The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  Sophia found castles drafty, crocodiles bad company, and dragons hard to come by.

  And more important, she valued her independence—and craved more by the minute. The sketch of Mouse’s brand called to her from its concealment beneath the record book on the desk.

  “I know you only want to guarantee my safety.” Sophia tried her best to sound appreciative rather than provoked.

  “Only?” Langdon countered diplomatically. “There is nothing more important to me than your safety, Sophia. You know that I respect and admire Mrs. Mason’s work. Still, you must admit that keeping such company as you do here is not necessarily in your best interests.”

  Actually, it was, Sophia thought instantly. The Halcyon Society made Sophia feel useful; as if, somehow, saving one woman from her mother’s fate could explain, in part, why Sophia lived. Surely Langdon realized this?

  “I will not live in hiding,” Sophia replied, “and there is no point in asking me to do so.”

  Langdon pushed off from the door frame and walked nearer, frustration gleaming in his eyes. “Very well. If you’ll not lock yourself away, then perhaps you’ll accompany me to Gunter’s?”

  Mrs. Mason appeared in the open doorway, stopping abruptly at the sight of Langdon.

  A corner of the sketch peeked out from under the record book as if calling to Sophia.

  She beckoned for Mrs. Mason to enter. “I would like nothing more,” she told Langdon. “But I fear there are still a number of tasks I must accomplish before this evening’s ball.”

  It wasn’t a lie. At least not entirely. Still, the disappointment in his eyes matched what Sophia felt for her increasingly troublesome behavior.

  Langdon acknowledged Mrs. Mason with a nod, and then bowed before Sophia. “I’ll leave you to your work, then. I’ll see you this evening.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Sophia said, watching as he turned and walked from the room.

  “Work, my lady?” Mrs. Mason asked. “Is there anything I might help you with?”

  “No, not as concerns Halcyon. I wonder, Mrs. Mason, would you mind answering a few questions about London gangs? It would take only a moment of your time,” Sophia asked, worrying the edge of the drawing with her finger.

  Mrs. Mason sat down in the chair opposite Sophia, her eyes lit with curiosity. “Not at all, my lady.”

  Sophia slipped the piece of foolscap from beneath the book, revealing the crude drawing of the chess piece. “Do you recognize this?” she asked, holding the paper up.

  “Where did you get that?” Mrs. Mason asked. Her voice held a faint echo of shock and her lips pinched with nervousness. She edged abruptly back in her chair, seeming to shrink away from the paper.

  “I made the sketch. I recently saw the figure branded on a boy’s shoulder,” Sophia explained. The delicate hairs on her nape and arms lifted in warning as Mrs. Mason attempted to school her features into an expression of calm.

  “Why would you have reason to see a young scamp’s bare shoulder?” The older woman’s fingers trembled and she folded them tightly together in her lap. “Did he come by while you were here? Was he begging for food or clothes? Did he threaten you? If this should happen again, Lady Sophia—”

  Sophia ignored the flurry of questions and focused on Mrs. Mason’s first reference. “Why do you assume he was a scamp?”

  Mrs. Mason stared at Sophia. For the first time in their acquaintance, her gaze was hard and unreadable, and Sophia glimpsed the woman she had been during the years she’d spent as a prostitute.

  Then the moment passed and Mrs. Mason’s gaze slid from Sophia’s.

  She stared at her lap, where her hands were gripped tightly together. “Perhaps you’ve been spending too much time with the Runners,” she suggested, her voice once again returned to her normal easy tone. “The word ‘scamp’ is hardly cause for alarm.”

  The Runners always seemed to come up whenever someone was trying to evade a question. Sophia had come to view the recurring references with amusement, although she could not find the humor in Mrs. Mason’s obvious discomfort.

  The woman was frightened, that much was clear. And trying to hide her fear.

  “Mrs. Mason,” Sophia began in a purposefully calm, soft tone, “do you recognize this mark from your time spent in the brothel?”

  “No,” she answered, looking up to answer Sophia. “That is not a mark that would be used on a girl working at Le Maison Bleu, that much I can tell you.”

