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They talked for a few minutes longer. Alfie’s proclamation was better thought out than his own wild, protective instinct had been, but it unearthed a new set of problems: Thomas very well would set out for Hampshire, and what then?

Beneath his exterior, Thomas was a fragile man. The least hardship sent him into a rage. The first hint of disobedience turned him into a single-minded, red-faced devil. He didn’t mind beating something—Rafe’s fingers went to the back of his own neck—or someone to gain submission.

No, Thomas’s main concern wouldn’t even be for Margaret. He didn’t care if she was locked in that asylum or lost in the wilderness around it. He would care if word got out that she lived, because that would expose him as a fiend and a liar and a fool.

Yes, yes, I am a widower; my wife died many years past, now. Perhaps you’ve heard of her father, Squire Bertram? He owned the most fertile land in Hampshire—a great deal of it, too.

The practiced recitation had crossed his father’s lips countless times, spoken to everyone from store patrons to earls. The threat of exposure would be worse than the threat of death to Thomas Balfour. He might do anything to the people in the institution.

The proprietor who’d had mercy enough to conspire with Rafe and keep Margaret’s whereabouts a secret was gone, according to that letter. But the man would have left a widow. Rafe thought Mrs. Langworthy had been in large part the reason his scheme went off eight years ago. She had been kind. Maternal. A good listener. Damn it, nothing could stop him from feeling indebted to the whole place in some way.

It was unlikely they had treated his mother well in those years when he’d been too young to intervene, but they had kept her fed, clothed, and alive. She was often ill, but he didn’t think her time at the institution bore the blame for that. He had given her every physician-prescribed tonic he could procure over the years, and her condition remained much the same, if unpredictable.

“And what of work?” Rafe asked when he finally stood. “I’ve got to make arrangements. I’ve got just enough coin for her expenses this month, but I’m sure to be out on my own any day now. The contracts … What work will I find, Alf?”

“We’ll settle something up. I can certainly find you work, even if it’s not the sort you’ll like.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You’ve done too much for me as it is. It’s time you wiped your hands of me. As a matter of fact, I shouldn’t be caught with you. He’s going to figure it out, Alf, and I want him looking only at me when he does.”

Alfie’s mouth worked into a grim line. He no doubt wanted to protest, but he shifted his weight onto his good leg and gave a curt nod. “Is there anything I can do for you, then?”

Rafe stared at the toes of his shoes. Dust had gathered in the leather’s creases, creating a lattice pattern, like the lines of a palm. He needed to exercise the same precaution with his mother, and with Sophie. His unrepentant soul beat out a chorus in response: But not before I’ve seen them again. Even if Thomas finally gets the better of me—I’ll see them both. Today. Even if it’s the last time.

“Yes, actually.” He cleared his throat. “Could you keep a check on Mother, for me?”

Alfie’s posture was loose and lanky, limbered by the easy self-assurance he always carried with him. He was a man who knew exactly what he was about, the finest and most trustworthy of friends. “’Course I will.”

“Thank you.” Rafe clapped a hand to his friend’s shoulder.

One of Alfie’s dark brows lifted. “Just until it’s all settled down, of course. In a week’s time you and she both will be bored of my interruptions. All will be settled. You’ll see.”

“Yes,” he said, but he was staring at the floor, and the word sounded like the salt-weathered boards beneath his feet—fractured, rotted, and prone to sloughing off in pieces.

twenty-four

The last streaks of sunlight melted into the horizon as Sophie returned to Berkeley Square. She’d spent all afternoon riding Nelson in Hyde Park, hoping to dispel the anxious feeling that had taken root as soon as Rafe left last night. Getting out of the house, and out of that room, had been a wise choice. It just hadn’t eased the sick feeling in her middle like she had hoped.

This worry for Rafe was a mimicker of grief. It fluttered in her chest and destroyed the quiet of her mind. She prayed to God it wasn’t a portender of danger.

You dared to open your heart again. Now here is your punishment.

Sophie handed off her riding bonnet, crop, and gloves to the footman in the entry hall. The strange beaver hat in the closet—and the faint voices coming from down the corridor—caught her attention. Her brow furrowed. “Do we have a caller?” The hour was too late for social calls, unless someone meant to join them for dinner.

“Pardon, miss?” The footman turned back from the closet.

“The hat,” she said, tipping her head in its direction. “The one with the striped silk lining. I know that cannot belong to my father, so whose is it?”

“A Mr. Price, ma’am.”

“The solicitor?” Her hand fell to her side. “What business is he calling on?”

The footman’s color blanched, and she realized she was glowering. “Forgive me,” she said, smoothing her skirts and attempting to do the same to her brow. “I am sure I shall find out soon enough.”

Anne hurriedly helped Sophie wash and dress for dinner. Her bedchamber still smelled like Rafe, every breath laced with straggling remnants of his clove-and-ginger scent. How did Anne not detect it? The aroma seemed attuned for Sophie’s senses alone, designed to slip into her lungs and stir the ache in her breast.

At the dinner table, her parents were uncommonly quiet, and when she questioned her father on who his caller had been, she incited a coughing fit in him. Estate business, came the generic reply, and curse her for it, Sophie was only too happy to fall into the depressive quiet her parents had set. She began to think they would always be like this: resigned, committed to banality, existing in some sphere where happiness existed in concept only. Her bending to their wishes might serve no higher purpose than a fulfillment of responsibility, whereas her defying them …

Rafe was certain he could provide her with nothing. But it was in him—