“Keep calm, Mr. Holden,” she whispered. “We simply have a few more questions.”
Her words had the desired effect. The man settled into a normal stride and allowed Grey to guide him into the narrow stretch of cobblestones between two tall white-washed buildings.
“Where is she?” Grey demanded, struggling to keep his voice under a shout.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Holden shook his head firmly. “You’re mad, Winship. Some said as much when you threw your life away to join a theater troupe. I’m beginning to think they were right.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your opinion to heart,” Grey said, casting a wary glance at Sophia. “All I want from you is an answer.” He planted a fist on Holden’s chest and pushed the bounder against the brick wall at his back. “Where’s my sister?”
“Tell us, Mr. Holden.” Sophia placed her hand over Grey’s fist, her bare skin a warm and strangely comforting counterpoint to the anger coloring his every thought.
Holden’s eyes had gone wild, ballooned so wide the whites were visible all around the discs of blue. He glanced from Sophia to Grey, as if assessing their resolve. “She’s not here, if that’s what you’re thinking. Phyllida is not in Brighton.”
“The coachman said he saw you together in Hampstead.” Grey didn’t think it possible for Holden’s eyes to bulge wider, but they did.
“Then he was mistaken. I last saw Lady Phyllida in London.” He swiped at Grey’s fist to dislodge it from his chest and reached up to straighten his waistcoat. “She planned to embark on a train journey.”
“To where?” Sophia asked in a low encouraging tone.
Grey shared her resolve but felt none of her unflappable calm.
“I can’t recall,” Holden tried.
Grey unbuttoned one cuff, then the other, and began rolling up his sleeves. “Try again, Clive, because I’m struggling for a reason I shouldn’t thrash a man with so little concern for my sister’s reputation.”
Holden looked momentarily abashed, recovered quickly, and had the temerity to sneer. “When have you ever worried about a woman’s reputation, Winship?”
Balling his hand, Grey drew his arm back, and whipped forward to strike.
“No!” Sophia called out, latching herself onto his wrist. “Violence will gain you nothing.”
Satisfaction, he screamed in his head. Trouncing Holden would give him a good deal of that. Clearly, Sophia didn’t agree.
She turned to Holden. “Stop this nonsense, and tell Lord Winship where he can find his sister. How would you feel if Cecily were in danger?”
Her words achieved precisely what Grey intended with his fists. Holden slumped back against the wall, as if the will to resist had seeped out of him.
“She’s not in danger. Phyllida is on her way to Cambridge,” he blurted on a long exhale. “She took a train not an hour ago.”
“Why the hell would she go there?” Grey knew of no one she might know in the university town. She’d never come to visit when he’d spent years there attending college. That period was the only connection he had to the area and men like Westby and Clive Holden. “Why did you send her there?”
“Me? If you know anything about your sister, Winship, you must be aware the lady has a mind of her own.” Holden glared at Grey with such seething anger his body began to shake. He thrust out his arms to push Sophia and Grey away. “If you’ll excuse me.” He started off at a quick stride before breaking into a sprint.
When Grey started after him, Sophia rushed forward and positioned herself in his path. “Chasing after him will get you nothing else.”
“He knows more, Sophia. Believe me, the rotter is in this up to his teeth.”
“Of course he is, but you won’t get a confession by knocking out his teeth.”
“I could try, and I’d at least enjoy the effort.”
A shadow of a grin ghosted across Sophia’s lips, and then she was all business. “What if he’s telling the truth? Do you have any idea why she’d go to Cambridge?”
“None at all.” Grey planted his hands on his hips and shook his head. “If she’s gone to Cambridge, it’s at Clive’s behest.”
Sophia furrowed her brow. “Perhaps Cecily could tell you more. If she knew Clive told you about Cambridge, perhaps she’d confide whatever else she knows.”
“Or she might remain as mum as her brother. I’d prefer to locate Liddy and hear the details of this scheme later.” A trip back to London held no appeal, especially since it guaranteed him nothing but more frustration as he tried to wheedle information out of a Holden.
