Romancing the Rogue (24 page)

On The Value Of Superior Marksmanship

Another night spent
with Wilhelm dashing about commanding soldiers, riding out on reconnaissance, plotting over maps and endless stacks of telegrams, and Sophia didn’t sleep well. She tried not to growl at everyone the next day, but tension radiated throughout the house. The energy affected everyone differently. Helena seemed sanguine as always, the other women had become somber, and the men invigorated. They called Wilhelm
Iron Wil,
his old army nickname. He seemed indefatigable, and it made her tired. His charisma could be too intense.

At least he’d left a red rose draped over the pillow that morning, as he’d done almost every day since his declaration with the colored bouquet. Comforting, the small gesture that meant he thought of her, even through the chaos ruling day and night. She liked it better when he delivered it himself, but she had an affinity for sleep, and he—

Something important had happened, guessing by the commotion in the hallway. Philip, Colonel O’Grady, and Martin all gathered from their posts to meet in Wilhelm’s office when two rather impressive men arrived from London. She glimpsed them as they passed through the hall, intimidating for their powerful physique like Wilhelm’s and the same purposeful stride. Most notably a sharp predatory cast to their eyes, the same false calm and cold
disconnect
that frightened her when Wilhelm wore it. She would bet the family jewels the men came from the same covert organization Wilhelm refused to discuss.

With her guardians all occupied except Fritz, she had no trouble trailing behind to snoop. The taller man with sun-bleached hair, stunning as the angel Gabriel in a rakish sort of way, seemed to take orders from the stocky middle-aged man with the bearing of a lifelong soldier. They strode into Wilhelm’s office without knocking, without the escort of a servant.

Sophia noiselessly turned the doorknob of the room next door to the office, a seldom-used parlor that shared a chimney with the office, meaning it also shared the vents. Feeling childish but ignoring the chagrin, Sophia ducked to place her ear against the slats of the brass vent. Air whistled through the duct, dampering the voices wafting from the office.

“Sir Theodore, Sir Gideon. Thank you coming so quickly.”

She almost laughed out loud — the man she’d dubbed
Gabriel
was in reality not far from it. A handful of voices exchanged greetings in Latin. She missed the first part but heard
fratis —
brother. The name conjured a connection to the secretive
Brotherhood of the Falcon
, and a shot of excitement made her heart kick. She closed her eyes, straining to listen.

“I feared it would be too late.”
Philip said that.

Martin’s voice came muffled from across the room. “—many did you have to buy?”

Guessing by his young voice it must be the blond angel, Gideon, who laughed and answered, “Twenty-five thousand copies. Still bound in the printer tapes. One hell of a pile of ashes.” She heard him clearly; he must have been standing close to the vent. His accent sounded more urbane than she’d expected, and Sophia revised her lower-gentry-sea-merchant impression of him to beau-monde-rake-of-the-first-order.

Philip chuckled and quipped, “Wil already bought Eastleigh and half of Hampshire, why not the
Times
as well?”

Sophia bit back a gasp and missed the next comment.
Her home?
How?

Wilhelm’s voice came. “You’re certain none circulated?”

A deep voice with a northern lilt answered, “Courtenay’s son will strike the markets tomorrow, and that should cover it. We arrested the journalist and his editor to be sure.” Sophia guessed the wizened Sir Theodore said that. Authority boomed in his voice; he must be the sort of man whom subordinates jumped to obey.

“On what charges?”
Wilhelm sounded worried.

“Conspiracy and racketeering. The Brotherhood can hold them for a few days, but you will have to compensate them upon their release.”

“That doesn’t matter. What about Swenson and Gibbs?”

Silence while someone sank into a chair. Gideon answered with a tight voice, “Both dead. Swenson went septic and Gibbs never woke after the blast.”

Blast?
What blast? And what about the men who had died?

She heard a metallic whine then glass shattering. She decided it sounded like the lantern on the corner of Wilhelm’s desk, which had probably just been crushed in his hand. He tended to break the nearest object when overwhelmed. Yes, she had to be right, because the
thudding
sound had to be his head dropping to the desk in a gesture of grief.

