The Millionaire Rogue (21 page)

“V
iolet?”

“There isn't time,” Hope murmured in Sophia's ear. “Come with me.”

Over her shoulder, Sophia nodded her apologies to the marquess, who looked as if she'd just stabbed him in the heart. Hope felt a twinge of guilt at the smirk that rose to his lips.

A
twinge.

His hand on the small of her back, Hope gathered Sophia against him. Together they shoved their way through the crowd, gulping fresh air as they tumbled out onto the street.

Farther down the lane, Hope watched the vague outline of a lone rider disappear into the darkness, the tails of his coat waving behind him like a standard.

It was the earl, in hot pursuit of whoever had taken Violet.

Hope turned to see Harclay's gleaming carriage loom just down the lane; its team of matching Andalusians was short one horse—the horse Harclay now rode to God knows where.

“What happened?” Hope caught the man lingering beside the coach. “Where is the earl going?”

The man turned; Hope recognized him as Harclay's butler, Mr. Avery. Beneath Hope's touch Avery stiffened, but his eyes gleamed with recognition; after a moment he nodded.

“Mr. Hope, I am glad to have found you. I don't know exactly what happened, only that the Lady Violet was taken from the ball by a man, perhaps two, and shoved inside a waiting hack that took off before I could stop it.”

“Taken?” Sophia gulped. “As in—as in
kidnapped
?”

Avery looked to Hope before replying. “Yes, Miss Blaise. I'm afraid so.”

“Oh, for God's sake!” For a moment she went limp against him. Though she made no sound, Hope felt her shoulders moving in time to her sobs.

He glanced across the street; there were too many people about, too many prying eyes.

“It isn't safe here. I shall see Miss Blaise and her mother home”—Hope squeezed Sophia when he felt her stiffen in protest—“and we shall await word from you or your master. Or, for that matter, Lady Violet's return.”

“Excellent, Mr. Hope. Godspeed, then.”

Avery turned and made his way down the lane. Hope watched his sturdy figure disappear into the riot of horseflesh and hackneys.

That spider of suspicion—it had just bitten Hope in the neck.

W
hen at last, after spending the better part of three hours sobbing, Lady Blaise fainted—or fell asleep, Hope couldn't quite tell—he got up from his chair by the fire and stretched his arms.

“Are you sure you don't want to sleep?” he asked Sophia. “I'm happy to keep watch.”

She hadn't moved since they'd returned to the house hours ago, and sat hunched over on a nearby settee, staring into the fire with her chin propped upon her fist.

“No, no. It is you who should be sleeping. Violet said you haven't seen your bed in days.”

Hope felt the color rise to his cheeks at those words on her lips. His bed. God, how he missed it. God, how he longed to take her there now, and touch her in ways that would help ease her worry.

“Bah! Who needs sleep? I feel fresh as a daisy.”

“Liar.” Sophia grinned, meeting his eyes.

“Well. Nothing a few pots of coffee can't fix, at least.”

Hope sat down and held out his hand. Sophia glanced over her shoulder; and, certain her mama and uncle had indeed gone up to bed, quietly placed her fingers in his palm.

“Thank you. For staying. I know you've seen enough trouble these past weeks—and now, ha!” She laughed mirthlessly. “Now Violet has been kidnapped. It's like something out of a play, isn't it?”

Hope scoffed, digging into his pocket to retrieve the ridiculous dagger he'd hidden there. “Try me.”

This time her laugh was genuine.

Silence, at once tense and exhausted, settled between them as they gazed into the fire, the hiss of dying embers suddenly too loud to bear.

“I—I assume you've no word of—of that man, Cassin?”

Hope squeezed her hand, gently this time. He looked down at his feet and shook his head. “No. Nothing. I did see the gossip pages, though. I'm terribly sorry, Sophia. Know I'm doing everything possible to keep you safe.”

He swallowed. “I want nothing more than to keep you safe.”

Sophia made a choking sound. He snapped to attention, only to see her tears begin anew.

“Oh, dear.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Did I say something? What is it, Sophia? Please. Please tell me. Seeing you cry makes me want to—to—”

He looked down at the dagger he held in his hand.

“It makes me want to pry out my eyes with this dagger. I'll do it, I will!”

“I'm not,” she snorted, weeping with greater vigor, “
crying
. It's just—just—put that thing away, Thomas.”

Sophia took a great pull of air, letting it out slowly as she closed her eyes in an apparent attempt to calm herself. She dropped his hand.

“I'm sorry.”

