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Sophie turned at the sound of Jennette’s cold voice. “Yes, I am. Jennette, I am dreadfully sorry for the accusation I mistakenly hurled at you yesterday. Will you please accept my apology?”
Jennette slowly walked into the room. “On one condition.”
“Oh?”
Jennette smiled. “That you tell me how you came to that odd conclusion.”
“Of course,” Sophie said and proceeded to tell Jennette everything that led her to such a disastrous supposition.
A heavy silence filled the room as Jennette waited for the footman to bring the tea and then leave. Once he was gone, she said, “Nicholas paid a call on me yesterday. He told me he had loved me. It was before Blackburn, but I don’t understand why he never came to me.”
“You were his dearest friend’s younger sister. He may have felt Selby would have thought it unseemly. He may have been concerned you would reject him.”
“Perhaps.” Jennette frowned slightly. “Did you ever see him for me?”
Sophie smiled and shook her head. “No. I only ever saw Blackburn for you. He is your perfect match.”
Jennette poured tea and then sat back with a sigh. “Oh, did you hear about Lady Cantwell?”
“What about her?”
“I heard from Avis that Lady Cantwell died in her sleep last night.” Jennette sipped her tea. “I didn’t think she was so near death. She always seemed so cantankerous. I never thought about her dying.”
“She’s dead?” Sophie’s mind whirled. Why hadn’t she known? Why hadn’t she seen it coming?
“You had no idea? She was one of your clients. I would have thought you would sense something like this.”
So would Sophie. Why didn’t she sense this? Was this yet another example of her abilities slipping away from her?
Even as she left Jennette’s home, her mind continued to spin with thoughts of Lady Cantwell’s death. The carriage rolled down the streets of Mayfair. Sophie had never lost a client before now but she was convinced she should have seen it coming. The last three times Sophie had read Lady Cantwell, she’d seen the same thing—blackness. Could that have been the sign she should have been looking for?
The only people she’d ever seen just darkness for were Lady Cantwell and . . . Nicholas.
“Oh, God,” she whispered in the empty carriage. “Is Nicholas next?”
The Duke of Belford tapped his fingers impatiently on his desk, waiting for Witham to arrive. Far too much time had passed since their last meeting. He needed Nicholas married off soon. He covered his mouth with a handkerchief as another coughing fit struck him. Pulling away the white cloth, red specks dotted the linen. Every day more blood appeared. He feared his physician was overly optimistic in his assessment that he would have a year to live.
The only thing he still did not have in order was his wastrel son. He’d be damned if he let Nicholas ruin everything he’d built.
“Lord Witham, Your Grace,” his butler announced from the threshold.
“Witham, come in here,” the duke ordered.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Witham almost ran into the room. “I am sorry to be late, Your Grace.”
“Just tell me what you have discovered. Since I have not heard any rumors, am I to assume your daughter has not publicly kissed him yet?”
Witham sank to the chair across from him. “I am sorry, Your Grace. We had everything planned for the Tilsons’ party but your son never attended.”
The duke frowned. “Where did he go that night?”
“The man I have following him told me he attended a small dinner party at Miss Reynard’s home. The Selbys, Blackburns, Kendals, and Somertons were in attendance, too.”
He hated to admit that other than Lord Somerton, Nicholas did keep excellent company. And since Somerton’s marriage to that little nothing of a woman, he had settled into marriage nicely. “So Miss Reynard is a friend to them?”
“Yes, Your Grace. She is acquainted with the wives.”
This explained why Nicholas thought her to be acceptable. But friends did not make the woman in the duke’s eyes. “Do you know if he has spent any other time with Miss Reynard?”
