A Most Naked Solution (11 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Dear Sophia,

Regarding your recent epistle, yes, I have heard of his works. It is an intriguing notion to use the theorem. I shall have to try it.

I had a letter from father this morning informing me that Ipswith was not as close to the discovery as he thought. The society meeting has been postponed a month. Which is fortuitous, given that I am no closer either.

Rafferty enquired this morning why I’ve taken to working in the library rather than at the desk in my study. I simply told him it was far easier to keep my thoughts on my work if I was in the library.

An equation I was working on the other day had infinite solutions. I found myself wishing I had that many words for telling you of my love, but all I could think of was the soft sigh of your breath against my throat as you nestled on my lap.

Camden

“You still have a few minutes, but we will need to hurry if we are to dress for the poetry reading,” Sophia’s mother said. Even though Sophia had been wandering through Frotnam’s bookshop for over an hour, her mother had not fidgeted once. Her younger sister, Claire, on the other hand, had walked up and down every row, pulled out and replaced a dozen books, and quizzed the owner on the best methods for dealing with mold.

Sophia stood in the first row, reading title after title, her arms still empty. Her finger trailed over the cool, gleaming leather. “I will stay here a while longer.”

“We can return tomorrow. Or you can have a bit longer if you need and we can arrive late.” Her mother sent Claire a look to silence her groan.

Sophia rested her hand against the shelf, finding power in the oak. “Please, go on without me. I have no particular fondness for poetry readings.”

Her mother patted her shoulder. “I’m sure if you come, you will enjoy yourself. You had a lovely time at the musicale last night.”

“Yes, I did, but I don’t wish to go tonight.”

“I know you sometimes feel shy, but surely if you tried—”

Sophia released her hold on the shelf. She didn’t need it for strength. She took both her mother’s hands in hers. “I know you love these events, but I do not. I never have. I do enjoy going and seeing my friends, but it drains me. I find one or two events a week more than enough. Besides, I spent most of the afternoon touring Sir Reginald’s new exhibit at the museum with Bennett and Mari. I haven’t been lacking company.”

Her mother blinked. “You’d truly prefer to stay home?”

Sophia nodded, secretly exalted that she’d finally refused, yet bracing for the argument she knew would come.

But instead, her mother clasped her hands tightly. “I have not done well with you, have I?” Sophia started to speak but her mother cut her off. “No, I haven’t. Growing up with your father and I cannot have been easy. We adore being out in the bustle of society. I thought I was encouraging you to love life as we do. But you have found your own way to love it.” She brushed a light kiss on Sophia cheek. “I will respect that. Come, Claire.”

Her younger sister was, for once, speechless as her mother dragged her from the shop.

“I will send the coach back for you.” The bell above the door jingled as they exited.

She’d done it. She yanked the nearest book from the shelf and clutched it to her chest, the pasteboard corners digging into her palms. She could hear her mother’s coach clattering away down the cobblestone street.

And she didn’t feel guilty.

But as she waited, book heavy in her arms, she didn’t feel any different either. A trifle stronger, happier, but not different.

In fact, nothing she’d done over the past six months had made her different. Her heart had healed more from Richard’s abuse. She’d rediscovered parts of herself, but nothing had transformed her.

She’d rather thought this step would.

Yet she was happy. Or at least, content. She didn’t think she’d be happy until she could return to Camden in another three months.

She stared at the book she had chosen, a treatise on mathematical innovation. Perhaps she could send it to him, although she’d much prefer to read it with him. But that would have to wait.

She studied the gilt words imprinted on the cover. Were the expectations of society the only reason she was waiting? Why couldn’t she manage to escape them?

Because that wasn’t who she was.

She knew in that instant what the flaw had been in her thinking all along. She could grow and strengthen, but in the end she’d always be—herself.

She selected two more books and then hurried to the counter to pay for her purchases.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
O
NE

C
amden stood in his father’s crowded drawing room. Ipswith’s success had drawn out members he hadn’t seen in years, curious to see the man’s solution. But Ipswith had kept a very tight rein on his paper thus far. No one had seen it. No one could claim to have verified it.

Camden almost hadn’t come, but he had to see the answer. True, he’d been distracted over the past six months—checking for the post every hour in case Sophia had replied to his latest letter, beating his butler to the door every time he heard hoof beats—but something about the concept still didn’t fit right.

A hand clapped him on the back. “If you hadn’t been cork-brained enough to join the army, that could be you about to deliver the paper.” His father’s gut had grown since Camden had last seen him and his jowls hung heavier on his chin, but the look of pious judgment on his face was the same. “Your title didn’t improve your wits, it would seem.”

