The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (17 page)

In truth, he felt a similar sort of apprehension. What the devil was Sophia up to?

“Shall we?”

Nicholas responded to Sophia’s prompting and followed her into the office, Mr. Bean
bringing up the rear and closing the door behind them.

“I called at your home first. Clyde told me you’d gone to the Bow Street Offices,”
Nicholas began, taking a seat in a serviceable straight-backed chair near Bean’s desk.
“I was hoping you might agree to a trip to Gunter’s—an apology for my foul mood at
the ball, you see.”

Sophia moved to the table and lifted the teapot lid, then, satisfied, began to pour.
“A bit of luck on my part that you did so.”

“Luck?” Mr. Bean asked, taking his seat behind the desk.

Mr. Bean’s confusion over the purpose of the conversation
did little to clear up Nicholas’s questions. “Yes,” he said, “what about this luck?”

Sophia turned and gracefully handed Nicholas a cup and saucer. “I was just now speaking
with Mr. Bean about the case.”

Nicholas’s fingers tightened on the saucer and the cup wobbled, nearly spilling his
tea. “And what case might that—”

“I see no reason to involve Mr. Bourne,” Mr. Bean interrupted, aiming a clipped smile
at Nicholas. “Bow Street business is best kept within the walls of this building—and
not one step beyond.”

Nicholas agreed with the man, as long as the case Sophia had been discussing with
Mr. Bean was not Lady Afton’s. “I have no intention of prying any particulars regarding
Bow Street business from either of you.”

Sophia prepared a second cup and offered it to Mr. Bean, then readied her own. She
joined the men, taking the seat next to Nicholas. “Mr. Bean has been apprised of the
recent developments in the Afton case.”

“God Almighty,” Nicholas hissed, setting his cup and saucer down on Bean’s desk with
controlled force.

Mr. Bean did the same, sloshing most of the contents of his cup into the saucer, where
it immediately overflowed onto the desktop. “I have to agree with Mr. Bourne.”

“Well, I do not,” Sophia replied before taking a small sip of tea. “There are many
reasons why such a partnership is advisable, not the least of which is Lord Stonecliffe.
When he discovers my part in all of this, his anger will be greatly diminished by
Bow Street’s involvement. I must take the necessary precautions, you see.”

“Lord Stonecliffe has not been apprised of the situation?” Mr. Bean asked. He began
to tap his index finger against his chin once again, frowning at her.

“No one was to be ‘apprised’ of it,” Nicholas ground out, “especially not the likes
of you.”

“Nicholas,” Sophia admonished. “I would trust Mr. Bean with my life.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

“Ain’t never had no ice,” Mouse informed Sophia and Nicholas for the fifth time since
they’d departed the Bow Street Office. “What’s it like?”

“Cold,” Nicholas answered the boy before reaching into his vest pocket. “Here, take
this and fetch a posy for Miss Spoon, won’t you?”

Mouse caught the coin in mid-air and grinned cheekily at the two. “Don’t need a coin
for such things.”

“You do if you don’t want to answer to me,” Nicholas replied sternly. “Now, go.”

Mouse took off at a trot for the flower cart farther up the block. He easily dodged
around clusters of ladies and gentlemen that strolled in chattering groups, the maids
with baskets over their arms who hurried purposefully along, and the occasional governess
shepherding her young charges with militant ease.

“How did you explain Miss Spoon’s tie to the Runners?” Sophia asked, genuinely curious.
“You took quite a risk bringing him to Bow Street.”

“Singh was nowhere to be found and I could not leave Mouse alone,” Nicholas explained
in a curt, clipped tone. “I convinced the boy that you were acting on my behalf in
a rather delicate situation. He absolutely devoured the story, if you must know. Now,
tell me, did my comments at the ball convince you to speak with Mr. Bean?”

On the street behind them, carriage wheels rattled over pavings, the creak and groan
of moving vehicles
discordant background music to the city scene. Suddenly, drivers called out, shouting
warnings as a heavy dray lumbered too close to the lighter conveyances. The resulting
noisy confusion benefited Sophia and Nicholas, assuring no chance passersby could
overhear their conversation.

Sophia gripped her reticule with both hands, the silk drawstring tightening about
her wrist. “You think me so petty that I would seek retaliation for … what? Words?
Your uncivil mood? Really, Nicholas. If that were the case, I would not have enough
time in the day for my machinations.”

“Stop walking and pretend to inspect the hats,” Nicholas commanded, tipping his head
toward Pensington’s Millinery.

Sophia obeyed, halting in front of the shop’s large glass window and looking closely
at a puce chip bonnet within. “Mr. Bean has access to information that we do not,
and a staff of men to help, should we find ourselves in a difficult situation,” she
explained, watching Nicholas closely as he stared with complete disinterest at a display
of the latest spools of ribbon artfully arranged in the shop window. “Besides, he
was the only one to take the idea of criminal psychology seriously—still is, unfortunately.”

Nicholas looked at Sophia, clearly puzzled. “Criminal psychology?”

She hesitated, not sure that she could bear it if he ridiculed her work.

“Sophia, I am aging right before your eyes,” Nicholas said dryly, looking up the street
toward the flower cart. “And Mouse will be returning soon.”

Sophia’s gaze followed his and she smiled at the sight of Mouse as he stood proudly
next to the cart, a charming bouquet grasped with both hands. “Are you familiar with
the science of criminal psychology?”

