by Mary Balogh
Did they know?
“Come, Sophie,” Rex said again. “Catherine is at Rawleigh House with Moira and Daphne. Let me take you to them.”
Nathaniel’s arms had dropped from about her and Rex’s arm came firmly about her shoulders.
“Come,” he said again. “You have nothing more to fear. You could have done it atone—that was clear to all of us as soon as we came in. But let your friends finish it off for you.”
Finish it off. He did not elaborate, but she did not care. Not any longer. Even if they did not already know, they soon would. She did not care about that either. All she cared about was that it was over, that she was going to be free—even if after all she needed the Four Horsemen to help free her—and that within a few days she was going to begin the life that had so excited her as she had planned it yesterday.
The excitement would return, she told herself as she allowed Rex to lead her from Boris Pinter’s rooms and down the stairs and outside to his waiting carriage. She was feeling depressed only because she had not been allowed to end it her way—depressed and also immeasurably relieved.
Rex handed her into the carriage and followed her inside and it jolted immediately into motion. Sophia set her head back and closed her eyes.
“What is going to happen?” she asked.
“They will recover your letters,” he said. “They will bring them to you at Rawleigh House and it will be all over. Friends do stick together, Sophie. When I had a certain matter of honor to settle a few years ago, those three stood by me just as the four of us are standing by you today. Their support meant a great deal to me.”
She half smiled, though she did not open her eyes. “I take your point, Rex,” she said. “I will not again accuse you of interference. What else will happen?”
“He will be punished,” he said after a short silence.
“Three against one?” It seemed not quite right.
“One against one,” he told her. “We all wanted to be that one, Sophie. We should have drawn straws, perhaps. But Nat would not hear of it. But then neither would I hear of anyone’s taking my place a few years ago—I was avenging a wrong to Catherine.”
Sophia opened her eyes and looked at him. He was looking steadily back.
Nathaniel, she remembered then, had put his arms about her and kissed her cheek. He had called her his love.
Believe me, my love, he had said.
She closed her eyes again.
“Now, Pinter,” Kenneth said briskly when they had all heard the outer door close behind Rex and Sophie. “The rest of the letters, if you please.”
Boris Pinter laughed. “There was only the one,” he said. “I was giving it to her, but I suppose she was so upset to know what sort of letter it was that she imagined I was somehow threatening her with it. You all know about women and their fits of the vapors—especially when they discover that their men have been having a little bit on the side.”
Kenneth strolled across the room to stand almost toe-to-toe with Boris Pinter. He towered ominously almost a whole head taller than the other man. “I do not believe you have understood the nature of the order, Lieutenant,” he said. “I am loath to raise my voice since we are not on a parade ground. I will accompany you while you fetch the rest of the letters. Do you understand now?”
“Yes, sir,” Pinter said, the tone of camaraderie gone from his voice. When Kenneth stepped to one side and gestured toward the door, he went toward it smartly enough.
Nathaniel and Eden looked at each other when they were alone.
“Damn it,” Eden said, “she looked magnificent. Who would have suspected that the pistol was unloaded? I would not.”
“Help me with the furniture?” Nathaniel suggested, and they set about moving back a few chairs and small tables that occupied the center of the room.
“Nat.” Eden straightened up after they had moved a sofa together. “A kiss? On the face? My love?”
Nathaniel looked assessingly at the empty center of the room. It should do. He had had his back to everyone else and had been unnerved by that gun pointed right at him—and by the thought of what might have happened to Sophie if Pinter had wrested it away from her before their arrival. He had forgotten for a few disastrous moments that they were not alone.
“Is that why you would not play fair and give any of us the chance to do this?” Eden asked, gesturing to the empty space.
Nathaniel looked back at him but said nothing.
“Sophie?” Eden looked and sounded intrigued. “Sophie, Nat? Not Lady Gullis?”
But Ken and Pinter were coming back. Ken was carrying a bundle of what looked to be another eight or ten letters, all resembling the first in appearance.
