Scandal (26 page)

The voices stopped.

So did Sophie. Just a moment's hesitation. Only a moment. She continued into the foyer. “John?”

The entrance was dark. Their butler was there, rousted from his sleep. He wore a long coat over his nightshirt, and he'd only partially succeeded in smoothing down his hair. Another man, too tall to be John, stood with him. She smelled wet wool. Drops of water plunked onto the floor.

“Banallt?” she said.

Banallt dropped his umbrella into the stand by the door. “Forgive me,” he said. He sounded tired and something else, too, but she could not fathom what that odd note was. “I'm aware it's not a decent hour of the night,” he said. He meant that for the butler, who held out his hands for Banallt's things. He shrugged off his dripping greatcoat and handed over his hat. Still silent, he stripped off his gloves and dropped them into his upturned hat. He rubbed his hands together.

She didn't dare ask him anything directly. Not yet. Miss George's potential ruin was not a subject to be discussed in front of the servants.

He addressed the butler. “Wake someone, please, and have my horse seen to. It's too cold and wet to leave him outside.”

“My lord.” The butler nodded and reached for the pull that would summon a servant. Raindrops fell from Banallt's coat onto the floor.

“I know it's late,” Sophie said to the butler. “But would you bring tea to the front parlor?” She turned to Banallt. “My lord, I'm sure you'd like something hot to drink.”

“Yes.” He was a dark shape melting into the doorway. He stood there, a silent figure, for too long. “Thank you, Sophie.” There was a bass note in his words that trembled with some meaning she could not divine. She began to think they had not successfully intercepted Drake. “Tea is an excellent idea,” he said.

“John isn't home yet,” she said to Banallt as the butler left. “Were you thinking he'd made it back before you?”

He walked toward her. Another servant came from downstairs, heading for the parlor, else, Sophie was certain, Banallt would have spoken, perhaps told her that Miss George had not been rescued after all. Instead, he took her arm, his expression completely unreadable.

In the parlor, the servant had relit the fire and was just putting flame to a lantern. The room was not bright. Nor was it dim, not with Sophie's light added, for she'd brought her own lamp along with her. The servant darted a look at Banallt then at her. She ducked her head and fled.

“Miss George?” Sophie asked, sinking onto the sofa. The news must be bad indeed. Drake must have escaped them.

“She has been returned to her parents. Unharmed.” Drops of rain slid down his inky hair.

“Thank goodness.” She gestured to a chair, and as she did she saw the ink smears on the outside edge of her palm. As black as Banallt's hair. “Do sit, Banallt. Please.”

“Sophie, I—”

Someone brought in tea, and she murmured a thank-you without registering whether the servant was male or female. The tray had two cups, a pot with the tea already added, a bowl of sugar, and some milk.

“What is it, Banallt?” She made his tea and held it out to him. He took it and stepped back.

“You were right about Drake,” he said. “He intended to compromise Miss George and force a marriage on her.”

“As we knew,” she said. “I'm glad to hear she's safe. Did John return her to her parents? Is that why he's not here yet?”

He spread his ungloved hand over his lower face. “Sophie—” He dropped his hand and took a sip of tea. He set the cup down too hard on the saucer so that it rattled. He put down both. “I am...” Words caught in his throat. “There's—we caught up to them outside London. At an inn. They were undoubtedly headed for Scotland.”

“Oh my. Thank goodness you stopped them.”

He started to speak and then didn't. Instead, he seemed to catch himself, and Sophie ruthlessly tamped down the emotion that roared at her. “Your brother found them first. We were searching the inn room by room—” He touched his tongue to his lower lip. “She might have been—matters could have been much worse for her. If your brother had been a moment later—”

She leaned forward. “Miss George is all right, isn't she?”

“Sophie.” He held up a hand. “Please, Sophie. You must let me speak.” He held her eyes. She went still. Still as death. She knew. She knew and still she had to let him say the words. In the silence, the clock on the mantel ticked away the seconds. Her chest went numb and her arms, well, she wasn't entirely certain they were connected to her body.

