The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (24 page)

“Of course,” Sophia agreed. “And I do not mean to be impolite, but I’m quite curious
about these other sketches that you mentioned just now.”

“There I go again, not explaining myself well at all,” Mrs. Welch said with frustration,
placing both hands palms-down on the table. “All right, now. There are sketches of
yours here, in the manor house. Of master Nicholas and the other boys. Several of
your father and the servants. The majority are of your mother. Still, there are a
few you drew of parties and such. You’d sneak out of bed at night and find a hidey-hole
where you could watch and not be seen. I knew what you were up to—as did the rest
of the servants, save Mr. Reynolds. We worked hard to keep the wool drawn over that
one’s eyes so you might enjoy yourself.”

Sophia belatedly realized that she’d brought her hand to her mouth in astonishment.

“We did, and I don’t regret going against house rules,” the cook continued firmly,
“no matter how out of line we were. Besides, I’m almost certain you sketched at least
one night of that last house party. And if you did, it’ll be with the others.”

“And where is that, Mrs. Welch?” Sophia asked, almost hovering above her seat.

“In the nursery, my lady,” she answered, folding her hands together and resting her
chin on them. “I’ll ask Watson to have one of the footmen fetch them for you.”

Sophia suddenly felt inexplicably cold. “No, Mrs. Welch. I intended on visiting the
room during my stay.”

She
had
planned on going to the nursery. There was no better place than the scene of a crime
to understand a criminal. Anyone who had ever read the research concerning such things
would wholeheartedly agree. Though Sophia would be willing to bet her great-grandmother’s
pearls that none of the experts on the topic had intended for an individual to inspect
their own mother’s death scene.

Nor had they ever pondered the idea of a
woman
doing so, in all likelihood.

Which was their mistake, not Sophia’s.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured Mrs. Welch again—and herself as well.

She hoped it was true.

Nicholas left Watson’s office and stopped in the kitchen only long enough to learn
Sophia had gone up to the nursery. He took the stairs two at a time. The irony of
the situation was not lost on him. His last trip up to the Petworth nursery had been
made with similar speed, though he had not been alone. Langdon, Dash, and himself
had been trying hard not to lose a race—and to Sophia, no less. Failing to win would
have been a brutal blow for the boys, especially Nicholas.

He reached the landing of the second floor and continued up the next staircase, lost
in memories as his palm ghosted over the polished banister. On that fateful day, the
boy he’d been had not yet known why losing to Sophia would not have been the end of
the world. His love for her had been camouflaged by his boyish dislike for anything
that flounced about in delicate shoes and hair ribbons. And he’d hated the idea of
losing.

Langdon had persuaded the boys to stop running once they reached the final staircase,
his common sense winning out in the heat of the day. They’d lost valuable time when
Dash had managed to get himself stuck in the library window and it was impossible
to think that the skillful Sophia had not sneaked past the ogre of a butler and run
upstairs to the nursery.

Nicholas shook away the memories and quickened his pace now, not content to accept
defeat this time, either. He reached the fourth floor, his breath coming hard and
fast.

“Sophia,” he called, striding to join her outside the nursery door.

She turned her head when he called her name and held up her hand in protest. “Nicholas,
please. I know it was difficult for you to listen to Mrs. Welch’s recollections. I
cannot ask you to revisit the nursery.”

“Then don’t ask,” he answered, blocking her from the door. “I’ve come of my own accord.”

God, she’d nearly gone in there alone. The thought made him break out in a cold sweat.

“Why didn’t you wait for me in the kitchens?” he demanded.

Sophia reached out and took his hand in hers. “I wanted to spare you the pain, Nicholas.
I’ve seen what returning to Petworth has cost you.”

“Far less than what you’ve paid,” he answered softly. “You asked for my help and I’ll
be damned if I won’t give it to you now.”

Sophia squeezed his hand as she stared at the closed door in front of her.

“Ready?” Nicholas asked, reaching with his free hand for the brass knob, then turning
it until the door cracked open.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

Sophia placed the palm of her hand on the smooth oaken door and slowly pushed it open.

The door creaked as it swung wide, and she stepped across the threshold first—then,
hand-in-hand, they walked to the edge of the rose-print rug.

“Why did they not throw this out?” Nicholas released Sophia’s hand and paced to the
bloodstain marring the otherwise cheery carpet. God, he’d never expected
the household would have left something so upsetting as the very rug Lady Afton had
bled to death on.

“It was packed away,” Sophia answered distractedly, looking about the room. “I asked
Watson to have it brought down and placed exactly where it had been when my mother
died.”

Nicholas stared at her in shock. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Because I need everything as it was that day,” she explained, moving closer to him.
“Otherwise I risk missing something important.”

It was difficult to focus on Sophia’s words while standing in the same room where
Lady Afton had been killed. “I won’t pretend to understand you,” he said, “but I will
help. Tell me, what can I do?”

“Lie down on the floor approximately where my mother’s body was found,” she instructed.

Her neutral tone, clipped words, and brusque gestures mirrored that of a Bow Street
Runner.

Nicholas was taken aback by the shift in her personality. Still, he pressed on. “Here?”
he asked, stretching out on his back, his head just above the stain.

“Yes, that’s it,” Sophia answered, turning back toward the door. “Now I am going to
step out, shut the door, and come back in.”

Nicholas watched her leave the room, closing the door behind her, then appear again,
having absolutely no idea how such behavior would lead to anything of use. “Why would
this—”

“Please,” Sophia interrupted him, stopping at the edge of the carpet as she’d done
only moments before. “I need you to be absolutely quiet and still. Will you promise
to do so?”

Nicholas nodded his head, and then turned on his side so that he could see her more
easily as he remained still.