The disapproval didn’t sting as it once had. Sophia thought his work noble. Nothing his father could fling at him could touch that. “My mathematics didn’t suffer for my service to the Crown.” It had him stronger, more disciplined, but he kept silent. His father always believed what he chose.

“What about your well-digging and factory-building? If you’d spent more time pursuing more pure goals, you’d—”

“Not be the fascinating genius he is now.”

Sophia
.

She stood beside them, dressed in a lavender gown that skimmed low across her bosom and highlighted a healthy glow in her cheeks. He hadn’t seen her in that color in a long time. It made her appear younger and more innocent. And altogether delectable.

Camden suddenly realized just how little he cared about this meeting or the fact that the chairmanship was about to go to his rival. His heart hammered against his ribs and he slid his finger along the satin of her cheek to make sure she was real.

His father drew back shocked, but Sophia smiled, pressing her cheek into his caress.

“Lady Sophia Harding, may I present my father, Mr. Lucas Grey. Father, Lady Sophia Harding.”

Sophia dipped into a perfect curtsey, but barely glanced at his father.

Why was she here? He had three months left to wait. Well, eighty-nine days if he’d been tracking things that closely.

For the first time that evening, he wished he’d solved the theorem first, so Sophia could have found him in his moment of triumph. But being the loser definitely had its advantages—like being able to leave when he desired.

Such as now.

He clasped Sophia’s hand tightly in his and pulled her from the room. After three tries, he found an empty parlor and pulled her into it, shutting the door and locking it behind him. Her hands twined around his neck, her lips seeking his before his hand had left the handle.

With a groan, he crushed her to him, running his hands down her back to the soft perfection of her hips. She tasted of sugar and cream and happiness. Her hands clenched tightly in his hair, holding him close. She backed him to the settee, pushing him down. “I missed you,” she whispered, straddling him.

He clung to his only remaining thread of sanity as he sank into the soft cushions. “Why are you here?”

She slid off his lap to sit next to him. “I’ve had an epiphany.” A smile curved her lips, tempered with a confidence stronger than when he’d last seen her.

“Three months early?” he asked, exploring the outline of her lips.

“That is part of it. I wrote you of that in my letters, my silly explorations.”

Camden hadn’t thought them silly. He’d cheered, perhaps embarrassingly loud, at her exploits in her letters. Much to the worry of his servants.

“I found that while I’ll never be the belle of the ball, I’m good at making close friends and keeping them. I found that I like novels but not poetry. I found I like staying in my room with a good book rather than dragging myself to every event my family invites me to. I found I actually like some events if I get to select them.”

She leaned forward, her hands on his chest, her face hovering above his. A tendril of her hair had escaped her pins and caressed his cheek. “After I left, I kept seeking some great transformation. For the key that would unlock the perfect version of who I should have been.”

His heart hammered in his chest. He wanted to pull her to him and whisper all the beautiful things about her, but he knew that he needed to be silent and listen.

“But then I realized, I don’t need a transformation. There is nothing wrong with me. What I needed to discover was the strength to accept everything I am—and am not. What I needed to learn these past months was how to make the right choices for me and not be ashamed of them.” Her lips brushed his. “And you are right for me. And that will be true now. In three months. And forever. I love you.”

“I. Love. You.” He punctuated each word with a kiss. “Then you won’t leave again? Because I’m not sure I can let you go a second time.”

“I’m staying.”

With a growl of triumph, he crushed his mouth to hers. “Marry me?” His heart stuttered as he awaited her answer. He hadn’t pushed her too fast, had he? Perhaps he should have given her a few days. But he’d been waiting six months to say the words and now that she was here, they refused to be constrained.

Her eyes lit with utter bliss. “Yes.”

This time his kiss was slow. He feathered it over her lips, her jaw, drawing out this moment now that he had an infinite amount of them.

But she was mistaken. She was perfect. Her imperfection was perfection.

Then he stilled, the thoughts that had been disarrayed in his head slowly snapping into place. Perfection didn’t exist within his equation either. That’s why he couldn’t find the solution.

“Camden?”

“You
are
my muse.” He hugged her, thoughts still settling. “Can you help me find paper?”

She nodded and helped him scour the room until they found paper and ink in a lady’s writing desk.

He filled the page with numbers. Then another page. He was right. He tossed down the paper. “Ipswith is either a liar or wrong because he didn’t find a generic way to solve the equations. There is no general formula. None. And I can prove why.”

