“Where’s Miss Ruthven?”
Yes, where the hell was she? At the station? On a train chugging its way back to the city?
“She planned to depart today, I believe.” Becca caught Grey’s gaze and added, “I wish she could have stayed awhile longer.”
Becca suspected. Or perhaps she simply knew him too well. He doubted Sophia had confessed anything to her, but there was a knowing look in his old friend’s eyes.
“Well, we must send her a note and ask her to return,” Liddy insisted. “I’ve never met a lady writer before. I was looking forward to getting to know her better.”
Me too. A great rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, and Grey watched as storm clouds swirled overhead.
“Perhaps the weather will delay her journey,” Becca said as they approached Longcross’s lengthy drive. “I’d hate to be locked in a train car in weather like this.”
“They don’t actually lock you in.” Liddy’s teasing tone was the first lightness he’d heard from her, the first sign of the girl he used to know.
Grey winked at her and smirked, but then he recalled when she’d last been on a train. Her journey to Cambridge, or perhaps while traveling back to Longcross with Holden.
He hoped she’d marry the man. Holden had been as foolish as the rest of them in their university days, but he was a good sort. Grey didn’t think him capable of Westby’s brand of deception, or his own history of debauchery.
“She’s very pretty,” Liddy said absently as she twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “Miss Ruthven, I mean.”
Pretty didn’t begin to describe Sophia’s beauty. Now he knew there was more. That for all the lovely aspects of her face and mouthwatering lushness of her curves, they were nothing to the appeal of the woman underneath. The strength and cleverness. Her curious mind and benevolent impulses.
They were so very different.
Sophia saw a need and dashed straight toward it. He brushed up against duty and bolted the other way.
Once they reached Longcross, disembarking the ladies took much less time than getting them into the carriage had. Liddy actually stopped to gaze up at the house wistfully before brushing past Blessing and bounding up the stairs to her room.
“Alistair wishes to speak to you at dinner,” Becca said as she peeled off her gloves. “Thought I’d give you fair warning.” She leaned closer and whispered. “I still haven’t told him about Liddy’s adventure.”
“Is that what we’re calling the whole debacle now?”
After her gaze around to ensure no servants were nearby, Becca said under her breath, “Aunt Violet says she’s out of danger. Liddy isn’t carrying Westby’s child.”
Grey’s gut clenched, and he swallowed hard. Liddy could free herself from Westby now. But only time would tell whether Sophia might be carrying his child. The thought didn’t disturb him nearly as much as it should have.
“What have you told Alistair?” In other words, how pompous and overbearing did the man intend to be? How much would he have to fight to keep his cousin from punishing Liddy if Fennston discovered her recklessness?
“Nothing.” Becca lowered her head and peeked up at him through her lashes. “All’s well now. We only have to keep Liddy from pursuing Westby at the upcoming ball and convince Alistair to let her marry Holden.”
“A marriage she does not desire.”
“She will come around. Unlike you, Liddy wishes to be wed. She simply has to discard her notions of romantic love. Few are lucky enough to find that.”
There was a catch in her voice that made Grey’s throat burn. “And you, Becca? Have you discarded those notions?” Whatever he’d thought of her match with Richard, he’d never doubted the two had been in love.
“I am content with Alistair,” she said defensively. “He is a good man. Faithful and trustworthy.”
“An honorable man.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I do love him, Jasper.”
“How do you know?” The question wasn’t intended as mockery or jest, though Becca frowned up at him suspiciously. He simply craved a fair definition of that elusive emotion that others pursued with such reckless abandon.
“I cannot imagine spending a day of my life without him,” she said earnestly. “That’s how I know.” She left him standing alone in the entry hall, the clip of her boot heels echoing on the tile floor moments after she’d departed.
He stood frozen in place so long a maid approached and asked if she could assist him.
“Where’s Miss Ruthven? When did she depart?”
