Page 104

Her skin was scorching, burning down to the tips of her toes. She had hoped the tight undergarments were to blame for the feeling of being trapped, but as the stays slid over her head, leaving her in only a thin lawn chemise, she was proved wrong. She crossed the room and poured herself a glass of cool water, downing it in gulps.

“Miss.”

Sophie gripped the glass, staring at the wall. “What is it, Anne?”

“This mightn’t mean anything to you, but there’s a chance it might. And so I shall say it anyway, even if you have me turned out for it.”

Thud-thud-thud-thud. Her pulse had lost its neat, two-beat rhythm. It sounded more like Nelson’s gallop.

“I heard some of what was said between you and his lordship.” There was a slight, disconcerting tremble in Anne’s voice. “If your gone man happens to be that Mr. Balfour, you ought to know he’s not coming back.”

Sophie set down the glass with a rolling clatter. “That is a lie.”

She spun to face the maid. Even paces away, her dark eyes were difficult to meet, leagues deep and brimming with morbid disapproval. “I ask,” Sophie said, “that you will not let your sister’s unfortunate experiences color your understanding of mine.”

“I do not lie.”

Sophie hated it, but felt it all the same: Anne was speaking in earnest. She believed every hateful, warning syllable she spoke. She was simply wrong about Rafe. That should not be held against her.

“I heard it, straight from one of Mr. Balfour’s maids. He took off down Portsmouth Road, of a mind to catch a ship south. He’s never to return. Even told his father so ’fore he left.”

If such an answer were true, it might explain why discontent had wormed its way into Sophie’s very skeleton. She jerked her gaze left, and it alighted on the window. Fading sunlight. Fragile greenery. A spool of ivy on the sill and a mostly fastened latch. Her heart seized in a fury of pain. His phantom was still here, in this bed and in this room. The real Rafe was in her heart—his scent, his skin, the green and the black, the shadows and the light.

“I thank you for looking after me, Anne.” The words were decisive, strong. Sophie reached the door in a few strides, slipping on a dressing robe as she went. “You are a good woman to do so.”

But you may consider me ruined all the same.

Mama’s head snatched up when Sophie entered the drawing room. Papa’s stayed slumped, eyes open but averted. Perhaps she looked a mess, or, more probably, they had been discussing her in the moment before she appeared.

“Oh, dearest, why don’t you sit?” Mama’s voice was a near-falsetto as she patted the empty space beside her on the settee.

Sophie closed and latched the doors, her hands trembling over the task. “I believe I’d rather stand, thank you.”

“H-how was your outing with Lord Hansbury? He is the most wondrous gentleman—your father and I were just saying so, weren’t we, dear?”

Sophie interrupted before her father could burble his coerced assent. “There is nothing truly objectionable in him, I don’t suppose, but he is entirely unsuited to my tastes. And he is not the subject of this discussion.” She stood before them now, hands twisting and clamping behind her back. “I am here to discuss myself.”

Mama gave a short chuckle, sitting up straighter and glancing at Papa. He didn’t meet her look, but stared down at his hands, or perhaps at nothing.

“Do you know where I was, today?” Sophie asked.

“Why, with Lord Hansbury, of course.” A longer chuckle from Lady St. Quinton. “What sort of question—”

“I was at the Public Record Office.”

Papa had been running his thumbs, very slowly, over the frayed belt of his dressing robe. He stilled.

“And I should like both of you to see what I discovered.” Sophie pulled the folded paper from her pocket and thrust it at her parents.

It was Papa who took it, who began turning it and smoothing it over his knee, his wrinkled brow bending into a frown.

“That is the name of a gentleman—a distant cousin—who bears legitimate claim to your title, Papa. I do not know him, do not even know if he would be willing to enter into an entail. But it would be worth your trying.”

They weren’t speaking. Her parents weren’t speaking—they’re weren’t even looking! She had run herself out of words. This was to be a staged affair, she could not just jump ahead to the bit about being madly in—

“Your mother and I are aware of this relation.” Lord St. Quinton’s head lifted at last. He stared at her with rheumy, melancholy eyes. “What I cannot understand is why you should have sought out such information. You cannot possibly think such a pronouncement to be in your own best interests.”

Sophie blinked. “You were already aware?”