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twelve

With any luck, hell’s mistress would already be abed. Without it …

No. Sophie was not going to spoil her night, this night she had waited days for, over thoughts of Anne the lady’s maid. The woman already avoided her, coming only when called and performing her duties with a scowl of undiluted contempt. She had no reason to notice Sophie gone from her chambers, or the black cloak missing from the armoire, or the residual scent of bergamot perfume, if it lingered in the air.

It certainly lingered on Sophie’s skin, even out here in the cool damp of night. Foolish. Unnecessary. A distasteful display of wantonness and excess. Mr. Balfour wouldn’t wish to smell her anyway; he was doing her a favor. The only thing worse than him thinking she smelled foul would be for him to choke on this French perfume, and realize, likely with horror, that she was trying to appeal to him. What had gotten into her?

Mr. Balfour, the temptress within answered. He had slipped into her life without any apparent effort—no, she had dragged him into her proximity—and now he took up considerable real estate in her thoughts and feelings. The giddiness she felt now, as she rounded the corner into the mews, hood swept low over her forehead, wasn’t the brand it should be.

Slipping out of the house for a late-night adventure could make her heart beat like this: forceful and voracious, as though aching to live. But it couldn’t be held responsible for the broad, tingling sensation that scorched across her chest and down her arms, skin screaming to be touched. Even in the brisk night, the streetlamps fighting for form against a misty rain, Sophie’s insides turned to treacle at the sight of him.

“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.” He turned away from the carriage and faced her. Even with his features in darkness, she recognized the shape of him: sharp shoulders, long legs, and elbows flared slightly to accommodate his shoved-into-pockets hands.

One of his arms straightened, and he offered his hand to her. She took it. Cool leather chafing against her warm gloves, but again, the shape of him was familiar, correct. In the squeeze of his fingers, the larger hand swallowing her own. These were the hands that had tortured her restfulness.

“You don’t give me enough credit, Mr. Balfour. I only thought to make you wait for me.”

She heard his smile break, and humor colored his voice. “Get in with you, now. We’re doing something not altogether proper, if you hadn’t noticed.”

As she climbed into the carriage, wonderment rushed over her. This was not at all like her first visit to Greenwich, which had been driven by dark, desperate compulsion. This was something other Sophie would have done, the girlish one, who dreamt of everything and nothing. Who sprinted the way of her feelings, let her moods grip and possess her, who was utterly selfish—not from vanity, but from a blissful incomprehension that anything could be the matter anywhere, if she was so happy herself.

Edmund’s death had taken that from her in an instant. She had heard people speak of denial following a loved one’s death, that the mind could refuse to believe the loss for weeks before the illusion shattered. She had experienced the reverse: the words had split her soul before they were fully spoken. She had grown up and withered in the same instant, fallen from the clouds in which she’d hung her dreams and splintered on the rocks below.

But the old Sophie was clamoring to reclaim bits of life. Her presence here was proof of that—it was a decision based on her wishes alone, which happened to directly counteract those of her parents.

Dread unfurled in her gut. Her mother and father would be mortified. She wouldn’t allow herself to imagine what future suitors would think.

Tomorrow’s problems, she thought. And no problems at all, with the right amount of discretion. She smoothed her palms down her skirts as Mr. Balfour mounted the step and took his seat across from her.

“Where is your friend?” she asked.

“He’s to meet us there. Too many crates to drag them along in here.”

“Do you mean to say I’ve inconvenienced you? I assure you, Mr. Balfour, I’m not so prim as you’re likely to think. I could have ridden in whatever vehicle is required by crates of—of—”

“Gold lace, this time.” Light canted in and graced one half of his face, gilding his hair and revealing herself as the singular focus of his gaze. He looked like an autumn sunset, an explosion of warm, burnished color against the dreariness beyond the window. “And, forgive my saying so, Miss St. Quinton, but I think you might attract notice, in an open cart in the rain.” His eyes drifted lower, down her front, before abruptly settling on the floor.

Her fingers itched from idleness, and she began ripping the gloves from her hands. Heaven above, why could she feel his gaze? It leapt across her flesh as plainly as if he’d touched her, skin against skin. “I see. Well, I’m sorry to have interrupted your normal way of things.”

“It’s no trouble.” He leant forward to examine the square, wrapped parcel she had placed on the seat beside her. “What have you brought?”

“Oh, nothing really. Just a few things for Barnard. I had found some old lettering books and novels, and then I realized—well, perhaps no one has taught him his reading and writing yet, and I didn’t wish to embarrass him. And there are some people who have been taught but have problems with their letters, you see? Edmund was like that. It can be quite embarrassing for people. I have some experience in helping with that sort of thing, but I thought—well, I decided to bring only paper and charcoal, until I better know what Barnard needs. If he doesn’t know his letters, he can at least begin drawing.”

Sophie was breathless when she finished speaking, and realized Mr. Balfour was grinning at her. “What?” she snapped.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“It’s just … you. You are nothing short of amazing.”

Rebuttals sprang to her mind—it was really no inconvenience; it was the least she could do—but the words wouldn’t come. She reached into her reticule for the handkerchief of Germany, winding it around her left thumb and trying to reestablish a normal pattern in her breathing.

“I’ve been thinking, these past days,” she said, before the silence could lapse too long.

“Hm?”

A beam of light pierced the carriage window, just long enough to reveal Dresden catching over her thumbnail. “I’m not sure I thanked you.” She looked up, but the darkness had taken over again and she could not find his face. “Thank you.”