The girl frowned and pointed to her hat and gloves on the hall table. “She came for her bag, Lord Winship, but left the rest behind. I’ve arranged for a cart to take her to the station, but that’s not for a good hour or so.”
Grey glanced through the open drawing room door and the window behind. Rain had begun to patter lightly against the panes. “She’s wandering the estate?”
“Can’t rightly say, my lord. Only that she’s not in the house.”
Grey started for the front door, his eagerness to find her matched by the questions plaguing his mind.
Where had she gone, and why had she taken her travel bag? Surely she hadn’t been so desperate to leave him that’s she’d walk to the station in the rain.
Sophia wasn’t sure where she was going, but the walk felt good. Stretching her legs, pumping her arms, energy firing her muscles. She never walked enough in London. Hansom cabs were too plentiful and omnibuses too cheap. This was what she missed about the countryside. Its open spaces begging to be explored.
Hitching her satchel strap higher on her shoulder, she stopped and surveyed Stanhope land from a small rise next to a soaring maple tree. Not a single other estate was visible in the distance, only swaths of land boxed in by darker green hedgerows. A breeze blew from the west, and she cast her gaze eastward, spotting a tree-ringed body of water. A pond? A lake? She headed off to explore.
By the time she reached the water’s edge, the sky had darkened to an indigo gray. A few intermittent raindrops fell softly against her cheek, but Sophia refused to be deterred. Spotting a knoll near the water that beckoned as a suitable stopping place, she approached and lowered herself onto a dry patch of grass under a leafy tree.
After a few minutes, the drizzle of rain let up, and she retrieved a few manuscript pages from her bag. She’d drafted the chapter revealing the crime’s resolution, but she found the next pages harder. What would Effie do now that she’d successfully solved her first mystery? Would she part from the handsome aristocrat who’d assisted her? A few ideas about the next story played in her mind, but she struggled with how to bridge her current tale with the next.
An idea came, but it forced her to change earlier chapters too. Digging more pages from her bag, she spread them out and anchored a few with nearby pebbles and obliging stones. Wind kicked up now and then, but the cluster of trees nearby sheltered her from the worst.
What if the spark of interest between Effie and her handsome, aristocratic, crime-solving partner developed into more in future stories? Could a lady detective maintain her work and independence if she married?
As Lord Redmane strode away, a phantom pinch of unease squeezed Effie’s chest. As if a piece of her that had always been intact was missing now.
Sophia sat back and rolled her eyes. One night of lovemaking had turned her into a sentimentalist. She poised her pen at the start of the line to strike the words away but found herself writing more. Paragraphs and paragraphs flowed as she hunched over the paper and prayed her fountain pen didn’t run out of ink.
She flicked away a raindrop on her cheek, then another. A drop plopped onto her manuscript page, running the ink like watercolor paint. Sophia dug in her bag for a handkerchief and dabbed at the paper, then began collecting the sheaves she’d spread out around her. Raindrops came faster, heavier, pattering against the tree leaves above her head like coins poured from a torn pocket.
Stretching to retri
eve one manuscript page the breeze had blown from its pebble holder, she crushed another under her rain-spattered dress and cursed. “Dammit!”
Wind lashed sodden strands of hair against her face. When she reached up to swipe them away, a gust sent several of her manuscript pages sailing for the water. They floated on top like paper boats. Sophia got to her feet, hiked up her hem, and started toward the lake’s edge. Hunching on the bank, she caught two of the pages and stuffed them inside her blouse. A few more squares of soaked foolscap floated out of reach.
Lowering a foot into the lake, she winced as water rushed up her leg, drenching her boots and stockings. She stepped forward tentatively, unsure how deep the bottom might be. She’d never learned to swim, but if the water was shallow, she could wade toward the floating pages. They weren’t too far out yet.
