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“I’m sorry for your loss. When was that?”
Sylvia gazed out into the night. “Last year. He had been sick for a long time, so people said it was a blessing. I never understood that. The true blessing would have been him never falling ill in the first place.”
“I heard the same sentiments when my own father died,” Rafe said as he moved closer. “Many find comfort in reciting platitudes to the grieving. Loss is viewed as a universal experience, but in so many ways it is deeply personal. Any suggestion otherwise feels like an insult.”
Miss Sparrow raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” she agreed.
“But then I try to remember that people mean well, that death can be an uncomfortable subject to discuss, and that most are ignorant of the offense they cause.” He ignored Miss Sparrow’s surprised expression and gestured to the pipe. “Mine smoked one as well.”
She blinked at the change of subject. “I think it’s the smell I like best,” she explained, still watching him with a new kind of wariness, as if she hadn’t encountered a creature of his ilk before. “It makes me think of childhood. Comfort. Cozy evenings by the fire.” Rafe smiled. It was as if she were narrating his thoughts. She turned away again. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s possible to ever feel safe like that again.” The words were spoken in a near whisper, as if they were half thought. Miss Sparrow then shook her head, her entire body tensing. “Never mind. I don’t know what I’m saying,” she said. “I’ve spent too much time alone with words today.” She took another puff of the pipe and turned to him. “Why are you out here?”
“The night air helps clear my head.” Was that a snicker he heard? “So, you’re having a bit of trouble finding words tonight?”
Miss Sparrow held out a hand. “Don’t even say it. You’ll curse me. No, I just needed a break from writing about Mrs. Crawford’s adventures. It’s fascinating. She’s done so much, and all without apology. I…I envy her.” Based on the surprise in her voice, Rafe guessed this was a new realization.
“You’re hardly ancient, Miss Sparrow.” He chuckled. “There is plenty of time to have adventures of your own.” Rafe ignored the voice in his head offering himself up as one of them. “And you will be traveling abroad this winter.”
“If I’m still employed by then,” she muttered.
“Why on earth wouldn’t you be?”
Miss Sparrow shook her head even harder and looked down. “No reason. Sorry, I’m afraid I’m something of a pessimist.” Then she turned toward him. “I should go. It’s quite late…and I don’t want to keep you.”
“Keep me from what?” Rafe couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice. Until he suddenly caught on to what she was suggesting—or ratherwhom.
Lady Taylor-Smyth means nothing to me. It is all for show. But not this.
Rafe pressed his lips together to keep the words from spilling out. She had moved out of the light, and he couldn’t see her face clearly now, but he could feel her eyes upon him. Watching. Wondering.
“Nothing. No one,” she said quickly. “Good night, Mr. Davies.” Then, before he could wish her the same, Miss Sparrow turned and retreated back to the library. Rafe waited until the smell of tobacco smoke faded away into the cool night air before returning to his room, alone.
Chapter Eight
Sylvia and Georgiana had whiled away the afternoon quite pleasantly in the library in a pair of high-backed chairs by the massive stone fireplace. Sylvia had spent much of the time transcribing her notes from another revelatory conversation with Mrs. Crawford, while Georgiana gobbled up another Inspector DuMonde novel. Aside from the bits about her second husband, Mrs. Crawford was not the least bit interested in Sylvia’s progress as long as she had enough completed pages by the time they returned to London. When she had written forThe DefenderSylvia had worked well under deadlines—thrivedon them, in fact—and this gave her something to think about other than Mr. Davies.
When he had approached her last night, she had been busy picking out Cassiopeia. It was a clear night, and the stars were scattered like diamonds above them. She assumed he had been waiting to meet Lady Taylor-Smyth. Whispers about the pair had been growing stronger by the day. It seemed like the perfect setting for a romantic rendezvous, and he certainly hadn’t been skulking about in the darkness waiting forher. Ever since they shared that lovely moment during the musical performance, he had been quite obviously avoiding her. Adding to her confusion were the few times she had caught him outright staring at her from across the room. But rather than stay in the shadows, he had made his presence known.
She could just make out his tall frame, smell his shaving soap, and feel the warmth coming off his body, barely inches from her own. Though she hadn’t been able to see his face, she could sense every expression. It had been easier to speak with him like that in the near darkness, like being in a confessional. Once again he surprised her with his not-so-hidden depths, and she marveled at how this man appeared to have two very different sides to him.
Or perhaps he is simply bored and toying with you.
Sylvia was no stranger to deception. She knew all too well that a man could show one face in private and a very different one to the rest of the world. And she had been caught on the wrong side of the coin before. Though Mr. Davies had seemed perfectly happy to continue their conversation, Sylvia had no desire to be there when his paramour arrived. Besides, she had little use for a man who could only be vulnerable under the cover of darkness.
Just as a fresh wave of disappointment began to crest, her pencil came to a scratching halt. Sylvia glanced down and realized she had been scrawling absolutely nothing these last moments. She clucked her tongue in annoyance.
Damn that man.
She arched her back in a much-needed stretch and looked over at Georgiana. “My goodness, you’re nearly done!”
“Yes,” Georgiana replied while keeping her eyes firmly on the page. “I don’t think I’ll be able to stop until the end.”
“Well, I’ve reached the end of my pencil. I’m going to nip back to the suite for another. Do you need anything while I’m gone?”
The viscountess responded with a distracted grunt that Sylvia interpreted as “No, thank you.”
She returned a short time later with a freshly sharpened pencil to find Georgiana laughing with someone who had taken her seat. The occupant boasted a head of perfectly styled dark hair that immediately set her teeth on edge.
Him.
