The Millionaire Rogue (17 page)

If Hope hadn't wanted to strangle the earl before, he certainly was possessed of the urge now.

The rest of the party followed, Lady Caroline wailing her apologies, Sophia trotting behind in breathless silence.

As if by magic, Sophia's family coach was brought round the front of the house. With great care, Harclay deposited Lady Blaise onto the carriage's cushioned seat. Together they laughed at some private joke, Lady Blaise's eyes twinkling despite being hit in the head by a cue ball.

And then everyone was shrugging into his jacket or her pelisse. As they made their way out the door, Hope noticed Lake and Lady Caroline hanging back in the entry hall. They glared at one another, hungrily.

The earl and Violet, meanwhile, were staring drunkenly into one another's eyes as he helped Violet into the carriage; the horses shuffled and huffed.

Hope's heart hardened at the knowledge the night was over. For a moment he pressed Sophia to him, as if to say,
I am not ready to let you go
. She met his eyes, and from the flickering heat he saw there, Hope could tell Sophia was not ready to let him go, either.

How was it the hours he spent in her presence passed as minutes, seconds, even? He'd been looking forward to this evening for days; and now, in the space of half a heartbeat, it was over.

“Good night, Miss Blaise.” He did not dare say more: that he wanted to see her again, tonight, tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, too. When it came to Miss Sophia Blaise, it was never enough.

Her hand lingered in his as he helped her into the carriage. The sound of Lady Blaise's snoring broke the silence; Sophia bit her lip to keep from laughing.

“Good night, Mr. Hope.”

They met eyes one last time. He knew he was grinning like a fool, but he didn't care. Sophia was happy, and he was, too.

A poignant, bittersweet sort of happiness. He could not bear to see her go; the torture, it was singular and far too painful to witness, especially with brandy in his belly and a gallon of wine besides.

Hope pressed a yellow boy into the groom's palm with instructions that his coach be sent back to his house—yes, yes, he was quite sure he wanted to walk, the night being as fine as it was.

He turned his back and stalked into the darkness.

S
ophia watched Mr. Hope's shoulders disappear into the shadows of Brook Street. Beneath the layers of satin and lace and wine her blood thrummed, skin burning from his touch. She'd never wanted anything more in her life than to follow him down the lane, allow him to swallow her in his arms, put his hands on her as he had that night on the shining expanse of his desk.

Beside her, Mama snored softly, the trauma of tonight's events apparently too much to bear.

Across the coach Sophia met eyes with her cousin; Violet pressed her first fingers to her lips and reached for the latch.

Heaven above, she was going back in!—back to the Earl of Harclay's lair.

If Violet was going, then Sophia was, too. Perhaps it wasn't too late to catch up with Mr. Hope.

“You wouldn't dare. And if you go, I want to come with you,” Sophia hissed.

Violet returned Sophia's gaze; her dark eyes were pleading. “Next time, Sophia, I promise. I'll be home before dawn.”

Before Sophia could protest, Violet bolted from the carriage.

Mama snorted in her sleep. The coach creaked into motion.

Sophia collapsed against the squabs in defeat. Violet and her deuced theories about Harclay being the jewel thief. Seemed more like an excuse to have all the fun, and stay out all hours of the night.

Next time
indeed. Next time Sophia would escape first and never look back.

*   *   *

I
t was well past midnight when they arrived home. Together with the driver, Sophia brought Lady Blaise to her room. She and Fitzhugh undressed Mama and tended to her injury, which, as one might imagine, was no small task.

An hour after Sophia fell into bed, exhausted, she lay awake, unblinking in the darkness, thoughts and body alive with the memory of Mr. Thomas Hope.

She'd been about to confess everything to him in that moment he'd brought up the marquess. Yes, their courtship proceeded apace, and yes, they had become friends, good friends. She liked to think she and Withington genuinely enjoyed one another's company.

In an
innocent
, companionable sort of way. Though their acquaintance was awkward at first, it had blossomed into friendship; and while that friendship was lovely and good, it was certainly no romance.

Sophia did not feel for the marquess the heat, the desire, the longing to know and do and say more that she did for Mr. Thomas Hope. Tonight made her realize that while she felt affection for Withington, her feelings for him would never go beyond that.

