Even from far away, her response to his echoed words was visceral. He was placating her. Her father had placated her as well. There is nothing to fear, Sophia. But after her mother had died, he had begun to drill her in his damnable…
His damnable…
Rules.
Yes, “rules” was the word she needed.
Her memory jumbled—one image tossed upon the other like dirtied clothes lying in a laundry basket. Thought grew impossible; images, indistinct. She grabbed the handles of the chair in an attempt to steady the swaying room and blinked down into her cup.
One word rose in the soup of her mind. Laudanum.
“Randolph.” She spoke his title as an accusation but it did little to assuage the pain.
He kissed her forehead. “I am sorry, sweetness.”
Sleep’s pull grew stronger and her eyelids drooped. She could not fight when he lifted her from the chair. She could not push him away when he cradled her in his lap. She made no resistance when, with gentle force, he guided her head to rest against his shoulder.
Somewhere beyond the pull of sleep she formed will enough to vow. She would rejoin her Furies, and recover.
Her muscles lost form. She could not raise her head, but she found the strength to finish the vow: Randolph wasn’t as sorry as she was going to make him when she woke up.
Chapter Thirteen
Earl Baneham’s Rules for Winning
“Think only of your aim.”
The carriage Randolph had ordered arrived at first-light’s haze, just as he packed the last of their things. He lifted the silk nightgown from her valise, carefully re-wrapped it in paper, and tucked it into his bag instead.
Maudlin fool.
He could not help himself. He loved Sophia.
Seeing her as she’d been last night and knowing he was the cause had brought him to understand what she had been trying to tell him all along: she could not survive a return to Baneham’s world. Not intact. Not the way he loved her.
If Sophia was not with child and if he defeated Kasai, for the sake of Sophia’s happiness he would attempt to make proof of their marriage disappear. Once he retrieved those missing brothel records and could use them for persuasion—he bet his task would not be difficult. They had married by special license with the minimum number of witnesses. She had run less than a day after the vows. Society and his family remained in the dark.
…However, he’d be damned before he would leave behind the gown and forever imagine her wearing it for whatever pink-skinned, light-and-laughter, lucky-bastard ass she would choose to take his place.
Randolph helped the coachman load the meager sum of their things as quick and quiet as he could. After tightening the last strap, he returned to gather Sophia into his arms. Her breath did not alter—not as he left the farmhouse, not as they traveled within the carriage and not even when he settled her into an upstairs chamber at the inn.
She’d be furious when she awoke, as he would have been. Adding his entire vial of laudanum to her tea was bad—a dirty trick worthy of Baneham—but looking down at her tiny body laid out on the inn’s best bed while knowing this would be the last time he saw her hair spread across a pillow…
Well, the pain renting his soul had to be punishment enough for his trickery. Fate might as well have taken a rusty saw to his gut.
Now she will never call me “dearest.”
He sighed over her pillowed head, the accusation in her voice ringing in his ears just as sure as his neck tingled with the whisper of her soft breath. He tucked the inn’s quilt around her body, and placed a swift kiss between her brows.
“You are my dearest sweetness. Always.”
He reached down into his draining reserve and pulled away. He trudged down the steps with a cannonball nesting in his chest.
Now, get to the heart of the mission. He owed it to himself and to Sophia to see this through.
He entered the familiar rooms below. Harrison looked up from conversing with a young man.
“Randolph!” Harrison greeted. “Got tired of playing Quaker, did you?”
He would stick to the basics. “There was an attack last night.”
Harrison’s forehead creased. “How did you know?”
“About the attack on the farm? I was there.”
Harrison and the man at his side exchanged glances.
“I thought,” Harrison said, “you were referring to the attack on the hospital. Garrett was found dead this morning.”
The iron ball in his gut took a roll. “Let me guess, a knife to the back and choked?”
The man at Harrison’s side answered. “Exactly.”
Randolph pinched the bridge of his nose. “Did anyone see anything at all?”
“No,” Harrison said. “The last thing out-of-the-ordinary was your visit.”