“You will forever associate me with this news,” he said softly. “And I—” He pressed his lips together. “Drake ... had a pistol. I'm sorry, Sophie, but your brother was shot.”

“No,” she said. “That can't be.” She didn't move. She saw his lips part, though not much. Hardly at all. He didn't speak. “Is John all right?”

He took a step toward her then stopped. “No,” he whispered. “He's not.”

“Please be perfectly plain, Banallt.” She sat there, the scent of tea surrounding her and Banallt. With the sound of fire and the clock ticking and the patter of rain against the windows. She thought to herself that if she said nothing more, he wouldn't, either, and she would never hear what would break her heart. “Is John alive?”

“I'm sorry, Sophie. No.” He took a step toward her but stopped short again. “He was dead when I got there. I heard the shot.” He drew a breath. “Five minutes sooner, and I might have—”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came. Her ears refused to hear; her voice was gone.

When Tommy died, there had been such a hubbub. His mother had heard the news first, so that by the time Sophie came downstairs to see what on earth was causing such a fuss, several women were bending over Mrs. Evans and fanning her. Half a dozen men were in the room, and Tommy's body was stretched out on the couch. Someone had walked over and closed his eyes. Hardly anyone had noticed she was there.

But now, she'd heard Banallt's words and didn't know how to make sense of them. Her mind refused to understand. She swallowed hard and lifted her eyes to him. She wanted to shout that it must be his fault. That he ought to have been more careful. They should never have split up.

In two steps he was at her side. “I blame myself. And will for the rest of my life. I'd give anything if I'd found Drake first.” He sat beside her and pulled her into his arms. She let him fold his arms around her. “Shall I call a doctor, Sophie? Do you need anything? My God, you're so pale.” She shook her head. He rubbed her hand between his. “Your hands are freezing.”

“I'm fine.”

“Sophie,” he whispered, sliding his arms around her. “Sophie, let me take your tears.”

Gently, slowly, she softened against him, fingers clutching his coat. Some sound disturbed them, brought her out of a world in which only she and Banallt lived. She lifted her head and saw the butler, housekeeper, and other servants crowded in the open doorway. The housekeeper had a blanket around her shoulders, one corner pressed to her eyes. They'd heard the news, then. They must have known before she did.

Banallt tightened his arms around her. “The culprit was apprehended and will receive his just deserts, I assure you of that.” He waited for reaction and got it, as a series of gasps and sobs and murmured prayers. “Mrs. Evans will need you all in the coming days.”

She was afraid to let herself feel. Mustn't there be some mistake? John couldn't be dead. He was in love.

“The poor master!” The housekeeper sobbed into the corner of her blanket.

“I hope you can be persuaded to stay,” he said to the staff. His arms tightened around Sophie's shoulders. “Regardless, your wages will be paid to you through the end of the quarter.”

Sophie did a rapid calculation of the money she knew was on hand and thought that, if she was frugal, she would be able to pay their wages. But only just. And if her calculations were wrong? She would have to write. Selling a book would see her through a shortfall. But she would have to be very careful with her money.

“If Mrs. Evans is not available to give you a character,” Banallt continued, “by all means apply to me. I know you've given excellent service here.”

The housekeeper edged past the butler and came inside. She folded her blanket around Sophie's shoulders. “We'll stay,” she said. “Don't worry yourself about that, milord. We know you'll do right by us.”

“Thank you,” Sophie murmured.

“Never you mind, Mrs. Evans,” the housekeeper said. “Poor, poor dear. God rest your brother's soul.”

Banallt pulled the blanket up higher, and Sophie reached up to hold it tight. The housekeeper bent a knee, and then she hurried out, shooing everyone away from the door and closing it softly after her.

After a time, Sophie lifted her head to him. She touched his cheek. His skin was cold. “Are you sure?” she asked. “Couldn't there be some mistake?”

“No, Sophie.” His voice turned to a whisper halfway through. “I'm sorry, no.”

