by Nichole Van
Oh, dear.
“We are not here together,” Sophie corrected him. “We simply arrived at the same time.”
The doctor blinked.
“Of course,” he said, though his tone, like that of his maid, implied he thought her a liar.
Ugh.
Worse, Lord Rafe did not correct the man, but instead jumped right in to his own affairs.
“I thank you for your time, Doctor Hartley,” he said, “but I wished to speak with Doctor Ross about a personal matter. Is he available?”
“Doctor Ross is not here.” The man shifted on his feet. “But I am sure I could be of assistance—”
“No, it must be Doctor Ross, I am afraid,” Lord Rafe insisted.
As that was Sophie’s aim as well, she nodded in agreement.
Dr. Hartley grimaced. “Doctor Ross is no longer with us.”
Lord Rafe frowned. “Pardon?”
“He has retired from practicing medicine.” The doctor waved a hand toward the entry hall. “I know his name still resides on the plaque out front, but Dr. Ross hasn’t practiced here for over three years.”
“Three years?!”
“Yes.” Dr. Hartley at least had the decency to look ashamed. “I haven’t had a new plaque created, as of yet.”
Sophie’s heart sank. Was this yet another dead end?
“Are you quite confident there is nothing I can do to help you?” the doctor continued.
“I am unsure,” Lord Rafe replied, a frown on his brow.
For her part, Sophie shook her head. “My question was rather specific for Dr. Ross himself. Do you happen to know where I might find him?”
Dr. Hartley looked between herself and Lord Rafe.
The man shrugged. “I would suppose Dr. Ross to be at his home in Edinburgh.”
11
Ten minutes later, Rafe stood outside Dr. Hartley’s surgery, hat in hand.
Lady Sophie had left after Rafe requested a word in private with Dr. Hartley. But a brief discussion had ascertained that the man did not share Dr. Ross’s knowledge of melancholy and its treatment.
Dr. Ross was still Rafe’s best hope of helping his mother overcome her depression of spirits. Given the deadline looming over Rafe’s head—Lord Syke’s house party next month and Rafe’s imminent betrothal thereafter—that help could not come soon enough.
He would need to travel to Scotland and speak with Ross directly. His previous letters had proved fruitless, so writing again seemed a waste. Time was of the essence. Fortunately, Dr. Hartley had been able to provide Dr. Ross’ direction in Edinburgh.
Rafe clenched his jaw. He had literally just come from Scotland. To think, he had been so close to Dr. Ross.
But, upon reflection, returning to Edinburgh might be best. The threatening letter he had received the previous day weighed on him.
Do not suppose that your crimes will go unpunished.
Further study had convinced him that it was indeed postmarked from Leith, just outside Edinburgh. Someone in Scotland wanted to toy with him and knew enough about the events surrounding The Minerva to make a credible claim. Rafe had intended to write the Brotherhood about it today, but rather than send a letter, he might as well deliver his message in person.
The problem, of course, was how to accomplish a trip to Edinburgh without his father learning of it. Kendall left Rafe to his devices for weeks at a time, so Rafe dashing off to the countryside wasn’t a problem, particularly during the autumn hunting season. But a trip back to Edinburgh would raise questions, and Rafe instinctively knew his father would resist any attempts to truly heal the duchess.
Rafe would have to sort a way to travel unnoticed.
He tapped his hat into place on his head and turned from Dr. Hartley’s stoop, only to realize that Lady Sophie still stood on the pavement below, her brow furrowed beneath her bonnet.
His stupid, wayward heart had lunged at its tether when he saw her before Dr. Hartley’s surgery. Would he ever rid himself of this absurd infatuation?
But one look into her forest eyes, and the intervening years had melted away. He found himself, once again, that eager young man desperate to court her, to spend hours listening to her thoughts and dreams.
This would not do.
Briefly, he considered apologizing for his behavior four years ago, letting her know that his actions after that ill-fated ball had not been his own.
