by Darcy Burke
That left Sophie with only a half day to work. She’d hoped to make time to tinker with the red formula she’d been working on for what felt like years now. If she could devise a truly durable red ink…
The sight of Iron & Wine’s whitewashed front door hanging open, unlocked and untended to, scattered her worries and replaced them with blind panic. She ran inside, checking left and right to see what had been damaged or taken, counting pallets, Charlotte’s tools—those had been expensive, and, for the first time, she thanked God from the bottom of her heart for Clive’s bequest because she could survive a robbery, if she had to—
But nothing seemed to be missing or even out of place. Not a single item in the shop, in Charlotte’s workroom, in the storeroom. The last place to check was her own workroom, overflowing with valuables: tissue-thin squares of gold leaf and jars of pure vermilion, cochineal and indigo paste, a whole pharmacy of chemicals from albumen to zinc.
Bracing herself for the worst, Sophie nudged open the door. Here, she saw damage—once carefully arranged tins and bottles in disarray, her notes and journals scattered.
Julian stood at the table where she kept her counterfeiting equipment, with his back to the door. Sophie drank in the shape of his figure, like water poured from a pitcher, graceful and lithe.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Sophie clenched the door handle, the wild fear that had driven her forward draining away as fast as it had risen. In its wake she felt tired, wearied beyond belief. “Julian, you can’t keep coming round. I don’t wish to see you. I think I’ve made that clear. Continuing to force your company on me is ungentlemanly.”
He swiveled at the sound of her voice. Light streamed in from the windows, forming a halo around his gilt hair, shadowing his face. He leaned against the sturdy table, arms at a slant, propped to either side.
“You are a liar and a hypocrite,” he enunciated.
Sophie took a deep breath. She’d done enough. Enough humoring him, enough answering his cruel questions. And she’d seen all she wanted to of his infernal, deceptive beauty.
She would simply ignore him until he left her alone.
“And you should go.” She left the door open as she stalked across the room to pick up a rack of ink bottles she’d filled the day before. She swept her table clear, unsettled by how many of her things Julian had touched. He’d put his hands on everything.
“For example. Despite the love you profess to bear the last duke, you say you found him at the very brink of death but never thought to fetch a doctor.”
She’d tried. Clive the Ninth hadn’t let her. He’d been wild, so unlike his usual self. He’d laid hands on her when she tried to leave, and she’d believed him capable of even greater violence.
“You say you spent upward of an hour with him. Plenty of time to administer treatment, to reverse the course of the poison he’d swallowed. What if he could have been saved?”
Sophie extracted a roll of labels and a pot of glue from a drawer. A little bit of searching located the jar where she kept sticks of lead for pencils and a fat, stumpy brush.
“You denied him the opportunity to say good-bye to his wife. To his daughter. How could someone who ministers to bees be so unfeeling?”
Sophie positioned three bottles from the rack in front of her. She unrolled a strip of labels from the printer and slid a ruler into place. She would not let Julian’s questions upset her. As far as she could tell, his only goal was to cause her pain. She would deny him the satisfaction.
“Do you know what I think?” Julian’s voice turned silky. “I think you’re lazy. You didn’t think through your lies. You didn’t consider what would happen if I went looking for the truth.”
Sophie gripped the knife and positioned it at the top of the ruler. The tang bit into the pad of her index finger. One quick stroke of the blade, then she shifted ruler and knife to the left and made a second, identical slice.
“Maybe you assumed I’d return to Padley wrapped as tightly around your finger as I’d been when I left,” Julian continued. “You thought you could put me off with a few tears.”
Sophie picked up the first bottle, daubed it with glue, picked up one of the labels she’d just cut and nudged it into place. Iron & Wine, it read. Iron Gall Black.
“And for what? The bequest? I’d thought better of you.”
Sophie turned, provoked. “I didn’t know about the bequest.”
“He was one of the trustees of your estate, wasn’t he? Clive and Malcolm. You must have blamed him. Tried to manipulate him, punish him with guilt—and it worked, didn’t it? You made him miserable.”