“Clive mentioned Cambridge reluctantly, which leads me to believe the claim.”
Grey frowned as he considered Sophia’s words. He agreed with her logic, but his gut churned with fear. Liddy traveling alone to a city she didn’t know? His mind reeled with wretched possibilities. “Perhaps you’re right.” He preferred Sophia’s calm, considered judgement. “Liddy may not know anyone in the city, but Clive does.”
“But why would he send her there alone?” She tapped a finger on her lips as she pondered, her gaze distant.
“Perhaps he plans to meet her and travel on to Scotland to elope.”
“Then why dally at the seaside with his cousin?”
“I don’t know!” Grey slapped his hand against the brick wall as he shouted, his voice ricocheting like a shot off the buildings lining the narrow lane.
Sophia took one backward step, and Grey cursed under his breath. He didn’t wish to frighten her or reveal what an impulsive, untamed fool he could be when provoked. The more his frustration built, the more he needed Sophia’s good sense to help unravel the mystery of Liddy’s disappearance.
“I’m sorry, Sophia. You ask excellent questions. I only wish we had more answers.” He buttoned his cuffs, tugged the sleeves of his jacket down, and tried to make himself look like a rational gentleman again. “Cambridge seems the path that might lead us to Liddy. We should return to the train station and begin our journey.”
He started past her and made the arrogant assumption she’d follow. When he didn’t hear the click of her boot heels echoing his, he turned back.
“I can’t accompany you to Cambridge, Mr. Grey.” Shoulders back, chin high, hands crossed in front of her, Sophia left no doubt about the firmness of her declaration.
Of course you can. Panic fought its way up Grey’s throat, words scrabbling for freedom like caged birds. You must. I need your help. He sucked in a gulp of sea air, willed his mind to quiet as he did before a performance. Digging up a sliver of self-respect, he nodded like a gentleman and forced a semblance of a grin to his lips. “Of course you can’t. You must return to London and keep your appointment with . . . Ogilvy. Wasn’t that his name?”
“Not because of Mr. Ogilvy.” She stared at the ground a moment before meeting his gaze, busying herself with putting on pristine white gloves. “Accompanying you would be improp—”
Before she could finish, Grey took two long strides to stand before her inside the alleyway and catch the edge of her jaw in the cup of his palm. “You needn’t explain.”
“But I . . . ” She hung on the single syllable, lips open, eyes soft as she stared up at him. Her breath quickened.
His entire body quickened in reply. He was acutely aware that she wasn’t resisting his touch. Lovely, curious, clever Sophia Ruthven was gazing up at him as if she craved his touch. His. Not Ogilvy’s or any other man’s. Though he rarely needed encouragement to be bold, the undeniable want in her eyes fired his blood.
Slowly, tentatively, Grey slid an arm around her waist, flattened his hand against the small of her back. Electricity sizzled through his veins, and all he could see and smell and feel was Sophia—the hitch of her breath, the heat of her body, the clean scent of her skin, and the flares of green malachite in her eyes.
It was the wrong time. And definitely the wrong place. But he couldn’t resist.
Resisting wasn’t his way.
“Sophia,” he hissed softly before dipping his head and feathering his lips across hers. “Do you have any idea how much I want to kiss you?” He cupped her head, slid his fingers under the knot of silken hair at her nape, felt her little nod of encouragement. Of yes.
One taste and he was lost. Hell with any attempt at civility or gentlemanly behavior. She was so bloody sweet, and she opened to him like a glorious, unexpected gift. He kissed her gently at first, sensing in her gasps and clutching fingers that this was new. She tasted of orange marmalade and innocence. When she emitted a little gasp of shock as he deepened the kiss, he was the one who shivered like a novice who’d never had a woman in his arms. Her hand came up, and Grey expected her to push him away. Instead, she gripped his lapel and pulled him closer.
He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her again. Teased her lips open and tasted as he’d ached to do from the moment they met. She stiffened at first, then melted against him, pressing her bosom to his chest, her hips flush with his. She danced her tongue along his as if testing, exploring, teasing. She lifted a hand to his cheek, stroked his skin with her gloved fingertips.
