Page 112

Mr. Malloy stood by the hospital gates. The sight did not bode well. In fact, it flipped Sophie’s stomach inside out.

Anne leant forward on the carriage seat. “Are you feeling ill, miss?”

Sophie lowered the hand that had gone, instinctively, to her throat. “No.”

It was an effort to speak. She shouldn’t expect him to be waiting for her at the gates! It meant nothing. He would be along, doubtless any minute.

“Gad, you look horrid.” Now Hansbury was leaning forward, making that terrible squinty expression.

“I am fine!” The words exploded from her at a volume far too loud for the confined space. “It is only this wretched vehicle of yours. I declare, I believe that was the bumpiest ride I ever—”

“Well now I know you’re lying,” he interrupted. His attention turned to Anne just as the carriage door opened. “Say, have you any smelling salts?”

Sophie dodged past their intrusive knees and clasped the footman’s hand with an iron grip. Her slippers hit the ground with a crunch, a cool breeze whipping at her face, like ice against her hot cheeks.

The gates—the patch of rust on one iron bar, the draped chains, the unlit lanterns—were enormous in their familiarity. But then the whole place gave that effect. Even Mr. Malloy, with his soft, sympathetic-looking smile, registered like an enormity of loss.

He dipped his chin and walked toward her with slow strides, hands tucking into the pockets of his worn workman’s trousers. Sophie attempted to swallow, but the muscles in her throat wouldn’t allow it. The thought that she ought to smile also remained just that: thought alone.

Where is he? Have you heard from him? Is he well? Do you expect him? What are we to do? How am I supposed to go on like this? “Good morning, Mr. Malloy.”

“Good morning, Miss St. Quinton.” His dark gaze trailed over her shoulder to where the carriage loomed. The half formed smile stayed impressed on his features. He was impassable. Unreadable. He might be offering no knowledge at all or his deepest sympathies.

“Am I correct,” Sophie said, pausing to wet her lips, “in assuming you’ve come for the meeting? Alone?”

“Yes.” He stopped a few paces away. He never met her eye for long, but gazed about in the way one might look at a beautiful sunset.

His placidity began to irritate her. There was nothing to admire, just scuttling clouds and a fitful sun and a smelly river and no sign of Rafe.

“Did Mr. Balfour ask you to attend in his stead?”

That question lowered the corners of his lips. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Not precisely. I believe he … expected to be here, himself. But seeing as I haven’t heard from him, and I know the terms the vice admiral laid out for you …” He shrugged his shoulder. “I figured I may as well offer myself as your escort. I’m no father or suitor, but perhaps better than you making the attempt alone.”

Twin fires lit at the backs of Sophie’s eyes. She sniffed and looked away, down the street, and curse her own imagination, she thought for an instant that she saw him. Just as he’d looked that black night, charging after her when she’d gone to the alehouse, the very picture of disheveled, protective, masculine urgency.

She blinked. The crowd of passersby swelled and shrunk, varying heights of black-coated shoulders and hats absorbing her fanciful vision. She looked at the ground. No, that wouldn’t do, she’d be shedding tears within the instant.

“I thank you, Mr. Malloy,” she said, aiming her words at the sky. “Never would I expect such kindness. Thank you.”

The hospital’s clock tower chimed the quarter hour. One of the pensioners watched their disassembled party, wavering by the locked gates. Sophie nodded at him, and he began to unwind the chain.

“Thank you very much for seeing us safely here, Lord Hansbury.” She sounded cool and remotely self-possessed as she looked back at the carriage.

Anne had disembarked and stood a few paces away with the air of an irreproachable servant, while Hansbury remained inside, leaning forward to survey the scene.

“I wouldn’t wish to further impose on your day, sir,” Sophie added, when he only squinted at her.

He looked beyond her to address Mr. Malloy. “You spoke of terms. What terms?” Before the man could answer, Hansbury stepped down from the vehicle, taking both steps in one stride. “Never mind. I don’t suspect it matters; I’m accompanying you all the same.”

“Have you truly nothing better to do?” Sophie frowned as the gates opened with a creak.

“No.”

She was in no mood to argue with him. In fact, the pragmatic corner of her mind argued that a marquess might wield formidable influence in her favor, should the directors express concerns over her fitness as Barnard’s guardian.

Barnard. It seemed very real, suddenly, that she was walking true to her desires now. She was going to offer this child a new sort of life; she prayed he wanted it. She was going home tomorrow. The responsibilities she held now were different, borne of independence and desire, and not a warped sense of duty and self-punishment. Why should she not feel wonderful?

The group of them passed silently into the courtyard, Mr. Malloy maintaining a slight lead. Sophie stole a glance over her left shoulder. Beyond the iron bars, the movement of people on the street continued to flow at a relaxed pace. There was nothing, no one, there to catch her eye this time. Not even a vision of her own imagining.