Lady Sophia's Lover Page 8

  “Now I see, Cannon, why you are so eager to conclude our meeting. The company of this fetching creature is doubtless preferable to mine.”

  Ross’s mouth quirked, and he did not deny the statement. “Good day, Lord Lyttleton. I will examine the draft of your bill most carefully. However, do not expect that my views will change.”

  “I want your support, Cannon,” the gentleman said in a soft, meaningful tone. “And if I receive it, you will find me a most useful friend.”

  “Of that I have no doubt.”

  They exchanged bows, and Lyttleton departed, the soles of his leather shoes making an expensive tapping sound on the worn wood floor.

  Sir Ross’s eyes gleamed as he stared at Sophia. “Come,” he said softly, and guided her into his office. The pressure of his hand on her back was warm and light. Sophia sat in the chair he indicated, her spine straight, while he resumed his place behind the huge mahogany desk.

  “Lyttleton.” She repeated the name of the gentleman who had just left. “Surely that was not the same Lyttleton who is the Secretary of State for War?”

  “None other.”

  “Oh, no,” Sophia said, thoroughly flustered. “I hope I did not interrupt your meeting. Oh, I will cheerfully murder Mr. Vickery!”

  Sir Ross responded with a deep chuckle. “You didn’t interrupt anything. I was ready for Lyttleton to leave a half hour ago, thus your appearance was quite timely. Now, tell me why you are here. I suspect it has something to do with that parcel in your lap.”

  “First let me apologize for bothering you. I—”

  “Sophia.” He stared at her steadily. “I am always available to you. Always.”

  She could not seem to take her gaze from his. The air around them felt alive and sultry, like the stillness before a midsummer storm. Clumsily she leaned forward and placed the parcel on his desk. “I received this from Ernest just a little while ago. He said that a man delivered it to Bow Street and left no word as to the sender.”

  Sir Ross surveyed the address on the front of the package. As he pushed the brown paper aside, the lavender gown glimmered and rustled in the Spartan surroundings of the office. Sir Ross’s face remained impassive, but one dark brow arched as he examined the beautiful garment.

  “I don’t know who could have sent it,” Sophia said anxiously. “And there is something peculiar about it.” She explained the resemblance between the lavender-silver gown and the one that had belonged to her mother.

  When Sophia finished speaking, Sir Ross, who had listened intently, leaned back in his chair and considered her in a meditative way that she didn’t quite like. “Miss Sydney… is it possible that the gown is a gift from your former lover?”

  The thought gave Sophia a start of surprise as well as a flash of bitter amusement. “Oh, no. He has no idea that I am working here. Besides, there is no reason for him to send me a gift.”

  Sir Ross made a noncommittal sound and picked up a handful of the shining lavender fabric. The sight of his long fingers rubbing the delicate silk caused a peculiar flutter inside her. His thick black lashes lowered as he examined the gown; the stitching, the seams, the lace. “It is a costly garment,” he said. “Well made, and of high-quality goods. But there is no dressmaker’s label inside, which is unusual. I venture to guess that whoever sent the gown did not want it traced back to the modiste, who might reveal his—or her—identity.”

  “Then there is no way to find out who sent it?”

  He looked up from the gown. “I am going to have one of the runners talk to Ernest about the messenger, as well as investigate the dressmakers who are most likely to have made this gown. The fabric is unusual—that will help to narrow the list.”

  “Thank you.” Her hesitant smile vanished at his next question.

  “Sophia, have you recently encountered any men who might have taken an interest in you? Anyone you shared a flirtation with, or spoke to at market, or—”

  “No!” Sophia was not certain why the question agitated her so, but she felt her cheeks flood with heat. “I assure you, Sir Ross, I would not encourage any gentlemen that way… that is—” She broke off in confusion as she realized that she had encouraged a particular man that way—Sir Ross himself.

  “It’s all right, Sophia,” he said quietly. “I would not blame you if you had. You are free to do as you wish.”

  Rattled, she spoke without thinking. “Well, I do not have a follower, and I have not behaved in a manner that might attract one. My last experience was certainly nothing I wish to repeat.”

