Accursed (3 page)

Tamara stood and crossed the room, striding toward Sophia. “That’s enough.”

At first, the other girl stood her ground, but as Tamara got closer, she stepped back against the window, placing her hand on the warm dark wood of the sill. She may have been intimidated, but she never took her eyes away from Tamara’s.

Keeping her voice even, Tamara said, “Miss Winchell, if you must disdain our amusements, and our company, you might at least have the good taste not to do so when you are
in
our company. Your rudeness knows no bounds.”

Sophia met her gaze evenly. “You don’t frighten me, Tamara Swift. I know exactly what you are.”

Tamara nodded. “And what is that, may I ask?”

Sophia bit the inside of her lip, her hazel eyes slitted as she glared at the woman who stood before her. She put a small, pale hand to her hair, unconsciously smoothing it.

“I shall tell William how wicked
all
of you are,” Sophia said shrilly. She glanced quickly at the other girls, as if memorizing their faces for some subsequent vengeance. Then her features softened and Tamara almost thought she saw regret in her eyes.

But the moment passed, and Suzanne laughed harshly. “You may tell him whatever you like. I’ve known William Swift most of my life, and I daresay all you will elicit from him is a furious blush and a bit of an embarrassed cough. And after all, he’s husband to none of us, dear. Not yet, at least.”

Sophia set her teacup down on a side table and started for the door. As she did so, she turned and peered over her shoulder. “Good day, Miss Swift. I hope you realize that I only accepted this invitation because William pleaded with me to do so.”

As she opened the door, Tamara called out, “And
you
should know that it was only extended under the same duress.”

Sophia didn’t stop to reply. The resounding slam of the door was more than answer enough.

Tamara let out a loud sigh, then plopped back down on the settee.
Whatever shall I tell William?

A
S THE AFTERNOON
light waned, William Swift shifted in his chair so that his shadow did not fall across the papers on his desk. The wind had conspired on this day to brush aside much of the grime and chimney spew that so often stained the sky above the city. Yet he had been unable to take any pleasure in the weather, trapped, as he was, in his tomb of an office within the walls of Swift’s of London. He shared little in common with Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, but nevertheless the bank had become his own albatross. His father had truly enjoyed this work, but William had never been able to force himself to take a genuine interest in it.

Yet now it was his duty. Swift’s of London had been controlled by the family for generations, and he would be damned before he would allow it to crumble under his stewardship.

So he tried to focus upon his work, but found himself staring blankly at the sheet of numbers that sat on his desk. He knew he was supposed to review the documents, and then put his signature on the paper agreeing to a merger of some sort, but somehow all he could do was stare at the page.

It wasn’t actually the figures themselves that interested him, but the way they were arranged on the paper. He couldn’t help but compare them to the architectural structure they suggested: that of an Egyptian pyramid. It reminded him of his avocation previous to his father’s incapacitation. William had been an apprentice architect, and that was still where his interests lay.

Not here.

Anywhere but here.

William blinked, clearing his mind. He ran his hands through his thick black hair and reached for his fountain pen, which he had set down near the edge of the desk. He took the dropper from a small bottle of ink that sat next to the blotter and began to fill the pen.

There was a knock on the door, and the pen slipped from William’s grasp, spilling ink on the desk before it fell to the floor. He thought briefly about compelling the flood of ink back into the bottle with magic, but there was another insistent hammering on the opposite side of the door.

“Damn it!”
He slid down off his chair to retrieve the pen and barked at the door. “Enter!”

Hinges squeaked as the door swung wide to allow entrance to his assistant, Harold Ramsey. He was only a year younger than William, but Harold’s baby face and pale blond hair often led strangers to think he was still a schoolboy.

“Pardon me, Will,” Harold said. Then he noticed the pool of ink on William’s desk. “How in the world—” he began, but his sharp eyes instantly alighted on something they found of more interest. He nodded to himself, bemused.

“You’re still having a go at those?” he said, pointing to the drafting paper covered in William’s spidery scrawl. William immediately shoved the architectural sketches underneath a prospectus and glared at Harold.

“Not a word,” William warned.

Harold took a step back, hands raised in mock supplication. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Though I haven’t any idea why you should be so concerned. It’s no secret that you’d much rather return to your apprenticeship than preside over Swift’s.”

William laughed softly. “Dante said it is better to rule in Hell than to serve in Heaven. I’d argue the point.”

He and Harold had been at Cambridge together, which accounted for the easy familiarity between them. In fact, when Henry Swift had become ill the year before, and William had taken over the family business, he had purposely sought Harold out. If he was to captain a vessel as massive as Swift’s of London, he wanted someone he could trust at his side.

“You don’t fool me,” Harold told him. “You don’t despise
every
moment you spend here.”

William arched an eyebrow. “Yes, there’s lunchtime.” He grinned. “But as you say, old friend. I’ll allow that the people who toil here at Swift’s make the days bearable. And there is some pleasure to the challenge of the responsibility that’s been thrust upon me. But you know I have other ambitions, and they call to me.”

Harold nodded. “I know. And I hope you can return to them one day. At the moment, however, you might want to attend to Miss Winchell.”

“Sophia? What of her?”

“She’s downstairs.”

William frowned. “Sophia’s meant to be at Ludlow House today, for tea. This doesn’t bode well.”

“Shall I bring her up?” Harold asked.

William gestured at the spill of ink on the desk. “I’m afraid I’ve made a mess here.”

“I don’t think she’ll care. She seemed rather upset, actually.”

William sighed. “Oh, Tamara, what have you done?”

