Sophie shook her head doubtfully. It had been such a relief to unburden herself, but her own behaviour couldn’t be further from noble.
‘And your fashion designs have been influenced by the public exhibition in London, as well as your time in Paris, you say?’
Sophie nodded again, wondering why she was taking such an interest in the dismal plans of a likely murderess.
‘Excellent! You remind me of someone else at your age in the way you’ve pursued your own path, and not bowed to societal pressure.’
‘But that’s just it,’ Sophie protested. ‘I was always the one most expected to make a good match, notpursue my own pathor defy societal pressure– that’s Phoebe… or Matilda.’
‘You have Fairfax blood, Sophie,’ the lady said with a smile. ‘You have more fire than you realise– and sometimes our hearts know what we want, even when our heads don’t agree.’
‘Speaking of which, I believe we have company…’
Startled, Sophie pushed back her chair and jumped to her feet, as the sound of whinnying horses and tired ostlers reached through the small parlour window.
‘They have followed me from Chartres,’ she whispered, feeling the colour drain from her face. ‘Please, they will force me to marry… or join a convent… or…’
‘You have resisted them before,’ her benefactor replied calmly, picking up her glass. ‘And there is nothing to be gained by hiding, after all. We must face them and determine our fate without fear.’
‘But you don’t know the gentlemen involved! My brother and Sir Weston, they are determined?—’
‘I have more than thrice your years, child, and have navigated the world of gentlemen for as long. I know just what it is to feel the pressure of our position, and I never resolved anything by hiding. Trust me, we shall resolve the matter together, tonight, but not by running.’
Sophie stared in despair at the unruffled lady, who seemed unable to understand the severity of her situation and wondered if she’d thrown away her precious lead on a kind, but eccentric, stranger.
‘Take the horses please, I’m in a hurry!’
Sophie felt the rise of nausea in her throat as a curt tone filtered through the open window. She gripped her chair.
‘Sir Weston,’ she whispered. ‘He’s thereallibertine.’
‘I’ve yet to meet a man who doesn’t have the potential, given half the chance,’ her benefactor observed drily.
Then there was only a low mutter, and swift footsteps in the corridor, before the door was flung open without ceremony.
‘There you are!’ Sir Weston growled, marching across the room, his sheen of good breeding entirely discarded. ‘You spent the night in my company and by God, you’ll marry me if it’s the last thing you do! I’ll not havemyname dragged through?—’
‘I don’t think your name warrants any interest whatsoever,’ her benefactor cut in, ‘but I anticipate one has just arrived who may beg to differ.’
Sophie spun with mounting horror, as the yard outside filled with the sound of more horses and new, urgent voices. At this fresh intrusion, Sir Weston shot a scowling glance in the lady’s direction, before drawing his sword and turning back towards the door.
Then there were more harried conversations and impetuous footsteps, before the door flew open again to reveal not one but two riders gazing back at her. They were dishevelled, exhausted, and covered in mud, but unmistakable all the same.
‘Viscount Damerel! … and Lord Rotherby,’ Sophie whispered hoarsely, unable to tear her gaze from Lord Rotherby’s dirt-streaked face.
Her heart pounded: he lived. They both lived. She was not a murderess.
Yet, by the look on Weston’s face, there was still time.
‘Sophie, thank God! Please, let me explain properly—’ Lord Rotherby began, ashen-faced.
‘Thank goodness we have found you, Sophie. Phoebe is beside herself!’ Damerel exclaimed.
‘I’ll thank you to choose your weapon, sir! We will finish this now!’ Weston hissed, silencing them both.
‘You!’ Lord Rotherby snarled, pulling out his sword and advancing with such venom that Sophie felt it through her bones. ‘You are correct that we will finish this now, sir, and you will feel my blade for this night’s work!’ he added furiously. ‘God knows I’ve kept silent over the years, even though you have taken every opportunity to blacken my name! And I may not have yet proven that it wasyouwho marked my cards in London, but the moment you involved Miss Fairfax, you crossed a line!’
Astonished, Sophie could only watch as Rotherby closed in on Weston, who brought his sword up so furiously that she knew at once they were evenly matched. She paled as she swung her gaze between the two men, reading hatred in every line of their bodies, while blood thrummed in her head.