“It doesn't feel real.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “Drake will be tried, I promise you. He's been arrested.” He stroked her hair. “I saw to that. And to John's body as well. I'll take care of everything.”

Sophie started shaking. She couldn't stop even with the fire going and the blanket around her shoulders. She had no one. John had been her only living relative, and now she was alone.

“You'll tell me if there's anything you need?” He put his hands on either side of her face and tilted her head. “Promise me,” he said. “Promise you'll tell me.”

Lord help her, she kissed him. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him, and after a moment, he kissed her back. And it wasn't a kiss between friends. Her lips clung to his, salty, desperate. When he pulled away, she said, “Stay with me, Banallt. Please. Stay and make love to me. I can't bear to be alone.”

Twenty-two

BANALLT STROKED SOPHIE'S THROAT, HIS FINGERS PAUSING at the top of her chest. “Darling,” he whispered. His heart was breaking. Was broken. Had been ripped to pieces since the moment he'd burst into Drake's room and saw Mercer lying on the floor. “Sophie, darling, I can't. I want to desperately, you don't know how desperate I am now, but you're in shock. You're not yourself. You don't know what you're asking.”

“Don't leave me, Banallt.” Her voice felt as liquid as her eyes, and her need shook him. “Please, don't leave me here alone.”

“Never.” He leaned forward. “I'll never leave you, Sophie. Not ever.” He kissed her once and then again, more desperately. “Whatever you need,” he said in a low voice.

Tears glittered in her eyes, bright in her pale face. She smiled, but the corners of her mouth trembled. “When you sound like that,” she said, “I believe you.”

“Believe it,” he said. He brushed the pad of his index finger over her lower lip. “If you need me to stay, I will.”

She lifted her face to his again, and he let her kiss him. He knew he shouldn't. But she tasted good, and he just had no control with her, and she clung to him as if she might never let go. He tried to concentrate on why he shouldn't be allowing this, but all he could think was that he needed her, too. Her hand slid down, and then slipped between them, fingers gliding down the front of his breeches, along the length of his erection.

“God, Sophie.” He wanted to pull away, but he couldn't. While he watched, she freed him from his trousers and underclothing. Her fingers curled around him. Slid up the entire length of him. He propped one hand on the sofa, fisted tight, and let his head fall back, his eyes shuttered. His palm cupped her head, and his fingers, still tangled in her hair, flexed then tightened. “Jesus,” he whispered.

Then, her head dipped. Her tongue touched him, and his hips lifted toward her. She took him in her mouth. Warm, and slick. His body tensed, his hands gripped her head, and she stopped.

“Sophie,” he said. His voice sounded thick and gruff. “You don't have to do this. I won't leave you. I promise.”

“Hush,” she said. “This is what I need.”

He leaned back until his shoulders hit the arm of the sofa and Sophie followed and began again. Using her mouth and tongue on him. She didn't have any pity whatever. He shifted, writhed, and clamped his mouth shut tight to keep back a shout, and all the while he had one of his hands around hers, showing her what he wanted from her and how. After a time, she pushed his fingers away because she knew exactly when to stop again and when to start. He trembled.

“Jesus, God.” A moan rose up in his throat, and he moved in her mouth, wringing from her, he thought, the very last bit of pleasure to be had. After a while, when he had his breath back, he pulled her into his arms and turned them both so he leaned against the arm of the sofa with her back to his front and her bottom snug against his groin.

If she needed this from him, then she would have it. All of him. He belonged to her now and had for ages; all the months he was in Paris, he'd belonged to her. His heart. His soul. His being. He slid his hands, fingers pointed downward, from her throat to her bosom and then to the fastenings of her nightrobe. “What soft, soft skin you have.” She moaned and pressed herself against him, as needy as he'd been. He left his hands there and bent his head to kiss the side of her throat. And then he brought her head back so he could kiss her again, as desperately as before.
Sophie. His Sophie. His.

She twisted around and rose up on her knees, looking at him with eyes that killed him. “Banallt,” she whispered. “I want you.”