Randolph frowned. “I left Garrett hale and whole.”
Harrison’s man cleared his throat. “Did you?”
“We will speak alone, Harrison. Randolph pressed both fists on the table and leaned forward. “Now.”
“Bronward, go to the farm.” Harrison placed a steadying hand on the young man’s shoulder and spoke with clear authority. “See what you can learn.”
Bronward. Randolph knew the name from Sophia’s parties, but he’d never worked with the boy before. When had he joined the mission?
“Wait,” Randolph called. “Be careful of the girl named Anna. Allow the owner to give answers.”
Bronward stiffened. “That is not how we work.”
“How we work,” Harrison said, “is deferring to those with more experience.”
The man glared before he left. Harrison watched through the window and waited until Bronward disappeared into the stables.
“The spymaster’s nephew,” Harrison explained. “More eager than skilled, in my opinion.”
“Why bring him in?”
“Favor for a favor,” Harrison grimaced. “And the only way I could obtain permission to see Garrett.”
The young man emerged from the stables and set off in the direction of Elizabeth’s farm.
“He’s corrupt, you know.”
“Bronward?” Harrison asked.
“The Under Secretary.”
Harrison shrugged. “Every politician is corrupt.”
Randolph shook his head. “Not like this. You had better ready a drink.”
Telling Harrison he’d likely suffered at the hands of his countrymen was not going to be easy…but it would be easier than anything else he’d had to do today.
“Go on,” Harrison said.
“Garrett believed Baneham used the specter of a bloodthirsty mercenary to intimidate and divide enemies of the Company. Kasai was a creation of Baneham.”
Harrison’s breath hissed between his teeth. “The killings, the ambush, the brute, and the prison—I can attest those were real enough. You saw the bloody results of his attack.”
“I did,” Randolph said. “The ambush that ended your imprisonment was supposed to have been fake. Only it was not. Someone brought the fiction to life. Garrett did not see the man, but he is certain the impostor is English.”
Harrison rubbed his forefinger along his lower lip. “Do you think Garrett’s accusations have merit?”
“Garrett was murdered. Baneham admitted him to a madhouse owned by the Under Secretary just before he, too, was murdered. We have to treat it as a possibility. Whoever took on the mantle of Kasai is killing off those who can identify him.”
“The targets are down to Lord Eustace and Helena.”
“Or the plot runs deeper than we have understood.”
“I suggest we start piecing this together,” Harrison said. “When did the attack on the farm take place?”
“Late,” Randolph surmised, “three or four hours past midnight. And the hospital?”
Harrison’s lips formed a grim line. “Just after midnight.”
“Shit—I led them directly to Sophia.” Randolph paced. “The attackers coul
d not have gotten far—the moon was intermittent.”
“Sullivan,” Harrison said, “believes they are headed back to London. He lost them a few nights back.”
“Sophia swore a woman fired on her—it had to be Helena.”
“Someone shot Sophia?” Harrison sucked in sharp. “Not Kasai’s style.”
“I have been thinking the same thing. Before Helena attacked, a man tried to abduct a woman he thought was Sophia.”
“Lord Eustace?” Harrison asked.
“Maybe.”
Harrison rubbed his chin. “If Helena is working for Kasai, why would she shoot Sophia?”
“Unless she had planned from the start to cross us both.” He snorted. “Helena is Baneham’s daughter.”
“So,” Harrison said. “Helena could be working toward her own end while Lord Eustace works to Kasai’s.” Harrison tilted his head to one side.
Randolph narrowed his eyes. “What are you thinking? I can hear your wheels turning.”
“They are headed to London because they expect you and Sophia to head to London.” Harrison shrugged. “Dangle Sophia and see who emerges.”
“Absolutely not,” Randolph said.
“You already planned to use Sophia as an enticement.”
“That was,” Randolph hesitated, “before.”
“Lower your hackles, Randolph. I am not suggesting we put her directly in harm’s way.”
“Sophia stays entirely out of harm’s way.” He paused to think. “We can use the duke to draw out Eustace.”