Sophia handed him a fresh sheet of paper and he outlined his thoughts and evidence, explaining how the lower-degree polynomial equations had a structure to their roots that the quintics lacked. Quintics were a mass of glorious imperfection.

Through the closed door, he could hear the applause signaling the start of Ipswith’s presentation.

“Go,” Sophia urged. “Show them.”

He finally had it. He could stride into the room and make his father and Ipswith look like fools, make himself look like a genius.

But that wouldn’t change his father’s opinion.

He folded the paper over, wrote his father’s name on it, and stood, leaving it on the desk. A servant would find it and give it to his father in the morning.

Camden pulled Sophia to him. “The only solution I care about is the one I’m holding in my arms.”

Can’t get enough of Anna Randol?

Read on for excerpts from her previous novel,

A Secret in Her Kiss,

and her upcoming book,

Sins of a Virgin,

on sale 8/28/12 from Avon Books

wherever e-books are sold!

An Excerpt from

A SECRET IN HER KISS

C
HAPTER
O
NE

Belgium, 1815

T
he last of the supply barrels thudded into the weathered rowboat.

The leather-faced sailor tugged at the edge of his knit cap. “Be back for ye and yers in a few ticks, sir.”

Major Bennett Prestwood nodded, and the man cast off the thick rope securing the boat to the dock. The oars scraped along the side of the boat, then dipped into the water, trailing ripples behind as the sailor rowed the supplies toward the navy frigate anchored in the bay.

Bennett flicked his hand, scattering two seagulls who’d settled on his trunk. It was perhaps a bit lowering to be loaded after the salted beef, but if it meant passage back to England, he’d be content to be loaded after the wharf rats.

He drew a deep breath. The docks of Ostend stank. They stank of fish and filth. He inhaled again. But the breeze didn’t reek of decaying human flesh covered in lye. And it didn’t carry the screams of the wounded.

For a few hours, he was on leave from hell. No graves to dig. No armies to scout. No enemies to kill.

But when he reached England, his respite would be over.

Bennett growled to himself, frightening an old beggar woman seeking alms or pockets to pick or perhaps both. He tossed the remainder of his money into her chipped clay cup. He’d be home soon enough.

Then he’d kill his brother-in-law.

Bennett’s hand tightened on the smooth leather hilt of his sword, worn down until he could feel the cool metal underneath. He was supposed to be finished with this. He’d intended to leave death buried with the corpses of his fallen men in the muddy fields of Waterloo.

But then his mother had sent him a letter.

He rubbed the grit from his face and withdrew the creased paper from his pocket. His mother had chatted on in her charming way about the normal family gossip. His younger brother had been sent down from Eton again. His cousins were leaving on a Grand Tour. His sister, Sophia, had reconciled with her husband and returned to his estate. Bennett’s jaw clenched as he read that final line for the hundredth time. He crumpled the paper and threw it into the harbor. He no longer needed it. The sentence had burned itself into his mind.

Damnation, why hadn’t he sent her farther away? She’d be better off in the wilds of India than with the bastard she’d married.

How had her husband forced her back? Another broken rib? A promise he would keep only until he was in his cups again?

If she couldn’t stay away from him, Bennett would see to it that her husband stayed away from her.

A large ebony coach rattled to a halt in front of him, blocking his view of the ship. Bennett tensed, his hand again sliding to the sword at his waist.

The coach door opened. “Join me a moment, Prestwood.”

Bennett’s jaw locked at that nasal voice. Curse it all, not now. “What do you want, General?”

“A simple word with you.”

A lie. General Caruthers was army intelligence; nothing was ever simple with him.

“That’s an order, Prestwood.”

Bennett climbed into the dimness of the coach. Caruthers smiled at him, the expression stretching the soft, pasty dough of his face. “Care for a drink, Major?” He pulled two glasses from a compartment in the wall of the coach.

“No.”

Caruthers poured some brandy into his glass from a silver flask. “This is why I never stole you away from your regiment. No skill for putting others at ease.”

He didn’t want to be at ease. He needed to be on that ship.

“But you always follow orders, and that’s a trait I find useful.”

Dread settled in Bennett’s gut as the general removed a sheet of paper from a folio next to him and smoothed it on his lap with near reverence. He handed it to Bennett.

Bennett held the page at arm’s length, loath to involve himself with more of Caruthers’s nonsense. Yet the sheet caught his attention regardless. The paper didn’t contain orders. “It’s a butterfly.”

