The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (3 page)

“There is no need to apologize. First, you managed
to extract me from the festivities, which as I mentioned before was not a wholly unwelcome
thing. And secondly—and rather more importantly—you received some startling news.”

Elena’s statement quickly brought Sophia back to her senses. “Then you know about
my mother’s killer?” she asked, her heart beginning to pick up speed with equal parts
anticipation and fear.

The viscountess nodded again. “That is why I am here—and why Dash is currently keeping
Langdon occupied. Not an easy task, as I am sure you are aware. He is a most congenial
man in all matters, with the exception of you. I suspect he will soon be pounding
at the door, demanding entry.”

“Then we haven’t a moment to waste, wouldn’t you agree?” Sophia asked, carefully swinging
her legs from the settee and settling her slippered feet firmly on the carpeted floor.

Elena rose from the lavender patterned carpet and joined Sophia on the sofa, her expression
cautious, but resolute. “Very well. In the interest of time, I will be brief. A journal
belonging to Dash’s late father was recently discovered. In it, he recounts a visit
from a prostitute who sought him out in an effort to clear her conscience. She’d suspected
for years that one of the brothel’s clients was in fact the man who’d murdered your
mother. Though his true identity had been concealed from her, Dash and Nicholas were
able to successfully piece the clues together and identify the killer.”

“Why did Dash not come to me?” Sophia protested. “He should have—from the very moment
the journal was discovered.”

Elena reached out; her upturned palm a silent request for understanding. “Lady Sophia,
you do know how dearly Dash cares for you, do you not?” she asked plainly.

“Yes,” Sophia answered reluctantly, accepting Elena’s hand in hers.

“He knew you could not be kept from searching for the man if you were told. And putting
you in such a dangerous position was something Dash wished to avoid at all cost.”

Sophia wanted to rail against the woman’s reasoning, to put into words the fiery indignation
building in her chest. But it was no use. In the same position, it was entirely possible
she would have spared Dash for her own selfish means.

“And the murderer’s name?” Sophia asked, squeezing Elena’s hand tightly in hers.

“Francis Smeade,” Elena said warily, clearly watching Sophia for signs of distress.

Francis Smeade?
Sophia had known very little of the man, his unappealing personality having discouraged
her from pursuing anything beyond mere acquaintance. Then Mr. Smeade had managed to
get himself shot and killed …

Sophia closed her eyes against the oncoming wave of nausea. “Is that it, then? The
reason Nicholas decamped for the Primrose Inn? Did he shoot Smeade?”

“Dear me, no,” Elena instantly assured her. “Both Dash and Mr. Bourne were there that
night on the bridge when Smeade was killed. In fact, Dash was the last to speak with
Smeade; their conversation lasted long enough to confirm that he’d been hired to murder
your mother.”

“For money? Then Smeade had been hired by someone else. Who?”

“We do not know,” Elena answered. “Mr. Bourne pursued the shooter, but the man jumped
into the Thames before he could be captured.”

“And Nicholas blames himself?” Sophia’s heart ached with a swift stab of empathy.

The abject silence that met her question confirmed Sophia’s fears. She gently released
Elena and folded her hands in her lap, striving for calm even as tension tightened
her fingers.

“So that is why he is at the Primrose.” Her voice trembled. She found it surprisingly
difficult to speak clearly. “I cannot imagine how deeply the man’s escape has affected
Nicholas.”

“Deeply enough that he refuses to speak with Dash—or is unable to due to drink,” Elena
replied in a somber, almost regretful tone. “Which is why I must ask a favor of you.”

“Anything,” Sophia answered distractedly, her mind attempting to keep pace with the
volume of information.

“Though I understand you and Mr. Bourne do not often see eye to eye, I need you to
convince him to take up the case again,” Elena implored Sophia. “I cannot ask Stonecliffe;
he is too dedicated to keep such information from the Young Corinthians. And Lord
Carmichael would never stand for his involvement, as you well know. There is no one
else but Mr. Bourne now.”

Years before, Lord Carmichael had expressly forbidden all four of the children from
pursuing the case. He’d assured them that time and distance was what they required.

“And, should you wonder why I’m being so monumentally selfish, I am with child,” Elena
finished, sinking down to the carpet until her wedding gown pooled all about her.
“I cannot ask Dash to abandon the case. Still, I am terrified he’ll come to harm.
And how can I ask Mr. Bourne to continue in Dash’s stead when I know the danger he
will surely face?”

A storm cloud had settled on the woman’s brow, tears threatening to break through
at any moment. Sophia
may have fainted at her dearest friend’s wedding, but she would not make his bride
cry.

She fought down a rising tide of dread at the knowledge that it was up to her to convince
Nicholas. Such an appeal would take time and patience, two things that were always
in short supply whenever they conversed.

Sophia focused instead on the surge of elation she felt over the very idea of joining
the search for her mother’s killer. After too many years of being told to let the
matter rest, she would at last be involved.

“Please, Lady Carrington,” Sophia crooned, patting the woman’s hand reassuringly.
“Do not worry yourself. Nicholas and I have our differences, that much is true. This
is one matter, though, on which I feel certain we will agree.”

Because she would give him no choice.