“No,” she whispered, but the possibility made her dizzy. Clive had been so good to her. And he had been so very, very unhappy.
“You knew he’d try to right this wrong that you’d imagined—that you’d saddled him with. Once you had him wrapped around your finger, you poisoned him.”
Sophie backed away, as though distance could spare her hearing. “You’re the one who manipulates. You’re doing it now.”
But it was working. What if Julian was right? What if she’d driven Clive to suicide? What if it was her fault?
Julian reached back and grabbed something he’d hidden behind his back. A tin. Plain and round, identical to a hundred other containers in her workshop. He shook it and the contents hissed like sand. “You keep prussic acid in your workshop.”
Sophie waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. He seemed to be waiting for something.
“It’s a counterfeiting tool.”
“And you have a supply of it because…?”
“So that I can create inks that resist its application.”
“You’ve even labeled the tin. I don’t know if I should admire your boldness or lament your stupidity.” Julian gave the tin another shake before setting it back down. “You know, Sophie, at first I was sure you were sending me a message. I wondered—God help me, I really did—but my first thought was that you’d killed him for me, to bring me back. And you’d done such a clumsy job to tip me off, a little wink and nudge between friends. But that’s not it at all, is it? You’re just…” Julian looked around the workshop, at anything but her. “Foolish enough to believe I’ll let you get away with murder.”
“Call me what you like.” Sophie’s voice shook. “Clearly, your mind is beyond changing. But you’re dreaming if you think I would count on you for anything.”
Julian slunk toward her like a predatory cat. “I’ve seen men die from prussic acid poisoning, Sophie. I know what it looks like. They can’t breathe. They can’t speak. They gasp and they vomit and they die.” He smiled, all hard bitter triumph. “They don’t dictate letters.”
“I didn’t kill Clive the Ninth,” Sophie whispered. And maybe she wasn’t as distant from the old feelings as she’d thought, maybe they weren’t entirely dead, because it hurt that he didn’t believe her.
Julian picked up the bottle of ink that Sophie had labeled, running his thumb over the printed lettering on the front before snapping it up, the neck caught between two graceful fingers. “Yes,” he said softly, turning to her and taking another step forward. “You did.”
And he hurled the bottle of ink right at her.
It smashed into the wall with a loud crack. Sophie screamed. Her legs fell out from underneath her. She dropped to the floor, boneless, both hands clapped to her cheek. Shards scattered. A plaintive, terrified whimper sounded at her ears: her own.
“Ink,” said Julian, his voice dull and flat. “Ink turned your scar black.”
Sophie looked up. A dark blotch on the wall marked the point of impact, several feet to the left of where she’d been standing and higher, too, than her head had been. He hadn’t been trying to injure her. Just terrify her.
“Out.” It hurt to speak and her voice came out hoarse, tattered. She flung one arm at the door. “Get out.”
Julian backed away. Sophie stared right at him, for once too furious to care about his physic
al perfection. She wished that she could mark him as he’d marked her. Burn a scar so deep that one day he, too, would collapse at the memory of its making. “I don’t care what you think. I don’t care what you do. Send me to the gallows. Find a justice of the peace, a judge, a screaming mob with pitchforks—just so long as you go. I never want to see you again.”
Chapter 9
The stain would not come out. Sophie scrubbed at it with every tool in her arsenal: alcohol, vinegar, ammonia salts and soda ash. She even tried prussic acid, but she made the best ink in Britain. The stain would not come out.
Someone tried to open the front door, rattling it in the jamb, but Sophie had turned the lock and flipped the closed sign hours ago.
Sophie sniffled and wiped her damp cheek against her shoulder, afraid to get the chemicals she’d been handling anywhere near her eyes. She wasn’t fit to be seen. Whoever it was could come back another time.