The general nodded and his jowls bounced enthusiastically. “Exactly! That’s the genius of it. Look closer.”

A pounding ache built at the base of Bennett’s skull. He wanted nothing more to do with secrets and lies. Yet since the man outranked him, he peered intently.

Nothing changed. The butterfly was still just a glorified insect, albeit skillfully wrought in ink. In fact, more than skillfully. Bennett held the drawing up in the hazy square of afternoon light that filtered through the thick glass windows. The delicate creature poised on a branch and looked, for all the world, as if it would flutter away at any moment. How had the artist done it? Bennett twisted the paper from side to side and still couldn’t discover the artist’s trick.

Caruthers smiled smugly. “You’ll never find it.”

Bennett lowered the paper, grateful for the general’s misinterpretation of his prolonged study.

Caruthers’s fingers dug indents into his pudgy legs and his eyes gleamed.

Bennett sighed and ventured into the noose. “Very well. Tell me what is special about this particular butterfly.” He laid the drawing flat on his knee.

The general traced a small section of lines near the tip of the wing. “It’s in the wings. Here.” He reached under his seat, pulled out a large glass magnifier, and held it over the drawing.

“Bloody hell.” Under the enlargement of the glass, minuscule lines came into focus, lines that unmistakably outlined the specifications and defenses of a military fortification. “Where is this?”

“A new Ottoman fort near the Greek border city of Ainos on the Mediterranean.”

“How did he get this information?”

Discomfort marred the general’s face and he cleared his throat. “Not a he. A she. It’s recently come to our attention that the artist is, in fact, a woman.”

Bennett folded his arms. “How exactly did His Majesty’s government succeed in missing that small detail?”

General Caruthers coughed twice. “Well, it appears that the government’s man in Constantinople assumed the woman delivering the drawings to be the artist’s servant rather than the artist.”

“Who is she? A Greek patriot?”

The general’s face sank into annoyed lines and he plucked at a brass button on his sleeve. “As a matter of fact, it has recently come to light that she is British. One Mari Sinclair.”

An Englishwoman? Why wasn’t she safe in England where she belonged? “What is she doing in the heart of the Ottoman Empire?” The Turks weren’t kind to spies. And the tortures they could inflict on a female spy were infinitely worse.

“Her father is an archaeologist of minor renown, a Sir Reginald Sinclair. He excavates in the area.”

Bennett tried to recall anything of the family but didn’t recognize the name. He studied the drawing again. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, why are you showing me this?”

The general smiled. “You have done missions for us before.”

Yes, he’d been assigned missions before, but those had been to eliminate enemies. The picture crinkled in Bennett’s fist. “I do not kill women.”

The general glared and retrieved the drawing before further damage befell it. “No, no. The opposite, in fact. Keep Miss Sinclair alive.”

Definitely not Bennett’s area of expertise. “Isn’t this something better left to the Foreign Office? She’s one of their agents, is she not?” The rowboat had begun its passage back to the dock, and he intended to be on it when it left. He needed to shake some sense into Sophia and, failing that, put a bullet through her husband’s head.

“Actually, no. She’s a naturalist who studies plants and insects and the like.”

“She refused to work for them?” Perhaps the woman had an ounce of sense after all.

“She’s a bit . . . independent. She just delivers the pictures when she desires.” The general continued, “The Foreign Office has been providing a man to keep watch over her, but his protection is spotty at best. The army has interest in the drawings, so we informed the Foreign Office that we’ve arranged for her to work for us.” He leaned in, a confidential tone coloring his words. “The Ottomans are falling apart from the inside. They’re scrambling to build forts to hold on to Greece and their other territories, but they lack the funds to do so. Russia is kindly attempting to assist them.”

Splendid. The fool woman had placed herself in the center of some political power struggle. “To what end?”

“Russia has long wanted a foothold in the Mediterranean. This arrangement leaves them perfectly poised if the Ottomans fall. We, of course, don’t want to see this cozy little friendship succeed.”

One thing still didn’t make sense. “If she won’t work for the Foreign Office, why has she agreed to work for us?”

Caruthers returned the glass to the box under his seat. “We’ve assured her that cooperation will be to her benefit.”

Ah, benefit no doubt translated into gold. “Find someone else.” He didn’t have time to waste protecting a woman who thought money more important than safety.

Irritation leeched onto the general’s face. “Impossible. You have something no one else does. A perfect cover.”

Bennett raised his eyebrow.

