapt to her throat. “Good heavens! When did you get home?”

“Only moments ago. Apparently, just in time to prevent you from doing something quite foolhardy.” Jaw clenched and eyes flashing, he strode toward her with such force that she almost backed up a step before giving herself a hard shake and holding her ground.

“I shall leave the two of you to it.” Maman dismissed herself with a smug tip of her head in Nash’s direction.

Sophie swallowed hard, determined not to flinch or look away from her husband’s displeased glare. “There is a lurker across the way, and I am fully capable of investigating my environment rather than cowering in the parlor and waiting for you to charge home on your mighty steed and save me.”

He took her by the shoulders and gently but firmly set her away from the window, then peered outside. “Where across the way?”

“The alley to the left of Hasterton House.”

“I see no one.”

She shoved in beside him and tapped on the window. “He was there moments ago. Did you enter the house through the front or cross the mews and come in through the garden?”

“Merritt and I entered through the garden.”

She turned to look up at him and suddenly realized how close he stood. The heat of him dared her to toss all her reservations aside, push herself into his arms, and make him hold her whether he feared he would hurt her back or not. “Uhm…”

“Uhm?” He arched a brow and smiled down at her with a look that said he knew exactly what she was feeling.

She cleared her throat and adopted what she hoped was a stern air. “You left Mr. Wethersby downstairs? Alone? Is that any way to treat a guest?”

“He is not a guest. He is my oldest friend.” Nash cupped her cheek and lowered his voice. “I needed to see you. How are you, my swan? Other than determined to be the death of me by throwing yourself in harm’s way?”

“I am bored, petulant, and extremely dangerous. You would do well to remember that, my lord.” She knew the formal address would irritate him, and it pleased her immensely to do so. After word of her attack had reached the prince regent and Queen Charlotte, they adjusted the timeline of their scheme and gave the title of the fifth Earl of Rydleshire to Nash before the body of her fake brother had time to proverbially grow cold.

To her utter frustration, he rewarded her childish prattle with a broader smile that only made him more handsome and turned her insides into an aching mess of molten yearning. She so wished it was safe to love him.

“I like it when you are dangerous,” he said softly, then kissed her with a tenderness that was still somehow demanding and oh so wonderfully possessive. He lifted his head and pulled in a deep breath, as if struggling for control. “I missed you, Sophie. Did you miss me too? Maybe even just a little?”

She started to deny the truth and dash the hope in his eyes, but her heart refused to allow her to do so. “I missed you more than just a little.” With a twitching shrug, she added, “The bed seems cold and empty without you beside me.”

He didn’t speak, simply drew her into his arms and held her close. His heartbeat thumped steadily against her cheek, filling her with a warm contentedness. She closed her eyes and tightened her arms around him. “I truly did miss you, Nash,” she whispered, half hoping he wouldn’t hear. She was so weak when it came to him.

“Sophie?” His rumbling voice had taken on the deep raspiness she remembered from when they had made love.

“Yes?” She swallowed hard, struggling to steady her emotions.

“I have a confession.”

Her heart plummeted. Not even married a month, and he had already been unfaithful. She had known he would do it, but this soon? How much more could he humiliate her? She eased away, gently trying to pull herself free of his embrace, but he only tightened his arms around her. “What is your confession, my lord?”

He stared down at her with a slight frown. No, not a frown exactly, but a troubled look, as if he were befuddled beyond reason. His eyes reminded her of a lightning-filled horizon. He didn’t speak even though his lips were barely parted. He merely drew in a deep breath, then eased it back out.

“You are tormenting me, Nash,” she said as calmly as possible. “Please, just tell me. What have you done?”

“I have become impossibly besotted—fallen hopelessly in love with my wife.”

She blinked several times. Was he telling her that to soften the blow of confessing his unfaithfulness? He appeared so serious—so truthful. “I beg your pardon?”

“I love you, Sophie.” He pulled in another deep breath and snorted it out, his nostrils flaring like an angry stallion’s. “My confession is that I love you and want you to stop waiting for me to break your heart again. You are wasting our life together by living in the past.” He cupped her cheek once more and leaned in closer. “You need to trust me. I need you to trust me.”