  His gaze took on a wolflike alertness. “Because of the way he left you? Or is it that you found no pleasure in his arms?”

  Sophia was startled that he would ask such an intimate question, and her face flamed. “I don’t see that it has any bearing on the question of who sent this gown.”

  “It does not,” he admitted. “But I am curious.”

  “Well, you will have to remain curious!” She struggled to restore her splintered composure. “May I leave now, sir? I have much to do, especially with Eliza being injured. Lucie has worked her fingers to the bone.”

  “Yes,” he said brusquely. “I will have Sayer investigate the matter of the gown, and keep you informed of the developments.”

  “Thank you.” Sophia stood and went to the door, while he followed close at her heels. He reached for the knob, but paused as Sophia spoke without looking at him. “I… I found no pleasure in his arms.” She concentrated on the heavy oak paneling of the door. “But that was perhaps my fault more than his.”

  Sophia felt the hot touch of his breath against her hair, his lips hovering close to the top of her head. His nearness filled her with an ache of longing. Blindly she seized the doorknob and let herself out of the office, refusing to glance back at him.

  Ross closed the door and went back to his desk, bracing his hands on the cluttered surface. He let out a tense sigh. The desire that he had kept under iron control for so long had raged in a tremendous inferno. All the force of his will, his physical needs, his obsessive nature, were now focused in one direction. Sophia. He could barely stand to be in the same room without touching her.

  Closing his eyes, Ross absorbed the familiar atmosphere of the office. He had spent most of the past five years within these walls, surrounded by maps and books and documents. He had ventured out for investigations or other official business, but he always returned here, to the room that was the center of law enforcement in London. Suddenly it amazed him that he had devoted himself so completely to his work for so long.

  The lavender ballgown glimmered richly on the desk. Ross imagined how Sophia would look in it… the color would suit her blue eyes and dark blonde hair beautifully. Who had sent it to her? He was suffused with a jealousy and violent possessiveness that astonished him. He wanted the exclusive rights to provide whatever she required, whatever would delight her.

  Ross sighed heavily, trying to understand the mixture of joy and strong unwillingness that seethed inside him. He had vowed never to fall in love again. He had not forgotten how terrible it was to care so deeply for someone, to fear for her safety, to want her happiness more than his own. Somehow he would have to find a way to stop it from happening, to satisfy his boundless need for Sophia and yet keep from entrusting his heart to her.

  Chapter 5

  Early in the evening, when Sophia was certain that Sir Ross was away on an investigation, she solicited Lucie to help her turn the mattress on his bed and change the linens.

  “Yes, miss,” Lucie said, her cheeks bunching with an apologetic smile. “But it’s like this, y’see. I can’t stop me mitts from bleedin‘ ever since I scrubbed the coppers this afternoon.”

  “Your what? Your hands? Let me see them.” Sophia inhaled sharply as she saw the poor maid’s hands, so chapped from the sand-and-acid paste used to scrub pots that they were scabbed and bleeding. “Oh, Lucie, why didn’t you tell me before now?” Scolding affectionately, she sat the girl at the kitchen table and w
ent to the larder. Bringing out an assortment of bottles, she poured glycerine, elder-flower water, and oil into a bowl, then whisked the mixture briskly with a fork. “You must soak your hands in this for the next half hour, and tonight you must sleep with gloves on.”

  “I got none, miss.”

  “No gloves?” Sophia thought of her own gloves, the only pair she possessed, and she winced at the thought of sacrificing them. Immediately she felt a touch of shame as she glanced once more at the housemaid’s raw hands. “Go to my room, then,” she said, “and get mine from the basket beneath the night table.”

  Lucie stared at her in concern. “But I can’t ruin yer gloves, miss.”

  “Oh, your hands are far more important than a silly pair of gloves.”

  “What about Sir Ross’s mattress?”

  “Never you mind about that. I’ll take care of it by myself.”

  “But it’s ‘ard to turn without ’elp—”

  “You sit and soak your hands,” Sophia said, trying to sound stern. “Take care of them, or you’ll be of no use to anyone tomorrow.”

