Blent failed to reply.
The hoot of an owl and the whispers of the night breeze filled the void.
“Well?”
“The mistress will explain, sir. But Miss Draper suffered a trauma some years ago. That’s why she’s here at Blackborne.”
“I see.”
If Sophia married Lord Adair to save her sister, this trauma must have occurred while Finlay was in Belgium. He had returned home almost a year after Waterloo, which meant Sophia had been caring for the girl for seven years. Seven years was a long time to keep a secret.
“How long has Miss Draper lived at Blackborne?” Finlay asked, keen to prove his theory.
“How long? Five years, sir.”
Five years!
The discrepancy roused Finlay’s ire. If Blent spoke the truth, then Sophia came to her sister’s aid after marrying Lord Adair. Damn the woman. No doubt she had manufactured parts of the tale to plead to Lucius Daventry’s conscience.
Bitterness rose like bile to his throat. Hostility held him in its grasp as they approached the rear entrance of the late medieval house. Even the aromatic scents wafting from the herb garden failed to soothe him.
“This way, sir.” Blent gripped the iron handle and pushed open the arched oak door. He led Finlay into a narrow panelled passage, the half-burned candles in the sconces casting a modicum of light. “You’ll find the kitchen and Mrs Friswell’s room through there.” He motioned to the small door on the left. “Anne sleeps with Miss Draper.”
“And your mistress keeps one maid?”
Blent nodded.
“Do you have a room in the house?”
“No, sir. I stay in the old cottage near the kennels.”
Finlay might have asked more questions, but Blent led him through the great hall, a vast room with a stone fireplace, hanging tapestries and a minstrels’ gallery. They stopped outside the open door of a well-lit drawing room. Blent knocked and waited for his mistress to bid them entrance.
“Come!”
Finlay’s heart was in his throat seconds before he stepped into the room. As always, his bitterness dissipated when he locked gazes with Sophia Adair. His body tricked him into believing this was another time, another place. The deep yearning in his gut commanded his full attention. The sudden rush of excitement made him forget she had married someone else.
He could live in this euphoric place forever, in a state of blissful ignorance, but he came crashing back to reality the moment she said, “Mr Cole. How good of you to come.”
She had used the same formal greeting upon his return from Belgium. He’d expected her to race down the gravel drive, arms outstretched, calling his name. But she had been reserved and dignified when she led him into her father’s house to meet her husband.
Sophia rose from her fireside chair. “You may leave us, Blent, and close the door. Place Mr Cole’s saddle-bag in his room.”
The servant bowed and left.
The atmosphere changed with the click of the latch. It became harder to breathe. His throat grew tight, every muscle in his body taut, strained. Arrogance was his only defence against the unwelcome attack.
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth about Jessica? I thought she was happily married to Mr Archer and living in India.” He had taken solace in the fact someone he cared about was content and settled.
Sophia clasped her hands in front of her body. As he studied her, he realised she looked nothing like the lady who held a privileged position in society, much more like the woman from his past. No doubt she wore the plain blue dress to breach his defences. Her silver-blonde hair was tied loosely at the nape, not fashioned into an elaborate coiffure—another ploy to unsettle him.
“I wanted to tell you,” she said, “so many times, but didn’t want you to blame yourself. I didn’t want to make matters worse.”
“Blame myself?”
“For not coming home sooner.”
Finlay snorted. “You make it sound as if I were sowing my wild oats on a Grand Tour, not floundering on the brink of death in a hellhole in Leuven.” Knowing Sophia was waiting for him at home had given him the strength to recover.