“Old Walter was quite the boy,” Pinter said heartily.
“Major Armitage, ” Eden told him, “will remain out of all your conversations and correspondence from this moment forward, Lieutenant. As will these letters and all matters pertaining to them. We will not ask for your word on this, as frankly we do not trust your word. Let it simply be said, then, that disobeying orders on this matter will be somewhat injurious to your health. I will not ask if you understand.”
“That is a threat,” Pinter said. “Sir.”
“And so it is.” Eden regarded him coolly. “It is also a promise. So is this.” He reached inside his coat and drew out a folded sheet of paper, which he tossed onto one of the tables he had moved to the edge of the room. “It is something that will be made public, Pinter, unless for the rest of your natural days you are a very good boy indeed. It outlines certain interesting facts about your sexual preferences.”
Pinter visibly blanched. “It is all a lie,” he said.
“What is?” Eden asked him. “But it does not matter, does it? None of it will ever have to be made public. Will it?” He barked in a manner that had even Nathaniel jumping.
“No, sir.” Boris Pinter’s bravado had disintegrated as they had all known it would. Though not entirely, Nathaniel hoped.
“There are several copies of that document, by the way,” Eden said. “We all have one. We do not have the power to impose any sentences of banishment, Pinter, but we do strongly suggest that you remove yourself from this country for a year or ten. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Pinter said.
“Good.” Eden stood aside. “Your turn, Nat.”
Pinter had been eyeing him uneasily for the past minute or two. Nathaniel had been methodically removing his coat and waistcoat and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.
“You are not going to die, Pinter,” he said conversationally. “Unless it is from fright, of course. And you are not going to be tied down, you may be disappointed to learn, since that was always your favorite form of punishment. You may remove some of your own garments for greater ease of movement—I will give you time—and then use your own fists as much as you like. I will be using mine.”
Pinter backed up a step. “You have the letters,” he said. “And you have my promise of silence. I will even leave the country. What is this for?”
“This?” Nathaniel raised his eyebrows. “This is for Mrs. Armitage, Pinter. Our friend. You have one minute to get ready. After that it will be either a fight between you and me or else simple punishment. Take your choice. It is all the same to me.”
“There are three of you.” To his discredit, Pinter’s voice was almost a squeak.
“But fortunately for you, Pinter,” Nathaniel said, “we are honorable men. If you can succeed in avoiding your punishment by knocking me insensible, Major Lord Pelham and Major Lord Haverford will not lay a finger on you.” He smiled. “Thirty seconds.”
Perhaps Boris Pinter thought he had a chance. Or perhaps he was too frightened to take the coward’s way out. Or perhaps he simply did not understand that he was dealing with an honorable man, who would not have continued hitting him once he was down.
However it was, he stayed on his feet for a satisfyingly long time. Not that it was in any way an equal c
ontest. One of his punches landed rather painfully against Nathaniel’s shoulder blade and another wild one drew blood from the corner of his mouth. Everything else glanced harmlessly off or missed altogether.
Pinter himself, by the time he went down, completely unconscious from a crushing blow beneath the chin, had a broken nose, which was bleeding copiously, an eye whose surrounds were puffed up to twice their normal size and would soon be black, two raw-looking cheeks, and two broken front teeth. The bruises on the rest of his body, all from the waist up, were invisible beneath his shirt.
Nathaniel flexed his fingers and looked down ruefully at his raw knuckles. There were other people in the doorway, he noticed for the first time—Pinter’s valet, the landlady from downstairs, the servant who had opened the door to them.
“If you are his valet,” Nathaniel said, pinning the man with his gaze, “I would suggest that you fetch some water and throw it over him.”
The valet disappeared at a run.
“My card.” Kenneth held one out to the landlady. “If there has been any damage to your property, ma‘am, you may have the bills sent to me.”