“—about widows?” Martin asked, and Sophia missed the rest until she heard “—stipend for the orphan, anonymously, of course.”

Philip finally said, “Well, God rest their souls. Along with Clarke and Longworth, the best of men and worthiest of soldiers.”
The other men assented solemnly, then someone rustled paper, perhaps unrolling a sheet map.

Sophia blinked back tears, stunned at the news that four men had perished. There had been some sort of war between Wilhelm’s men and her father’s men, a private battle? People were
dying
for her? Her breath came faster, her head swam, and shame stormed her entire being. Distressing enough for Wilhelm to defend her, but an entirely other matter to forfeit innocent lives for the cause. Widows and orphans? How could she live with herself — how could
Wilhelm…

Someone in the office moved, blocking sound to the grate, but Sophia didn’t care to hear more at any rate. Her head clanged with alarm; guilt made her limbs feel heavy, as though her blood had turned to cold silt. She crept slowly across the room and left as silently as she’d entered, ignoring the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Fritz had been waiting, lying in front of the door. She snapped her fingers, indicating he should follow her. She tried to play the piano, but every note sounded ugly, either shrill or murky with a dead tone. It gave her a headache. She wandered the halls again, both restless and aimless. Distracted. Powerless. Slowly she made her way down the stairs, glad to do so on her own two feet, ignoring the dull throbbing in her womb.

Coming from the west drawing room: four happy voices bantering in French, dishes and silver clinking, and the musical sound of her mother’s enchanting ladylike laughter. So Helena had made fast friends with the Cavendish girls. Aunt Louisa had probably retreated to her rooms, protesting the presence of another demimondaine.

Sophia simply didn’t belong in such a carefree scene. She turned to avoid the drawing room and exited through the gallery, over the terrace and into the courtyard garden. Dagmar joined Fritz, and walking that way with the dogs reminded her of the night she’d met Wilhelm, by stumbling over him, in that very spot.

Before he transformed into
Iron Wil
, Wilhelm used to take her to his favorite places at night, and this had been the first spot they “christened.” The fountain looked less romantic in daylight, but the marble shimmered in moonlight, and the curtains of falling water turned the stars into hazy gems. That had been her view then, lying in the shell-shaped dish with Wilhelm covering her, gripping the shelf above. She remembered it vividly, his wet hair, the water muting the sounds she could see coming from his throat, a pleasant mix of warm summer air and cool water on her skin. She would take that moment to her grave with a smile.

Fritz and Dagmar started growling, hackles raised.

“Anne-Sophronia. I thought you would never come outside your fortress.”

She had been expecting such a moment for over a year, so her father’s voice only startled her a little. It iced the blood in her veins, but the mindless panic that would have engulfed her before? In its place hummed a focused calm. Slowly she turned to face him, not faking the blank expression she wore.

“Monsieur Girard,” he answered the question she hadn’t asked. “Apparently he cares for his sister in Versailles.”

So Chauncey had blackmailed the chef for information. And access inside the house, she remembered. Sophia looked at her father, really looked, and saw a tired, soulless old man. His aristocratic polish had been ruined by drink: red swollen nose, watery eyes, loosened skin about the jaw. He looked wildly out of place in a verdant garden. His size failed to intimidate her, though he stood taller than she remembered, taller and wider than even Wilhelm.

“I would have made my way inside soon. How thoughtful of you to meet me instead.”

“I find I lack the energy to hate you.” She took a step backward, and the dogs flanked her on each side. “But my husband has no such weakness,” she warned.

Chauncey chuckled, a mocking, grating sound she had grown up hating. “I can ruin Devon with the stroke of a pen, or a single bullet. You choose which.”

“Go to hell.” Sophia reached a hand for the dagger concealed in her skirts.
I have to do it.
Let him come a little closer.

