He reached Sophie’s room as quickly and quietly as possible. She wasn’t there, of course, but he’d had to look. He sent a maid for Whit, then began searching for clues to where she might have gone. With every item he encountered, a picture of Sophie entered his mind unbidden. Her dancing blue eyes peering over that fan. Strands of dark hair peeking out from under that bonnet. Her full and delightfully expressive lips smiling as she danced with him in that gown. Her slender hands in those gloves. The swell of her breasts…
“This is a very bad sign.”
Alex looked up to find Whit in the doorway. “I don’t think so,” he said calmly. “All her belongings are here and…how did you know Sophie was gone?”
“I didn’t. I was referring to the fact that you are rifling through a young lady’s personal belongings. Have you completely lost your mind?”
“It’s possible. At the moment, however, it is the least of my concerns. Sophie has disappeared.”
Whit sobered immediately. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. Unless you ran into her on your way up here?”
Whit shook his head. “Any theories?”
“Evie knows something, and I think Mirabelle might as well. Question them, and Kate too if need be. I’ll speak with the staff.”
Mirabelle walked along the book-lined shelves in Haldon’s library and let the smell and feel of aged leather and polished wood comfort her. She loved the library. She loved everything about Haldon actually, but the library was her favorite. The library at her uncle’s estate, a paltry collection compared to Haldon’s, had the added disadvantage of being connected to her uncle’s study—a room she avoided like the plague.
Here, however, she could amble about to her heart’s content. She could chose from thousands of books on every conceivable topic. She could read until her eyes gave out from the strain.
She ran her finger down the spine of a particularly large tome. This was what she needed to take her mind off to night’s events. She pulled the book from its space on the shelf and turned to leave.
“Hello, imp.”
Mirabelle dropped her book and spun around with a gasp to find Whit leaning casually against the library door—watching her with an intensity that sent tingles up her spine.
“What the devil are you doing here?” she snapped in an attempt to hide her discomfort.
Whit shrugged and moved toward her with a careless grace. “Same as you, I imagine, just came in search of a little light bedtime reading.”
He bent down and scooped up the book at her feet. “Amphibian Wildlife in the New World? Obviously we differ in our definition of ‘light.’”
“Among other things,” Mirabelle pointed out, snatching the book away. “What do you want?”
“Oh, I think you know what I want,” Whit drawled, giving her a smile that held no warmth. “Answers.”
Mirabelle didn’t see any reason to pretend she didn’t understand. With another man, she might have feigned innocence, or at least made an attempt to be reasonably civil. But this was Whit, he would never buy the former, and he wasn’t worth the bother of the latter.
“Well, you’ll not get them from me. Now leave before someone walks in here and—”
“I’m not leaving until you tell me where Sophie has gone.”
“Why don’t you ask Evie and Kate?” she asked scathingly. She could tell by his scowl that he had already explored that avenue and had met with similar reticence and she sent him a small mocking smile. “I see. Fine. I’ll go.”
Brushing past him, Mirabelle stalked to the door and grabbed the handle. It didn’t turn. She tried again. Locked. She wheeled back to face Whit.
He dangled the key mockingly in front of her. “Perhaps I should have been a little more specific. We’re not leaving until you tell me where Sophie has gone.”
“You’re mad! Any number of people may have keys to the library. You’ll ruin me!”
Whit shrugged again. She stomped toward him.
“Give me that blasted key!” she hissed.
“Start talking, or we stay here till someone else lets us out. Your decision, imp.”
“You bloody arrogant, heartless ass!”
“You have a rather colorful vocabulary, I dare say you don’t limit your literary pursuits to the topic of zoology.”
“For the last time, cretin. Give. Me. The. Key.”
“Where. Is. Sophie?” Whit stepped closer to her with every syllable until six feet of glowering male towered over her. It was a blatant attempt at intimidation, and another woman would have instinctually stumbled back in fright. Mirabelle didn’t budge an inch. Instead, she gripped her book with both hands and smashed it squarely into Whit’s face. The result was a thoroughly satisfying smack and a long colorful stream of expletives.
Whit stumbled back, howling and holding his nose. “What the devil is the matter with you?” he bellowed. At least, she thought that’s what he bellowed. His voice was starting to sound a little funny. No question of the volume, unfortunately.
“Hush!” she whispered furiously. “Someone will hear you!”
“I thud bwoody well hope tho!”
“Quiet! You spoiled little…” A scrapping in the hallway cut her off. Dear God, someone had heard the noise. She glanced frantically around the room. Whit still held the key. He had it pressed against his face which he now held up toward the ceiling in an effort to stanch the flow of blood from his nose.
“Are you going to give me the key or not?”
“No!”
More noise from the hall. Voices. Mirabelle panicked. Fighting back wasn’t an option this time. There was no place to hide in the library. The tables were too high, the chairs too low, and the lighting too good. Dropping her book, she ran to one of the windows and threw it open. It was a good drop down and there was some sort of shrubbery at the bottom.
“Whad are you doing, imp?” Whit still had his head tilted up and he was eyeing her down the length of what would normally be his nose, but was now two bloody hands and a key.