“There is blood on my carpet,” she said, apparently unconcerned with the unconscious and bloody person stretched out on top of it.
“Yes, ma‘am,” Kenneth said, “and so there is. You are dressed again, Nat? Good day to you, ma’am.”
“You are slipping, Nat,” Eden said as they descended the stairs and stepped out onto the street. “Out of practice. Rusticating too long. You actually allowed him to punch you in the face. I could have expired from shame.”
“He has to have some trophy to take home to Sophie,” Kenneth said. “Nat? Is there something you care to tell us, old chap? Something to get off your conscience?”
“Go to the devil,” Nathaniel instructed him, mopping at the comer of his mouth with his handkerchief.
“As I understand it, Ken,” Eden said, “Lady Gullis is as innocent as the day she was born. White as the driven snow. Nat has been leading us a merry dance.”
“You may go with him,” Nathaniel said.
TWENTY
CATHERINE, MOIRA, AND Daphne, Lady Baird, were in the morning room at Rawleigh House, playing with their children. But the game was instantly abandoned when the door opened.
“Rex,” Catherine said, hurrying toward it. She stopped. “And Sophie?”
Young Peter Adams toddled toward his father, clamoring to be picked up so that he might impart to him some news in the incoherent babble that only a parent could understand. Young Amy Baird went close to Rex, tugging on the tassel of one of his Hessians to attract her uncle’s attention. Jamie Woodfall, forgetting that he was a big boy now, first put his thumb in his mouth and then leaned against his mother’s legs and raised both arms above his head.
Sophia felt awkward. But she was not ignored. Catherine caught her up in a hug and then laughed and looked down at the swelling of her womb.
“I am having to learn that I must keep my distance from people again,” she said. “Sophie, how lovely it is to see you again. See who is here, Moira, Daphne?”
“Hello, Sophie,” Moira said before picking up her son. “When everyone stops talking at once, sweetheart, we will ask Uncle Rex where Papa is. Is that what you want to know? I daresay he will be back soon.”
“Amy,” Daphne was saying at the same time, “Uncle Rex has two ears, darling, but he can listen to only one person at a time. Do let Peter finish what he has to say and then you may have your turn.” But Peter was no longer babbling. He was giggling—he had hold of his father’s ears and looked as if he was trying to bite his nose. “Sophie, you have come to a madhouse.”
If she had been thinking straight in the carriage, Sophia thought, she would have asked Rex to set her down outside her own door. Why had she allowed him to bring her here?
“Do sit down, Sophie,” Catherine said, linking an arm through hers and leading her toward a chair. “I shall ring for Nurse to take the children up to the nursery for milk and biscuits and for the tea tray to be brought in here. We will soon have a measure of sanity restored, I do assure you.”
She was very gracious, Sophia thought, sitting stiffly on the chair that had been indicated, and watching the children being led from the room by the nurse—after Peter had been set back on his feet and Rex had gone down on his haunches to look at Amy’s new tooth and Jamie had been assured that his papa would be back soon and would come to the nursery to take him home.
“We have all been dreadfully worried,” Moira said, looking from Rex to Sophia, “fearing that something would go wrong. Where is Kenneth? And Nathaniel and Eden, of course. And Sophie? How did you learn of this? We were all going to be so careful to keep it from you.”
“Sophie was there ahead of us,” Rex said. “She had a pistol pointed at Pinter’s heart.”
Daphne gasped and Catherine clapped both hands to her mouth.
“Good for you, Sophie!” Moira said. “Oh, well done. I would wager it was not loaded, though.”
“No, it was not,” Sophia said.
“Women!” Rex shook his head. “Do you not realize the danger of pointing unloaded pistols at villains?”
“It is the principle of the thing,” Moira said. “I am so glad you got there first, Sophie, and showed everyone that you are no abject victim. Now tell us everything that happened. And if you are going to do the telling, Rex, you may not give us a laundered version. Sophie is here to set you right.”