Because whatever was
beyond that
—well, she felt it for Thomas. Dear God, merely occupying the same
room
as Hope made her heart soar and blood rush.

She couldn't explain it. All Sophia knew was she'd never felt this way for anyone else—including, it seemed, the Marquess of Withington.

Sophia threw off the covers. It was suddenly stifling in her chamber, her sheets and night rail damp with sweat. She hobbled to her feet, exhaustion ringing in her every limb, and made for the window.

With no small effort she hauled it open. She closed her eyes and took a deep, contented pull of fresh air.

And was then promptly hit in the nose by something cold, hard.

Her eyes flew open, landing on the narrow alley below. There in the shadows stood a figure, its hooded face turned toward Sophia.

“Mademoiselle
.
”
La Reinette's accent was immediately recognizable, even in a whisper. She dropped the rocks she held in her hands and motioned for Sophia to join her. “Your timing is very good. Come, quickly, we hurry.”

Sophia blinked, meeting with mixed success as she attempted to clear Thomas and his fingers from her thoughts.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes!” Madame hissed. “Come, quickly! They will see me.”

Sophia nodded, darting through her chamber as she tossed whatever she found—morning gown, spencer—over her head.

The routine came back to her in a heady rush. She tucked her boots into the crook of her arm; then she listened at the door, sliding into the hall when she was satisfied the house was abed. Down the stair, and down again, tiptoeing through the servants' hall to the kitchen's back entrance.

La Reinette waited just beyond the stoop, hood pulled low. When Sophia appeared the madam looked up, her dark eyes reflecting the shallow light of the night sky above.

They moved through the darkness in silence, Sophia's heart alight as they traced the familiar route. She'd missed this: the clean night air, the gas lamps flickering silently as Sophia's thoughts swirled with scenes from Madame's latest adventure.

The Glossy blazed with light and laughter, a glowing star amid the sea of stony silence that was Mayfair past midnight. La Reinette led her past the back rooms, crowded with men in embroidered waistcoats and the beautiful, butterfly-like ladies who attended them, to a study at the front of the house.

“Come in,
mademoiselle
, we are safe to talk here.”

Pulling back her hood, Sophia stepped over the threshold. Her eyes fell on a familiar figure seated in the slight wingback chair by the fire. He rose to his feet and turned, running a hand through the dark coils of his hair.

“Tho—Mr. Hope!”

He fell into a brief, unsteady bow. The light in the room was low, but Sophia thought she saw his cheeks flush pink.

“Miss Blaise.” His gaze slid accusingly to La Reinette. “I did not know you would be here.”

The madam closed the door and swept into the room, waving away his words. “The news I have, it concerns the both of you. Miss Blaise, she has as much right as you,
mon chéri
, to know these things I have learned. You are naïve, yes, to think you keep her safe by not sharing your secrets.”

She slid into the cane-backed chair behind a small desk. “Do not forget,
Monsieur
Hope. She is smarter than you.”

“Bah! Of course she is. Smarter than me, and most everyone else.” Hope met Sophia's gaze. Her face grew warm when she saw that yes, yes he
was
blushing, and rather adorably at that. “That doesn't make the danger we're in any less real.”

“And so I must help you fight against it.” Sophia held up her hand to keep him from interrupting and turned to La Reinette. “What news do you have, Madame?”

The Little Queen unclasped the round golden locket that hung from her neck, a tiny key falling into her outstretched palm. With the key she opened the first drawer in the desk and retrieved a square of rough paper.

She placed the letter on the desk and slid it toward Sophia and Thomas.

“S'ouvrez-le.”

Open it.

Sophia met Hope's gaze.

“Go on, then.” He nodded at the desk. “
Plus de secrets, mademoiselle
.”

Her blood leapt at the effortless confidence of his French.
No more secrets
.

Sophia reached for the note and unfolded it. She recognized the bold, shaky hand at once; the same hand that penned the threatening letter she'd received some days ago.

She stepped toward the fire, holding the page with trembling hands before the light. Like the previous note, this one was written in flowery, well-formed French.

