‘Well, it’s encouraging you’ve not forgotten your name, at least,’ Sophie replied, her tone belying her anxiety.
There was no escaping the seriousness of his infection, and yet the longer she stayed in his company, the higher the risk to herself.
‘…Roseby and O’Sullivan are JPs… Sir Giles and Weston too strait-laced… it’s a damnable matter… marked during the game… it has to be one of us…’ he murmured, before settling again.
Sophie frowned, more convinced than ever that Lord Rotherby’s feverish mutterings related to his scandalous midnight flight in some way.
‘I prefer not to discuss the circumstances under which I left London, but suffice to say they are temporary, and less detrimental to my name than your situation is to yours.’
‘What did you do?’ she whispered, mostly to herself.
‘It was you who shot me, remember?’ Rotherby murmured weakly.
Sophie’s eyes flew to his, which were still closed.
‘Well, yes, but you were such apigwidgeoned dunderhead I had no choice but to do it,’ she said with a faint smile.
Rotherby gave a dry chuckle.
‘If that is what you truly believe,’ he replied softly, ‘then why are you still here?’
There was a short silence during which Sophie acknowledged the question she’d been avoiding since the doctor left.
‘You know I’ve no wish to addmurderessto my list of misdemeanours,’ she replied carefully. Thankfully, the doctor believes we will avoid it, if you follow his instructions.’
It was the truth. Lord Rotherby was ill, but he was also young and strong, and the doctor was only too delighted to add him to his expensive daily list of patients to visit.
‘I have sent my letters,’ she added, mostly for her own benefit. ‘And I expect to leave just as soon as your fever has broken.’
‘I expect you do,’ Rotherby murmured, drifting away. ‘And I wager I’d find you before nightfall.’
* * *
Sophie smoothed the forget-me-nots on her cotton quilted bedspread, knowing she didn’t feel quite as she ought.
It was three days since Lord Rotherby’s fever had abated and, despite his vociferous objection to almost every plain and healthy dish she’d ordered, he was making swift progress. And in between threatening to throw his every meal to the gulls, she’d formulated her plan, sent her letters and waited until she was convinced he was out of danger. Yet now the day had arrived, the thought of leaving was unexpectedly hard.
Briefly, she closed her eyes and let her mind conjure the moment he kissed her outside Rotherby House, and then the moment in his cabin just before she shot him. His eyes had darkened with a visceral heat she barely recognised, and yet, it had prompted such an intense coiling ofsomethingin her core she’d been almost tempted to throw caution to the wind. To do what exactly?
She flushed, recalling all the hints, whispers and innuendoes about marital liaisons that she could. What was it Phoebe had said?
‘I do believe you will much prefer to discover the mysteries of marital relations with your husband…’
Would the discovery with Lord Rotherby be worth the fall from grace?
Sophie flushed even harder as she realised she was contemplating complete ruination just to understand what Lord Rotherby had in mind– which was only further proof that she needed to get as far away from his influence as possible before she threw all her scruples to the wind and actually turned into Aurelia.
Briskly, she pulled on her cloak, picked up her gloves, and slipped out of her bedchamber. Then, pausing only to pull her hood forward, she slipped down the back stairwell and into the quiet backstreet outside.
The first thing she noticed was the faint aroma of sweet pastries, combined with more tobacco and something far less inviting too. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, before making her way down the quaint, cobbled street,noddingat two ladies who greeted her in such a friendly fashion that Sophie couldn’t help but feel a little heartened. Then when she reached the end, the street divided into two more bustling directions. Sophie hesitated only briefly before choosing the sunnier of the two, which turned a corner and meandered quietly until the reason for the less inviting aroma became clear.
For a few moments, Sophie gazed around at Calais’ quiet dockside. The afternoon water was murky and still, while the loading area was now entirely empty, save for piles of discarded fish entrails and the occasional marauding gull. Suddenly, it seemed so far from Knightswood and everything she knew, that a pang of homesickness reached through her. She drew deep breath, and forced herself to look around, wondering which direction might lead her to some shops and a jeweller.
‘Es-tu perdu, chérie?’
Sophie glanced up as the two friendly ladies approached her with wide smiles.
‘Oh…non…merci,’ Sophie replied, unable to help wondering at the design of their plunging corsets. ‘Mais…c’est…Je cherche un… jeweller’s…s’il vous plaît…?’ she added in what she hoped was a passable French accent.