“Granted. However, news of your rather embarrassing annulment was already published. Sign the document, making it official, and—”

“Not a single paper circulated. Burned to ashes, all twenty-five-thousand copies.” She scratched behind Fritz’s ears, disguising her other hand grasping the knife handle. “And these dogs would love to rip your throat out, should I give the word. You couldn’t possibly shoot them both before they finish the task.”

He showed no reaction to her reference to their last meeting, in the Eastleigh hothouse, where he’d sent Lowdry to rape her, then shot her dog for defending her. That was before he’d flayed her back with the edge-side of a riding crop. Only Helena’s intervention had prevented him from killing her in a fit of temper. The reminder that he had no scruples whatsoever raked chills down her back.

Chauncey pursed his lips thoughtfully and raised his fist to study it, no doubt a deliberate gesture for her to recall the countless times she and her mother had met the business end of that fist on a bad day. Fritz and Dagmar remained motionless, both of their gazes locked on Chauncey, their menacing growls an eerie duet with the pleasant noise of the fountain.

She had no choice but to go through with it. Let the dogs take him down, then slit his throat with the knife? Not likely she could push the blade through his ribs. Sophia resisted a grimace of distaste, and a sinking feeling brought the unwelcome revelation that she was not as fearsome and callous as she wished.

Think of Wilhelm…
on the gallows… She had to do it.

Chauncey cocked his head in nonchalance. “No matter. I like the
bullet
option better at any rate. But you still have a choice. Your fool husband overstepped his bounds. I merely want to reclaim what was stolen from me. My estates. My wife and daughter. My
heir
.”

She hadn’t noticed him holding a pistol in his other hand, but as he raised it, Fritz tensed and erupted in a sharp volley of barking. He twitched with the desire to attack, waiting for the command. She silenced the dog and noticed Chauncey’s hand tremoring, unsteady.

“I do have a choice, but not the one you suppose. We could talk circles around the fact that you have lost
everything,
which gives Lord Devon time to notice my absence and come to the rescue. Or you could provoke an attack and end this now. Either way…
you lose
.” She tilted her chin and furrowed her brows. “Personally, I would take my chances with the dogs. Lord Devon truly does not like you. Shall I give the word?”

Strange, she’d long imagined this confrontation, but the cordial threats didn’t fit the vision. Over the past months, all the scathing accusations cataloged in her mind had faded and been replaced by more pleasant concerns, further proof of how Wilhelm had healed her. Last year she would have flinched, simpered, or fled from her father. Now she simply wanted to be rid of him.

She heard the other two dogs barking, not far from the garden, near the house. Perhaps Wilhelm was already on his way. She must hurry. Chauncey laughed again, raking irritation down her spine. Her lip threatened to raise in a sneer, but she held her even expression. The moment he thought he’d affected her, he gained power.

“You may not want to do that, Anne-Sophia. You see, darling, we have a rather bloodthirsty scoundrel by the name of LeRoy waiting outside the window of the west wing drawing room. He is a very good shot. His instructions are to aim for the pretty heads inside, one by one, should he lose sight of me. If you care about the Cavendish twits, sign the bill of annulment. Immediately.” He raised a folded sheet partially from his vest pocket and patted, as though she’d be stupid enough to fetch the paper herself. He gestured impatiently with the pistol.

She blinked slowly, covering a rush of panic, then raised a brow. “Another lie, and unimpressive.”

His eyes narrowed. “Unwise, Sophie.”

In a sharp gesture, he raised his fist above his head, then too many events crowded the same instant. Fritz ripped out a frightening snarl and leapt to snare Chauncey’s arm. The crack of gunfire sounded in the distance, accompanied by shattering glass and high-pitched shrieking. A force knocked her aside then surged forward in a blur.

Where had her knife landed? By the time she righted herself on her feet, several sets of broad shoulders blocked her view. Judging by the repetitive thudding noises and grunting, two angry men were brawling on the ground. A deep voice shouted orders, and other voices shouted back in the affirmative. Her mind processed chaos until a familiar shout of agony jarred her mind with the panic that had eluded her before.