“But—”

He stopped her with a shake of his head and a finger across her lips. “There are no buts. Stop waiting for me to hurt you. We are not those people anymore, and I have apologized for my dreadful behavior all that I am going to, because it does no good to keep saying the words when you refuse to hear them.” He kissed her again, lingering with his lips to hers as if sealing the bond and locking the bitterness of the past away to a place where it would never hurt them again. “I love you,” he whispered against her mouth. “My heart is yours, whether you wish it or not.”

“I wish it.” She reached up and held his face between her hands, struggling to speak through the wild churning of so many emotions. “I love you and will overcome my fears. I promise.”

“That gladdens my heart more than you could ever know.” He kissed her again until she moaned. With a start, he relaxed his embrace. “Forgive me, my love! Did I hurt you?”

She almost laughed. If not for his remorseful concern, she would. Instead, she patted his chest. “You did not hurt me. Have you already forgotten the sounds you coax free of me whenever you give me pleasure?”

“Perhaps tonight…” He held up a finger. “If we are very careful and handle things in a subdued nature, we might… Dr. MacMaddenly fears you have broken bones of which we are not aware.”

“I shall be the judge of—”

Nash yanked her to one side and shielded her with his body. “Merritt!” he bellowed as the window beside them shattered.

Chaos broke out downstairs. Doors slammed. Shouts filled the halls.

Sophie tried to twist free to see what had happened, but he grabbed her by the shoulders and held her in place.

“No. Do not go near that window.” He bent his head until they were nearly nose to nose. “Your trespasser had a rifle. Stay away from all the windows while I am gone. Do you understand me?”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he read her far too easily and gently shook her.

“No, Sophie! For once, listen and do as I ask. Your life depends on it. Swear to me you will stay away from every window in this house. Swear it!”

Fear for his safety filled her. “I swear as long as you promise to go by my workroom and arm yourself with extra weaponry. Pistols. Throwing knives. The bookcase behind my desk will swing inward to a concealed room filled with whatever you need. Push on its right side, the fifth shelf up from the bottom.”

He gave her a quick nod and a kiss, then bolted out the door.

She sagged down onto the settee, staring at the broken glass scattered on the floor, then squinted at the wall opposite the window. A ragged hole, dark and unnerving, marred the rose-covered wallpaper just above the waist-high wainscoting. Rage fought to overcome her fears, making her heart pound so hard she became breathless. How dare that devil almost kill her husband? “I hope Nash shoots that fiend,” she muttered, then shook her head. No. She didn’t want him to shoot the assassin. She wanted him to catch the blackguard and drag him back here so she could do it.

Maman rushed into the room with Marie close on her heels.

“Sophie!” She joined her on the sofa and hugged her close as Marie stood there wringing her hands. “When I heard the shot, then Nash shouted—oh, my darling girl.”

“My lady,” Marie sobbed. “Oh, my lady, you might have been killed.”

Sophie gently extricated herself from her mother’s hold and forced a smile. “And yet I wasn’t killed,” she said as calmly as her quaking voice would allow. “I am quite hale thanks to Nash noticing movement outside and reacting.” She pressed a hand to her still-pounding heart. “We must all gather ourselves and, as Nash said, stay away from the windows until he returns.”

“Mr. Wethersby barreled out the door as soon as the shot rang out,” her mother said. “I am quite sure he will have some stern words for his men about their failure as guards.” She gave an angry shake of her head. “Guards, indeed. I told you they were incompetent. That lurker should have been apprehended before he had the opportunity to take aim.”

Sophie further soothed herself by dissecting the situation. “An assassin with a rifle,” she mused aloud while staring at the bullet hole in the wall. “Who would consider us so dangerous, such a credible threat to them, that they wanted us dead? Blackmail for money was understandable. This? I cannot imagine the motive.”

“My lady, shall I get you something to drink to settle your nerves?” Marie asked, still wringing her hands. “Do you need to lie down? Shall I help you undress?”

“Some strong tea would be perfect,” Sophie told her, mainly to give her something to do.

