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These days.
Sylvia sat up. He knew. Wardaleknewwho she was. That she had stolen the envelope from him.
And he seemed delighted by it.
A bizarre thought suddenly gripped her. Couldhebe blackmailing her? It didn’t make much sense, but she couldn’t dismiss it outright, either. The blackmailer had wanted information on the viscount. Information Sylvia was in a prime position to find. She didn’t know much about Mr. Wardale’s business interests, but men like him were always hungry for more. More power. More money. More influence. And what better way to get it than by knowing your rivals’ secrets?
A sickening dread suddenly washed over her, forcing Sylvia to lie back down.
First she needed proof. A part of her longed to be proven wrong, but the more she went over their exchange, the more her suspicion grew.
Wardale must want her to know the truth. Why else would he approach her and say such things? He had been so careful this whole time, playing her like a blasted fiddle. Sylvia clenched the blankets beneath her. The dread receded as her anger grew. She refused to be manipulated by that man—by anyone—anymore. He thought his money gave him license to do as he pleased? Well, he would learn otherwise.
Wardale would learn just what happened to men who underestimated Sylvia Sparrow.
Chapter Sixteen
Rafe paced in his room. A message from Henry sat unopened on his desk beside another note from Gerard demanding an update. But he couldn’t be bothered with either at the moment. He had chosen to take a tray instead of joining the rest of the party for dinner, which helped legitimize his claim of a headache. But the truth was he was barely fit for company. Since returning to the castle early that morning, he had been in a horrendous mood. Now even ever-faithful Tully was avoiding him.
Every time Rafe tried to sit or read or converse with another person, he was driven to distraction by memories of last night: Sylvia’s eyes twinkling as she teased him, her mouth curving into a sly smile, and those same lips parting in the pleasure they had made together. Not for the first time, Rafe damned himself for promising to keep his distance. Barely twelve hours later and he was ready to climb up the walls. Ready to crawl out of his skin. The only thing holding him back was the worry that Sylvia, so full of quiet strength, was absolutely fine. And why wouldn’t she be? Hadn’t she rejected his multiple offers of help? Hadn’t she made it exceedingly clear that she didn’t need him in her life beyond one night of passion? By her own account, she had lost everything she had once cared about, and yet she didn’t seem tempted in the least by what he could offer. Not his money, not his status, his assistance, nothing. When they parted that morning, she hadn’t even given him a backward glance, already too busy looking ahead.
Goddammit. Why had thatbotheredhim so much?
Because you went and fell in love with her, you unbelievable moron.
Rafe pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until the image was banished from his mind.
He had to get out of this room. A walk outside in the chill night air would help. Rafe proceeded down the darkened hallway cautiously. He would need to take care to avoid Wardale, who was no doubt itching to go over any details he had uncovered during the ball last night. But Rafe was in no state to temper that man’s disappointment.
He was so damn tired of it all. Tired of the subterfuge, of the lies, of constantly having to keep straight who knew what, of which version of himself he could be. The thrill of the game had fed him for years, kept him moving, always moving, but now all he wanted was to stop.
Get ahold of yourself. Remember what is at stake. This is no time to lose your head.
Rafe had always obeyed the no-nonsense voice in his head. The voice that told him to work harder, aim higher, and ignore emotional entanglements.
It was the voice of every person who had ever doubted him. Who had ever insinuated he was less than nothing. Not even worth acknowledging.
It was the voice of Gerard.
Rafe came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the hallway. He stood frozen in place as the realization echoed throughout his skull. The ticking of a clock on a nearby credenza slowly brought him back to himself. Rafe inhaled rapidly as decades of pent-up frustration, of pain, of rejection barreled through his veins. He couldn’t even escape judgment in his own mind. There was only one way to end this for good. Rafe’s hands clenched into fists by his sides as he turned on his heel and stalked down the hallway. He would prove once and for all what he was made of and who was truly worthless.
When Rafe reached the hallway that led to Wardale’s study, he had regained some of his reasoning. But his purpose remained the same. For days he had ignored the nagging doubt at the back of his mind. The instinct that screamed something about this entire mission wasn’t right. Instead, he had given Gerard and Wardale too much credit, blinded by the prize they dangled before him. But Rafe was no man’s lackey. And he would not leave this castle without uncovering some truth. As he grew closer, a soft rustling sound came from the sitting room that led to the study. Rafe slowed his steps. It could be a maid cleaning the grate, though it was a bit late for that. He pressed himself against the wall and crept closer to the open door. The rustling grew louder, along with the grumbling of a very annoyed person. Rafe’s curiosity won out, and he peered around the doorframe. He then immediately leaned back before they could notice and let out a soft curse. After allowing himself a moment to collect his racing thoughts, Rafe stepped into the doorway and placed his hands on his hips.
“Just what thehelldo you think you’re doing?”
Sylvia let out a yelp and dropped the pocketknife she had been using on the lock to Wardale’s study.
Whatever benefit of the doubt Rafe had given Sylvia before now vanished entirely. He had caught her red-handed, attempting to break into their host’s study. There could not be an innocent explanation for this. His feelings would not cloud his judgment again. There was simply too much at stake.
But instead of admitting her guilt, Sylvia had the gall to cross her arms. “I might askyouthe same question,” she said suspiciously.
Rafe stormed into the room and picked up the pocketknife. “Are you serious? I caught you trying to pick a damnedlock.” He waved the object in her face. “Which won’t work, by the way. Unless your goal is to cover it in scratches.”
Sylvia tried to grab the knife. “How on earth wouldyouknow?” she scoffed. “When have you ever had a door closed to you?”
Rafe could hear her voice beginning to break, could see the desperation flashing behind the anger in her eyes, but just once in his life he needed to be seen for who he truly was. He needed to be seen by her. He dropped the knife and crowded Sylvia against the wall, bracketing her in with his forearms.
“More than you could ever know, my dear,” he growled.