“Your cousin is the ambassador assigned to Constantinople.”

Damnation. Lord Henry Daller. The man was a dozen years older than Bennett. Bennett knew very little of him. “We don’t have more than a passing acquaintance.”

Caruthers shrugged. “But neither the Turks nor the Russians will question it when you arrive. A young gentleman out to see the Continent now that the war is finally over.”

“What makes you think Miss Sinclair needs protection?”

The general struggled upright. “Her identity has been compromised.”

“And she still insists on gathering information?” Bennett frowned. Then the woman was either addled or had a death wish—neither of which boded well for her survival.

“As I said, we’ve ensured her cooperation.”

How much was the Crown paying her? But surely if her identity was known, the operation was as much at risk as her life. “Why not send another agent in her place?”

Caruthers rubbed his hands together eagerly. “She’s been able to access places we’ve only dreamed of before. We can’t give her up.”

“So we put her in danger.”

“She’s put herself in danger. Regardless, it’s not for long. We only need two last areas.”

Bennett stiffened. “This is ridiculous. I won’t play with Miss Sinclair’s life.”

“You have no choice.”

He already bore the guilt for failing to notice what was happening to Sophia; he wouldn’t fling Miss Sinclair into further danger. He’d sacrificed most of his soul in the service of King and Country. He refused to surrender the rest. “I do have a choice. I resign my commission.” He’d never expected to utter those words, but he would not let himself regret them.

Caruthers’s lips puckered. “Unfortunate. I do regret that, although not as much as I regret what will befall Everston and O’Neil.”

Bennett stilled. “What do my men have to do with this?”

“Everston lost a leg, did he not? And O’Neil an arm?”

Bennett swallowed the bile in his throat.

“It will be difficult for them to find work, I think. And poor O’Neil has three young children at home, too.”

“What are you threatening?”

Caruthers rubbed his chin. “Threats? Tsk, tsk, Major. I’m merely stating how essential a pension will be for those injured men, and you know how fickle Parliament is. If for some reason your regiment were left off the list the army sends to Parliament for funding, it would be a great tragedy. It could take years to correct. How many in the Ninety-fifth Rifles are going to be relying on pensions?”

Too many. The rigorous dual roles of scout and sharpshooter had decimated his men. Perhaps he could find positions for O’Neil and Everston on his estate, but what of the rest? He couldn’t leave them to starve in the gutters. Caruthers would carry out his threat, too, and not lose a night’s sleep.

“How long?” The question burned like acid on his lips.

Caruthers leaned back, the leather bench creaking under his weight. “I’m not asking for something unreasonable. We need Miss Sinclair to draw the two forts within the month. Then you are free to return to England.”

A month. Bennett cast another glance at the dock. The sailor waited in the rowboat, his wrinkled face collapsed in confusion.

Curse it, Sophia
. Why had he buckled under her sobbed pleas for secrecy? He’d given his word not to reveal the vile treatment she’d received at the hands of her husband. Now for another month, that promise left her at the mercy of the sadistic bastard.

“What are my orders?”

“Quite simple. Keep Miss Sinclair alive long enough to draw what I need.”

“Sir, I—”

The general’s expression sank into displeasure. “This is not a request, Major. You sail within the hour.”

Bennett straightened and flung open the door to the coach. “Aye, sir.”

Constantinople

B
ennett studied the woman before him—or at least what little he could see—a grand total of two brown eyes. Not even her eyebrows showed under the garish golden silk that swathed her entire form. Her native garb stood in awkward contrast to the traditional English decor of the ambassador’s parlor, clashing horribly with the pink embroidered flowers on the chair beneath her. A dandelion in one of his mother’s rose beds. “So you agree to the conditions?”

Miss Sinclair dipped her head, shrinking even further into the overstuffed chair. “Yes.” her words fluttered the fabric of her veil.

“I know it might be a bother to write out an hour-by-hour itinerary every morning, but it is for your safety.”

“Yes, sir.” She darted an anxious glance at the closed door.

Bennett paced in front of the large marble fireplace, then tapped his fingers on the mantel. Both of his sisters would’ve laughed in his face if he’d dared to make such a suggestion to one of them. He’d expected at least some protest. The sum the government was paying her must be substantial indeed.

Silence hung awkwardly in the stifling room. He eyed the shut windows. He still couldn’t think of words to adequately describe the city of Constantinople spread out beneath them. The city resembled nothing so much as an aging courtesan’s dressing room table overflowing with rouge pots and cream jars and a few candlesticks interspersed throughout.