Harrison shook his head no. “You’ll not dissuade Thea from her plan to protect the duke. Lavinia and Thea are planning a Fury soiree. And Lady Vice and Duchess Decadence will need Lady Scandal.”
Randolph reconsidered the merit of locking Sophia in one of his turrets. He looked up to the rafters, following a crack in the wood of an ancient-hewn tree. He could fit his soul into the crack—that was how fast he was shrinking.
Think only of your aim.
Sophia must be protected—but Harrison was capable of that. Especially, if Sophia was with Harrison’s lady. Think only of your aim. His aim was Sophia’s happiness.
“You will make sure the Furies are protected.” He fixed his gaze on Harrison. “I will draw out Helena.”
“Can you do that?”
Randolph nodded. “I can and I will do that. Anything that will help end the threat to Sophia.”
Harrison’s gaze gleamed. “Wynchester owes me a cask of his finest brandy.”
“Why is that?”
“You have fallen for your bride, my friend.” Harrison chuckled. “I never knew farm labor could—what’s the phrase—further the course of true love?”
Randolph flashed Harrison his darkest look. “I am not in the mood. Just promise me you’ll make sure the Furies don’t put themselves at any unnecessary risk. And take as much care with Sophia as you would with Lady Vaile.”
Harrison stood. “I will take care of Sophia during the Furies soiree.”
Randolph looked away. “See Sophia safely to London. I will finish here.”
“You want me to see Sophia to London?” The chair scratched against the floor as Harrison pushed it aside. “Randolph…what have you done?”
“I made sure I am free to do whatever is required to put down a madman.” Randolph rubbed his forehead. “She will be the devil to manage when she wakes. I suspect she will be more amenable to you than to me.”
Harrison groaned. “What did you use? Laudanum?”
Randolph nodded.
“I am not yet married,” Harrison continued, “But using opium to settle an argument strikes me as damn foolish.”
“This is no lover’s quarrel.” Randolph faced Harrison. “I almost had Eustace. Then, I heard the shot…”
Understanding dawned in Harrison’s eyes. “….and you rushed back to Sophia.”
Randolph clasped his useless hands behind his back. “I have to finish this. For her.”
“Unfortunately, I understand.” Harrison sighed. “And I also understand my cask will have to wait.”
“You and your cask can go to hell. I will plan her route to London,” he said. “Then, I will arrange a meeting with Helena.”
When he left the inn tonight, he would carry her nightgown like a talisman and pray one day she would forgive him.
…
Earl Baneham’s Rules for Winning
“If you must take counsel, take counsel with the best.”
The carriage carrying Sophia back to London jostled along the cobblestone streets. Heavy curtains blocked her view. Her return had been cloaked in almost as much secrecy as her flight. And, since the moment in the cottage when she’d fallen asleep in his arms, Randolph had not dared to show his face.
Which was fine. She preferred his absence, actually.
The first day, she’d traveled with Harrison—in silence. Brick by brick she’d constructed a wall of anger, sealing each layer with visions of the spectacular verbal gutting she intended to give Randolph. Anticipation of his humbling had satisfactorily passed the hours.
…until that night.
The horses had needed rest. To avoid curious eyes, Harrison had arranged for them to spend the night with a female cousin of Lavinia’s. When Sophia unpacked her bags, her gold and her jewels had been where she’d placed them—but not her indigo silk nightgown.
Right then, as if drained by the mysterious sucking draw of a bog, her anger vanished into something larger—foreboding. Why had Randolph taken her gown? If he’d expected forgiveness and reconciliation, he would have aimed to keep their physical affinity foremost in her mind.
In the morning, she sought to ask Harrison about Randolph’s intent, but found her guard had changed. Harrison’s jarvey friend Sullivan was to deliver her to the dowager. Thank God, she would soon be with the Furies. Perhaps they would know what she should do.