A rattle sounded at the door. “What the…It’s locked. Simmons, give me your key.”
Mirabelle sincerely hoped the hedge below wasn’t rose-bushes. She sat down on the sill and swung her legs over the edge.
“Miwabelle, no!”
With a whoosh she was gone.
Twenty-one
Alex was having difficulty with the staff. He was certain several of them were hiding something, but no amount of bribing, threatening, or cajoling could break their silence. He was grumbling about the disadvantages of staff becoming too secure in their positions when he caught sight of a bedraggled-looking Mirabelle entering the downstairs servants’ hall. She, in turn, was mumbling something about the advantages of staying in bed some mornings.
“Mirabelle!” he called to her back.
He thought perhaps she groaned, but couldn’t be certain.
“Where is she?” he demanded immediately. There was a chance Whit had already spoken with her, or that he already knew, but—
She turned and offered him a strained smile. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Are you serious?” Alex wasn’t referring to her guise of ignorance so much as her ridiculous use of the phrase, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” when they clearly both knew she was lying.
“Of course I’m not serious,” she responded calmly. “I am merely trying to be polite.”
“What the devil for?”
“I rather like you, that’s what for, and while I can’t depart a secret that is not my own, I thought I might at least explain as much in civil terms.”
Alex felt his fists clench tightly at his side. He took a deep breath and made sure his words came out even and calm. Mirabelle didn’t respond well to intimidation or threats. “I like you very well too, Mirabelle. I’m also rather fond of Sophie. In fact, we’re both fond of Sophie. So, why don’t we—why are you shaking your head at me?”
“I’m not going t
o tell you where Sophie is. I can’t. I gave her my word.”
Alex decided a forward tactic might work best. “She may be in danger, Mirabelle.”
That certainly caught her attention. She looked at him askance. “May?”
“Is, is in danger. I’m certain of it.” Certain that she could be in danger, traveling alone. Absolutely positive she would be in danger once he got his hands on her. “So, please—”
“What sort of danger?” she asked, narrowing her eyes even further.
“The dangerous sort!” he snapped, suddenly beginning to see what Whit had been complaining about all these years.
She tilted her head suspiciously. “As in the ‘female walking unescorted for half a block in broad daylight, in a respectable neighborhood’ sort of danger, or ‘the ship is sinking and—’”
“The second sort, Mirabelle!” Alex cut in, exasperated.
Mirabelle studied his face for an agonizing ten seconds, and Alex was torn between admiration for her loyalty to a friend and the nearly irresistible urge to shake her until she started talking. The latter was a mere second away from winning out when she finally sighed and said, “She’s gone to London.”
“What! Why?”
“Keep your voice down. You can ask her that yourself. There are only so many promises I’m willing to break in one night.”
“Right.” He turned to leave.
“Alex? You might consider waiting for her at her town house. It’s not the only place she could possibly be headed, but it seems sensible she might stop at her own home. Don’t you think?”
Alex grinned—he couldn’t help himself. He turned back and dropped a quick kiss on Mirabelle’s forehead. “Thank you.”
She smiled grimly. “Just bring her back safely. I’ll not have broken my word for nothing.”
He gave her a reassuring nod and then took off down the hall at a dead run.
Whit is an idiot, he decided. Mirabelle Browning is a lovely girl.
Alex and Whit saddled their horses themselves. Not only was it faster and quieter than asking for help, it also gave Alex something to do other than worry. He couldn’t allow himself to think about all the harrowing things that could happen to a woman between here and London. All the things that could happen to her in London. All the added danger she might face being cousin to a suspected traitor.
Later he would let himself feel. For the moment, panic at her disappearance and self-recrimination at his failure to keep her safe and sound at Haldon would only serve to distract him.
“I can’t believe she broke your nose,” he commented. He couldn’t conceive of a more effective, or enjoyable, way of distracting himself than tormenting his friend. “That must be a first.”
“No ith nod,” Whit grumbled. “Rememba da billiardth ball?”
“Good Lord, I had forgotten. Who would have thought the girl had such a fine aim?”
“Obwiously not I, or I woud hab mobed.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Moooobed. Em. Oh. Bee…you’re endjoying dith, awent you?”
Alex adjusted a stirrup and smirked. “Immensely.”
“Bathard.”
“Come again?”
Whit responded with a vulgar gesture.
Alex moved to the other stirrup. “You shouldn’t have let her jump out that window, you know. She could have been seriously hurt.”
“I wood hab liked to thee you twy and thop her.”
“She didn’t know about the bookcase door?”
Whit shook his head, then groaned and gingerly prodded at his nose.
“Amazing, I would have thought she knew every nook and cranny of Haldon Hall by now.”
Whit grunted noncommittally. “How did you find oud aboud Thophia?”
Alex grinned. “Mirabelle told me.”
That elicited a string of vicious, if not entirely coherent, curses.
“She really is a lovely girl,” Alex added. But as delightful a distraction antagonizing Whit was, Alex knew it was time to discuss more serious matters. He ran his eyes and hands one last time over the horse and tack. “Go to Loudor’s. I don’t think she’ll be there, but I’d rather err on the side of caution. If she is, send word to me and do what you can. I want you to go to William’s as well. Tell him what’s happened and, if necessary, see he puts some men out to look for her. Drag him out of bed if you have to.”
