“You have your money.” Sophia moved to stand by the door, holding it open. “Now leave.”
Drakeston paused at the threshold. He leaned close, his breath warm against her ear, carrying the sour tang of wine. “Your father’s debt grows larger by the day, my dear. Interest, you understand. One day, your aunt’s generosity will not be enough. And when that day comes…” His gloved finger traced the curve of her jaw. “I shall be waiting.”
Sophia didn’t breathe until his footsteps faded down the stairs, until the front door opened and closed, until long after the carriage wheels rattled away into the night.
Then she shut the door and turned to find her mother collapsed on the edge of the bed, shoulders heaving with silent sobs.
“Mama.” Sophia crossed to her, kneeled before her and took her trembling hands. “It’s over. He’s gone.”
“I am so sorry.” Her mother’s voice broke. Tears streamed down cheeks that had grown thinner these past months. “I should have been stronger. I should have refused to let him in. But he said if I did not?—”
“Shh.” Sophia gathered her mother into her arms, stroking the honey-blonde hair so like her sister Lily’s, so unlike her ownlight brown. “You have nothing to apologize for. None of this is your fault.”
“If your father knew?—”
“Father must never know.” Sophia pulled back, holding her mother’s gaze. “It would worsen his condition. We’ll handle this ourselves, Mama. We will find a way.”
Her mother’s green eyes, so like her own, searched her face. “How? The debts only grow. And Drakeston—” Her voice caught on his name.
“One day, we will pay him off completely.” Sophia squeezed her mother’s hands. “I promise you. One day, he will have no hold over us, and we will never have to speak his name again.”
She stayed until her mother’s breathing steadied, until exhaustion claimed her and pulled her into fitful sleep. Then Sophia rose, tucked the blankets around her, and slipped from the room.
She had work to do.
The printing office of Mr. George Colborne occupied the second floor of a narrow building in a working-class district of London. Sophia climbed the creaking stairs an hour before dawn, herdark cloak pulled tight around her shoulders with her hood shadowing her features.
She knocked twice, paused, then knocked three more times.
The door swung open to reveal a lean, bespectacled man with ink-stained fingers and the permanent expression of someone who had expected to be far more important by now. Mr. Colborne’s face brightened at the sight of her.
“Lady Sophia!” He ushered her inside, peering down the stairs before shutting the door. “You will not believe what arrived this evening. Another application. This one is most intriguing.” He pressed his hand to his chest.
Sophia pushed back her hood and surveyed the cramped office. Stacks of paper towered on every surface. The printing press dominated one corner, silent now but ready to churn out the next edition of the gossip sheet that had made Lady Fairhart famous. The air smelled of ink and candle wax.
“Show me.”
Mr. Colborne handed her a letter. Sophia scanned the contents: a young widow seeking companionship, recently emerged from mourning, possessed of a modest fortune and a reputation for charitable works. She desired a husband of steady temperament, one who valued kindness over social climbing.
Sophia pressed a finger to her lower lip, studying the list of names before her. Her mind sorted through possibilities. Names and faces flickered through her memory, a catalogue built over five years of careful observation. Lord Collingsworth had lost his wife two years past and remained devoted to her memory, but loneliness had shadowed his eyes at every ball. He volunteered at the same foundling hospital as the widow.
“Lord Collingsworth,” she said.
Mr. Colborne blinked. “The viscount? But he never attends social functions. How would they?—”
“They share a passion for charity work.” Sophia moved to the writing desk and pulled out parchment and ink. “She does not want a man who lives for ballrooms. She wants someone who understands loss and has emerged from it with his heart intact. Lord Collingsworth is that man.”
She composed two letters. The first, to the widow, encouraged her to attend the upcoming charity auction at St. George’s and to seek out Lord Collingsworth during the refreshment hour. The second letter, to Lord Collingsworth, spoke of a lady whose quiet grace and generous spirit might ease the solitude that oppressed him.
Perhaps, my lord, it is time to allow your heart to hope again,she wrote, then signed with the flourish that had become famous across London:Lady Fairhart.
She sanded the ink, folded the letters, and handed them to Mr. Colborne.
“Mr. Colborne.” Sophia met his gaze. “I wish to discuss our rates.”
His eyebrows climbed toward his receding hairline. “Our rates?”
“We should raise them.”