Each step drew her deeper into the water, to her knees, up her thighs, and then to her waist. The weight of her skirt and petticoats dragged her down like lead ballast. Maddeningly, as she moved forward, a wave of rippling water pushed the rogue pages farther. She stopped, bent, reaching as far as she could and got her fingertips onto the edge of one precious rain-soaked piece of her story. One more inch forward and she clasped the foolscap between her fingers. Another step forward and her foot sank in the soft lake bed, tipping her off balance.
Sophia cried out. Flailing forward, one hand splashed against the surface of the water to break her fall. As she went down, she clasped her manuscript page to her chest.
Grey stopped believing in luck on the day his brother died.
He knew other men considered him a favored sod. If one tallied a man’s success by the number of women who’d shared his bed, then perhaps he was fortunate man.
But he’d long ago lost faith in a mythical Lady Luck who looked down and capriciously dispensed her goodwill to those of her choosing. That was complete and utter rot. He rarely gambled anymore. When he did, he never expected to win. Calamity would never take him by surprise again. He expected misfortune, distracting himself with pleasure and indulgence in the meantime.
Half an hour after stepping out of Longcross’s front door, wandering through meadows and groves with no sign of Sophia, Grey’s well-honed sense of pessimism told him she’d be at the one spot on the estate he’d avoided since his fourteenth birthday.
A skitter of trepidation chased down his spine, but he turned and made his way toward the lake. Each step felt heavier, as if the grass was turning to quicksand under his feet. The muscles of his body tensed too, preparing for a fight. Danger lay ahead. He could never envision that body of water and think of anything but the battered body of his brother laying lifeless on its banks.
Rain started in a gentle patter, soft drops pelting his skin. But the drizzle turned quickly to a steady stream. The sky bucketed down a deluge, and the ground grew soggy and slippery under his feet. Mud splashed up as he stomped across the rise leading down to the lake.
At the top, he spotted her. Her skirt ballooned as she floated in the water. His heart stopped. His breath stalled. Then his heart began hammering wildly in his chest.
He ran toward her, sliding on the sodden ground. Stumbling to one knee, clawing at the mud to get to his feet again. He had to reach her. Help her.
Flashes came of Richard. Flailing in the lake. Fighting for his life. But there was no monster holding Grey back now. No bony arm cutting off his air.
He wouldn’t fail this time.
“Sophia!” He sprinted toward the water’s edge and sloshed into the water.
She moved, turning to face him. Eyes huge, hair hanging in sodden strips over her shoulders, gown muddy, she was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.
She was breathing. Alive.
A choked exhale burst from his lungs. “Are you hurt?”
He couldn’t be sure whether the water streaming down her face in fat rivulets was rain or tears.
Standing waist deep in the water, her whole gown sopping, she shook her head and slapped angrily at the lake’s surface as he strode toward her.
“Come here.” Grey reached out his hand. “What the devil are you doing in the water, woman?”
“My manuscript,” she cried, her voice scratchy and desperate. “Please help me get the pages.” She pointed to a few waterlogged cream patches on the water’s surface, too far off for him to give a damn about.
She mattered. He needed to get her home and dry.
As soon as he drew close, Grey grabbed her arm, pulled Sophia toward him, and dipped into the water to lift her into his arms. She wriggled against him as she had that night in his father’s suite.
“My story. I can’t lose those pages.”
“Shh, sweetheart. I need you more than you need those pages.”
She settled against him as he carried her to the water’s edge, tried to keep his footing as he clambered up the muddy rise, and set her safely on her feet. She was shaking and cold. He shucked his jacket and settled it around her shoulders. She cast her gaze toward the water and said on a shaky breath, “They’re gone.”
“Wait here,” he told her as he headed back toward the water.
“No.” She started after him.
“Stop, Sophia. It’s too slippery down here.” He pointed her back toward the spot where he’d left her. “Just wait for me.”
The grass had receded into sloppy clumps of mud, and he lifted his boots high as he squelched through the muck.
“Be careful. The water might be deep at that end,” she called from the bank.
