The soup, which was probably delectable a half hour before but was now only palatable, nonetheless filled his need for sustenance. He spooned it subconsciously into his mouth as he picked up another paper. With the contract procured, he needed to focus even more on work. He could not afford to fallshort of the mark at Sternam’s Bank if he had any hope of using their collateral to begin his country establishment.
A knock sounded in the entrance hall, giving him pause. Muffled voices touched his ear, and he set aside his papers, frowning. Who would be calling at this hour? One of his friends, maybe, though the Season was hardly begun, and he wasn’t certain if any were in residence yet.
Curiosity brought him to his feet, and he crossed to the door, sticking his head out.
Their London butler blocked whoever stood in the door, but as Spencer turned, Andrew saw that it was a woman. A bonnet and dress were visible.
“Sir, you have… a visitor.”
Andrew’s brows rose as did his concern. A single woman visiting at night was an equation ending in disaster for all reputations involved. But if he turned her away, he could cause offense. And part of Andrew’s success in banking came from his solid and solicitous reputation. Several of his clients were even single women, managing inheritances.
“I am terribly sorry to intrude upon your evening,” the woman said. The voice rang bells of familiarity in his head. Long disused bells. Surely it was not—
Spencer stepped aside, and a dark-haired beauty stood just inside the door. Her eyes caught his and crinkled on the sides. “Andrew Langford,” she said, a smile splitting her face, “you have grown up.”
Andrew could only stare. Everything and nothing about this woman was familiar. They’d been close friends all through their youth. Their families had been neighbors.
Andrew had wanted to marry her.
Until he’d returned from his Grand Tour and the visit to his uncle’s to learn the trade of banking… to find that she was gone. And then married.
Something in the vicinity of his heart twisted at the sight of her now. But she was a married woman—no longer his friend. And as he stared, the proof of their time apart became apparent. The curls at her forehead had darkened with age, no longer a chestnut color, but a deeper brown, nearly black in the dimly lit entrance hall. Her face was a little thinner, light smile lines creased hercheeks, and her figure was more womanly—he jerked his eyes back up to hers. Those were unchanged. Still a piercing green that danced with reflections of the intelligence held in her brilliant mind.
“Sophie?” he asked before he could stop himself.
She clasped her hands in front of her. “Oh, good, I thought for a moment you did not recognize me. Have I changed so very much? I promise I am still the same pestering nuisance from your childhood, on my life.”
Nuisance is not the descriptor he would have chosen. Or maybe it was—shehadalways disrupted his peace, though not in the way she seemed to describe.
He shifted, the wooden floors creaking a little beneath his feet. Spencer had melded into the shadowy wall beside the door, but he’d not left.
“You look nearly the same, and it is—that is—is everything well?” he asked. His voice was stilted and deeper than usual. Once upon a time, before reality had settled over him, he’d dreamt of seeing Sophie Renard again. He’d not been a bumbling idiot in those imaginings.
She scrunched her nose playfully. “Nearly the same? I was nineteen and spindly when last we met.” She sighed dramatically. “I am five and twenty now; I’d dearly hoped to have grown from that stage, but it appears it was in vain. Thank you for properly humbling me—you always were good at that.” She shook her head, that wide smile still playing on her mouth. She’d been that way growing up, full to the brim with joy and enthusiasm. Apparently, marriage hadn’t changed that aspect of her person. He was glad of it, if it twisted his heart painfully even still. “It feels as if no time has passed since we were skipping rocks on the pond, does it not?” She was talking quickly, and he saw it for what it was. It might have been half a decade since their last meeting, but he had grown up beside Sophie Renard. She talked when she was nervous.
Something was wrong.
“Are you well?” he asked again.
She adjusted a curl, tucking it behind her ear, her eyes dropping to her toes. “To be entirely honest, I am not.”
His brows rose.
Some of her happiness faded as she clasped her hands behind her. “Is your family at home? Your mother?”
His heart twisted with pain dulled by time at the flippant mention of his mother. “No, it is only I.”
And that last bit of light left her, her shoulders falling. “I suppose I am not surprised. In fact, I am surprised anyone was here at all, so soon after Twelfth Night.”
“What do you need, Sophie?” Blast, he should not call her that. The familiarity was without propriety. But he did not even know her married name, and she seemed unconcerned over his impertinence.
“It is nothing, simply plans gone awry.” She lifted one shoulder, but he knew the distracted look in her eye. She was working something out in that brain of hers. Something was indeed wrong.
“Come and sit a bit. I’ve just finished dinner, but I will have Cook send something up.”
There was a war in her expression now. But after a moment, she nodded. Spencer stepped in to take her coat and reticule.
In hardly any time at all—certainly not enough time for Andrew to calm his ridiculously pounding heart—the sparse staff installed at his family’s London home had them settled in the drawing room with tea and a light repast. The burgundy drapes were open to the sunset beyond, and light streamed into the wood-paneled room, with dust motes sparkling in its mist. The only sound was that of the longcase clock, ticking down the seconds. He focused on those details, not on the woman who had turned his evening on its head. He’d waited for her to take her seat, then sat across from her, putting the low, polished table between them. Andrew was not hungry in the least, but he filled a cup, if only for something to do with his hands.
