Jilting the Duke (18 page)

Chapter Twenty

The following afternoon, Aidan walked through the garden to see that Sophia had more than kept her word. Perkins had trimmed the climbing rose, removed the trellis, and begun to dig a small pond at the base of her balcony.

He entered the library to find it filled with flowers. He groaned. He should have realized it would happen. A number of the male guests were bachelors or widowers, and Sophia was a young widow of means. Even had she not been beautiful in the dress, its gray and black calling into relief her dark hair and eyes, she would have had suitors. Her cool distance had warmed over the last weeks into a soft reserve. Any of the men of rank would have seen her as a fine match.

As for Aidan, he'd spent the evening making sure not to look at her, not to respond each time he heard her voice. Phineas was openly suspicious, and it didn't suit Aidan's purposes for Phineas to meddle. Aidan had left early to avert speculation, but he'd slipped back through the mews, hoping to capitalize on her success—and on Ian's absence—to begin their affair earlier than he'd promised.

Somehow he'd let the night, the nearness of her, the smell of her skin, all carry him away. But he was not a young man to be carried away by his passions. He could wait. For, in her room, angry and wielding a poker, Sophia had resembled the spirited woman of his youth, and he'd known that retreat would be his best strategy. But this new Sophia—certain of herself and her limits—was a woman worth seducing.

He picked up the stack of calling cards and began to sort through them, making two piles. No and maybe.

“Separating the sheep from the goats.” Sophia looked over his shoulder as she walked past him, a vase of flowers in her hand. “That's thoughtful of you, but unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary? Your remarriage would affect Ian. Therefore it's my obligation to offer my advice.” Aidan felt unexpectedly provoked. He wanted her to have nothing to do with any of them, but could do nothing to stop her if she so wished. He held up the cards one after another, assessing their senders. “Blakey, inveterate gambler; Debenham, old enough to be your grandfather and opposed Wilberforce and the abolitionists; Ratchett . . .”

“Why don't you just focus on the ones who are acceptable? It's the smaller pile.” Sophia seemed to be enjoying baiting him. She had placed the vase on a table near her easel and taken out some pieces of charcoal.

“By my count, six.” He drew close to watch her pick out a piece of large paper, turn it to the unused side, and attach it to the easel.

“So many. Surprising. Tell me their names, nothing more.” Her manner had changed in the last several days, more vibrant, less weary. It wasn't the success of her party last night, though that was part of it. At last she appeared at ease with him.

“Montmorency, Bentinck, Courcy, Desmond, Montalbert, and Sinclair.”

“Excellent. Now if you could throw all the cards in the bin, I would be grateful. I intended to be away from home if any of them called, but I'll be especially careful to avoid those six.” She began to sketch, long lines and short curves, looking to the vase and back to her paper.

“Whatever for? All have either substantial fortunes, or peerages, or talent, connections, ambition, education.” He stepped to stand directly behind her. He resisted the urge to put his hands on her shoulders. The memory of last night's kiss was still too present in his mind.

“I have no intention of remarrying. Besides we'll be gone in less than a week; it would be silly to encourage any of them, only to have to correspond with them for months.” The first of the flowers came clear in the lines of her drawing, then the next.

“Well, you'll have to remember that tonight when they crowd my box at the opera wanting to talk with you.”

“Tonight?” She set down her pencil and looked over her shoulder at him. She looked longingly back at the still life, barely begun. “Ian is staying in Kensington until tomorrow with his cousins, and I thought to spend the evening here, painting.”

“It's Kate's birthday; Ophelia and I discussed the outing last night, but you were busy with your guests. I picked up the remainder of your wardrobe this morning at Elise's, so you have no excuses. Your maid is putting the clothes away as we speak.”

He watched her face transform with suspicion.

“Don't worry. These are the dresses
you
ordered. And Elise is sending you the bill. I just served as delivery man.”

“Not a single party dress was ready yesterday, but today the whole wardrobe is done?”

“Odd, isn't it?” He ran his hand through his wavy dark hair and feigned innocence.

“More than odd.” She held his eyes to emphasize her point. “But if it's likely to happen again, I will need to find a modiste more interested in my trade.”

“I'm certain this was a special circumstance.” It was neither an admission nor a promise, but it was a retreat of sorts.

Nodding knowingly, she turned back to her painting. “I didn't realize Kate liked the opera.”

“If you must know, Ophelia suggested the new water drama at Sadler's Wells. I hastily proposed the opera instead.” Aidan met her eyes and smiled, disarmingly. “You once confided that you wished to see the opera.”

“Oh, but when we first got to Italy, we went many times,” Sophia objected.

“But
I
have never taken you, and you have never been to the opera in London.” His voice held a hint of sternness, then he lightened it. “Besides, you have grown too used to seclusion these past months, and after last night's success, you should celebrate with an evening out.”

“Even so, what would Kate prefer for her birthday?” Sophia looked at the unfinished image with clear regret.

“Kate will enjoy being wherever her suitors can easily find her,” Aidan reassured. “And as for your painting, I promise that when we arrive at my country house, I will set up a studio where you can paint all day if you wish.” He watched her expression turn from disappointment to pleasure. He wanted to tempt her, to make her look on their trip with eager anticipation.

“Well, then, I suppose I cannot refuse.”

“I'll pick you up in my carriage then. Three hours from now will allow us to slip into my box just late enough to avoid interference from your new beaux.” He threw all the calling cards in the dustbin as he left.

* * *

Aidan's box had one of the better views of the stage. The first row was taken by Ophelia, Kate, and Ariel, who chattered excitedly and waved at their friends in other boxes until the music began. Sophia and Aidan were seated in the second row.

