‘What secret?’ He sounded so suspicious that she laughed up at him.
‘It is a secret. Cal, you look much better, I am so relieved.’
He drew her close to him and rested his cheek on the top of her head. ‘I knew, during the night when it was really bad, that you were there. I should have had the strength to send you away and not inflict that on you.’
‘Of course,’ Sophie said, rubbing her cheek against his shirt front. ‘And I should have realised how much better I would have felt if I had just gone back to bed and to sleep and left you there. Why, I would not have worried in the slightest.’
‘Wicked woman.’ He did not release her.
‘Does it concern you, hurt your pride, that I saw you when you were ill?’ she asked.
‘Hmm.’ That, she supposed, was agreement.
‘We are going to be married, Cal. I need to know you, to understand you. I know now that when everything is stripped away and you are in pain, you are still brave and still fighting.’ The hand that had been stroking her back went very still. ‘I want us to be honest with each other.’
‘Yes, let us be that.’ He released her and began to walk briskly along the corridor towards his rooms. ‘Now we must hurry if I am to wash and change and not be late for luncheon. And I must send a note to Prescott. I will need him here if things become… complicated.’
What had she said? Perhaps she had simply embarrassed him with what he saw as an excess of sensibility. Or perhaps he instinctively knew that she was keeping something from him.
Sophie let herself into her sitting room from the inner passageway and put down her sewing bag. The clock chimed, a thin silvery note, and she turned to the bedchamber door. She would be late for luncheon. There was no need to ring for Mary, her gown was in perfect order, so was her hair, she saw with a glance in the mirror. All she needed to do was wash her hands.
Her hand was on the dressing room door when she felt the prickle of awareness down her spine that warned her she was not alone. She turned and there, lounging on the bed in unconscious imitation of Cal on the nursery chaise, was Jonathan.
‘Get out of here. Now.’
‘We need to talk, Sophie dear.’
‘Not here and not now. Everyone will be going in to luncheon.’
‘All the better for a quick, private talk, don’t you think.’ He stood up and walked towards her. Sophie stood her ground, chin up, but he kept coming until they were toe to toe. ‘I am not enjoying myself much here, Sophie. I do not feel very welcome, the way you look at me, the way your duke looks at me. And his tame fencing master. I’ve been patient, but I want money. Now.’
‘I told you – I do not have any.’
‘Ask your duke, he’ll give you what you want. Take him to bed and please him. You lied to me, didn’t you Sophie? Made me think you were sharing his bed. But you aren’t are you? I checked.’
‘That was you in Cal’s room the first night.’ The relief that it was not someone with a knife or a phial of poison must have shown in her voice, for Jonathan looked at her strangely.
‘I won’t be patient much longer, Sophie. I want five hundred pounds by tomorrow night or I will start telling tales.’
‘And I will tell the duke and he will kill you. He is at least as good as you with a rapier, you saw him this morning.’
‘I don’t think you will, Sophie.’ He moved, forcing her back against the dressing table. ‘Look what you have to lose, all this wealth, all this status. You will be a good girl and do as I tell you. And, just for old times’ sake, I think I’ll take a kiss on account.’
She reached behind her, searching for the hairbrush, swung at him as his right hand closed over her breast, then twisted as his other hand came up to grab for the heavy silver-backed brush. It flew away, crashed into the glass of a watercolour by the door, shattering it. Sophie’s recoil sent her across the dressing table scattering bottles and boxes to crash to the floor.
‘You stupid bitch.’ Jonathan hauled her to her feet and she came up fighting, kicking and scratching as he dragged her towards the bed.
The sound of the sitting room door crashing open seemed part of the struggle until there was a roar of rage and Jonathan was dragged off her. Sophie reeled back and fell onto the bed as Cal hit Jonathan across the room.
‘Sophie, are you hurt?’ He moved to stand between her and the fallen man.
‘I don’t think so. Bruised, perhaps.’ She kept the tremor out of her voice with an effort. Cal looked incandescent, if he guessed how shaken she was she could not imagine what he would do next.
‘Good. Then I do not need to disembowel this scum before I kill him.’
Jonathan shambled to his feet. ‘You wouldn’t commit murder.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it if I were you,’ Jared Hunt drawled and she realised he had followed Cal into the room, Flynn at his heels. ‘He might not, I would.’