Hope leaned back into the chair. “Don't be. Violet will come home, Sophia. Harclay knows what he's doing. He wouldn't let her come to any harm. Besides, he's an earl, for God's sake. No one crosses an earl. It's tantamount to being God, or at the very least Jesus—”

“That's not—” She looked down at her hands, thinking better of what she was about to say. “Thank you, Thomas, for your words of comfort. She'll come back, I know she will. She's
Violet
. Very much like being God, as you say.”

The fire before them was dying; its merry crackling had subsided to small, silent licks of flame.

Silence stretched between Hope and Sophia. A silence filled with all the things he should say. All the things he
wanted
to say.

He pulled his thumb and forefinger across his closed eyes. This waiting, it was terrible; he felt Sophia's pain as if it were his own. He'd lost more than his share of loved ones.

And he did not wish that kind of suffocating grief on anyone.

Least of all the lovely creature on the settee beside him.

Hope felt as if they were wasting precious time. They were alone, they were close, they had nowhere to be. Such moments were fleeting; he knew in the coming days and weeks there would be fewer and fewer of them.

And like the fool he was, he opened his mouth and spoke the first words that came to mind.

Sophia, too, moved to speak, their words tangling as each of them stopped, only to start at the same time yet again.

“So, the marquess—”

“Do you usually attend Almack's—”

A clap of thunder sounded outside, rattling the windowpanes. Sophia leapt to her feet, eyes wide; when the pounding became louder, halting abruptly seconds later, she dashed through the drawing room door. Hope followed a few steps behind; he wanted to be close enough for comfort, but not too close so as to intrude upon a moment between cousins.

He was relieved to hear, just before he stepped into the front hall, a muffled cry of relief, followed by a curse as Sophia squeezed the air out of Violet's lungs in a tight embrace.

Hope closed his eyes and sighed. Thank God.

Violet was back. She was back, and in one, foulmouthed piece.

Thank God.

*   *   *

L
ady Blaise held Violet's face in her hands one last time, smiling tearfully as she pinched her niece's cheeks. Mr. Hope had long since left, wishing them good evening; now the ladies were free to touch and prod and tease one another as they pleased.

“I hope this means we'll never have to attend Almack's again,” Violet said, grimacing after a particularly poignant pinch.

“Once Sophia makes her match,” Lady Blaise winked at her daughter, “we shan't step
foot
in those dreadful rooms. Shouldn't be too long now.”

Violet arched a brow. “You're really going to do this, then? Marry that marquess—Worcestershire? Withering?”

“Withington. You
know
it's the Marquess of Withington, Violet. And no. Yes. Nothing is as yet set in stone. We haven't talked much of our intentions, much less an
engagement
.”

“Haven't talked
much
?” Violet said. “That means you have talked about it. What did he say?”

“Yes, what did he say?” Lady Blaise dropped her hands from Violet's face and turned to Sophia. “I saw him speaking to you during the cotillion. Poor man, he blushed so furiously I feared blood might spurt from his ears!”

Violet and Mama crowded round her, their faces upturned as they waited for a reply. Sophia swallowed, feeling stifled as the ladies drew yet nearer, the air between them thrumming with anticipation.

“Well.” Sophia cleared her throat. “It was nothing, really. A few words about feelings—”

“Feelings! Gah.”

Sophia's shoulders slumped. “That's lovely of you, Violet, really
lovely
—”

“Oh, come here, you silly goose.” Violet laid a hand on Sophia's cheek. “I don't mean to make light of your
feelings
, dearest. It is your feelings that concern me most. I know you've always been a snob about whom you want to marry—”

“Violet,” Lady Blaise warned.

“Let her finish, Mama. Violet offends everyone; we must not take it personally. You may proceed.”

“Thank you, Cousin.” Violet all but rolled her eyes. “As I was saying. I know you've always dreamed of making a splash, and marrying your marquess at St. George's before the queen and all that. But I've seen you with Mr. Hope—”

“Violet!” Lady Blaise sputtered in disbelief. “Really, now you go too far—”

“All right, all right,” Violet demurred. “But I do wonder, Cousin, if having known Mr. Hope hasn't changed those dreams of yours.”

Sophia drew a shaking breath. Was it anger that now rose in her chest, or something else—something akin to pain? Her throat suddenly felt tight; she wondered if she had any tears left. First Hope, now Violet—honestly, how many people would make her weep tonight?

She felt exquisitely tender, and very tired. Weary, as if her heart might give out beneath the great burden of all she'd felt and witnessed these past hours.

