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His thumb had begun brushing over hers, but stilled. “I want you to know, Sophie, that I take from him to complete the larger contracts, too. I’m padding his books and stealing his stock and … and even when I think I’ve earned a coin that’s my own, at day’s end, I came by it through him. Whether by cheating him or doing his bidding for a pittance.”

She squeezed his hand. “This is what you mean, isn’t it, when you speak of choice?”

He faced her and took up her second hand. “Yes. I don’t wish to live this way. Certain circumstances—” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Tonight, Alf and I are running a particularly large order to the hospital. Blue wool cloth. We’ve got to take it from the warehouse before we go.”

He revoked one of his hands and rubbed his brow with it. “I don’t wish to involve you. I set up the meeting with Crofton because I assumed you’d want it looked into at the earliest date.”

“You assumed correctly.” She took a step. Protest flared in the back of her brain, trying to summon the image of her parents peacefully sleeping in the drawing room, assured of their daughter’s devotion to their plans. But the present won out. She felt it in her marrow, he needed her. And for the moment, her life was still her own.

“Rafe.” Her voice was a whisper. “Thank you.”

His expression eased, muscles softening to allow for a one-sided smile. Their bound hands knotted in the narrow space between them, twisting and squeezing as if to deepen the intimacy. He laid a light kiss to her forehead. “I should like it to go on record that I’ve never taken any gloves before. You, my dear, are an exception.”

The endearment, foreign but easy on his tongue, ignited a warm shower of sparks in her stomach. She laughed quietly. “You don’t need to make an exception for me. If it’s going to trouble you, just have them back.”

He shook his head, his gaze firm. “I’m looking for a way out, Sophie. I’m going to get the hell out of this place, and it won’t be worth anything to me then. I’ll not have time for guilt.”

Resolve was etched in him, in the hard lines of his mouth and jaw, and the heavy steadiness of his breaths. Her brow pinched. “Be careful.”

The words came from within, like an impulse her brain had been too slow to catch. He bent to kiss her, and she leant into his warmth, powdered smoothness against stubble, but hunger equally yoked.

A clatter of hoofbeats, louder than the normal cacophony of the street, diverted their attention. Male laughter floated up, seeping into the stone walls. Rafe broke apart from her, stepping sidelong to peer out one of the small windows. Sophie followed.

“It’s my father,” he said. “I need to find that silk before one of your shopping companions gets a taste for garroting.”

He started to step away, but Sophie, not breaking her gaze from the street below, snatched his arm. “Wait.” She adjusted the angle of her vision until her chin nearly scraped the dirty windowpane. “Why is your father arriving in Lord Penney’s carriage?”

“What?” He rejoined her side. “Can you be sure it’s the Penneys’ carriage?”

The elder Mr. Balfour was standing in the street, his hat in hand. He faced the open carriage door and threw his head back, laughing. Sophie squinted. “Absolutely.”

Mr. Balfour extended his arm into the carriage as if to shake someone’s hand, and then with a flourish usually reserved for playactors, he replaced his hat and vanished from view.

Sophie wondered how she had never been suspicious of the man before. Everything about him seemed false and grandiose. Every inch of him repulsed her. Control was a cruelty taken against his son, and she feared she had only learned the littlest extent of how deep that cruelty ran.

“I don’t know, Sophie.” Rafe took a step back. “I’ve not seen the Penneys since that Sunday. Next time I do, I’m telling them the courtship’s never to happen. I’ll not put it so baldly as that, of course, but what I mean is that it wouldn’t make any sense for my father—”

“Look!” Her forefinger jammed into the glass. The footman had closed the door and remounted the box. The vehicle was reentering the flow of traffic down Pall Mall, and for a split moment, the yellow crest was fully exposed. “That’s their crest, Rafe. Now don’t try and tell me I’m wrong.”

When the influx of more carriages and carts had overtaken her view, she stepped back into the room, blinking against the comparative darkness. Rafe smiled down at her, lifting a thumb to brush the tip of her nose. “That’s another good reason for me and Crofton to discuss Barnard alone.”

She frowned, but she didn’t swat his hand away. “What?”

He had made it to the door when she reached him. “You have many talents, but gentle negotiation isn’t one of them. I might have better luck speaking to him without you.”

She scoffed.

“The first time, that is.” He brushed a kiss to her forehead.

“You’ll check in on Barnard, won’t you?”

He had opened the door halfway but paused. “Yes,” he said, still smiling. “I’ll see that he’s well and ask him how the paper and charcoal suit him.”

“I’ll want to know what you learn right away. Can you come to me, tonight?”

His smile morphed into something less humored, and the full focus of his gaze poured over her like warm treacle. “Do you like me depraved, ma’am? Just what are you asking of me now?”

His voice was sensual. Or perhaps that was her perception making it out that way. Everything about Rafe Balfour was temptation personified.