But . . . to what end? Lady Sophie gave no indication that she even remembered the incident. It was entirely likely the events had meant little to her. After all, she had married Captain Fulstate a short time later.
More to the point, Rafe was not in a position to court her. There could be no resumption of their relationship. Kendall had made his position on Lady Sophie brutally clear.
Which reminded him . . .
Rafe took in a steadying breath.
He could not be seen with Lady Sophie outside a doctor’s surgery, no chaperone in sight. His father would be apoplectic if he learned of it.
Damn the man for controlling Rafe’s life like this. How could Rafe be twenty-eight years of age and terrified of speaking with a woman, lest his father find out? It was an absurdity of such outrage—
Rafe took another shuddering breath, swallowing back his habitual rage.
Instead, he chose to focus on a lesser concern:
Why was Lady Sophie seeking Dr. Ross? Rafe had overhead her request the man’s address in Edinburgh as well.
Moreover, why had Lady Sophie undertaken to visit Dr. Ross without a proper chaperone? Yes, she was a widow now and free from many of the constraints of an unmarried lady, but she was still that—an aristocratic lady. Had the woman no care for her own personal safety?
Worse, she glanced up at him—still standing on the stoop like a halfwit—nodded in parting, and then began to walk down the street, likely bent on the hackney stand a full block away on the main thoroughfare.
Before consciously telling his feet to move, Rafe found himself closing the gap between them, taking a place at her left side, standing as a defense between her and the street.
Like he belonged there, as if he and Lady Sophie were a couple.
Rafe tipped his hat at a passing gentleman, causing Lady Sophie to finally register his presence.
“Oh!” Her eyes flew wide as she lurched to a stop. “I say, Lord Rafe, this is quite unexpected.” Her tone left Rafe wondering if she was annoyed or exasperated.
Perhaps a bit of both?
Which was the only explanation for Rafe’s abrupt accusation. “You should not be gallivanting around London without an escort, Lady Sophie.”
Silence.
An open-topped barouche creaked as it rattled past along the cobblestone streets, its occupants gazing with interest. Rafe shot the woman and her two daughters a quick look. Thankfully, he did not recognize them.
Lady Sophie noticed his noticing, an indecipherable emotion flitting across her face.
“My lord, I fail to see how my gallivanting, as you described it, is any concern of yours.” Her jaw set. “Did you join me to prove your point? That anyone who wanted could impose upon my person?” Her head tilted to a forty-five-degree angle.
“Perhaps.”
“And did it occur to you that a captain’s widow of six and twenty has little reputation to ruin in the first place? Perhaps it is you who should be concerned with sullying your own by being seen with me.” She darted a telling glance at the carriage now well down the street.
“Your safety,”—he leaned on the word—“my lady, is my greater concern. You are the daughter of an earl, esteemed and prized—”
Lady Sophie cut him short with a laugh. A bitter, mirthless laugh.
Rafe paused. That harsh sound reverberated in his chest. Regardless of her actual parentage, Mainfeld acknowledged her as his own. Why should she have this reaction?
He held her focused gaze for another second, mind racing. He had been so surprised to see her, so caught up in the sheer relief
of being near her once more, that he had failed to notice—
Lady Sophie had changed.
She was not the same bright-eyed debutante he remembered.
Had there always been that hint of sadness in her mossy eyes? A wariness?
He thought not.
“I cannot imagine that your father would be content to witness you traipsing around like this, Lady Sophie,” he continued. “You should, at the very least, have a maid with you.”
She returned his gaze, her green eyes holding an odd flatness. Why had her spark vanished? Where was the quirky woman of his memory?
The more Rafe studied her, the more distressing it became.
Where had she gone, his Sophie?
“My father’s approval or disapproval is none of your affair. I do not need to explain my actions to you, Lord Rafe,” she said.
He opened his mouth to speak.
She held up a hand, palm out. Allow me to finish speaking.
“I will tell you, however, that my maid, Martha,” she continued, “has a somewhat nervous constitution and finds outings like this quite distressing. Therefore, I did not think to subject her to it. Given this information, I am curious as to how you think she would protect me, my lord?”