2

May 26
T
HE
P
RIMROSE
I
NN
E
DGWARE
M
IDDLESEX
O
UTER
L
ONDON

The Honorable Nicholas Bourne could not decide which was worse: the rattle of metal
rings over the curtain rod as the rough linen hangings were pulled back, the excruciatingly
loud crash of the shutters slamming against the outer stucco and timber siding of
the Primrose Inn, or the sudden flash of blinding sunlight.

“Mrs. Brimm, are you trying to kill me?” he asked the innkeeper’s wife in a low, even
tone as he willed the relentless pounding in his head to stop.

Something soft yet painfully unwelcome landed on his face in response to his query.
Nicholas cautiously opened his eyes but could see nothing through the folds of his
linen shirt. “I see no need for clothing at this juncture, my good woman, as I intend
to stay abed for at least another two hours. Now, off with you. I’m sure there are
other guests who would welcome your attention.”

“I am neither Mrs. Brimm nor am I trying to kill you. Not yet, anyway.”

Nicholas startled at the sound of the woman’s voice.
He grabbed the bedcovers, yanking them higher over his bare chest as he levered himself
upright. “Sophia?”

Lady Sophia Afton stood in front of the open window, illuminated by the late-morning
sun. The warm golden rays silhouetted her graceful form against the gloom and dark
of the rented room. All about, empty bottles of brandy and Cognac, sheets of foolscap
and discarded quills, and Nicholas’s clothing were carelessly tossed hither and yon—the
evidence of a messy and misused life.

And in the middle of it all stood Sophia. The faint pink of her rosebud printed gown
appeared to be the exact hue of her full lips. Her dark hair, gleaming like autumn’s
burnished oak leaves, was artfully pinned up, a few stray curls expertly arranged
about her face. And below the feathered arch of brows, her eyes were the deep green
of emeralds, framed with dark lashes and spaced just far enough apart to give her
an exotic air. One could get lost in those immeasurable depths, a fact Nicholas knew
all too well.

Sophia stole his breath away. She always had and without even knowing that she did
so. He’d long ago learned it was useless to fight the fascination. His sanity would
return again. Or not. It did not matter in the least.

“Surely you’re not surprised,” she said, slowly walking toward the bed until she stood
within touching distance. “Someone had to fetch you.”

Nicholas fought the urge to disappear beneath the coarse bed linens, aware that doing
so would only make him appear even more the fool. “Well,
someone
usually means Carrington or my brother. How on earth did you draw the short straw—and
where’s your Mrs. Kirk? This is feeling more scandalous by the moment.” He gestured
abruptly. “Turn around, Sophia, while I make myself decent.”

With an unfathomable glance from beneath her lashes, she did as he bade her, turning
to face the opposite wall.

Nicholas tossed back the covers and swung his bare feet to the plank floor. He swore
under his breath as the sudden movement sent his head spinning. Then swore again as
he reached for his shirt from the pile of clothing flung carelessly on the edge of
the bed and pulled it over his head, tugging it into place.

“Mrs. Kirk is waiting in the coach so that we may speak privately,” Sophia replied,
her back to him as Nicholas buttoned his breeches. “As for Dash, he’s celebrating
his wedding trip.”

“Dammit,” Nicholas cursed for the third time in as many moments. “I thought he was
to be leg-shackled on the twenty-fourth.”

Sophia turned back to face him, pity pooling in her eyes. “He was, Nicholas. Today
is the twenty-sixth.”

He froze, staring at her, shame snaking its way around his heart. He’d lost a week.
In the past there had been a day here or there that had disappeared into the ether,
consumed by drink and his need to forget. Never before had there been so many lost
days in a row. Too many days.

Sophia crossed the room to a slat-backed chair. She turned it around and clasped the
worn wood, tipping the chair onto two legs and dragging it toward the bed.

Nicholas winced as the scrape of wood against wood set hammers pounding inside his
skull.

She placed the chair to face Nicholas, then took her seat.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “What are you up to, Sophia?”

“Do you promise to listen?” she asked sternly, extending her arm, her palm up in silent
plea.

He scrubbed his hand across his unshaven jaw. “Are we children again, then?” he growled.

“Do you promise, Nicholas?” Sophia pressed. “Or have I come all this way for nothing?”

“Honestly, Sophia,” Nicholas muttered, reaching out and taking her hand in his. “I
don’t recall inviting you, so yes, I would say you have.”

Sophia laced her fingers with his and shook four times, just as she’d done during
their childhood. “Say it.”

“I promise to listen with open ears, wide eyes, and a closed mouth,” Nicholas bit
out, his displeasure with her presence clearly conveyed in every last syllable. “There,
will that do? They’re only words—strung together by children, if you’ll remember.
Hardly anything that would hold water.”

It killed him to touch her, her soft, small hand in his akin to torture. Yet he wouldn’t
let go. He knew he would never be an honorable man. Never marry nor know the joys
of family. He would take his love for Sophia to his deathbed. Even if it destroyed
him, which, he ventured to guess, was precisely what would happen.

“Thank you, Nicholas,” she sighed, relief easing the strain from her countenance.
She squeezed his hand in hers, then let go.

Nicholas lowered his arm, the tips of his fingers still tingling where they’d gripped
Sophia’s mere seconds before. “Well, out with it, then. I don’t have all day.”

“I need your help.”

Nicholas stared hard at the only woman he’d ever loved. He’d often imagined what it
would feel like to hear Sophia say she needed him. And the emotion was nothing like
the growing sense of unease that crept up his spine now.