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She would not say that aloud. He would perceive it as a burden upon his shoulders, might even regret placing his confidence in her. What he needed from her was a pragmatic acceptance of how grave their circumstances were, had they any hope of being together.

“Thank you,” she said, keeping her voice level, “for trusting me. Your confidence is an honor.”

A faint, close-lipped smile eased over his features. She had said the right thing.

Stillness stretched between them. There seemed no proper way to part, now that they had shared the darkest corners of their souls with one another.

She drew in a half breath. She thought she sensed him leaning nearer, and her lips ached to meet his. One more kiss … and I might love you to the grave.

He took a definitive step backward. He dipped his chin, his voice hoarse when he spoke. “Good night.”

“Yes. Good night, then.”

He made quiet work of the window latch and was gone in what felt like an instant, but surely must have been longer. She should cross the room and close out the cool night air, look down, and ensure he had made his descent safely. She did not move from her place.

Confiding in Sophie had two immediate, superficial effects on Rafe: he rested easier than he had in ages, and … Every square inch of him felt like a raw blister. He had reminded himself, as he made the treacherous retreat to his own chamber in Thomas’s house, that nothing had changed for the worse. His confession ensured he was closer to Sophie St. Quinton than he had ever been to anyone—and yet he dreamt of those early years of his life.

The pitch his mother’s voice used to take on when she argued. Strained, yet severe. He didn’t have to scrounge his memory for Thomas’s; he heard it often enough in waking life for it to be emblazoned upon his brain.

Three sharp knocks on his chamber door awoke him. He sucked in a breath and bolted upright. The handle jigged before his eyes, and then the knocking resumed. Good God.

“Yes?” Rafe called, and his voice sounded like a strangled dog’s.

The knocking continued, unrelenting. Rafe looked at his bared skin, ripe with gooseflesh beneath the sheets tangled around him. He rose from the bed and pulled on the nearest shirt and trousers, only getting one button of the placket secured before he stumbled to the door. It was bright outside. He could tell, even through the closed curtains. No time to check his watch. If Thomas was this ill over a few lost hours at the store—

“Morning, sir.”

Rafe had thrown back the bolt and wrenched open the door to find his father’s steadfast butler glaring at him. Russ had eyes of ice, like spears hewn from glaciers. Rafe only nodded in reply. His pulse was running errant from the shock of waking.

“Mr. Balfour asked that I leave word for you. He does not require your presence at the store this morning.”

“Oh?” He truly sounded like a numbskull, but this? It made no sense. He hadn’t had a day—or morning—off in, well, ever.

The eyes glittered, more in the fashion of a reptile than a mammal. “He is conducting some private business at the store and asks that you remain here. He will speak with you when he’s returned for tea.”

Rafe’s throat was parched, but he managed to swallow. “Very well.”

The butler affected an incremental bow and pivoted on his heel. Rafe closed and bolted the door, his gaze fixed on the cold floor beneath his feet. What in hell?

But he shouldn’t ask questions. He should take this as an offering of some sort, a moment he could spare for himself and use to collect his thoughts.

A quarter hour saw him through his washing and dressing, and by the time he made it down to breakfast, he was able to appreciate the quiet. He dismissed the footman who wavered by the sideboard—there was nothing so awkward as being watched while dining alone—and took his time buttering his toast.

Sophie might be waking by now. He glanced at the overstated longcase clock in the room’s corner, veneered in oak and marquetry and no doubt better suited to some lord or other’s dining room. Half eight. Had she struggled to sleep? He knew her for strong, and still the degree of composure she’d maintained last night had surprised him. He hoped it wasn’t a result of temporary bafflement, that she wasn’t, at this very moment, coming to see the thousand-and-one reasons to never associate with him again.

His first bite of toast tasted like tooth powder. He pulled a face and gulped his too-hot tea. Going to Balfour’s every morning was an oiled reflex; sitting here made him feel jittery and useless. He needed to order blue wool to replace those missing crates in the warehouse. Perhaps he could disguise the loss among the cost of Maria Louisa silk. They had certainly sold enough to Sophie’s acquaintances to justify ordering a few more bolts. Queen’s silk. He smiled around a second bite. My clever girl.

The light padding of footsteps drew Rafe’s attention over his right shoulder and to the room’s threshold. The butler had returned, his iron pate reflecting the windows’ light. He clasped his hands together, the knotted joints of his fingers sharp, prominent. “You have a caller, sir.”

The action of Rafe’s jaw slowed. “At this hour?”

“Miss Penney, sir.”

He tipped his gaze back to the table to hide his shock. Tea rippled as he raised the cup to his lips and swallowed. Again and again, until the scald didn’t taste. The hot liquid was still making its descent when he lowered the cup and asked, looking straight ahead, “Did you show her into the drawing room?”

“Yes, sir.” The butler’s tongue curled the second word like a curse. “She’s alone. She asked that her maid wait below.”

“I’ll be up shortly.”