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The sound of their giggles followed Kilmartyn down the hall of the house he’d once hated.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SOPHIE SAT CURLED UP on the window seat of her allotted bedroom, surveying it with a doubtful eye. The room was lovely, done up in dark shades of blue that probably matched her eyes. Very bad paeans had been written about her golden tresses, her dark blue orbs, her ivory skin tinged with rose blush.
She’d never been much for poetry, particularly the bad stuff written by her admirers. She could just imagine the kind of thing Alexander would write in her honor.
“My bride is like a red, red rose,
Full of thorns and beetles . . .”
Not that he’d even go to that much effort. She leaned back against the wall and surveyed her toes, wiggling them. She needed her shoes, though she had to admit that going without them felt quite . . . freeing. It was an illusion—she needed her shoes if she was going to have any chance of escaping from Alexander and his ridiculous insistence on marrying her.
He still hadn’t given her a reason why he was doing this. Then again, she hadn’t told him her reasons for refusing him. She didn’t want to examine those reasons too closely, for fear she might weaken. Marriage to the Dark Viscount was far too tempting simply because she . . . no, she wasn’t going to think about that, about him. She was going to find some way to get out of there, and she had a strong suspicion that his brother would help her cause.
She didn’t like Rufus Griffiths. She wasn’t sure why—he was perfectly charming. She would have to get over her instinctive distrust of him. He was her most obvious ally. He’d made it more than clear he didn’t want her to marry Alexander. She needed to discover if he’d back up that dislike with action.
She stared out into the gathering darkness. It stayed light for a long time during these spring days. Even this late there was still just a hint of a glow on the horizon, past the spires and rooftops of the massive city. There were still people she knew living here—she just couldn’t trust them to take her in. She could probably find writing utensils in the small escritoire over by the door—she should start composing some glowing recommendations. She’d need them to find work until one of her sisters returned. Though how they’d go about finding each other was another question.
London was the largest city in the world, teeming with people, and if she was working in a kitchen she would hardly be moving in the same circles that even the disgraced Misses Russell would be. How in the world would she know if her sisters came anywhere near the city?
She would deal with that later. After all, as a cook all her daily needs would be met, including, most likely, uniforms. She would have a bed, enough to eat, warmth when needed. Any money she made, including the money she had remaining from the small bit that Maddy had left her, could be used toward finding her sisters.
In the meantime she simply had to face things as they happened. There was no way Alexander could get a special permit tonight, nor would anyone be willing to marry them at such an absurd hour, so she was safe, at least for now. Tomorrow was a different matter entirely, and she had to find a way to turn Rufus from an enemy to an ally, though the very thought was uncomfortable. She didn’t like him, and she didn’t know why.
So, one more night. One more night, and she’d be free, never to see Alexander again, never to feel his touch, his kiss. She put her face down on her knees and sat there, dry-eyed and miserable.
Rufus Griffiths sat alone in the library that had been his own for the last few weeks, pondering his good fortune. Just when everything seemed lost, the one Russell daughter he hadn’t been able to find had been delivered into his lap. Clearly it was a sign. He must have done them in the wrong order. Not that he would consider he’d made a mistake with the eldest daughter who married Kilmartyn or the bossy one. He had done everything he could to kill Bryony and her new husband. Kilmartyn should have been charged with his wife’s murder—it had been planned out so carefully—and Bryony’s as well. But bad fortune had plagued Rufus, things out of his control. He’d brought them both to the charred remains of the house he’d burned down, the house where he’d interred Kilmartyn’s bitch of a wife’s body, along with her maid, and if things had gone as they should have, their corpses would all be down in the ruins of the Russell town house, and Rufus would have disappeared with nothing to ever connect him to Eustace Russell and all that lovely money he’d managed to embezzle with the help of Kilmartyn’s wretched first wife.
But instead the back end of the house had collapsed beneath him, and he’d barely managed to crawl away. He’d endured shards of wood in his leg and a wrenching twist to his hip that made walking excruciating.
Kilmartyn and the Russell chit had escaped to the Continent before he was able to walk again, and despite everything, the police decided Kilmartyn hadn’t murdered his wife after all, the idiots. Rufus had planted so much evidence onl
y a fool could have missed it.
And then, to make matters worse, he’d failed . . . no, he’d miscalculated with the middle one. It had been surprisingly easy to trace Maddy Russell to the household of Thomas Morgan, the former privateer who had been Eustace Russell’s favorite captain. Rufus had hired the best people to get rid of her, but they’d failed, twice, and when he’d given in and gone after her himself he’d almost died. Had it not been for some damned Frog fishermen he would have drowned.
But once more fate had been with him, proving to him that he was following a righteous cause. He’d been biding his time in the house that should have been his, brooding, when he should have trusted fate would bring things around and drop the third Russell sister right in his lap.
This time he would allow nothing to chance. This time his mother would be proud of him, proud that he’d come up with his own plan, and it worked. Perhaps it was simply that her convoluted plotting had been flawed. He didn’t want to think it—she was everything to him. But this was beautiful in its simplicity.
It was more than obvious that the pretty little brat didn’t want to marry his half brother. He couldn’t imagine why—he despised Alexander but he had no illusions. Alexander was everything he was not, or so his mother had always told him. But the girl would want help in getting away, and he’d provide it. Over the rooftops, where a slip was such an easy thing. And once again Alexander would take the blame for it, and this time he wouldn’t escape from the trap Rufus had set. One murdered wife was a misfortune; two murdered wives was unacceptable.
They hanged peers for murder. It would put a blot on the title, but Rufus had little doubt he could charm his way out of the shadow. He’d be noble and grieving for a bit, then slowly recover and take his place in society, and no one would ever guess the complicated machinations that had gotten him there.
There was still the problem of the two older sisters, but he was unworried. They would either present themselves, as this one had, and the answer would be simple, or they would never return. Kilmartyn and the eldest one were on the run, and they might never hear that the charges had been dropped.
For all he knew, the pirate and the middle one had perished in the storm that had sent him overboard into the howling sea. He had been saved, but then, he was blessed. The dark force that had always watched over him could have already sealed their fate.
He was at peace. He no longer had to hide, and be afraid of his mother’s disapproval and her lashing tongue. Even if he hadn’t done her bidding, he had triumphed anyway, and Alexander was finally destroyed, the money from Russell Shipping was safely invested with the rest of the viscount’s estate, and Renwick was once more theirs.
She would be very pleased with him, and that was all that mattered.
Alexander didn’t bother sending a servant to inform Sophie that dinner was about to be served. She’d probably refuse to come, and throw something at the poor footman. Alexander was good at dodging things, and he wanted to make sure the room was sufficient. It was too close to his, a challenge to his determination not to bed her again until they were legally married, but he didn’t dare let her sleep any farther away from him. London offered too many opportunities for escape.
He climbed the two flights of stairs slowly, turning things over in his mind. There was something disquieting about this house, about Rufus, about Sophie. It was as if everything was out of step, and he couldn’t quite decide what was wrong.
He reached his own bedroom, went in, and washed up. He still had the scent of her on his hands, and he liked it far too much, but there would be other times. Moving to the adjoining door, he opened it.