Sophia closed her eyes and began to rock back and
forth on her heels. “I am ten. It is the summer of 1798, and we are in the midst of
our annual house party. I’ve just managed to elude Mr. Reynolds and reach the nursery
in record time. I am tired and hot—and would very much like a glass of lemonade, which
I will retrieve from the kitchen once I’ve entered the nursery and the boys catch
up. Despite my discomfort, I am extremely pleased with myself. And I am very much
looking forward to the play that will be put on for the guests’ entertainment that
evening. I open the door to the nursery and walk inside, closing it behind me.”

Sophia opened her eyes and reached to shut the door. “Then I see my mother lying on
the carpet. I pause, trying to make sense of her presence. She is not moving. Perhaps
she’s asleep.”

She walked slowly toward Nicholas, her eyes looking at him, yet clearly not seeing
him. “Why would she be in the nursery? Perhaps it does not need to make sense, I tell
myself, and call out softly to her, walking forward. She still does not move, and
I begin to feel afraid. I pull my crystal swan figurine from the pocket of my dress …”

Sophia stopped suddenly and closed her eyes again. “My crystal swan. The one my mother
bought especially for me in London. She told me that it had been on display in a shop
and she’d simply had to buy it as it so reminded her of me. From the very day she’d
given it to me, I’d not let it out of my sight. I’d even begged Mrs. Kirk to sew a
hidden pocket into each one of my dresses so I could keep it with me always.”

Her eyes opened and she pretended to reach inside a pocket and pull something small
from it. “I held the swan in my hand, clenching it tightly as I knelt down beside
her. That is when I see her neck. It is ringed in blood and her head is turned at
an awkward angle.”

Sophia knelt down now next to Nicholas and moved his head to mimic the position of
her mother. “It is not
right. And I know it.” She continued to stare at him, her finger tentatively touching
his neck just underneath his chin.

She looked spellbound, her eyes glassy and her face devoid of any emotion. Nicholas
wanted to reach out and wake her, stop his own growing fear and unrest from expanding,
and return to London that very day. But he had promised Sophia his cooperation. And
he would honor it.

“I startle at the feel of her warm, sticky blood on my finger and pull away, setting
my crystal swan down in order to wipe my hand on the rug.”

Sophia raised her right hand, her palm folded as if she held the swan in her fist,
and placed it next to her feet. “I set the crystal swan down …”

She suddenly sat up, then stood, turning back toward the door. “Dash was the first
one of you through the door, correct?” she asked Nicholas, her voice normal once more.

“May I move now?” he countered, doing so once she’d nodded in answer. “Yes, Carrington
was the first, with Langdon second and me bringing up the rear. Why?”

Sophia tapped her finger on her chin as she stood approximately where the boys did
that day. “And Lords Carrington and Carmichael, where were they?”

“Here,” Nicholas answered, moving forward and to his right, “and here,” he finished,
pointing just ahead of himself.

“Then it is conceivable that the swan was not destroyed, but perhaps kicked out of
the way?”

Nicholas thought for a moment, trying to picture the figurine in his mind. “I suppose.
Tell me, why is the glass swan important?”

“I don’t know,” Sophia admitted, “at least not yet. Please, help me search the room,
won’t you?”

Insisting that she drop the idea of locating the silly
figurine would only prolong their stay. “Of course,” he replied, attempting to hide
his frustration. “I’ll take the right side of the room, you the left. First, let me
roll up the carpet, in case anything was covered, all right?”

“Thank you,” she replied, then busily began to inspect a painted bookshelf running
along the north side of the room.

Nicholas walked to the edge of the rug and bent down, grasping it with both hands
and pulling upward. The physical exertion felt good and he put his back into it, his
body and mind in desperate need of distraction. Slowly rolling the aged rug up into
itself, he scanned the wooden floor for signs of broken glass.

Of course he didn’t find anything—and damned if he didn’t experience a small wave
of disappointment. He reached the opposite end of the rug and stood, kicking it up
against Sophia’s side of the room.

“Anything?” he asked, looking at her. Her back was turned to him as she finished searching
the bookshelf and started on a large toy box in the corner. “Not yet, no.”

He could hear her disappointment and it gnawed at him. It was all well and good for
him to lose hope, but not Sophia. For if she did, what then?

“Well, we’ve only just started,” he said bracingly, walking to the window seat that
straddled the imaginary line dividing the room in half. “There is plenty of time left—and
room, obviously—to find any number of trinkets.”

Sophia nodded her head slowly as she pulled a doll from the toy box, her hand smoothing
its ratted hair. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“I am always right,” Nicholas teased, hoping his pathetic joke would do something
to lift her spirits.

He searched beneath the yellow-hued cushions padding the bench and the back of the
window seat, finding
only a tin soldier and a small child’s top. He slipped the items into his vest pocket,
not wanting to raise Sophia’s hopes. Continuing on, he pulled back the heavy damask
curtain, upsetting a vast amount of dust. “I believe the maids have been remiss in
doing their job,” he choked out, waving his hand in front of his face.

Sophia turned her head to look at him, her lips curving in a small, weak smile. “You
always did know how to make me smile, didn’t you?”

“Well, obviously,” Nicholas replied, the dust finally settling.

Sophia returned her attention to the toy box, unearthing what looked to be a sheaf
of papers. “Mrs. Welch said I would find these here,” she explained, taking the yellowed
sheets out carefully and setting them in her lap.

“What are they?” Nicholas asked, staring out the window at a vista he’d known by heart
as a boy.

“Sketches—my sketches, to be precise,” she answered, the crackle of stiff, aged paper
being thumbed through accompanying her words.