Sophia narrowed her eyes at Violet. “Did your captors steal your soul, too? Since when is Lady Violet Rutledge, cardsharp and self-declared spinster, a
romantic
?”

Violet returned her gaze steadily. Sophia had never seen her blue eyes so soft, so full of—dear God—was that
love
?

It shocked Sophia to see Violet thus altered. Shocked her, because she recognized that look in her cousin's eyes.

Sophia had seen it in her own, glancing in the mirror as Fitzhugh had dressed her earlier that evening.

The words left her lips before she could stop them, hand flying to her throat. “
Good heavens
!”

“What?” Lady Blaise's eyes went wide. “Tell me, Sophia, what is it?”

Sophia looked to Violet. A small, knowing smile crept across Violet's lips. She turned to Lady Blaise, looping arms. “Come, Auntie George, it's been one hell of a day. Let's to bed, shall we?”

“We shall.” Lady Blaise looked pointedly at her daughter. “Cousin Violet's nerves are on edge, Sophia, after a traumatic event. Tomorrow she won't remember a thing she's said, and neither should you. Like the ravings of a deranged lunatic, Violet's words are nothing but meaningless jumble.”

Violet scoffed, leading Mama up the stairs. “Deranged lunatic. Such an imagination you have, Auntie George! Come along, now.”

With one last, piercing look at Sophia, Lady Blaise turned and followed her niece upstairs.

For several minutes Sophia stood unmoving in the front hall. In the center of her being her heart worked furiously, sending waves of sensation to every corner of her body. The weariness she'd felt earlier dissipated as readily as a summer storm, replaced by a fierce restlessness that demanded action.

She needed to see him. Now. Tonight.

Before decisions were made and futures decided, she needed to see him.

Him, the man she loved.

*   *   *

D
oor, stairs, cloak, boots.

Sophia stole out into the darkness, working through the route to Duchess Street in her head. She moved quickly, breathless with impatience as she ducked in and out of shadow. Worried her courage would desert her, she moved yet faster, all but oblivious to the sights and sounds of the night around her as Thomas took captive her every sense.

So consumed was she by rather explicit imaginings of a half-naked Hope that she nearly missed the patter of footsteps just off to her right.

Sophia plastered herself against a nearby wall, waiting with bated breath as the footsteps drew nearer. A shadow passed not six inches from where she stood, so close she thought it certain she'd be found out; but the shadow moved on, quickening its pace as it drew out into the street. The scent of tuberose hung in its wake.

Out of the darkness another shadow approached, this one vaguely familiar: tall and broad, with a loping gait and confident, almost cocky, swing of his arms.

Was that?—no, it couldn't be.

Could it?

Sophia watched wide-eyed as Cousin Violet flung herself into the Earl of Harclay's outstretched arms. For several heartbeats they clung to one another, heads moving rapturously as they kissed the sort of kiss to end all kisses.

Sophia drew back against the wall, heart pounding. Violet was doing more than fraternizing with the enemy; and by the way she kissed him, she was doing more even than
that
, too.

How like Violet to be in love with the man she hunted. Sophia rolled her eyes. They stood to lose everything, all of them, and here was Cousin Violet, assaulting the thief's lips as if they, and they alone, were responsible for the crime.

Perhaps it was all part of Violet's plan. Perhaps she was drawing the earl close so as to better aim her dagger. Violet was, after all, far more cunning than even the devious Harclay.

Perhaps.

Besides. Sophia was in no position to judge. Wasn't she the one courting the attentions of a marquess while stealing into a banker's bed at night?

That deuced diamond had thrown them all into a state of chaos. Sophia hadn't felt like her status-obsessed self since she first laid eyes on the French Blue that night in Princess Caroline's drawing room. Perhaps there was truth to Thomas's
History
; perhaps the diamond
was
cursed, and they were all doomed to suffer poetically gruesome deaths.

When at last Cousin Violet and Lord Harclay came up for air, he tucked her into the crook of his arm and together they stalked down the street. Doubtless he would take her to his pile in Hanover Square and ravage her thoroughly in the comfort of his enormous four-poster bed.

Which brought Sophia back to her own intentions to ravage and be ravaged in turn. If Violet and Harclay were to indulge in a doomed affair, then by God Sophia would not be left behind. She had her own hopeless, foolish, irresistible liaison to see to.

By the time she reached Duchess Street, she thought she might burst with anticipation. If she had known how thrilling illicit love affairs would be, Sophia would've dreamt of them rather than miraculous matches with viscounts. It was too late for that. Too late.