“Whad will you be doing?”
“I’ll check her town house first.”
“And if she’s ad neider of dose pwaces?”
Alex swung up on his horse. “Then we’ll contact everyone she’s met since coming to London. If need be, we’ll go door to door.”
Whit nodded in understanding. “Anyding ewse?”
“Just one….”
Sophie’s plan was twofold. First and foremost, she would seek out Sir Frederick and propose a marriage of convenience. After that, she would make the short trek to Lord Forent’s home on foot and take a peek at the contents of his study. With any luck—and she felt she really should have some coming her way by now—she’d be back at Haldon Hall before the first light of dawn.
She alighted from her carriage a half block away with instructions to the driver to return to her town house in four hours. She hurried down the sidewalk, reaching her first destination just in time to see Mr. Weaver being led in through the front door.
Damnation. She couldn’t very well ask the man to marry her in the company of his lover.
She moved down the sidewalk until she could see around the house well enough to get a good look at the carriage and team parked by the mews. She scowled at both and swore under her breath. The horses pricked their ears in her direction, but appeared otherwise unimpressed with her temper.
Pulling her cloak tighter about her, she hitched the satchel she was carrying farther up her shoulder and headed off in the direction of Lord Forent’s. She’d finish her business there first, and hope Mr. Weaver’s carriage was gone by the time she returned.
The walk was a brief one, for which Sophie was exceedingly grateful. The streets of Mayfield were well lit, but the light failed to extend much past the pavement of the sidewalk. With the moon hidden mostly behind clouds, the houses loomed like giant mausoleums in the dark, and the expansive yards, with their perfectly trimmed hedges and silent fountains, reminded her of cemeteries.
She quickened her pace, hating to give in to her fears but knowing it was foolish to pretend they didn’t exist. When she reached Lord Forent’s, she stopped and stared at the house with resignation and dismay. Its yard was as dark and gloomy as the others. She really hadn’t expected to find it lit the way it had been the night of the ball, but one could always hope.
She retrieved a small lantern from her satchel, lit it, and quickly scurried around the side of the yard to the garden gate she had noticed earlier. It was dangerous to use a light, but she had no choice. She just couldn’t walk through the garden in the pitch black. Good Lord, she couldn’t walk through her own bedroom in the pitch black. Sophie draped her cloak over her arm and held it in front of the lantern to shield the light from view of the house.
Picking her way along the gravel paths—and studiously ignoring a certain gazebo—she made her way to the side wall of the house and counted windows.
…four, five, six, there!
It was a good seven or eight feet up, but the house was fashioned of rough stone that jutted out in some places and sunk in at others, perfect for climbing. She set the lantern between a bush and the stone and covered the foliage with her cloak to hide the light. Hitching up her skirts to tie them in a knot above her knees, she quickly, if not altogether gracefully, scrambled up to the window and slid it open with ease.
Thank God. She didn’t know what the odds were of finding a window unlocked in Mayfield, but she had figured they were slim.
Twenty minutes later she was willing to entertain the idea that the open window hadn’t just balanced her luck, it had tipped the scale too far in the ot
her direction.
How could there be nothing? She’d dug through every drawer and cabinet, and she’d found not a single scrap of incriminating evidence.
Ready to tear her hair out in frustration, she sat behind the desk and opened a ledger. Maybe she was looking in the wrong places. Maybe men like these kept their secrets hidden in bedside stands or safes hidden behind large portraits. Or maybe….
She paused in her mental rambling to stare at a familiar-looking set of numbers. She flipped back a month and found a similar entry. Then another month and another match. It went on and on. Nine of the last twelve months showed payments to Forent in amounts identical to the funds Loudor had stolen from Whitefield. She’d gone over those numbers enough times to have the exact amounts memorized. And there they were, down to the last shilling.
She trailed her finger along the entry line and found the entries were attributed to Lord Heransly, the earl’s scapegrace son.
If they had been from her cousin, she might have attributed it to debts of honor. Lord Loudor was a notorious gambler. But these entries were from son to father. It made no sense.
She reached for supplies to copy down what she could of the entries but stopped short at the sound of movement in the hallway. She dropped the ledger, snuffed the candle, and raced to the window to throw her legs over the edge. She managed to crawl about a quarter of the way down, but in her haste and fear of being discovered, she made a misstep and lost her footing in the stone.
There was the rip of fabric, then falling, and then the hard impact of the ground.
Ummph!
It wasn’t a far drop, but unprepared for it as she was, she landed fully on her back, and knocked all the air out of her lungs. For what seemed like an eternity, she lay prostrate, stunned and gasping like a fish on land.
Perfectly typical. She’d been lucky enough to have found a window unlocked, and unlucky enough to have fallen out of it.
When her breath finally returned, she managed, against the protest of every muscle and bone in her body, to roll onto her stomach and pushed herself up to her knees. Relatively confident she wasn’t going to pass out, she climbed to her feet, grabbed the cloak and lantern, and ran.
As Luck Would Have It Page 21