  Sophia laid the drawing on the desk and traced her fingertip over the penciled lines that made up the outline of the chess piece. “Then where, Mrs. Mason?”

  The woman lowered her chin, her gaze fastened on the slow progress of Sophia’s finger over the drawing. “Do you have wish to die, Lady Sophia?” she asked starkly.

  Her question surprised Sophia. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because questions about such things as what you have there,” she nodded significantly at the drawing, “will get you killed.”

  Sophia abruptly stopped tracing the symbol. “Tell me, Mrs. Mason, do you think me lacking in intelligence?”

  “You are the most intelligent person I know, my lady,” Mrs. Mason answered, lifting her chin and meeting Sophia’s gaze once more. “But the people connected to that symbol couldn’t care less if you’ve Yorkshire pudding for brains. By the time they’re done with you, you won’t be needing to think at all.”

  Excitement crackled, lifting the fine hairs on Sophia’s nape. Still, she remained calm, knowing that to do anything else might convince Mrs. Mason to keep her own counsel.

  “If you do indeed believe that I am intelligent, then you must trust me, Mrs. Mason,” Sophia said plainly, hoping that common sense was on her side.

  The other woman unclenched her hands and reached across the desk. Picking up the drawing, she brought it nearer to inspect it more closely, frowning as she did so. “Did you know, Lady Sophia, that some of the London gangs like to brand their members?”

  “I had no idea. What could possibly be the point?”

  “To protect their property, should any go missing,” Mrs. Mason answered, folding the paper carefully in half to effectively hide the drawing, laying it back down on the desk. “Much the same as farmers do with their cattle.”

  “Then this is the mark of a gang in the vicinity of Bleu Maison?” Sophia pressed on, willing herself not to think about the process required to complete the barbaric act.

  “No, I was not lying when I told you I’d not seen this mark during my years in the brothel,” Mrs. Mason reminded Sophia, then sat back in her chair, her spine poker stiff. “No, my lady, this is the mark of a St. Giles gang.”

  Sophia mentally reviewed the information she had read in Nicholas’s study. The Rambling Rose, where Mr. Smeade’s connection to the Bishop was discovered, stood in St. Giles. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Mrs. Mason gravely confirmed. “Do you remember Mary Riley? A fellow prostitute contacted Halcyon after Mary was beaten and left for dead.”

  “I know the name, but did not have the opportunity to meet her,” Sophia replied, suddenly finding it very hard to sit still.

  Mrs. Mason nodded knowingly. “Does not surprise me. Mary was with us for two days before she succumbed to her injuries. We talked, her and I, about her life. And about the brand of a chess piece on her back. She was worried for me. And for all of the women here. She said that if the gang she belonged to discovered she was alive, they’d track her down and make sure she died the second time around. And then they’d see to those who had taken her in.”

  “Do you know where Mary lived? Is it possible that someone in the area around her home may know something more of these men?” Sophia picked up the drawing.

  Mrs. Mason pushed her spectacles farther up on the bridge of her nose. “Did you not hear what I said, my lady? Mary is dead because of her involvement with this gang. Will you not heed a warning from beyond the grave?”

  Mary Riley’s warnin
g meant nothing to Sophia. She knew that it should. Such indifference more than likely meant that her need for revenge had overwhelmed any sense of right, wrong, or otherwise.

  Still, she did not care. She couldn’t.

  “Mrs. Mason, do you know where Mary Riley lived?”

  “St. Giles, my lady,” the woman answered, getting up from her chair. “I filed a report with the Runners. They’ll have the address in their notes.”

  Sophia nodded somberly. “Thank you, Mrs. Mason.”

  “You’ve nothing to thank me for,” she replied, then quit the room.

  9

  Bow Street Offices

  COVENT GARDEN

  WESTMINSTER

  LONDON

  “Lady Sophia, good afternoon. We were not expecting to see you today.”

  Though Sophia liked Mr. Royce and would normally enjoy chatting with him, she was pressed for time. She’d left for the Bow Street Offices the moment Mrs. Mason had told her about Mary Riley’s tattoo. Still, there was a ball that evening that she’d promised Langdon she would attend. If she had any hope of returning home in time to prepare for the engagement, she needed to find Mary Riley’s file and be gone within the hour.

