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Most of Rafe’s Crown service involved following people, reporting information, or coordinating with other agents. He had been in his fair share of scrapes to be sure, but nothing like the violent imprisonment Henry had endured. Rafe had seen firsthand the lasting mark such experiences could leave upon a man. All the more reason why he needed to form a new organization, so that men like his brother could not send others off to be killed or maimed in situations they didn’t fully understand.
Gerard’s words echoed in his mind, and he saw his brother’s lip curling in disgust:
It isn’t gentlemanly.
As if empire-building ever could be.
The nagging suspicion that had begun last spring surfaced again. The suspicion that perhaps he wasn’t on the right side anymore. That perhaps there had never been one at all. Just men like Gerard locked away in their fancy clubs, carving up the world with gilded knives.
Rafe shook the dark thought away. Even if that was true, he had a plan to change things. For the better. He just needed the chance. Rafe pulled out his father’s gold-plated lighter, which had been a wedding gift from his new bride. Rafe didn’t smoke, but since his father’s death he always kept this on him. He ran his thumb over the inscription:The course of true love never did run smooth. Rafe’s mother had been performing as Titania, queen of the fairies, inA Midsummer Night’s Dreamwhen they met.
Then he lit the message and threw it into the hearth, watching as the paper’s blackened edges slowly curled inward and turned to ash.
Chapter Four
Sylvia poked at the under-seasoned quail before her. Earlier, Mrs. Crawford had insisted that she accompany her to supper this evening, and the knot in her stomach had grown steadily tighter ever since.
“Tonight won’t be very formal, if that’s what you’re worried about,” her employer had explained. “No one will mind your lack of fashion, my dear.”
The thought hadn’t even occurred to Sylvia. After spending the previous evening alone, she had actually been looking forward to the prospect of eating with company. It had absolutely nothing to do with Mr. Davies, though. Not at all. Now Sylvia was acutely aware of her “lack of fashion,” but unless Mrs. Crawford decided to increase her wages, there was little to be done about it.
Another loud burst of laughter came from a few seats away, where the man himself was busy enchanting the guests around him. Despite Sylvia’s best efforts, he had hardly strayed from her thoughts since their encounter that morning. Whenever Lady Armstrong leaned over to take a sip of wine, she had a clear view of Mr. Davies. It should be a crime to look that dashing in a dinner jacket. He was listening attentively to the older woman seated beside him, who was practically glowing––not that Sylvia could blame her. Being the focus of his formidable attention, even for a moment, was a heady experience. She glanced over in his direction for the umpteenth time, but he paid her absolutely no notice. Sylvia couldn’t shake the feeling that this was some kind of snub. An overcorrection for his friendliness in the folly.
Or perhaps she had simply forgotten how dangerous charismatic people could be.
“I say, where is yourhead, Miss Sparrow!”
That Sylvia managed not to hear Mrs. Crawford’s question the first time she asked was a testament to her distraction.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Crawford. You were saying?”
Her employer raised an eyebrow. “I was telling Mrs. Barnes about our plans for Egypt, and she asked if you had ever been abroad before.”
Sylvia turned to Mrs. Barnes, a refined woman in late middle age, and gave her an apologetic smile. “No. This is my first time outside England, ma’am.”
“And soon you will go all the way to Egypt! What an adventure that will be for you.”
“Miss Sparrow spent nearly her whole life in her little village,” Mrs. Crawford added, unknowingly parroting the lie Sylvia and Georgiana had fed to her. “Can you imagine?”
Mrs. Barnes shrugged, unimpressed. “I barely traveled farther than Richmond until after my poor Walter passed.” Then she addressed Sylvia directly. “Once you see a bit of the world, you won’t want to go back to your old life, my dear.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she replied, catching Georgiana’s eye across the table.
It was also no longer a possibility.
Sylvia resumed her dissection of her quail, but after a moment her skin prickled with awareness. She glanced up and found Mr. Davies staring at her with the same closemouthed smile that had so enchanted his dinner partner, but there was a playfulness in his eyes now. As if he had been listening to their conversation. And Sylvia got the distinct impression that he had been slyly doing so the entire evening. Just as her cheeks began to burn under his inspection, she shot him a scowl and turned back to her plate. What did this manwant? Yet her body continued to flush, as if those eyes of his were slowly raking across her skin, but she refused to look up again. Refused to give any sign that could be interpreted as encouragement.
Sylvia passed the rest of the meal by pointedly looking anywhere but in his direction. If Mr. Davies expected her to fawn over him like everyone else, he was sadly mistaken. Yes, she had been momentarily blindsided by his unexpected handsomeness––entirelyunderstandable––but she wasn’t interested in alleviating his boredom during a house party.
Not in the least.
She didn’t spare him a glance as she followed Mrs. Crawford and Georgiana out of the dining room, nor barely a thought as she played a few hands of whist in the drawing room with the other ladies until Mrs. Crawford demanded they retire, or as she spent the remainder of the evening reading aloud. When Sylvia closed the book with a satisfied thud, it was well after midnight, and Mrs. Crawford was fast asleep and snoring away. There. Three whole hours with not a single thought of Mr. Davies, his fathomless brown eyes, or his impressive shoulders. Really, she was quite proud of herself.
As Sylvia stretched her legs, Georgiana stirred awake. She had dozed off in her chair somewhere around chapter twelve.
“Oh dear,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to hide a massive yawn. “What did I miss?”
“The monk was actually the villain. He tried to ravish the heroine, but she stabbed him and fled the monastery with the help of the mysterious coachman, who turned out to be the duke’s long-lost heir. And handsome to boot.”