That undid him, the slide of those very properly covered fingers against his scalp. The stroke went straight to his groin. He wanted her here, now, in a dusty little alleyway in Brighton. When he gripped her backside and began positioning her against the brick wall, she broke their kiss. Gasping for breath, she turned her head away from his.
“I must go,” she managed, still breathless.
He came back to the moment as if waking from a dream, shaking his head and releasing her from his arms. She stepped away instantly. Every impulse told him to reach for her, to pull her back, to wrap her in his arms again. Where she’d felt so right and he’d felt a shred of peace, for the first time in days. Who was he kidding? Years.
“I hope you find your sister in Cambridge,” she said, a little tremor of emotion shaking her voice, before striding away.
He wanted her back. Craved the strange sense of calm she induced with her gentle touch and firm, unwavering tone. Stepping forward, he opened his mouth to call to her before she walked too far out of reach. But another impulse kept him silent. Fear that the craving he felt for Sophia wouldn’t end when they found Liddy.
CHAPTER NINE
“Nothing fires the blood like the discovery of a clue, that bit of Theseus’s string that shows an investigator the way.”
—CASEBOOK OF EUPHEMIA BREEDLOVE, LADY DETECTIVE
“Mrs. Cole?” Sophia called out as she closed the front door behind her and began peeling off her gloves. She’d checked the watch pinned to her blouse and tried to stem the panic tightening her chest. The train from Brighton had been delayed twice, and she feared Mr. Ogilvy had come and gone from Bloomsbury Square.
“Thank goodness you’re back.” Cate strode into the entryway and reached out to take Sophia’s gloves. “Your note had me worried.”
“It was rather spare on details.”
“Bare on details, I think you meant to say.” Cate softened her pronouncement with a grin, but stared with a direct gaze that urged Sophia to explain her mysterious journey.
In a hurry to depart with Grey to the train station, she’d scrawled a note, mentioning that she was taking an early train to Brighton and would return soon after the noon hour to meet Mr. Ogilvy. Only Cate knew the purpose of the gentleman’s visit and how the success of this first meeting with him could alter Sophia’s future.
“Did I miss his visit?”
Cate nodded. “You did, but I take it you had an enjoyable sojourn at the seaside.” Her gaze took Sophia in from head to toe. “The sun’s lent a bit of color to your cheeks.” She stepped near for a closer look. “And you have the lightest sprinkle of freckles across your nose.”
Sophia frowned and rubbed a finger down her nose. She’d been in such a rush, she’d forgotten her hat.
“They don’t come off,” Cate said with a seriousness that belied the twinkle in her maple brown eyes, “though my mother swore by lemon juice to make them fade.”
“I shall try some.” Sophia clasped her hands behind her back to stop herself from fussing over her freckles. “What did Mr. Ogilvy say? What sort of man did he seem to be? Tell me everything.”
Cate craned her neck to glance over one shoulder and then the other, as if she feared one of the young maids might be about and didn’t wish anyone to overhear. She pointed toward the newly renovated formal drawing room. “You should see the new wallpaper, Miss Ruthven. The workmen came to hang the last of it this morning.”
Sophia followed Cate into the room, sliding the pocket doors shut behind them. “It did turn out lovely,” she said as she took in the calming cream and lavender striped pattern before turning to face Cate. “Was he angry?” She crossed her arms and began worrying her lower lip between her teeth.
“No, not angry.” Cate cast her an inscrutable glance. “Disappointed, perhaps. Though he didn’t say as much, of course.”
“He must think me unbearably rude.” Sophia slumped down on the new settee, still covered in muslin to keep any wallpaper paste from marring the lovely violet damask Ophelia had chosen. Rudeness was the height of offense in Sophia’s estimation. Lapses in etiquette could be overlooked, but rudeness was intentional and therefore unforgivable. “I never dreamed I’d return this late. There was an obstruction on the train line, and then a delay at one of the stations.”
“I wouldn’t fret much. Mr. Ogilvy struck me as a man who takes disappointments in his stride.” Cate took a seat in a straight-backed chair across from Sophia, tipping her head to assess the new wallpaper and the cornice that had been painted to match. “But how is Mr. Grey?”
