Chapter 7
“This one is rather particular about teeth.” Mr. Colborne squinted at the letter in his hands, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
The candles in his cramped office guttered in the predawn breeze, casting wavering shadows across the stacks of paper that threatened to consume every available surface.
Sophia took the letter and scanned its contents. The applicant was a widower of forty-three, possessed of a comfortable income and a townhouse in Bloomsbury. He sought a companion of gentle disposition, moderate education, and, as Mr. Colborne had noted, excellent dental health.
“Mrs. Hartley,” Sophia said.
Mr. Colborne frowned. “The widow from Cheapside? She is hardly of his social standing.”
“He does not mention social standing.” Sophia moved to the writing desk and pulled out parchment. “He mentions gentleness. Education. Teeth. Mrs. Hartley possesses all three, and she has been seeking a match for six months without success. They will suit each other admirably.”
“But what will people say—”
“What they say is not our concern.” Sophia dipped her quill in the inkwell. “Compatibility is our concern. Leave the gossip to the ton.”
She composed two letters: the first, to the widower, suggested a chance meeting at the botanical lecture series held each Thursday at the Royal Institution. The second, to Mrs. Hartley, encouraged her attendance at the same event.
You share more than you know with a certain gentleman of discerning taste, she wrote. Trust in the possibility of connection and let your natural warmth speak for itself.
She signed with her flourish and set down the quill.
“The sealing wax.” Mr. Colborne hovered at her elbow. “You have used the rose-scented variety. Should we not reserve that for higher-paying clients?”
“The rose-scented wax is what we have.” Sophia folded the letters and applied the seal. “And Mrs. Hartley has waited long enough. She deserves our best effort, regardless of her fees.”
Mr. Colborne sighed but did not argue. He retreated to his desk and returned with a small leather pouch. “Your payment. The new rates have proven successful, I am pleased to report. Applications have increased rather than decreased.”
Sophia took the pouch and felt its weight. Heavier than last time. Enough to make a real difference. “Thank you, Mr. Colborne.”
“Thank yourself.” He offered a rare smile. “Your instincts remain impeccable. I only wish you could take credit publicly.”
“Someday, perhaps.” She tucked the pouch into her cloak. “For now, anonymity serves us both.”
She bid him good morning and descended the creaking stairs. The street below lay quiet, the first light of dawn beginning to soften the darkness. She pulled her hood low and walked quickly, her destination fixed in her mind like a splinter she could not remove.
Drakeston’s townhouse loomed at the end of a fashionable street, its facade as respectable as its owner pretended to be.
Sophia circled to the back entrance and knocked twice.
A servant appeared, his face carefully blank. He recognized her. They all did, by now. He stepped aside without a word and led her through the servants’ corridors to a study at the rear of the house.
“Wait here.” He closed the door behind him.
Sophia stood in the center of the room, unwilling to sit, unwilling to touch anything. The study smelled of old tobacco and something sour beneath it. Ledgers lined the shelves. A portrait of a stern-faced woman hung above the fireplace, her painted eyes following Sophia across the room.
The door opened.
Drakeston entered in a silk robe, the collar loose, his silver hair uncombed. Sophia’s stomach turned. She fixed her gaze on a point above his shoulder and kept her expression neutral.
“Lady Sophia.” He smiled, and the expression held no warmth. “What an unexpected pleasure. And at such an intimate hour.”
“I won’t keep you long.” She crossed to his desk and placed the envelope on its surface. “The installment. You may count it if you wish.”
Drakeston approached with the unhurried confidence of a predator who knew his prey had nowhere to run. He picked up the envelope and withdrew the banknotes, counting them with deliberate slowness.
“More than last time.” His eyebrows rose. “Your aunt grows increasingly generous. One might almost suspect an alternative source of income.”
“My aunt received an inheritance from a distant cousin.” The lie came smoothly and practiced. “She wished to help.”
“How fortunate.” Drakeston set down the notes and stepped closer. Sophia held her ground, though every instinct screamed at her to retreat. “You know, my dear, there are other ways to settle a debt. Ways that would be far more pleasant for us both.”
He reached for her. Sophia stepped to the side, putting the desk between them.
“My father’s debt will be paid in coin, Lord Drakeston. Nothing else.” Her voice did not waver. “And the more I pay, the less reason you have to visit my mother at inappropriate hours. I trust that arrangement continues to suit you.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Calculation. Frustration. He was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, and her resistance galled him.
“For now.” He tucked the notes into his robe pocket.
“But debts have a way of growing, Lady Sophia. Interest compounds. And your father’s health, I hear, continues to decline.
One day, your aunt’s generosity may not be enough.
And on that day…” he smiled again, all teeth and menace, “you will find me waiting.”
“Then I will make sure that day never comes.” Sophia moved toward the door, keeping her movements controlled, refusing to show fear. “Good morning, Lord Drakeston.”
She let herself out before he could respond. The servant appeared to escort her back through the corridors, and she walked with her chin high and her hands steady until she emerged into the pale morning light.
Only then did she allow herself to breathe.
The walk home passed in a blur of gray streets and growing dawn.
She thought of her mother, sleeping fitfully at Brimsey House, haunted by debts she had not incurred.
She thought of her father, wasting away in the country, his mind clouded by illness and shame.
She thought of her sister, Lily, safe with their aunt, blissfully unaware of the dangers that circled their family like wolves.
And she thought, unbidden and unwelcome, of the Duke of Heatherwell.
His hand on her elbow. The warmth of him beside her on the staircase. The way his eyes had followed her in the schoolroom, watchful and unreadable. She had spent the past three days trying not to think of him, and she had failed spectacularly at every attempt.
He was her arrangement. Her obligation. A means to an end and nothing more.
So why did her pulse quicken when she remembered the sound of his voice?
Why did her skin warm at the memory of his touch?
Why did she find herself wondering what lay beneath that rigid control, what it would take to make him smile, what his face might look like softened by something other than duty?
She shook off the thoughts and quickened her pace. She had no time for such foolishness. She had a family to save and a debt to pay, and a secret to protect.
The Duke of Heatherwell could remain exactly what he was, a client, a challenge, and absolutely nothing more.
She repeated the words like a prayer all the way home.
She did not believe them for a moment.