“Not in the slightest,” Nicholas answered, one eyebrow lifting in inquiry. “Should
I be?”

“Preferably not,” Sophia said sternly. “Criminal psychology is concerned with understanding
how a criminal thinks. If you can enter their mind and see things as they do, then
you have an opportunity to not only understand why they commit crimes, but how to
treat them so that, hopefully, they will stop.”

Nicholas held up his hand and gestured for Mouse to wait. “And how would one go about
learning such methods?”

“There are books by authorities in the field. Also case notes, personal interviews,”
Sophia replied, her natural confidence returning as she warmed to her subject. “Access
to the crime scene is vastly informative.”

“Cavorting with criminals? Is that what Mr. Bean has allowed you to do?” Nicholas
remarked snidely.

“Look at me,” she demanded quietly, standing absolutely still as he obeyed. “Now tell
me, Nicholas, when did you last have a drink?”

“I fail to see what relevance that information could possibly have to our conversation.
Still, if you must know, I enjoyed a bit of brandy after dinner last night.”

Sophia looked into his eyes, watching as his pupils dilated to twice their normal
size. Then she looked down at his hands where they rested at his sides. “Nicholas,
you’re lying. You cannot go more than eight hours without a drink. If you do, you
develop a tremor in your hands—which is absent at present. Also, your pupils are the
size of saucers. This is the body’s natural response to the stress placed upon it
by deceit.”

Nicholas folded his arms across his chest. “This is what you’ve learned? A bit of
sly gypsy magic, then?”

“Am I right?” Sophia pressed, gazing at his strong chin.

A muscle flexed along his jawline. “Mr. Bean taught you how to detect such things?”
he asked quietly.

“No, he did not,” Sophia answered. “But he believes in my methods and will do whatever
is within his considerable power to help. I would say that makes him a valuable partner,
wouldn’t you?”

Nicholas nodded, his broad shoulders shrugging in acceptance.

Sophia nodded curtly and made to step around him, only to have Nicholas block her
path.

“I want to apologize,” he said grimly. “Actually, that’s a lie. I don’t want to. I
need to. It is why I sought you out today. I’ve no good reason for the way I treated
you at the ball—nor for the rude comments I just made. I don’t know why I tend to
take my feelings out on those I care for; it is just what I’ve always done, I suppose.
A ridiculous reason, really.”

Sophia returned her gaze to the shop window and feigned a deep interest in the hats
while absorbing the weight of Nicholas’s confession. “You never should have been as
kind and understanding as you were to me in Mouse’s room. Do you know, you’d convinced
me that there was some small measure of hope for you.”

“God, Sophia, that was cruel—and wholly deserved,” Nicholas muttered as he looked
to the ground.

Sophia studied him from the corner of her eye, the raw quality of his response doing
her in. “And now I must apologize. I’m afraid this was all so much more clear when
your dislike for me was on permanent display. Why are you letting me in—and, rather
more importantly, shutting me out all at once?”

“Please, haven’t we talked about our feelings enough for one day?” he asked, flattening
his palm against the brick exterior of the shop.

Did Sophia, as she suspected, sense there was more? Or did she simply want there to
be? “I knew you. For
one brief moment, you revealed yourself to me when we kissed. And then you eviscerated
me at the ball as though nothing had changed between us. Help me understand, Nicholas.”

He returned his gaze to the window. “Stop, Sophia.”

“All I want is the truth—”

“The truth is that you are to be my brother’s wife,” Nicholas snapped. “A fact that
has eaten away at my heart all of these years until there’s very little of it left.
That is the truth, Sophia.”

Sophia felt the very ground beneath her feet violently shift. In an attempt to maintain
her questionable balance, she turned to face his profile, steadying herself against
the window. “You disliked me …” Her tongue struggled to form an intelligent response.
“You burned my dollhouse, attempted to drown me in the pond. Even fled for India because
of me, if Dash is to be believed.”

He continued to stare at the bonnets in the window, his jaw flexing with tension.
“I was a stupid boy, Sophia—and I’ve grown up to be a stupid man,” he answered, a
weariness in his voice. “It was far easier to pretend to hate you than to accept that
you would never love me.”

Sophia repeated the sentence in her head, turning it this way and that in an effort
to draw out any facets she may have missed. “Why didn’t I understand?”

“There was never a need on your part. You have Langdon.”

You have Langdon
.

Sophia knew herself to be an intelligent woman. Still, she was struggling to absorb
what Nicholas was telling her.

“What if I do not—”

“For the lady,” Mouse interrupted, suddenly shoving the posy into Sophia’s hand.

“I don’t know what to say,” Sophia whispered, unaware she’d said anything at all.

“You say ‘thank you,’ ” Nicholas answered, his mouth slanted into a small, sad smile.
“And move on.”

Sophia rested her quill on the mahogany writing desk in her bedroom and folded the
unfinished missive in half. The Halcyon tea hosted by Lady Fabersham had been the
single most successful event for the charity to date, no fewer than fourteen ladies
pledging their support.

The woman deserved more than “profound gratitude,” surely?

Situating a fresh piece of paper in front of her, Sophia reclaimed the quill with
determination and began again.

“Sincere?” Sophia complained out loud. She ran the feathered end of the quill back
and forth across her forehead in an attempt to unearth some measure of inspiration.
Perhaps Mrs. Mason would be better suited to writing the thank you letters?