She set her head back onto the bench and listened to the shouts, and clanks, and squeals of the street. She had missed the city. Here, she was not so exposed. In London, everyone carried scars made by the vast, lively churn of life. Wounds too deep and raw to be hidden were so common, they carried no shame. The city was unpredictable, a never-to-be-solved-mystery whose only permanence was impermanence. Mired in the mess of her feeling for Randolph, she found the swirling chaos comforting.
As the carriage slowed, the scent thickened, the heavy ache in her heart eased.
Made safe from prying eyes by the high garden wall, the carriage entered the old Wynchester mansion mews. Sullivan dropped the stair, and guided her, cloaked and veiled, to the servant’s entrance.
As she entered the stairwell, a squeal erupted from above. Sophia looked up to see Lavinia descending in a thunder of footfalls. With joyful exclamations, Lavinia bundled Sophia in her arms.
“I have been so worried,” Lavinia said as they climbed the stairs.
A near-mad laugh gurgled up Sophia’s throat. “So have I.”
“And yet, you are here.” Lavinia opened the door to the bedchamber containing the secret passage between the old Wynchester mansion and the Dowager’s home. She turned and placed her cool palms on Sophia’s cheeks. “Oh, love. You look worse than I feared.”
“You needn’t say,” Sophia replied. “If my outside reflects my inside, I look a hapless mess.”
Lavinia bit her lip. “Have you forgiven us, though?”
Sophia frowned. “Forgiven you?”
“Randolph did not tell you?” Lavinia felt the bookcase for the latch.
The door snapped open and swiveled.
“Lavinia,” Sophia did not follow her friend into the passage, “tell me whatever it is you wish to confess. Now.”
Lavinia’s look was long and searching. “I am so sorry. Thea and I told Lord Randolph about the mail coach.”
“Lavinia! How could you?”
Lavinia went pale. “Your life was in danger. Randolph insisted you did not understand the extent. He seemed…” she swallowed.
“He seemed what?”
“He seemed to genuinely care for you.” She bit her lip. “Can you forgive us?”
Love shone through Lavinia’s pleading eyes. Uncomplicated, thorough, committed love. Sophia knew Lavinia—and Thea—would do anything for her happiness and protection, even act contrary to her wishes. How could she not forgive her friends?
Sophia sighed. “I understand, dearest. Randolph used your worry to his own end.”
A crease appeared in Lavinia’s brow. “We would not have betrayed your confidence for anything less than risk to your life. I swear Randolph cares for you, Sophia. He begged.”
Sophia’s heart did a moth-to-a-flame flutter… Which she immediately stomped. “What do you mean, begged?”
“I mean,” Lavinia leaned forward and lowered her voice, “throat cracking, skin flushed, muscles tensed, down on his knees begged.”
“Impossible.” He was a heartless, self-appeasing, laudanum-slinging wretch who had stolen her gown.
“I would not lie.” Lavinia said.
“He, however, would. He would do anything to get what he wanted.”
“What if what he wants is you?” Lavinia asked, in the same quiet voice.
“Then he is as ignorant as he is untrustworthy.” Her quick quip hid the question’s deeper effect.
Baneham was a friend. You are a friend. Randolph had said those words before they’d met each other in the depths of an almost mythic passion.
What if, like Lavinia and Thea, he thought he acted in her best interest when he had given her the laudanum?
Impossible. Or was it?
“Come,” Lavinia pulled her through the passage, “Let us go find Thea and Emma, you can tell us all that transpired—and we can tell you what has happened here.”
Bewildered, Sophia followed Lavinia into the Dowager’s home.
“I just had hot water prepared for tea,” Lavinia said.
As Lavinia poured over already-prepared leaves, Sophia half-heartedly laughed.
“Will you taste it first? I find myself suspicious of tea.”
Lavinia gave her a curious expression and she handed her a cup. “I took the leaves from my locking cabinet.”
Sophia inhaled the richly complex scent. Fine dark tea, heavily sugared and topped with a dollop of fresh cream. Just as she preferred. She indulged a long draught; the tea slid over her tongue, sweet and bitter at once.
Lady Scandal Page 18