To the Little Queen of my heart,

My dearest, how long it has been since we saw each other last! You left us so suddenly—even now I burn when I think of you leaving my bed before I had finished—it is a terrible crime to leave a man thus. How thirsty I was then—I swore I would have you again—these years in Paris, they have been cold. But I never forgot your little trick, sweet dove. I never forgot what you did to me. I do not think you have, either.

But fear not, my queen, for at last I am delivered of my suffering—I am in London now—and I would have you finish what you started a decade ago. How old we grow! I think you will agree that life—it is sometimes not worth living at such an age.

I shall come for you. Soon. Do not be afraid—it will be quick, and I hope you will feel no pain, sweet dove.

In Good Friendship,
G. Cassin.

Sophia looked up from the letter. “Who is Cassin? And why does he wish . . . wish you harm?”

Her query was met with silence. She looked from La Reinette to Mr. Hope, a chill creeping in her limbs as she took in his expressionless pallor. His eyes were trained on the madam; she returned his gaze steadily, but from the pucker of her lips, Sophia could tell she was afraid.

Slowly Sophia folded the note in her hands. “No more secrets, remember?”

“Guillaume Cassin.” Hope's voice was quiet, ominous. “A name I never thought I'd hear again.”

“Why? Who is he?”

“He is a man I knew a long time ago. In a different life, before I came to England.”

He took the letter from Sophia, read it; swallowed its contents in the space of a single heartbeat.

He looked up, crumpling the paper in his palm before tossing it into the fire. “We've got to leave. Now.”

“Wait.” Sophia stepped toward him. “A name you never thought you'd hear again? Why?”

Hope's face was grim. “Because he's dead. That's why.”

L
a Reinette leapt to her feet. “But it is safe here,
monsieur
, I have paid extra men to guard the house—”

“We're leaving.
Now
.”

Without waiting for a reply, Hope grasped Sophia by the elbow and blew through the door. She trotted to keep pace with his enormous stride as he led her out into the mews, the madam a few breathless paces behind.

He whistled to the coachman sitting atop a waiting carriage. Though the vehicle was unmarked, its gleaming sides were lacquered a deep shade of red that spoke of discreet luxury.

Hope opened the door and all but lifted Sophia into the coach, helping La Reinette inside before settling into the seat beside Sophia. He pounded twice on the roof and they tore off the drive and into the night.

“We were perfectly safe, yes, back in my study,” Madame sniffed, smoothing her ruffled skirts. “What, do you think I would let that animal make a mess of my house, scare off the clients? Never.”

“He did before.” Hope stared at her. “It was him, wasn't it, that night you shoved Sophia and I into the closet? Cassin, and whatever fools he's paid to do his bidding—they were the riders who gave us chase. How did you not recognize him?”

La Reinette's eyes widened in disbelief. “He wore the—the—” She made a tying motion at the back of her head.

“He wore a mask,” Sophia said, trying not to smile at the quaint gesture. “Makes sense to me.”

Hope dug a hand through his hair. “How did I miss it? I knew I recognized that voice.”

“It has been a long while,” Madame said. “A long while for the both of us. He is back from the dead.”

“
He
. Would someone please tell me who
he
is?”

The carriage bolted left, and Sophia careened across the bench. Thomas grabbed her by the wrist and righted her, his fingers leaving traces of fire on her bare skin.

His touch, it seemed, electrified her no matter the circumstance. Heavens, even in the midst of an escape from an enemy risen from the dead, Hope's hands set her entire being alight. He could with his fingers alone make her forget everything,
every
thing, her good sense and her manners and all that she'd hoped and wished and dreamed for her whole life.

She wished he'd touch her again.

This time with his lips.

La Reinette and Hope met eyes across the coach. For a long moment they looked at one another without speaking. Sophia sensed tension between them, as if this were a subject neither party wished to broach.

“Guillaume Cassin, he was my admirer a long time ago,” La Reinette began. “He inherits a very old banking house, yes, the best in all France. First he loans money to the king. Then he loans money to the emperor. Until I killed him.”

Sophia's breath left her body. She stared at La Reinette as if seeing her for the first time. “You
killed
him? As in.
Shot
him through the
heart
killed him? Or just. Er.
Metaphorically
killed him. With your. Er. Eyes or wiles or whatnot?”