  “Mr. Royce, good afternoon to you,” she replied politely, slowing her progression but not stopping to invite a lengthy conversation. “You are correct—I would not normally be in the office today. A notation in one of the cases I recently reviewed kept me awake all night. I simply must read through it again, to be certain I didn’t miss something.”

  The Runner pushed back his chair and half rose. “I’ll fetch the file, Lady Sophia. Which one is it?”

  “No, Mr. Royce, that is quite all right,” she said quickly. She scanned the man’s desk, her glance alighting upon a steaming cup of tea. “I would not want your tea to grow cold. If you’ll just give me the key?”

  Sophia knew from past experience that Mr. Royce was a man who could not abide lukewarm tea. He eyed the cup with pleasure and smiled his thanks for her thoughtfulness. “Here you are, my lady. You’ll let me know if you need anything?”

  “Of course, Mr. Royce,” Sophia replied. Her smile held both charm and relief as she accepted the key and left him, hurrying toward the file room located at the back of the office.

  She placed the key in the lock and turned it, exactly as she’d done a thousand times before. Nervously, she glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Royce and felt a wash of relief when she saw he’d clearly already forgotten her and he’d taken up his tea, a file in his hand.

  Sophia pushed the door open. Careful to leave it ajar so that she might hear if someone approached, she stepped inside.

  Mary Riley had died barely three weeks earlier. Sophia walked to the first bookshelf, where the most recent cases awaited sorting. She lifted a large wooden box from the shelf and carried it to a table pushed up against the west wall of the room. Removing the lid, she began to flip through the papers, which were organized according to date. She discovered Mary’s file a third of the way through the stack and pulled it free from the rest.

  Her fingers shook as she quickly paged through the report, briefly stopping at the crude sketch detailing Mary’s injuries before scanning the remaining documents. The address wasn’t there. Sophia forced herself to breathe deeply and went back to the beginning, finding the information on the fourth page.

  She took a piece of foolscap from the stack sitting on the table and a stub of lead left there by one of the Runners. “Number Four Upper St. Martin’s Lane,” she said aloud as she took down the address then set the pencil back in its place.

  Stuffing the scrap of paper into her reticule, Sophia returned the file to the box and secured the top once again.

  “Find what you were looking for?” Mr. Royce called from his desk.

  Sophia hastily placed the box on the shelf and walked from the room, locking the door after her. “Exactly what I was looking for, Mr. Royce.”

  Afton House

  MAYFAIR

  LONDON

  Sophia sat still as her companion deftly pinned up her long hair. “Lettie, have you ever done something you shouldn’t have?”

  The woman selected a ruby encrusted pin from the side table and secured a curl into place. “Yes. Hasn’t everyone?”

  “Well, that was rather easier than I thought it would be,” Sophia countered, surprised at her companion’s response.

  Lettie took up a second pin and moved to the opposite side of Sophia, looking into the mirror to check her handiwork. “You must remember: there are actions one undertakes, and then there are actions.”

  Sophia supposed her dear friend’s statement was true enough, though her guilty conscience was having difficulty deciding where the line should be drawn between the two.

  “Tell me what you’ve done, my lady.”

  Sophia cringed. “I believe I’ll list my transgressions in chronological order—much more organized, you see.”

  Her companion raised one eyebrow in reaction, remaining silent.

  “Very well,” Sophia announced with more phlegmatic fortitude than she felt. “Last night, when I told you I had a headache? I did not; it was an excuse. I snuck out and made my way to the Albany—where I broke into Nicholas’s apartment. Then I lied to Mr. Singh and Mouse concerning my identity. And finally, I convinced Mr. Royce of the Runners that a nagging detail was the reason I required access to the file room. When, in fact, I needed to gain entry in order to steal information. Which I did, obviously.”

  Lettie reached for the final pin and secured the last curl, stepping back to admire her work.

  “You haven’t said anything,” Sophia pointed out, painfully aware that she’d failed to include the kiss, arguably the most important action of all.

