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Sylvia knew Rafe was holding her now, knew he was murmuring words of comfort as he stroked her hair, but she could barely feel anything. As he led her out of the labyrinth, she moved in clumsy steps, like a newborn colt. Rafe had to stop every other step just so she could keep up, but he said nothing. And when she dared to look at him, she found only pity there.
Though Sylvia had long suspected there was more to Rafe than the face he showed the world, it had still been a shock to learn he was a spy. But so many of his behaviors, his contradictions, now made sense. And created a number of complications for them both. Complications that likely meant the end of anything between them. When Rafe had told Wardale they were eloping, a thrill had rushed through her, though she knew it was only a lie. But a part of her so desperately wanted it to be true, even while it seemed impossible.
What must he think of you now?
And what wouldyousay if you knew all he had done?
As they exited the labyrinth, Sylvia cried out again when she saw Mr. Wardale’s body lying motionless in the grass, but Rafe was quick to reassure her that he was only unconscious. He took the gun that had fallen from his hands and then led her inside.
“W-we can’t just leave him there,” she stuttered.
“He’ll be like that for some time. I’ll come back for him later.” Rafe’s jaw hardened. “Which is more than he deserves.”
He then guided her down to the empty kitchens and instructed her to sit in a chair by the hearth. The cold from the damp stone floor seemed to seep into her bones. Sylvia watched in a daze as he moved around the room, opening and closing cabinets, and pulling out various jars. It proved rather soothing. Eventually she realized he was trying to make her a cup of tea.
“Here,” he said some minutes later, as he thrust out the steaming beverage. “Drink this.”
Sylvia took the warm earthenware mug and clutched it in her shaking hands. At some point Rafe had wrapped his coat around her. She felt nothing. Neither warm nor cold. Yet her teeth chattered uncontrollably.
He knelt down before her and gestured to his own cheek. “You’ve a scratch there.”
Sylvia lightly brushed the spot. “It must be from the branches.” She had turned to look back at Mr. Brodie and stumbled against the labyrinth’s wall of brambles.
“It should be seen to,” Rafe said stiffly, but he made no move to touch her. Still, this excruciating formality was preferable to the horror that had flashed in his eyes when Mr. Wardale called her an anarchist and relayed that vile newspaper headline. “Say something.”
Sylvia took a tiny sip of the tea. It tasted warm and herbal. “Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely. Rafe watched her for another agonizing moment before he got up and left the room. He didn’t look back.
Sylvia stared into the mug. Now she could feel the steam kissing her face and smell the delicate scent. But she could only bring herself to drink it in small sips.
Every sacrifice you have ever made for queen and country is worth less thandirtto people like her.
Mr. Wardale had gotten some things wrong, but the fact remained that, in one way or another, she had fought against many of the things Rafe had dedicated his life to upholding. She could try to explain her beliefs to him, but she certainly wouldn’t renounce them.
I’d like to know more about your opinions.
Sylvia wasn’t so sure he would make that claim anymore.
The tea had gone cold by the time she heard footsteps approaching, but they were too quick and light to be Rafe’s. Just as she looked toward the doorway, Georgiana rushed in, clad in a night robe, her hair in wild disarray.
She ran over and threw her arms around Sylvia. “Thank God you’re all right.”
“Yes,” she replied, though Georgiana’s significant bosom smothered the response.
After a moment Georgiana released her and stepped back. “I’ve just heard what happened. You must have been terrified!”
Sylvia wasn’t exactly sure what Rafe had shared with her friend, so she simply nodded.
“To think, this whole time I was encouraging you to spend time with that man!”
Sylvia frowned. She must still be dazed from shock. Georgiana wasn’t making any sense.
“And the poor gardener. Oh, it’s all soawful,” the viscountess continued, unaware of the sense of horror slowly dawning on Sylvia. “But don’t worry. Mr. Davies won’t be getting away. That murderer is locked in Mr. Wardale’s study, and the authorities should be arriving soon. They will take care of everything.”
The viscountess moved to pat her hand, but Sylvia gripped her wrist. “Mr. Davies didn’t kill the gardener, Georgiana.” Her throat began to go dry, but she pushed ahead. “Idid.”
Georgiana stared in shocked silence for what felt like an eternity. “But…Mr. Wardale said—”
“He is aliar,” Sylvia bit off. The numbness that had cloaked her for the last hour had finally begun to dissipate. “Don’t listen to anything he says. He has been blackmailing me for weeks to get information about your husband. Rafe—Mr. Davies and I uncovered the evidence earlier this evening.”