  Lucie smiled at her gratefully. “No disrespect, Miss Sydney, but… ye’re a love. A real love.”

  Sophia waved the words away and hurried to clean Sir Ross’s bedroom before he returned. She set an armful of fresh bed linens on a chair and surveyed the room appraisingly. It had been dusted and swept, but the mattress needed turning, and Sir Ross’s clothes from the previous day had still not been gathered for laundering.

  The room suited Sir Ross quite well. Rich mahogany furniture was enhanced with dark green brocade upholstery and window draperies. One wall was adorned with an ancient, faded tapestry panel. A series of three framed engravings were hung on another wall, caricatures portraying Sir Ross as a massive Olympian figure, dandling politicians and government officials on his knee as if they were children. One hand clutched the strings for a few Bow Street runner puppets, their pockets bulging with money. It was apparent that the caricatures were meant to criticize the tremendous power that Sir Ross and his runners had amassed.

  Sophia well understood the source of the artist’s grievance. Most Englishmen abhorred the notion of having a strong, organized police force, declaring such an arrangement to be unconstitutional and dangerous. They felt far more comfortable with the ancient parish-constable system, which called for average but untrained citizens to serve as constables, each for the period of a year. However, the parish constables had been unable to deal with the proliferation of robbery, rape, murder, and fraud that plagued the populous city of London. Parliament had refused to authorize a true police force, so the Bow Street runners had become a law unto themselves, their powers mostly self-assumed. The only man they answered to was Sir Ross, who had made his own position far more powerful than had ever been intended.

  Upon first seeing the censorious caricatures, Sophia had wondered why Sir Ross chose to hang them in his room. Now she realized that this was his way of reminding himself that his every decision and action would come under the public scrutiny, and therefore his behavior must be above reproach.

  Pushing these thoughts from her mind, Sophia stripped the linens from the huge bed. It was difficult work to turn the heavy mattress by herself, but after a great deal of huffing and puffing, she managed to settle it into place. She took pride in her ability to make a bed, stretching the sheets so tautly that one could bounce a coin off them. After smoothing the counterpane and fluffing the pillows, Sophia turned her attention to the pile of clothes on the chair. She draped the black silk cravat over one arm and picked up the discarded white linen shirt.

  A pleasant, faintly earthy scent floated to her nostrils, the smell of Sir Ross’s skin permeating the thin fabric. Curious, Sophia held the shirt up to her face, breathing in the fragrance of sweat and shaving soap along with the essence of a virile, healthy male. She had never found a man’s scent so alluring. Despite her supposed love for Anthony, she had never really noticed such details about him. Disgusted with herself, Sophia decided that it must have been the idea of Anthony, the fantasy of him, that she had fallen in love with, rather than the actual man. She had wanted a fairy-tale prince to sweep her off her feet, and Anthony had obligingly played the role until it no longer suited him.

  The door opened.

  Startled, Sophia dropped the shirt and blanched guiltily. She was appalled to see Sir Ross enter the room, his large body clad in a black coat and trousers. Humiliation flooded her. Oh, that he should have caught her sniffing and fondling his shirt!

  But Sir Ross’s usual alertness seemed to have deserted him. In fact, his gaze was slightly unfocused, and Sophia realized that he hadn’t noticed what she was doing. Confounded, she wondered if he had been drinking. That was not like him at all, but it was the only possible reason for the unsteadiness of his gait.

  “You are back early from your investigation in Long Acre,” she said. “I—I was just straightening your room.”

  He shook his head as if to clear it and approached her.

  Sophia backed up against the dresser, staring at him in growing concern. “Are you ill, sir?”

  Sir Ross reached her and clutched the dresser on either side of her. His face was bone-white, throwing the blackness of his hair and brows and lashes into startling relief. “We found the man we sought, hiding in a house on Rose Street,” he said. A thick forelock fell over his pale, sweating forehead. “He climbed onto the roof… and jumped to the next house before Sayer could catch him. I joined in the chase… couldn’t let him get away.”