The rattling ceased, only to be replaced by a series of sharp knocks, and then pointed tapping at the front window. The window? If she found her flowerbeds ruined next time she went outside—
Somehow that brought on a fresh wave of tears. She’d be gone before the flowers bloomed. For that matter, why was she so worried about the stain on the wall? One way or another, she was about to leave this cottage behind.
And then a familiar voice cried, “Sophia!”
Oh, dregs. Aunt Jenny.
Sophie peeled off the gloves she’d been wearing and hurried into the parlor to unlock the door for her aunt. “Aunt Jenny! I forgot that you were coming—I’m so sorry.”
“Heavens, Sophie.” Jenny touched one kid-gloved fingertip to Sophie’s cheek. “The skin around your eyes has puffed up like dough. You must have been crying all morning.”
“Not all morning.” Sophie sniffled. “Only most of it.”
“Well, aren’t you going to let me in? Let me clean you up.” Aunt Jenny bustled through, took a peek into the workroom and then spun around. Her green wool gown and patterned shawl stood out, bright and incongruous, amidst the workaday clutter. “Where’s the charwoman? Shouldn’t she be here, cleaning up this frightful mess?”
“Tomorrow. It’s her day off.”
“My goodness, Sophie, if your uncle saw this…”
“I know.”
“Yes, well.” Aunt Jenny ducked into the necessary and emerged with a pitcher of water and a clean towel. “He won’t find out from me. Why don’t you sit down?”
Sophie let her aunt maneuver her into a chair, sat still while Jenny pressed the cold, damp cloth over her closed eyes and murmured, “There, now, all will be well,” in a voice that had meant comfort and forgiveness ever since Sophie was twelve.
“How do you feel?” Jenny asked, tucking a lock of hair behind Sophie’s ear.
“Better.” Sophie tried out a smile, hoped it wasn’t a complete failure.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“I think that will only make it worse.”
“Poor little lamb.” Aunt Jenny folded her into a fragrant hug. “I think our next errand will be just the thing to cheer you up. Why don’t you fetch your coat?”
Sophie obediently swaddled herself in her spring armor of gloves, cloak, and hat. “I’m sorry to make you late.”
“I make allowances for tears, dear.” Jenny glanced around, befuddled. “You really don’t have a servant here?”
“I can lock up.” Sophie shooed her aunt outside, dug the keys out of her apron and hung it on a peg before turning the deadbolt. The driver handed her into the carriage and closed the door with a gentle click, while her aunt tucked traveling furs around Sophie’s waist and nudged her feet toward the warming bricks, even though they’d already lost most of their heat.
“Your uncle told me about your conversation last night.” Jenny leaned forward to clasp Sophie’s hand. She gave it a firm squeeze. “Changes are always hard. You’ve spent years making Iron & Wine your special place. I understand why you’re reluctant to abandon it. But I think it will help to have a taste of what life could be like.”
“I haven’t been so isolated as that, Aunt Jenny. The Dowager Duchess and I are well acquainted—”
“I’m thinking of a gown.” Jenny interrupted smoothly. “The Dowager has told me all about her plans for the wedding day. It will be a small crowd, very select. The perfect place to reintroduce you to society—and I’m determined that you make a good impression. I want you to shine.”
“I don’t want to shine,” Sophie protested. She couldn’t imagine anything worse.
“You’ll be singing a different tune once you’ve spent an evening as the belle of the ball.”
“Aunt Jenny.” Sophie touched her cheek. “I will never be the belle of a ball.”
“Perhaps not in London,” Jenny agreed, giving Sophie’s hand a pat to soften the blow of her honesty. “But here in Derbyshire, you’re a prize. Most girls have a flaw or two. Yours is no harder to overlook than a weak chin or a hollow bosom.”
“The occasion is to celebrate Lady Honoria and Peter,” Sophie pointed out, hoping a different tactic might prove more effective. “I wouldn’t like to usurp their moment.”
“Lady Honoria will be a married woman soon. She doesn’t need the attention as you do. It’s time to reintroduce yourself to the world, Sophie. And you’ll wear red.”