La Reinette smiled, a hard, rueful thing. “Ah, it is a bit of both. He fell in love with me. But I,” she gestured at Hope, “I was working for
monsieur
. And
monsieur
wanted Cassin dead. So, yes. I killed his heart and then I killed the body.
Monsieur
was there, weren't you?”

Hope shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking out the window as if he might leap from it. “Yes. Yes, I was. Not my favorite memory; thank you, Marie, for the kind reminder.

“It is quite simple.” Hope sighed. “I worked for the British. Cassin worked for the Empire, as banker and as spy. His hands are stained with the deaths of hundreds, thousands of men. I won. Except I didn't, apparently.”

“I slit his throat,” Madame said without blinking. “The blood, it was everywhere. It is an impossible thing to survive.”

Sophia closed her eyes against the well of tears.
I slit his throat
. As if that explained everything. As if the words were not at all connected to the horrific act itself.

No, no. Contrary to Hope's belief, this didn't feel simple at all; as a matter of fact it was deucedly complex, especially in the small hours of the morning. Something didn't make sense; there were missing pieces to this puzzle,
big
pieces, though Sophia couldn't begin to guess what they were.

“But what's this Cassin got to do with us?” she said. “He can't be the thief, the man who stole the French Blue. Could he? But we've pegged the earl . . .”

La Reinette shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps no. Cassin has come to settle the score, take blood for blood. The French, we have vengeful hearts. First he will kill me. And then he will come for you,
monsieur
. Already he threatens your woman.”

“But how?” Hope burst. “How the hell does Cassin know about Soph—about Miss Blaise? We—she—we do not belong to one another.”

Sophia's heart twisted at the words he left unspoken.

Miss Blaise belongs to someone else.

“I said before,” Madame continued. “Cassin is a smart man. He will ruin those you care about, yes, and you, you watch in agony. Only then will he come for you.”

Hope drew a long breath through his nose. The stubbly skin along his jaw twitched as silence stretched between them; at his sides his hands were balled into fists.

When he spoke at last his voice was low and mean. “I want you out of London, Marie. Tonight. It isn't safe for you here; it will only be a week, maybe two, before I get my hands on Cassin. I think it best you travel in disguise.”

La Reinette turned her head to look out the window. Outside the coach the night was black.

“These wild days,” she said. “I thought they were past.”

“Yes,” Hope replied. “Me, too. And they will be, once I take care of Cassin. Promise me you'll leave tonight. Do you need money, horses?”

The madam turned back to him and shook her head. “What do you think me, an imbecile? I will not leave a penny for that man to steal. My coach, it is unmarked, like yours.”

“But where will you go?” Sophia asked. “Surely the roads cannot be safe.”

“You will go to my house in Surrey,” Hope replied briskly, “and wait there for further instruction. Do you understand?”

La Reinette raised a brow. “You do not give me an order, do you,
monsieur
?”

“Christ have mercy.” Hope let out a hot breath, tugging a hand through his hair. “You women shall be the end of me, mark my words. Go where you want, then, but keep out of sight. I don't need to tell you Cassin is a dangerous man, and cunning besides. If you are not careful he will find you. Do I have your word?”

Madame stared back at him, her black eyes expressionless. Sophia wondered what she was thinking, how she stayed so calm in the face of all this danger. Heavens, she'd
slit
a man's
throat
, only to face him yet again after he'd come back from the dead. Just the thought of it made Sophia want to howl with terror.

“Yes,” La Reinette said at last, gaze never leaving Hope's. “You have my word. Take me back home, yes, for I must pack my things.”

They rode in silence as the coach backtracked to The Glossy. Sophia's thoughts were a riot, a hundred questions forming as she replayed all that happened, and all she'd learned, in the past few hours.

More than anything she longed to know what would become of them after it was all said and done; what their lives would be like, and would she ever see either La Reinette or Mr. Hope again?

When at last they reached the corner closest to Madame's establishment, she called for the driver to stop. Placing a hand on the latch, she looked back upon Sophia and Hope, and was about to make her exit, when Sophia reached out, impulsively, and placed a hand upon her arm.