  “You were chasing a man on the rooftops?” Sophia was horrified. “But that is dangerous! You could have been hurt.”

  “Actually…” Sir Ross looked sheepish, his balance wavering. “When I reached him, he pulled a pistol from his coat.”

  “You were shot at?” Sophia scanned his black coat frantically. “Did he hit you? Dear God—” She ran her hands down the front of the tailored wool panels of the coat and found that the left side was cool and slippery. A stifled cry burst from her lips as her palm came away smeared with blood.

  “It’s just a scratch.”

  “Did you tell anyone?” Sophia demanded, frantically pulling him toward the bed. “Have you sent for a doctor?”

  “I can tend it myself,” he said testily. “A mere scratch, as I said—” He grunted with pain when Sophia tugged the coat from his shoulders and down his arms.

  “Lie down!” She was horrified by the amount of blood that had stained his shirt, leaving his entire left side soaked in scarlet. Unbuttoning the garment, she lifted the fabric from his shoulder and gasped at the sight of an oozing bullet wound. “It is not a scratch, it is a hole. Don’t you dare move. Why in God’s name didn’t you tell someone?”

  “It is only a minor injury,” he said grumpily.

  Sophia snatched up the shirt from the previous day and pressed it firmly against the welling blood. Sir Ross’s breath hissed between his clenched teeth.

  “You obstinate man,” Sophia said, stroking back the lock of hair that had adhered to his damp forehead. “You are not invulnerable, despite what you and everyone else at Bow Street seem to think! Hold this in place while I send for a doctor.”

  “Get Jacob Linley,” he muttered. “At this time of evening he is usually across the street at Tom’s.”

  “Tom’s coffeehouse?”

  Sir Ross nodded, his eyes closing. “Ernest will find him.”

  Sophia dashed outside the room, shouting for help. The servants appeared in less than a minute, all of them appearing thunderstruck by the information that Sir Ross had been wounded.

  As the servants at Bow Street No. 4 were accustomed to emergencies of one kind or another, they were quick to respond. Ernest scampered away to locate the doctor, Eliza went in search of clean rags and linens, and Lucie ran next door to inform Sir Grant of the situation.

  Sophia returned to Sir Ross, her heart pounding in fear when she saw him lying so still on the bed. Gently she took his hand aw
ay from the wad of bloodstained cloth and applied more pressure to the wound. He made a rough sound, his eyes slitting open.

  “It’s been years since the last time I was shot,” he muttered. “Forgot how damn much it hurts.”

  Sophia was overwhelmed with worry. “I hope it hurts,” she said vehemently. “Perhaps that will teach you not to be running about on rooftops! What possessed you to do such a thing?”

  Sir Ross gave her a narrow-eyed glance. “For some reason the suspect didn’t want to come down to the ground so that I could catch him more easily.”

  “It was my impression that the runners are supposed to give chase,” she replied tartly. “Whereas you are supposed to stay safe and tell them what to do.”

  “It doesn’t always work that way.”

  Sophia bit back another sharp reply and leaned over to unfasten his cuffs. “I’m going to remove your shirt. Do you think you can manage to pull your arm from the sleeve, or shall I fetch the scissors?”

  Sir Ross extended his arm in answer, and Sophia drew carefully on the cuff. She tugged the shirt away from his good side, revealing his thickly furred chest. He was more muscular than she had expected, his shoulders and chest well developed, his midriff furrowed with rows of tightly knit flesh. Sophia had never seen such an imposing masculine body. She felt her cheeks prickling with a flush as she leaned over him. Gently she slid her arm behind his neck. “I’ll lift you up enough to pull the shirt away from your back,” she said.

  “I can do it myself.” His pain-hazed silver eyes stared into hers, while his neck tightened against her arm.

  “Let me do the work,” she insisted, “or you will make the bleeding worse.”

  Slowly she lifted the weight of his head and tugged the shirt out from under him. Sir Ross’s breath puffed against her chin. “When I pictured being in bed with you,” he muttered, “this was not how I had envisioned it.”

  A surprised laugh caught in her throat. “I will overlook that remark, as you are no doubt delirious from loss of blood.”