Very deep. He’d learned to swim in this water. Loved this spot so much that Blessing had to retrieve him from the lake at the end of more than one long summer’s day. He wouldn’t behave for anyone else. Except Richard. When his brother went away to university, Grey had been left with little guidance and a good deal of childish mischief in his heart.
Which had led to this damned lake, that harrowing day, and the calamity he’d give his very soul to undo.
As he waded deeper, Sophia called out again. “Just leave them. Please come out.”
But he had to get her pages. She was safe and alive, and he would have given her the bloody moon to see her smile again.
They were little more than soggy squares of pulp by the time he swam out to collect the tangle of pages floating half under and half atop the lake’s surface. The writing was faint, ink smearing as he lifted them from the water. Still, swimming toward her with them clutched in his fist felt like a victory. Seeing her standing on the rise above the lake felled old ghosts.
He’d come back to these murky waters and, for whatever fickle reason, Lady Luck had smiled on him today.
Sophia bounced on her toes as he approached, held out her hands, and Grey laid his tattered offering on her palms.
“Thank you.” She shoved the pages inside her mucky shirtwaist and stepped closer, lifting to press a quick kiss to his lips.
Grey lashed an arm around her waist and held her tight, cupping the back of her head and deepening their kiss. He was done with quick. Done with teasing and temptation. He needed to feel her in his arms, give her some of his heat, convince his galloping heart that she was safe and uninjured.
“We should get inside,” she murmured against his lips as rain and wind buffeted them.
“Yes.” They held on to each other as they made their way back, each trying to keep the other from slipping in the soaking lawn.
For the first time in years, the sight of Longcross brought a sense of relief instead of dread. Grey was so eager to get Sophia inside he was tempted to hitch her into his arms and sprint across the threshold. Instead, they continued on, arm in arm, causing Blessing to shudder in horror as they dragged bits of grass, mud, and pools of water onto his pristine checkered tile floor.
“What in heaven’s name happened to you two?” Becca clasped a hand over her mouth as she entered the hall and scanned them from head to toe. “Is either of you hurt?”
“Just wet and dirty,” Grey assured her.
“Of course not. Let’s get you upstairs and into some dry clothes.” Becca reached for Sophia’s hand.
“My bag is back at the lake,” Sophia said miserably. “I have no other clothes.”
“I have plenty.” Becca turned to Blessing. “We should send one of the footmen out to retrieve Miss Ruthven’s case.”
The old butler nodded and set off to do his duty, casting bereft glances back at the water dripping from their clothes onto the entry hall floor.
Grey had removed his arm from Sophia’s body as soon as they stepped through the front door, but he didn’t want to let her go. She glanced back as she followed Becca up the stairs, casting him a soft grin that soothed him like the stroke of her hands on his skin.
He could let her walk away, knowing he’d see her again after she’d gotten warm and dry. The greater question was whether he would survive letting her walk out of his life for good.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Inspecting herself in the dressing room mirror, Sophia gave the bodice of Lady Fennston’s loaned gown a tug. She loved the electric blue shade and intricate beading along the hem and neckline. The velveteen fabric felt heavenly against her skin, not only soft, but heavy enough to chase away her persistent chill. She and the baroness were close in height and shape, so the length and fit of the dress suited her well, but the bodice was far too meager to contain her bosom. Perhaps if she hunched through most of the evening meal, she could keep from exposing every member of the household to her cleavage.
She doubted Grey would complain. In fact, she had half a mind to walk across the hall and let him decide whether she looked too scandalous for the dinner table. Of course, he’d be freshly bathed, clean-shaven, smelling of bay soap and his unique masculine scent.
If she sought him out now, she doubted they’d make it down to dinner at all.
Potent memories flooded her mind—the hunger of his kiss on the bank of that impossibly cold lake. The way he held her, tenderly, protectively, as if he’d never let her go. The warmth of his body thawed her the minute he pulled her from the water, but the relief in his eyes melted any doubt. He was more than the scandalous blackguard he claimed to be.
A Study in Scoundrels Page 21