“Madame, it has been a great pleasure making your acquaintance these past months. There are few things I enjoyed so much as visiting with you, listening to your stories, the things and people you have known. What an honor it has been”—Sophia swallowed—“to have put those stories to paper. I am better, and happier, for having known you. Thank you.”

La Reinette ducked back into the carriage. She took Sophia's hands in her own and smiled, eyes shining. “No,
mademoiselle
, I am to be the one giving you thanks. Perhaps one day, when this is all done, we might meet again, yes, so we might finish what we started. Go safely,
ma bichette
.” Madame's gaze flicked to Mr. Hope. “And do not let him order you about very much, yes?”

Hope groaned. “That's quite enough of that. Good
evening
, Marie.”

Madame's smile deepened as she winked at Sophia. Squeezing her hands one last time, La Reinette slipped from the coach.

The driver nodded at Hope's murmured instructions, closing the door softly against the snorts and sighs of the horses as they struggled to catch their breath.

Once the door was shut and she was alone with Thomas, Sophia collapsed against her seat, blinking slowly as wide, hot tears coursed down her face and neck.

Perhaps it was saying good-bye, letting go of all she and La Reinette had accomplished; perhaps it was the awful circumstance in which Sophia found herself, the threat of ruin and death very real indeed; or perhaps it was her exhaustion, coupled with her thrumming desire for the man who sat so close beside her she could smell the heat of the valet's iron on his shirt. Whatever it was, Sophia could not swallow her tears.

She inhaled, a shaky, embarrassingly pitiful sound, and wiped her nose with the corner of her hood.

Mr. Hope took her bare hand in his, holding it as he lightly ran his thumb over the ridge of her knuckles.

“Sophia.” He sighed. “Sophia, please. I can bear your domineering and your complete and utter disrespect for everything I say and do, but please, Sophia, I cannot bear to see you weep. It's as you say—neither of us is nearly as good without the other. We are an unbeatable pair. It's going to be all right.”

She scoffed. “You don't really believe that, do you?”

“Well, no. But you must agree we've great luck when we're together. Please, Sophia, don't cry. Here.” He held out a handkerchief. “I promise it's been washed since you used it last.”

Sophia blotted her eyes. “I”—sniffle—“am never one”—sniffle—“to weep. Too much”—sniffle—“work to be done.”

“Never? Not once during your first season?”

“Not”—sniffle—“once. I have yet to meet a gentleman at Almack's worth”—sniffle—“crying about.”

Thomas smiled. “For one who never weeps, you put on a hell of a show for the Princess of Wales. Those sobs of yours were most convincing.”

“I learned from the best.”

He arched a brow. “Your dear mama?”

“My mother would give Mrs. Jordan a run for her money.”

Sophia leaned her head against the cushion and took a deep breath, steadier this time. A beat of silence passed between them. From the corner of her eye she caught Hope's gaze.

“No secrets,” she said at last. “Tell me.”

His eyes were transparent pools of blue in the dim light of the coach. They were clear, honest; devoid of his usual struggle over what he should and should not share with her.

Thomas looked down at their clasped hands and Sophia looked down, too. His enormous hand swallowed hers; the warmth of his calloused skin soothed as much as it inflamed her.

“I haven't told anyone this story.” His voice was low, soft. “Even Lake doesn't know the whole of it.”

Sophia swallowed. It was no small thing, what she now asked of him. London knew very little of Mr. Thomas Hope, and he'd worked hard to keep it that way; the mystery surrounding his name served him well.

But now he volunteered that information to her freely. Her, and her alone. It was an admission of trust and friendship; it was a gesture of goodwill.

No one had trusted Sophia with so much as a schoolroom secret in all her life. And here was Thomas, one of the richest and most important men in England, sharing with her things he'd never told anyone else.

She felt the smart of tears begin anew at his faith in her.

As if reading her thoughts, Hope squeezed her hand. With his free fist he reached up to pound the roof, calling for the coachman to drive until he told him to stop.

Thomas turned to her, using the knuckle of his first finger to wipe away what was left of her tears.

For a moment his gaze flicked to her lips. She knocked her shoulder against his, shaking her head. “No. After, perhaps. But tell me your story first.”