A deafening silence.
Rafe’s head went back slightly. “Perhaps she swoons with deadly accuracy?”
“Hmmm. I cannot speak to her accuracy, but she is most efficient at swooning, I will grant you.”
Rafe stifled a grin. Her words gave him a flash of the Lady Sophie he had once known—a fleeting glimpse.
He couldn’t stop himself from asking, “What is the point of a maid who is incapable of . . .”
“Maiding?” she offered, a barest of smile on her lips.
“Precisely. If that is the case, perhaps this Martha should be replaced.”
“While I thank you for the unsolicited advice concerning my household management, I find the idea of casting Martha into the streets—for no other reason than being herself—distasteful. She is a human being, not a threadbare glove two years out of fashion. Despite your opinions, my lord, everyone deserves to have a place where they are needed and wanted.”
Rafe almost huffed a startled laugh. Lady Sophie was taking the mick out of him and none-too-subtly at that.
But, more importantly, her tone animated her eyes, removing that terrible flatness. Something of that spark he loved showed through—a feisty originality that was so characteristically . . . her.
He adored that spark; he always had.
How I still want her. I am nothing but want when I am near her.
The thought rattled through his brain before he could stem it, the jolt sending words tumbling from his mouth—
“I seem to remember you had a habit of rescuing things.”
It was his first reference to any meaningful prior acquaintance.
Her chin lifted, as if his words had struck a blow.
“She had nowhere else to go.” The words cut him with their bare honesty. “I cannot save every destitute girl. But I could save Martha.”
Her reply rendered him mute, a swift kick to the stomach, knocking the air out of him.
How had he forgotten this, too? Her shocking candor, humbling in its directness.
Hawkers called down the street. Large wagons rumbled along the busy main road ahead.
Lady Sophie turned and continued walking toward the hackney stand. He fell into step beside her.
“Will you be traveling to Edinburgh then?” she asked.
Rafe blinked and then grinned. Ah yes, he remembered the struggle to follow Lady Sophie’s conversational leaps.
“To speak with Dr. Ross?” he asked.
“Yes. Will you be going as well?”
Going as well?
Wait. What was she implying—
“Are you planning to travel to Edinburgh to speak with Dr. Ross?”
“Of course,” she said with prosaic finality. “I like the thought of making a journey of it. Besides, my matter with Dr. Ross is one I prefer to discuss in person.”
First gallivanting around London without an escort and now considering a trip north—
Irrationally, anger flitted through him. Had Lady Sophie been so protected and pampered that she took no thought for her safety? Had the men in her life arranged affairs for her so frequently that she had no thought for the dangers that could befall a woman traveling?
This irritation made his tone sharper than it should have been. “If you must go to Edinburgh, please tell me you will be traveling with a brother or a male relative of some kind?”
“Heavens. The last thing I need is a man along.”
“I beg your pardon?” He stopped in the middle of the pavement.
She paused as well, turning back to him with pursed lips, pinning him with her mossy eyes.
“Lord Rafe,” she said, “you seem to be under the impression that a gentleman of any sort would be a help rather than a hindrance.”
“Pardon?!” he repeated.
“I learned long ago that when faced with a difficult task, I am better off sorting it myself rather than waiting for a man to assist me. In my experience, a man will show up days too late, half-sprung, and then complain about having to help, all while watching me do what needs doing. Though I do not have a habit of disparaging your gender—” she shrugged, “—you did ask.”
Well.
She was taking the mick out of him in earnest now.
And why did he feel that she wasn’t referring to her brothers or father with her reply, but instead her late husband? What sort of a fellow had Captain Fulstate been?
“Of course. I suppose I will have to take Martha . . .” Her voice trailed off in thought.
“The one who swoons with inaccurate efficiency?”
A beat.
“Yes.” She turned on her heel and started walking again toward the hackney stand.
Rafe’s heart thundered in his chest. Who had taught this woman to hold her own safety so cheaply? And why did he suspect it was Captain Fulstate?