Their bodies concealed behind the three women, no one could see Aidan's subtle liberties. A leg that leaned against Sophia's gently, a hand lingering on hers as he handed her the program or the opera glasses. Had there not been the kiss in the garden, that exquisite moment of passion, even she might have believed him unmoved by her nearness, and she suddenly saw their last trip in a carriage in a new light. Had the passion been present all along—and not just on her side? Before she had steeled herself to ignore his touches, but now each glancing touch reminded her of his lips against hers; the touches kept her off-balance.

Before her marriage, she had imagined just such a night at the opera, the swell of the music surrounding them, feeling its rhythms echoed in her chest. But she'd never imagined she and Aidan would be sitting in a box together; no, she'd imagined being crowded into his side in the crush of the upper galleries. She closed her eyes, listened to the intricate harmonies of the singers. She felt the nearness of him, imagined she was once more a young girl in the first flush of love and he was the charming boy who had stolen her heart. Then, she let the present moment replace the past longed-for one. It might have been ten years too late, but in every other way, it was almost perfect.

At the intermission, all gracious good manners, he offered to retrieve lemonades for them all. Sophia accepted with a grateful smile, but Kate and Ariel had already identified another box they wished to visit. “We'll be back before the next act.” And they—with Ophelia in tow—slipped out of the box, laughing and whispering behind their fans.

Aidan stood. Sophia watched her dream of him merge into the real man standing before her. “I'll be back shortly. But let me give you some privacy while I'm gone—or rather conceal you from all those suitors you insist you don't want.” He smiled and drew the curtain partway.

* * *

As Sophia waited, she wondered what her life might have been like if she'd married Aidan instead of Tom. In the past weeks, Aidan had been considerate, kind, and often even charming, and in his garden . . . Even the memory made her flush.

But she often caught glimpses of another, harder man under his charming façade. Was the change in him the result of his experiences during the wars, or just the natural consequence of aging? If they had married, would he have retained more of his youthful good humor? Or would the strain of living on little money (for neither of them had fortunes) have evoked the same sternness she puzzled over now? Or would none of it have mattered? Was their character as adults somehow predetermined and not fully a creation of the events that had transpired to separate them?

She heard a footfall behind her and began to turn. But a gloved hand covered her mouth from behind, and an unknown person pulled her chair back into the darkest part of the box. She grabbed the arms of her chair to keep from falling, but before she could react, fight, or scream, she was stunned into silence by the glitter of the knife blade as it moved to her neck. With one hand on her mouth and the knife in the other, the man whispered.

“Lady Wilmot.” The man's voice was cultured, English, and vaguely familiar. “If you scream or attempt to attract any notice, I will not hesitate to use this blade. Your friends will find you, blood ruining your precious dress, a gaping wound at your neck. Then your son will have no parents to care for him. If you agree to be still, place your hands in your lap.”

Sophia slid her hands from the sides of the chair and clasped them together in her lap.

“Good. I'm going to move the knife to your back, so that no one grows suspicious if it glints in the light.”

She watched the knife move out of the corner of her eye. The knife was old, a curved blade with swirls in the metal. She tried to remember its pattern in case she needed to recognize it later. The knife slipped from her view. She felt its point behind her heart.

“I'm going to release your mouth—I have some questions for you. But be assured: I'm an efficient killer. If you attempt to gain anyone's attention, you'll be dead before they understand you are in trouble.” To emphasize his intention, he pushed the side of the blade into the skin across her backbone. He moved his hand from her mouth to her shoulder, his fingers holding her so tightly that they bit into the skin at the base of her neck.

“I had business with your husband. He died before that business was concluded. As a result, I have business with you. Your husband had some papers of mine. He was to send them to England for me, but those papers never arrived, and I was unable to find them in your villa in Naples.”

Sophia stifled a gasp.

“Therefore, you must have brought them to England. You will return those papers to me, or . . .”

“I've gone through all my late husband's papers,” she whispered. “There was nothing that belonged to anyone outside the family.”

The knife pressed harder against her back.

“Let me explain it more clearly, Lady Wilmot. In the last week of his life, your husband entertained a man who brought him these papers.”

“No one visited my husband the week before he died. He was too ill for guests,” Sophia tried to explain.

“Your husband, my dear, had visitors even on the night of his death.”

Sophia gasped again.

“Your husband was a spy, Lady Wilmot. He took sensitive materials and converted them into code, so that they would be secure to send by mail to England. But the code hasn't arrived, nor have I been able to find the papers themselves. I give you one week to find my papers and deliver them to me, or . . .”

“Or what?” she whispered.

“Let's just say that I find suitable punishments for those who anger me. Something that you'll regret losing till the day you die. Or I might kill you—though, I assure you, it would not be a simple death.”

Sophia heard laughter in the hall, the sound of Aidan's voice. She tried not to react. But the man heard it as well.

“I must be going. Don't turn around until your friends return.” He released her neck, but kept the blade of the knife at her back. “I'll send you a messenger at the end of the week with instructions for handing over the documents. And Lady Wilmot: tell no one.”

Then the blade was gone. And the box was empty.

Sophia pressed her hand to her neck and felt the heavy thud of her pulse. She'd heard him leave, but she was afraid to move. Aidan would be here in a moment, then she would know her assailant was gone.

“Lemonade, my lady.”

She breathed in deeply, then out. She was safe.

But Ian? She had to go home. Then she remembered: Ian was in Kensington with Nate. Not in London. Safe.

But she still had to leave.

* * *

She didn't answer when he offered the lemonade. He knew something had changed. He'd watched her face as she listened to the music, open, joyful, so like the young Sophia he had loved. He'd left her smiling, relaxed, finally comfortable with him.

Then, in the time he'd been gone, that woman had disappeared, replaced by a Sophia who was visibly disturbed and wary.