“Red!” Sophie jerked back into the hard leather seat. “Aunt Jenny, I can’t. Even if I wanted to—dregs, the truth is that I won’t be able to attend at all.”
“Don’t be silly. You’ve been practical long enough—if you’re half as sick of these plain dresses as I am… Just think: red!”
“I can’t.” Sophie pressed her fingers to her eyes. After this morning, she wouldn’t be surprised if Julian had her bound over for trial. Even if he didn’t want her hanged, she couldn’t risk meeting him in public. What if he accused her again in front of witnesses? “I really, really can’t.”
Jenny paused. “I take it I should attribute your reluctance to the new Duke of Clive’s arrival?”
Gall and vinegar. “How did you guess?”
“Every time he visits your shop, I hear about it all afternoon when visitors come calling.” Jenny fanned herself. “Ten years after you ended the engagement, and you’re still the first person he wants to see upon his return! Sophie, what if he’s still in love with you?”
“I can assure you he is not.”
“Well, that can be changed. If he hasn’t married in all these years…”
“Then he will be delighted to discover how radically his prospects have improved, now that he has a title.”
“We just need to remind him of what he’s missed. I have never seen a young man so passionately in love as he was.”
Sophie didn’t want to be reminded of Julian’s love for her. He’d shoved her bleeding cheek into a pool of spilled ink—in her opinion, that one act erased everything that had come before, no matter how passionate or sincere.
Her aunt and uncle hadn’t agreed.
For weeks after her injury, they’d pressured her to see him again, to reconsider his suit. They’d regarded her anger as a womanish vapor, and they’d encouraged her to let it pass.
“He believes that Clive the Ninth was murdered,” she blurted.
“But what does that have to do with you?” Jenny asked.
Sophie raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, Sophie.” Her aunt pressed her lips into her fist. Light flickered across her face in uneven, dappled patterns. “Do you think he’s planning—heaven forbid—to press charges?”
“I don’t know.” Sophie stared out the window. “He’s threatened to.”
“He was so polite at church.” Aunt Jenny’s wistful expression turned speculative. “And afterward. He came in from the rain sopping wet and stayed for an hour.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. He’s a master dissembler.”
“Is that so?”
“He’s not a good man, Aunt J
enny.”
Aunt Jenny leaned back against the seat and began tapping at her chin. The carriage’s incessant creaks and the clatter of wheels filled the silence as they rolled along.
“You must give him the opportunity to reject you.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t want to accuse you of murder, Sophie. He wants to hurt you the way you hurt him. You must let him.”
“I can’t believe you would suggest something so monstrous.”
The carriage jerked to a halt. The front door of Broadstone Cottage opened, and the footman trotted down the walk.
“I offer you wise counsel, Sophie. Julian Swann is the Duke of Clive now. He will get what he wants. You can suffer less, or you can suffer more. Those are your only choices.”
The footman unfolded the steps and opened the door. He helped Jenny descend to the ground, holding out his hand high and steady for Sophie to follow behind.
Aunt Jenny preceded Sophie on the way up to her bedroom. A fire had been lit, coals glowing red through the grate. Bettina had already begun her fitting. She stood in front of a tall looking glass wearing only her corset, her shift, and a crepe bonnet decorated with silk roses, tied beneath the chin with a billowing gauze bow.
Bettina struck a pose as Sophie entered the room. “What took you so long!” She waved at the ribbons under her chin to make them flutter and spun to the mirror in an exaggerated moue of temper. “You should have been back half an hour ago.”
Three strangers occupied the room, but it took no special skill to pick the modiste from her assistants. Her gown announced her identity, and much more besides. It was the most devilishly effective piece of advertising that Sophie had ever laid eyes upon, an unpretentious blue wool so impeccably fitted that one longed to see it upgraded and elaborated in silks and velvets.
The wearer herself was gray-haired, thin in the manner of a whippet or a racehorse. She’d chosen younger copies of herself for assistants—both were tidy and solemn in an intimidating way.