“I feel so dreadful,” Sophia said, looking down at the hands she had spread in her lap. “I would not admit you when you came to call on me, Moira and Catherine, although it must have been clear to you that I was at home. I scolded Rex and the others for interfering in my life and broke off my friendship with them. Yet you continued to try to help me. And you are being kind to me now. I am so ashamed.”
“Oh Sophie,” Catherine said, “we understood. And I am glad you went to Mr. Pinter’s this morning even though it was a remarkably rash thing to do. If you had not, none of us would have told you why the blackmail had suddenly stopped, and we would have been reluctant to try to see you soon lest you suspect. But we have never stopped being your friends, have we, Rex?”
“Of course not,” he said, “and never will. Ah, the tea tray. I daresay Sophie could use a cup.”
“Where are Kenneth and the others?” Moira asked, sounding a little exasperated.
Rex proceeded with an account of what had happened in the rooms on Bury Street. Sophia accepted her cup of tea gratefully and sipped on it, hot as it was.
They had been going to punish Boris Pinter. Nathaniel was going to punish him. Not with a gun or a sword. With his bare fists, then. Not in order to get back the letters—she did not doubt that just the presence of the three of them would be sufficient to pry them from Mr. Pinter. But for her sake—because of what Pinter had done to her.
Nathaniel was doing that for her.
Nathaniel was also discovering the truth. They all were. They would know now. By the time they came here, she would see the knowledge in their faces.
She would see it in his face.
She should have gone home. She should have thanked Rex and sent her thanks to the others for what they had done for her, but she should have gone home.
Was he hurt? Had Mr. Pinter hurt him? She did not doubt that it would have been a fair fight. Not really punishment but a fight in which Nathaniel might as easily have been hurt as Mr. Pinter.
Her hands were beginning to shake. She set her cup down in the saucer.
“It is all over, Sophie,” Daphne said kindly. “But what a dreadful experience for you.”
“Yes.” Sophia smiled. “But how fortunate I am to have such friends.”
“Did you know,” Catherine asked her, leaning forward in her chair, “that Harry—my brother Harry, Viscount Perry—is to call upon your brother-in-law this morning? None of us can even begin to guess the reason why, of course. Perhaps it is just that spring is in th
e air.”
Sarah? To marry the very handsome and amiable Lord Perry? So soon? But they were so very young. Or else she was getting rather old, Sophia thought.
“Oh,” she said. “No, I did not know. And I cannot guess the reason either.” She laughed. “But if the approval of a mere aunt is important to Sarah, then she has it.”
They all conversed on a variety of topics for half an hour before the sounds beyond the door of new arrivals proved just how tense they all were. Moira leaped to her feet, Rex got to his and strode to the door, Catherine and Daphne leaned forward expectantly in their chairs, and Sophia pressed back into hers, her hands gripping the arms tightly.
Everyone was talking at once. Moira was in Kenneth’s arms and—for some reason—weeping. Rex was asking in feigned disgust if that was a wound at the corner of Nat’s mouth or merely a cold sore. Eden was proclaiming the debilitating influence of a life of rustication on a man’s instincts for self-defense. Nathaniel was inviting him to go to the devil—at the risk of repeating himself and becoming tedious. Catherine was demanding to know what had happened.
And then Nathaniel detached himself from the group at the door and came across the room to stand in front of Sophia’s chair. He reached out a hand and she placed one of her own in it.
“Sophie,” he said, “it is all over, my dear. He will not be bothering you again, and the information he held will never be published. You have my word on it, and the word of your other friends here.”
“Thank you,” she said as he raised her hand to his lips—and she saw his knuckles.
Kenneth was right behind him, Moira holding to one of his arms. He held out a bundle that was even fatter than Sophia had expected it to be. There might be ten more letters there—enough to have beggared both Edwin and Thomas before the last one or two had been used to bring about the scandal she had no doubt Boris Pinter had intended from the start.
