It took three hours to reach Mr Sloane’s mansion house in Little Chelsea. Indeed, it was five in the morning when Finlay touched her knee and gently shook her awake.
“I’ve instructed Turton to take us to the stables,” Finlay said. The whites of his tired eyes were red, his lids heavy. “We can use the servants’ entrance rather than disturb Fitchett. Once you’ve checked on Jessica, I suggest we both rest for a few hours.” Finlay paused. “Then we must question your sister regarding her relationship with Blent.”
The comment caused a tightness in Sophia’s throat, but she swallowed past the constriction. “No doubt her mind holds a wealth of secrets.” Her stomach roiled. “Finlay, me treating her as a child hasn’t helped. In trying to care for her, I’d forgotten she was a woman, a woman with wants and needs. If only I could go back to when she first became ill. If only—”
“You cannot go back. Focusing on the past is a means of torture. Trust me. I know. But we can put this right.”
She nodded again, too tired to do anything else.
The carriage turned through the arched gatehouse and entered the stable courtyard. A sleepy-eyed young groom hurried from a door next to the coach house, pulling a cap over his unruly brown hair.
“We seem to make a habit of seeing the sun peak above the horizon,” she said as Finlay settled his hands on her waist and lifted her down to the ground. “If only we could stand here for another hour and witness the break of dawn.”
He held her for a moment. “The next time we watch the sun rise together, I pray it will be under better circumstances.”
What could be better than being with the man she loved?
Still, she pictured them at the nursery window, his chest pressed to her back, his strong arms around her waist, caressing her swollen stomach, his chin resting on her shoulder.
Tears brimmed.
He cupped her cheek. “Don’t cry. Know I shall never fail you again.”
That made her cry all the more.
Turton approached. “Beg your pardon, sir.” He waited patiently until she’d dried her eyes, until Finlay released her and stepped back. “Jack said the master caught an intruder in the garden.”
“An intruder!” Sophia almost choked on the words. A host of horrid scenarios rushed through her mind. What if the devil had entered the house? What if he’d found his way into Jessica’s chamber?
“They’re holdin’ him prisoner, waitin’ for your return.”
Finlay didn’t stop to ask questions. He cursed, captured her hand and led her into the house. Fitchett directed them into the drawing room, which looked like a scene from the Spanish Inquisition. Mr Sloane, Mr D’Angelo and Mr Ashwood loomed over a man sitting bound to a chair, hurling a barrage of accusations.
All three men whirled around to face the door.
“Ah, Cole.” Mr Sloane stepped back and gestured to the intruder. “This fellow refuses to utter a word until he’s seen Miss Draper.”
Blent!
How in heaven’s name had he found them?
“Where’s Jessica?” Panic imbued Sophia’s tone.
“Upstairs,” Mr Ashwood replied. “My wife is watching her lest she wake and hear the rumpus down here.”
“Ashwood?” Finlay sounded relieved to see his colleague. “Tell me Daventry didn’t send you.”
“We were to dine with Daventry and Sybil last night, but he sent word they were detained here. We came to relieve them.”
“You’re supposed to call him Hawkridge now he’s inherited a title,” Mr D’Angelo teased.
Sophia had forgotten Mr Ashwood had recently come into his inheritance, though he treated the matter as if it were a dreadful inconvenience.
The gentleman arched a reprimanding brow, which only enhanced his handsome features. “If anyone in this room calls me Hawkridge, or utters the word lord, I shall beat them with Cole’s swordstick.” He observed Finlay through remarkable green eyes. “Though it appears you are no longer in need of your cane. Has your injury improved?”
His injury?
Sophia’s heart sank to her stomach.