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“Where the devil are we?”

The white beard shifted in the darkness. “You don’t know, lad?”

“I scarcely knew my name this morning.” Or had it been morning when he awoke from his drug-induced stupor? There were no windows here, no candles or lamps, only the glowing impressions of plaster and of Chenoweth. Rafe only assumed it was now night by the grating snores rising between the floorboards.

“We’re under yourn old man’s roof. Have been two days hence.”

Rafe swallowed the threat of bile. It only made sense, didn’t it? Thomas still owned the old house. It wasn’t above a few hours’ ride from Locks Heath. The cottage’s loft, where Rafe had slept for the first eight years of his life, had no windows, just a steeply sloping roof and a comfortable assortment of furniture, most of which had come with him to London.

This was his bed, then. His childhood house—for even given the brighter memories made here with his mother, one could not call any place inhabited by Thomas Balfour a home.

“That was how you knew about the wine. In the cellar.” Rafe’s voice had improved greatly with drink, but it took on a raspy quality again. Two days. Even if he escaped this very moment and made time on his journey, he would be well past his expected return. Sophie would think he wasn’t returning.

“That’s it.” Chenoweth sniffed. “I do be sorry, lad. I fear much of this shite is of me own makin’. I told you yourn old man were makin’ the journey, for I believed it were true. I’d no notion of him sendin’ Russ in his stead.”

“Don’t apologize.”

A moment of stillness passed between them, broken only by the steady snores from below.

“What does he intend to do with me?” Rafe’s intonation was flat, more grave declaration than question.

“He be … of an unsteady mind. Always has been. I s’pect you’d have kept ’head of us, had he not pushed me on as he done. Held me at gunpoint when I argued with ’im about givin’ the horses a rest.” Chenoweth sniffed. “I s’pose you knew. ’Bout your mam?”

“Yes.” Rafe stared at the steep timbers overhead, scarcely able to discern their shapes in the darkness. “I was going to tell you, as soon as I set up my own house.”

“I’m just glad she’s still with us. I hope I’ll live to see ’er again.”

Me too. He bit back the words. There would be time enough for pity and wishes later. Now, he needed to use each second of Russ’s stupor to his benefit. “Tell me what’s happened. Everything, down to when he allows you to piss.”

The details were as beastly as the rest of it. Chenoweth had only been instructed to drive, taking the Portsmouth Road south at breakneck speed. He hadn’t known Locks Health for an asylum, nor Russ’s intentions, when at last they arrived. Rafe could only assume Mrs. Langworthy had been threatened—her son’s life threatened, too—and yielded the truth. Rafe, for his own part, had only made things too easy, showing up and handing over his damned calling card.

“I was shocked to me bones when Russ come out, draggin’ you with him, yammerin’ senseless ’bout Mrs. Balfour bein’ alive. Though I do ’spect ol’ Russ seen us, that mornin’ by the mews. Or mayhap yourn ol’ man grew suspect. Russ were rough wi’ me from the start.”

Rafe’s upper lip itched where a mustache was growing in. He tried to sate the irritant with his teeth. Curst bindings. Curst Russ. Curst Father. “I’m afraid it doesn’t matter any longer. Does he ever cut you loose? Has he allowed you any freedoms at all since arriving here?”

“He unbinds this ’en here of the mornin’.” Chenoweth looked pointedly at the leather strap that fixed his chest to the chairback. “He be flighty about the horses. Prefers I feed ’em, though ’tis a mite hard with the rest o’ me still bound so.”

Rafe abandoned the itch and gaped at him. “He gives you leave to walk outside, with only your wrists and ankles bound?”

“Well yes, he do, but I don’t know as to what good—”

“In the morning you’re to bring me that pistol.” The words tumbled from his lips easily.

“Why, Rafe …” Chenoweth’s breaths echoed against the quiet. “I ’spect he’ll be thick in the head from drink, but—”

“You’re to bring me that pistol. And when you return to this room, rid me of this hellish jacket.” His heart thundered against his forearms, which were bound tight and achy against his chest. “The rest—I’ll handle the rest.”

thirty

Meanwhile, Berkeley Square, London

Anne loosened Sophie’s stays with a vicious jerk. She fisted the bedpost to regain her balance. “Heavens above,” she bit out, “do you intend to kill me?”

“Apologies, miss.”

Sophie could have almost laughed, but another insistent tug demanded her focus return to the bedpost. “Apologies are not usually spoken so venomously.”

Perhaps she should have skipped this step. Since Lord Hansbury had returned her home, she had struggled to draw breath. The realization of what she was about to do weighed on her chest like bags of sand. No matter the outcome, irrespective of her parents’ reaction, Sophie was altering the course of her life. Today, now, in the next half hour.