The maid dropped a quick curtsy and stole out of the room.

“Poor Marie,” Maman said. “She is accustomed to our unconventional ways, but this is a strain even for her.” She reached out and touched Sophie’s cheek. “And for me as well. Your life has been threatened twice now. I cannot bear this. I simply cannot bear this.”

Sophie caught her mother’s hand between hers and held it tight. “We are strong women, Maman. We must look at the facts rather than dwell on what might have happened.” It was now easier to breathe even though she feared for Nash’s safety. They needed to discover why the blackmailer had elevated himself to the level of assassin. “Who have we, or have I, angered so? I am not important politically or socially. No one stands to gain anything by my death.”

Her mother clutched her hands as if fearing she would float away. “It might be an indirect attack on me. I made many enemies while working for the Crown. As did your papa, and he paid for it with his life. Perhaps they fear you now work to protect our country and are privy to sensitive information that would cause them or whomever they work for harm.”

“Proper investigation would tell them otherwise. I only travel between France and England—not all over the Continent and beyond like you and Papa did.” Sophie slowly shook her head. “No, this feels entirely different.”

“Come.” Maman patted her hand. “Let us go downstairs so this mess can be cleaned up. And now that Nash is home, your things need to be moved to the master suite.” She cast a worried glance at the broken window. “Those rooms will be safer, since they overlook the garden and the mews rather than the street.”

“Perhaps that would be best.” Sophie didn’t care what suite of rooms belonged to them. She was too busy trying to piece together the shooter’s motives to worry about such inconsequential things. Such violent attacks made no sense whatsoever. Ransoms had been paid, although their small amounts had been almost laughable. None of the banknotes had been cashed yet, either. So money was clearly not a motive. The entire situation smacked of an irrational mind.

Rather than risk the parlor at the front of the house, she led her mother to the drawing room that opened out into the garden. After Nash’s shoring up of any security weak points in that area, the back of the house should be quite safe. Also, the drawing room gave her more room to pace until he returned safe and sound.

“Sophie, do sit,” Maman implored from the settee beside the double doors open to the warm day.

“I cannot.” Sophie worked her fingers, slowly cracking them one by one.

Her mother blew out a heavy sigh but didn’t scold—proof enough that she was terribly upset.

A door slammed hard enough to shake the sound through the house. That was followed by scuffling and a steady stream of loud, coarse French. Another door slammed and silence fell.

“They’ve captured him, but where did they take him?” Sophie hurried to glance up and down the hall. “They are not going to interrogate him without me—Thornton!”

“Sophie!” Maman called out. “You must stay here.”

Sophie ignored her, took a few steps toward the front door, then stopped and listened. Nothing but silence filled the house, and the hall remained empty. “Thornton!”

Still no response, which was quite unusual, because the butler possessed the almost annoying habit of appearing when one even thought about asking something of him.

She returned to the drawing room and yanked on the bellpull several times while still watching the hall.

Daryl, one of the older footmen, careened into view, emerging from the stairway that led down to the kitchens. His eyes rounded with alarm as he caught sight of her standing in the drawing room doorway, the bellpull still in her hand.

“Yes, my lady?” he asked as he skidded to a stop and bobbed a contrite bow.

“Where is Thornton?”

“I am sure I don’t know, my lady. Shall I search the house for him?” The young man nervously shuffled from side to side, seemingly unable to stand still and most eager to dart off in search of the butler. “Shall I?”

“No. Thank you. You may go.” She waved him away. “I am quite capable of searching the house myself.” She started with the main parlor, since it was closest to the front entrance. Empty. “Either the library or my workroom. They must have taken the man to one of those.”

“Sophie!”

“Maman, either come with me or wait in the drawing room, but do not ask or expect me to stop until I find where they took that devil. I have a few questions of my own to ask him.”

Her mother surprised her with a tight-lipped glare and a nod.

Sophie charged down the hall, paused just outside the library door, then continued on to her workroom. The library was too quiet. They had to be in her workroom. Her mother caught hold of her by the shoulder and held her back just as she went to open the door.

