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Rafe decided a subject change was needed. “She’s helping Mrs. Violet Crawford write her memoirs. The woman’s led a rather colorful life.”
Henry stilled. “Isn’t she related to Lord Arlington?”
“Yes,” Rafe answered, noting that his friend’s jaw had tightened considerably. “The viscount is her nephew. His wife is also staying at the castle.”
Henry then set down his teacup so abruptly Rafe was certain the porcelain had cracked. Tea spilled over the edge and onto the table. Henry growled his annoyance and began to mop up the mess with a napkin.
“I take it you’ve met the viscountess?”
Henry’s brow furrowed, but he continued to focus on the spill. “It was years ago. Before she married.”
In all their years of friendship, Henry had never mentioned any involvement with a woman. Rafe didn’t know if his inclinations lay elsewhere or if he was simply the most reserved man alive. Based on the flush currently working up his neck, Rafe guessed it was the latter.
“How very interesting,” Rafe mimicked, trying his best to keep the glee out of his voice.
“Not really.” Henry sat back with a sigh. “It was during the Season in London. She was incredibly popular. I wasn’t.”
“What on earth wereyoudoing in London during the Season?”
“I thought to find myself a wealthy wife.” Henry shrugged. “It was a short-lived exercise. Intelligence work found me instead.”
Then it really had been ages ago. Rafe would have already been taking on missions himself. He tried to think that far back, but he lacked Henry’s memory. His friend had been comparatively more lighthearted in years past. Before the work had taken its heaviest toll. But perhaps it hadn’t only been the work that affected him so.
“Well, I’d say it’s time for a reunion. Wardale extended an invitation to—”
“No.” Henry met Rafe’s eyes. There was no anger there now, no irritation. Only resignation. Defeat. “Just…no.” The hollowness in his words was somehow more forbidding than his growl. Something had happened between him and Lady Arlington. Something devastating.
The conversation plodded along for another few minutes, but the haunted look never left Henry’s face. Rafe agreed to send him a message every day, if only to placate Henry’s suspicions.
Henry rose and held out his hand. “Take care of yourself.”
“You too.” Rafe took it and pulled him in for another hug. “It will get better. And if there’s anything I can do—”
Henry held up a hand. “I know.” He then gave him a weak smile. “Best of luck wooing your lady’s companion. Not that you’ll need it.” Rafe laughed off the comment, but Henry’s gaze turned serious. “You’ve always known exactly what you wanted and how to get it. I suppose I’ve envied that about you.”
Rafe’s smile faded. “Don’t. I may know what I want, but I haven’t a clue what I need.”
“Have a little faith, Davies. You may know more than you realize.”
As Rafe left, Sylvia’s gray eyes twinkling with warmth came to him. The unique understanding he found there called to something that had long lain dormant within him, in a place so deep few bothered to make the journey, including himself.
Chapter Eleven
After finding a map of Castle Blackwood and the surrounding property in the library, Sylvia had a fairly good idea of where her mysterious blackmailer wanted her to deliver the envelope. She sketched out a small version on a piece of paper to carry with her and tucked it in her pocket. Luckily, Mrs. Crawford had already granted Sylvia permission to spend the rest of the day to herself since she and the other guests were busy preparing their costumes for tomorrow evening’s ball. Georgiana had been sorely disappointed when Sylvia explained she had no interest in attending. It would provide the perfect opportunity for her to deliver the envelope, and she couldn’t let it pass by. Now the castle buzzed with even more excitement than usual as servants scurried back and forth with scraps of fabric and other bric-a-brac. Mrs. Crawford was planning to go as Empress Maria Theresa and was in desperate need of a wig. Meanwhile, Georgiana was trying to locate a shield for her interpretation of Athena, goddess of war.
Sylvia was grateful to slip away from the madness for a bit. As she made her way down the back terrace that led to the stables, she inhaled the crisp air that still smelled of that morning’s rain. Scotland truly was beautiful, especially this time of year, but the surroundings offered only momentary relief from the gnawing dread that had been following her since the envelope had appeared under her door. Everyone she met was now suspect. Sylvia couldn’t live forever looking over her shoulder. But what choice did she have?
Her heart sank. She had hoped this business would end once she delivered the envelope, but that had been a naive wish. As long as the viscount lived and Georgiana was under his power, Sylvia would never be free. Her blackmailer could surface again, demanding information whenever it was desired. Perhaps she should leave after this was over. She would have to tell Georgiana what had happened, but the viscountess had forged one set of recommendations for her. Surely she could do another.
And then what? You will have to leave London—possibly England—to truly get away.
So be it, then. She could go to America. Make a real fresh start. There were newspapers there, and a robust women’s movement. Sylvia had enough experience to find work in an office. It wasn’t an impossible idea. But even as she pieced together her plan, her heart sank further. She was so tired of being forced to leave, forced to give up the things and people she loved. And for what? Because she had dared to have an opinion? Dared to lend her voice to the voiceless? She knew men who had freely advocated for violence, encouraged uprisings, and even called for the end of the monarchy, but they were heralded as free thinkers, feted for the boldness of their views, no matter the personal cost others would have to bear.
Meanwhile, Sylvia was excoriated for suggesting that women have a say in government alongside men. And not just married, property-owning women. For it was the factory workers, the laundry washers, the nursemaids, schoolteachers, and mothers who helped the rest of society function. And yet their contributions were only valued in relation to the men they supported. Or worse, they were condemned for luring men down the path of vice. Sylvia could not count the number of times a member of the Aurelias Club, a political debate society she had belonged to with Bernard, had dismissed women’s suffrage because, God forbid, what if a commonprostitutewas allowed a vote?
It was hearing that very same point trotted out yet again during one meeting that had pushed Sylvia to her limit:
“Then by the same token, men who visit brothels should be stripped of their rights. These women don’t exist in a vacuum, sir. Someone is paying for their services. And yet no one ever suggests punishing their clients, many of whom are wealthy, powerful men. Dare I say, some are even sitting in this room.”