“So you do know a few details of my trip.” Sophia wasn’t surprised as much as curious how Cate found out.
“Part of a housekeeper’s job is knowing who comes and goes.” Cate picked an invisible bit of lint from her sleeve. “And one of the kitchen maids heard a man’s voice and came to wake me. By the time I dressed and came downstairs, you were both on your way to Brighton.” There was a thread of amusement in Cate’s tone that Sophia needed to set right.
“We weren’t stepping out together.” Sophia considered what secrets about Grey and his sister she needed to guard. “He required my assistance.”
“At the seaside?” Cate sounded dubious. Her gaze focused with the precision of a microscope lens on Sophia’s face.
Sophia stood to look out the window toward the well-manicured patch of grass between the houses in the square. She’d been grateful for Kit and Ophelia’s invitation to stay with them in London, rather than remain in the countryside alone. Yet at moments like these she missed the soothing openness of fields and meadows. City spaces cramped one in, and London problems seemed much more tangled than anything she’d ever faced in Hertfordshire.
“I can’t tell anyone the details.” Sophia turned back to face her only confidant. “But my behavior wasn’t as scandalous as it may seem.”
Cate ducked her head. “You needn’t explain yourself to me.”
“In aiding him, I thought I was doing what was right.” By which she meant proper, the one quality she’d always striven to embody.
“I’m sure you did, and I trust he was most grateful.”
Grateful, indeed. Sophia lifted a hand to her lips, covered her mouth as if she could blot the memory of Grey’s kiss. But she never would. His kiss—the first any man had ever pressed to her lips—was indelible. The heat of his breath, the insistent softness of his lips, the delicious taste of him on her tongue. No, she’d never forget the way Grey had touched her, tempted her, branded her with his kiss.
“You’re blushing,” Cate said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if pointing out that Sophia’s gown was unbuttoned or a tress of her hair had come free.
Sophia slid the hand she’d cupped over her mouth to her cheek. Definitely hot. Feverish, in fact. Her whole body had begun to warm the moment her thoughts turned to Grey’s kiss.
“I wished to help him with a matter concerning his sister,” Sophia confessed, because she trusted Cate and yearned to explain herself, if only a little. “Clarissa is about the same age. Of course I sympathize with him.”
“Then that solves one mystery.” Cate stood and reached into the wide front pocket of the smock she often wore. “I caught one of the maids reading this in the parlor when she was supposed to be dusting. Looks to be the journal of a Lady Phyllida Grey.”
“Did she read anything interesting?” Sophia reached for the small folio. How could Grey have left it behind again? Now, after Clive’s refusal to confess much of anything, she found herself more curious than ever to learn what secrets the volume might hold.
“She didn’t say. I suspect I frightened the life out of her so thoroughly she wouldn’t recall if she did. Curious that the young lady’s journal would find its way here.”
Sophia couldn’t explain its presence without revealing too much about Lady Phyllida’s disappearance. “I meant to return it to Mr. Grey—er, Lord Winship.”
“A lord?” Cate didn’t sound nearly as surprised by the fact as Sophia had been. “Is she heartsick, then, this Lady Phyllida?”
“I’m not sure.” For all Sophia knew, the girl thought absconding with Clive Holden to be the grandest adventure of her life. Then again, Phyllida had expressed doubt in that single passage from her journal. She narrowed an eye at Cate. “Did you read any of the journal?”
“Me?” Cate belied her offended tone by nodding her head affirmatively. A crimson blush stole across her cheeks. “I may have read a few pages.” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Miss Ruthven.”
Sophia approached and laid a hand on the housekeeper’s arm. “You agreed to call me Sophia. Nothing’s changed. But I am curious.” She lifted the volume and slipped her fingers through the ribbons loosely tied at the edge. “What did you learn from Lady Phyllida’s journal?”
Cate shrugged. “That she’s young and in love. That she has fears and hopes, as would any young lady.”
A Study in Scoundrels Page 9