“Are you certain? This could be unpleasant.” Maman stressed the sentiment with a gentle shake. “If you insist upon doing this, do not get close to him. Understood?”

“I understand,” Sophie replied. But really, she didn’t. After all, she felt sure that Nash and Mr. Wethersby had probably lashed the man to something. How dangerous could he be? She pushed inside, determined to wring every drop of information out of the assailant.

“Sophie!” Nash blocked her way. “You should not be in here.”

“I beg to differ. Since the attack was upon my person, I have every right to be in here, and intend to ask a few questions of my own.”

She tried to sidle past him, but he blocked her again, catching her by the shoulders and holding her in place.

“I will share what I learn. Go back to the drawing room.” He cast a glance behind him. “This could become quite unpleasant.”

She jerked free, feinted to the right, then darted around him to the left, scurrying between the worktable and the bookcase that hid her arsenal of weapons. But the sight of the man with his wrists and ankles tied to a chair halted her halfway around the table. “Horton Bainery?”

The man’s grubby scowl hardened even more. He ducked his chin and looked away.

“Mr. Bainery, you are supposed to be dead.” She angled closer to the French agent who had crossed over and sworn allegiance to England. Able to pass for an Englishman, he had once worked with Maman at the academy.

Nash caught hold of her. “Sophie. Stay back.”

“You have him tied, and you are right here.” She pointed at the man. “Let me ask my questions.”

“He will not answer,” her mother said while boldly stepping forward. “Will you, Bainery?”

The man glared at the dowager countess with such hatred that Sophie took a step back. She had never seen such loathing in the man’s eyes before. As far back as she could remember, Mr. Bainery and Maman had always been quite close—more like friends instead of mere colleagues fighting for the good of the Crown. She gave her mother a gentle nudge to step aside and took her place in front of the bound man.

“Why did you try to kill me?” Sophie watched him closely for the slightest tic that might give something away. It wasn’t so much what he might say, but how he would say it. “You used to tell me French fairy tales while we ate apples and cheese in the orchard, and yet today, you tried to shoot me.”

“If I had intended to kill you, you would be dead, my lady,” the man growled, looking far older and thinner than Sophie remembered. Of course, it had been some years since last she saw him.

“Why did you fake your death?” Sophie meandered back and forth in front of him, noting that only one of his eyes followed her. The other seemed locked in place, staring straight ahead. When had he developed that malady?

He curled his upper lip into a deeper sneer and remained silent.

Wrapping an arm around her waist, Nash drew her off to one side. “You should leave, my swan. Merritt and I cannot encourage Mr. Bainery to share what he knows while you and your mother are in the room.”

Sophie looked back at the man lashed to the chair. “Do not hurt him,” she said softly. “He is telling the truth.”

“What truth?” Nash frowned at her, glanced back at Mr. Bainery, then returned his focus to her.

“If he had wanted me dead, I would be.” She peered at the man, studying him closely. The way his head sagged forward, the tensed gauntness of his features. His breathing was ragged, and his coloring had gone an unhealthy gray. She pushed around Nash, grabbed Mr. Bainery by the chin, and forced him to look up at her. “What did you take? What poison did you take?”

“Canny girl. Just like your mother. When he gave me the orders, I said you would sort it.” His smirk twitched, pulling to one side in an unnaturally taut line. With a sickening gurgle deep in his throat, he stretched back and jerked as though fighting an unseen rope that was trying to separate his head from his neck. After a hard shudder, he slumped over and went as limp as a wet rag.

Nash tried to shield Sophie, but she pulled out of his arms and focused on the old man who had once been her friend. “Mr. Bainery was a master of poisons,” she whispered. “He once told me he had often envisioned himself dying by his own craft.” An icy shiver stole across her. “Poor man.”

“Poor man?” Nash growled, sounding ready to spit. “He tried to kill you.”

“Not really. He protected me as much as he could.” Sophie understood now, and the knowledge cast an eerie chill across her. “This is some twisted game, and this sorry old soul got caught up in it somehow.”

“He is free now,” her mother said in a wistful tone. “May he rest in peace.”