He ran a few steps to catch up to her.
“You should perhaps have a greater care for your personal well-being, my lady,” he said. “I strongly recommend taking a traveling coach with several footmen and grooms—”
“A traveling coach? Footmen and grooms? Heavens.” She shot him a side-eye. “We are not all the offspring of a wealthy duke, my lord. I was thinking to take the mail coach. I have read that it is quite speedy.”
Speedy? Yes.
Comfortable and safe for the acknowledged daughter of an earl? No.
“What can possibly be so important that you must speak with Dr. Ross in person?” he asked.
Her lips drew into a straight line. “It is a private, personal matter, my lord.” She clutched her reticule in two hands, her head staring straight ahead.
Rafe drummed his fingers against his leg, darting glances at the brim of her bonnet as she walked, all the while having a wee argument with himself.
Lady Sophie was none of his concern.
She was neither a relative nor a lady he was courting.
His father would have Rafe’s head if he learned of this conversation.
What Lady Sophie did or did not do affected him in no way.
And yet . . .
His chest ached and burned at the thought of her journeying north to Scotland.
Alone.
Unguarded and unchaperoned.
In a public mail coach.
If something were to happen to her . . .
‘Tis none of your concern.
But . . .
But—
He liked her.
As in . . .
. . . definitely, decidedly, emphatically adored her.
How could she take such risks with something he so adored?!
The very cheek!
“You cannot be serious about this endeavor, Lady Sophie,” he finally said. “Surely, this is a jest.”
She stopped again and fixed him with those lovely eyes. A man would do a great many ill-advised things for a mere glimpse of her glorious eyes.
“Why would I jest about this?” she asked. “I am in deadly earnest, my lord.”
“But . . . why?” His tone was utterly baffled.
“Why do you seek Dr. Ross?”
Rafe paused, surprised at having his own question thrown back at him,
Words stuck in his throat. Most knew that his mother suffered from ill health, but disclosing the depth of her melancholy felt . . . deeply private.
“Precisely, my lord,” she continued. “You cannot speak to me of it, as I am sure your concerns are of a personal nature. I do not wish to speak to you of it, as my questions are also of a personal nature. And so we are at an impasse.”
Grrrr.
“You cannot journey to Scotland alone, my lady.”
“My lord, I understand that you have strong primus tendencies—”
What?
This woman and her leaps of thought. “Primus?”
“A primus.” She rolled her hand. Her voice endearingly earnest and so impossibly stubborn. “Barn cats, dominant tomcat, my theory of a primus . . .”
“Yes, yes, I remember.” Heaven help him. He remembered everything she had said, no matter the passage of years.
She clutched her reticule tighter. “I recognize that you, as a primus, may feel the need to order and protect those around you. However, I am not part of your clowder of barn cats. Your primus urges are unnecessary and unwelcome.” She flicked her wrist. “Please go practice your primus-ing elsewhere.”
Despite her acerbic tone, his lips twitched. “Primus-ing? I fear you are taking more liberties with the English language—”
“Enough!” She threw her hands in the air. “My lord, I am a fully-grown woman. I do not require your approval. If I wish to verb a word, then I will do so. If I want to travel to Edinburgh, I will choose my form of conveyance, whether by gilded carriage, hot-air balloon, fairy dust, or heaven forfend, a public mail coach!”
“Lady Sophie—”
“Why must you insist in arguing this point?”
“Why?!” Rafe’s frustration rapidly got the better of him. “A public mail coach is a quick mode of conveyance, but it renders you vulnerable. You will be seated for days at a time beside heaven knows who! It could be a pleasant vicar’s wife, but it could also be a randy man-of-business with wandering hands or, worse, a traveling salesman with a trunk of unsold merchandise. And when you finally stop for an evening, who will procure you a room? How will you ensure that no one cheats or robs you? Even more concerning, there have been reports of possible brigands south of Grantham. What will you do if accosted by highwaymen? Discuss barn cats and verb them into submission?!”