  The older woman lifted a glittering ruby and diamond necklace that had belonged to Lady Afton from the lacquered jewel box atop the dressing table. “I’m thinking.”

  Sophia admired Lettie’s control and thoughtfulness. She’d been an admirable mentor while Sophia was young, daily exhibiting such qualities.

  Now Sophia wished she’d simply spit out something—anything.

  Lettie fastened the clasp and adjusted the ruby drop until it was centered precisely above the sapphire silk gown’s low-cut bodice. “First, not every action was criminal, correct?”

  “Correct, though—”

  Lettie raised one finger and began to pace. “Now, what was your reason for visiting Mr. Bourne?”

  “Four days have passed since we returned to London from the Primrose,” Sophia answered. “I was worried that Nicholas would proceed without me. He made it absolutely clear that was his preference.”

  Her dear friend nodded and clasped her hands behind her back. “A reasonable concern, I’ll give you that. And this Mr. Singh and Mouse? Why did you deceive them?”

  Sophia considered mentioning Nicholas’s part in the charade, but thought better of it. “Nicholas and Mr. Singh were acquaintances in India, and thus he knows the loyalty and self-control of the man. But the boy Mouse’s discretion is a mystery to both of us. It seemed best if my position in society was kept hidden for now.”

  Lettie nodded and continued to walk back and forth, her lips set in a grim line.

  “A second reasonable concern, wouldn’t you agree?” Sophia pressed.

  Lettie finally ceased pacing, stopping in front of Sophia. “If you will not give up this dangerous pursuit, at the very least I beg you to be more careful. The ton’s gossipmongers like nothing better than embroidering tales about a lady such as yourself and a man with Mr. Bourne’s questionable reputation.”

  Sophia considered her companion’s words. “You’re right. Of course you’re right,” she replied. “Somehow it is all too easy to become caught up in the theatrics and excitement of it all, even though I know the danger is real.”

  “I imagine your mind needs some sort of distraction from the dangerous circumstances; otherwise, fear might overtake you. Still, Lord Stonecliffe is not a stu
pid man. If there are whispers amongst your set suggesting indiscreet behavior involving you and his brother, he’ll hear them.”

  Sophia rose from the tapestry-covered stool. “The last thing I wish to do is hurt Langdon,” she replied honestly.

  Langdon had been kind, patient, and understanding with Sophia. He could have bowed out of the gentleman’s agreement their fathers had made and looked elsewhere for a wife. Lord knew scores of the ton’s ladies had tripped over themselves, and one another, in an attempt to gain his favor. Langdon had politely declined their many efforts. And, she thought with remorse, for far longer than any other man of his standing would.

  Or should.

  Lettie’s words had greatly diminished the guilt Sophia suffered for her actions, with the exception of the kiss. Her companion’s insight only underscored her rash and dangerous behavior. Nicholas may have revealed something within himself that spoke to her soul, but that did not change her obligation to Langdon.

  “Then be very careful, my lady,” Lettie advised. “Or Lord Stonecliffe will become a casualty in this war you and Mr. Bourne are waging. And he’ll have never seen it coming.”

  10

  The Clifton Residence

  GROSVENOR SQUARE

  “Do stop staring.” Nicholas continued to peruse the crowded ballroom, feeling the weight of his brother’s gaze as if Langdon were touching him. The two stood with their backs to the gold, silk-covered wall, well out of the stream of strolling guests circling the edge of the dance floor.

  “What makes you think I’m doing anything of the sort?” Langdon countered mildly.

  His ridiculous denial drew Nicholas’s pointed attention. “Because every last person here is doing it. And while you, dear brother, are truly one of a kind, I believe even you cannot resist such entertainment.”

  He’d woken up in a strange mood that morning; like a tiger who’d consumed more than he should and knew it; foolish, greedy, and galled by his own stupidity.

  Nicholas could not help himself last night; he’d willingly given in to the pull Sophia’s presence always exerted. Was he delusional enough to believe her behavior indicated she needed him for anything more than temporary comfort? Perhaps; but more than likely, no.