“What shall I tell her?” the younger man asked, straightening his jacket and stepping farther into the office. He glanced over his shoulder, and William could see past him into the main hall of the bank, with its etched-glass tellers’ windows, oil lamps at each station, and the column-encircled atrium at the center with glass above to let in the daylight. It was the most elegant building on Threadneedle Street.

“Where is she now?” William asked.

“I left her at the manager’s desk but her maid, Elvira, is having quite the time keeping her there. She tried to follow me, but the old woman wouldn’t hear of it. Muttered something about a lady of ‘breeding.’ ”

Harold looked as if he was amused by the memory.

Indeed, the idea of Sophia behaving improperly put a smile on William’s face. So much of his time was spent worrying about propriety that he often found himself thrilled by Sophia’s boldness.

Today would no doubt be an exception.

“Send her up, Harold. Putting her off would only delay the inevitable.”

After Harold left, William tried as best he could to clean up the spilled ink, but only managed to smear more of it across the wooden surface. When he straightened up again, he found Sophia standing in the doorway, watching him.

She was so exquisite that it seemed as if his memory could never quite hold the fullness of her beauty for long, so that each time he saw her he experienced the realization of her anew. Her dark hair hung in ringlets that framed her face, draped across high cheekbones, and culminated in a loose chignon at the back of her neck. Her pale skin was ivory smooth and in deep contrast to the burgundy of her dress. William thrilled at her tiny waist and the way her delicate fingers peeked out from her lace cuffs.

As he studied the face beneath her burgundy bonnet, he registered the flash of anger in her hazel eyes. Then she smiled, and the anger drained away, leaving only alert intelligence in its wake.

“Hello, William.” Her voice was warm, and sweet as honey.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He tried to swallow, but found that his throat had gone dry.

“What brings you here this afternoon, my dear?”

Sophia stepped over the threshold. Bypassing the armchair in the corner, she moved to the desk and crossed behind it. There she pressed her hands atop the desk and hoisted herself up, sliding her bottom across the wood and yet somehow managing to maintain a certain elegant decorum. She was, of course, careful to avoid the pool of spilled ink.

William felt a small tremor go through him. Sophia was sitting facing him, her right thigh resting on the desk inches from his hand. If he had wanted to, he could’ve reached out and rested it on her waist or her knee. Just the nearness of her flesh, even covered as it was by burgundy silk, drove William to distraction. His pulse quickened and abruptly all his hesitation began to evaporate. An almost predatory desire rose in him.

Sophia gazed at him intently, as if studying him. She had to have seen the effect her nearness and her decidedly unladylike perch had produced, and yet she only smiled thinly, one eyebrow arching again.

He stood and walked over to the door.

“I would hate for anyone to walk by and see you sitting so near and . . . and mistake my assuaging your frustration with . . . I mean to say, misinterpret my intentions.” He closed the door and paused to take a breath before turning to face her again.

Sophia shook her head in fond humor. “And what about
my
intentions? In any case, William, I hardly think that my sitting on your desk would be any more scandalous than the fact that the two of us are behind closed doors, in your place of business.”

His eyes widened. He’d been in such a hurry to afford them some privacy that he hadn’t even considered—

Sophia laughed, the sound ushering from deep inside her throat. “You are so incredibly proper, William Swift. You needn’t worry. My Elvira can certainly be counted upon for her discretion. And as for your employees, why, they
are
your employees, aren’t they? They rely upon you for their livelihood. I shouldn’t think you would have to worry overmuch that their tongues might be wagging.”

She slid her own tongue out over her lips. “Mine, however . . .”

William cleared his throat.

“Perhaps we ought to quit this dreary place, my dear. The Hotel Edison has a lovely tearoom. Have I taken you there? I think not. We can’t stay here, really. I’ve spilled ink all over the place and I wouldn’t want you to ruin your dress.” The words escaped his mouth before he could reel them back in. He felt like such a fool, babbling on like that. And now images flashed through his mind of the sort of activities that might cause Sophia to ruin her dress due to the ink on the desk. Her dress . . . spread across the desk.

Part of him was
terrified
of being alone with Sophia Winchell. She was like one of Odysseus’s sirens: mesmerizing and exotic, completely foreign to his experience. Yet because she was so entrancing, he knew he wouldn’t have the strength to resist her siren song. He would gladly dash himself upon the rocks to reach her.

“A little ink won’t hurt anyone, darling William,” she said, beckoning him toward her.

His eyes locked on hers. Warily, he returned to his desk, but did not sit down. The way she sat there on the edge of the desk, her dress had risen enough that he could see her ankles and calves, the smooth curve of muscle. His breath caught in his throat.

“Harold said that you seemed upset,” he said, forcing his gaze away from her legs.

Sophia took his hand and laced her fingers with his, then drew him toward her and leaned her head upon his shoulder. “I
was
upset. Then I saw you, and everything else seemed insignificant.”

“Well, I’m pleased to have such an effect upon you.”

“It is far from the
only
effect you have on me.”

Sophia’s words echoed inside him. William could scarcely breathe now. Blood rushed through him, embers stoked into open flame. With his free hand, he began to stroke the small of her back. He could feel the hardness of her corset underneath his fingers.

“William,” she said. “I do have something important to tell you.”

The smell of her hair, lavender and vanilla, made him tremble with desire. He found himself having a hard time concentrating on her words.

“What is it, my love?”

“I’m concerned for Tamara. Her friends are vulgar girls of low character, and her very association with them impugns her. With your father incapacitated, I know there is a great burden on you to be master of Ludlow House, and yet you have indulged your sister with love and patience. I wonder if this has instilled in her too much independence.”