The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (39 page)

Bourne spared only a moment to capture him with a look of pure fury before running
from the room, the
sound of his footfalls on the stairs quickly muffled by the screams and confusion
from the actors below.

Sophia stared at the man sitting across from her, a wooden table all that separated
them. She had been blindfolded, loaded into a carriage, and driven the good Lord only
knew where, only to be unloaded from the carriage and led into a building. From there,
someone had taken her hand and pulled her along, down a set of stairs and then another,
through a room that smelled of alcohol and medicinal supplies, until she was finally
allowed to remove her blindfold.

Sophia would do it all again, ten more times, for the opportunity to interrogate the
Bishop. After all, she had been through hell and back to get to this point; what was
a bit of discomfort in comparison to such a journey?

She knew hers were not the first set of questions the man had faced. Langdon and Nicholas
had returned to the apartments at the Albany at half-past three in the morning, leaving
the Bishop in the capable hands of Lord Carmichael and a few of the more senior Corinthian
agents. It was now nearly nine a.m. The Bishop looked tired. He’d revealed very little
in his first interview, admitting only to the crimes he’d committed as a magistrate.

But Sophia had knowledge that neither the Bishop nor the Corinthians did. And she
would use it to her full advantage, no matter what.

She did not expect the Young Corinthians to value her work; after all, how could they
when they knew nothing of it? Sophia stared at the Bishop, watching him study
her, and decided that if she was successful in convincing him to talk, she would make
sure the Corinthians came to appreciate the value of scientific forensic work.

She had to break the man first.

“Do you have news of the boy?”

Sophia tilted her head and looked at the Bishop. “Have they not told you?”

She watched as his bound hands, placed on the tabletop, trembled slightly. “I see,”
she said mournfully, casting her eyes down in a mournful pose. “Mouse worked for you,
correct?”

The Bishop blinked hard. “Yes. He ran errands, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, do we have to play this game?” Sophia asked sadly. “It is hardly respectful to
lie when speaking of the dead—particularly when you played a part in their demise.”

“I told him to stay behind me.” His voice was controlled, even, but a tic was developing
in his right eyelid.

Sophia pursed her lips with disdain. “Did you really expect him to listen? After all,
you stole him away from his family when he was only a very small child.”

“His mother sold Mouse to me,” the Bishop offered, resettling in his seat. “And he
was far better off with me than with his prostitute mother.”

“Are you sure? You had the boy picking pockets by the age of five; stealing from homes
and businesses by seven because he was inordinately skilled and small for his—”

“The boy was nine,” the Bishop spat out, “get your facts straight.”

Sophia looked down at the papers she’d brought with her, flipping through each as
though searching for something. “Really? I feel certain he was seven.”

He pounded his fist on the table, shaking the stack of
documents. “He was nine. I think I would know better than you.”

“I absolutely agree,” Sophia answered, looking up from the stack and offering him
an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. Of course you would remember. He spent most of his
life in your employ—as a member of the Kingsmen. To Mouse, you were family. Tell me,
was he as dear as he seemed? I spent very little time with him, but he made an impression.”

The Bishop flexed both hands then folded them together. “Why are you doing this?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Sophia replied in a low, even tone.

The Bishop gazed at her, a haunted quality in his eyes. “The others asked after businesses,
bank accounts, who I run, who runs me. Not you; you seem intent on making me suffer.”

Sophia listened to the timbre of his voice. It was growing wearier with each syllable,
as if he was running out of will.

“You assume I’m a monster, but I am not,” he continued. “I never wanted any part in
this. Do you believe me? You should. All I ever wanted to do was act; oh, maybe own
my own theatre one day. Acting made me happy. Until I made a mistake. It was a small
something. Still, it changed my life forever—and turned me into what you see now.
I am cold and calculating—one cannot exist in my world and be anything else. And now
I only want the things I do not have.”

Sophia measured her breathing and sank slightly in her chair, effectively almost disappearing
from the room, but still present enough so that the Bishop would continue his confession.

“It was the death of your mother that destroyed any hope I had of escape.”

Her heart stopped for a split second and Sophia willed herself to remain calm. “In
what way?”

The Bishop’s voice was failing him. Even so, he looked determined to continue. “I
didn’t understand at first how the Kingsmen worked. I thought that one could work
off their debt, then be released. Your mother’s murder was to be my last job. I hadn’t
killed anyone up to that point—nor did I have any desire to do so. I took advantage
of Smeade’s recent recruitment and convinced my superior to allow him to do the deed
with my supervision. But they twisted my involvement around, you see. Once I’d played
a part in a murder, they had me for life. Stealing and cracking a few skulls was nothing
the Runners had time for. The death of a lady, though? Now, that was something to
build a career on.”

“They blackmailed you,” Sophia replied, her eyes locked with his. “And you exacted
your revenge by stealing from those who’d stolen from you.”

The Bishop closed his eyes for a moment and sighed deeply. “That’s far more poetic
than I deserve. But yes, I continued to act. I rose in the Kingsmen’s ranks, played
the loyal lieutenant, and quietly robbed the organization blind. And I nearly got
away with it, too.”

Sophia bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. “Then you are not the man
responsible for my mother’s death?”

“I am to blame, at least in part,” he answered, opening his eyes again. “Understand
me, though. She would have died even if I’d refused. And I am sorry for that. As I
said before, I’m not a monster.”

“Prove it to me.”

The Bishop furrowed his brows in confusion. “How can I, my lady? What’s done is done.”

“Tell me who you work for,” Sophia urged him.

“If I do that, I’m a dead man.”

“Not necessarily,” Sophia replied simply. “You tell me
the name, and I will see what can be done about your American dream.”

The Bishop unfolded his hands, placing both palms on the table, understanding lighting
his eyes. “You lied to me. Mouse isn’t dead. That is the only way you could know of
my plan.”

“I never told you he was,” Sophia countered, “merely that it was rude to speak so
of the dead.”

He looked down at his hands, a small smile appearing on his haggard face. “You’re
better at this than all of those men out there combined.”

“I too had my life taken away,” Sophia answered the man, then rose from her chair.
“Which left me with an abundance of time to plot my revenge. That is where our similarities
end. For I have every intention of reclaiming mine.”

30

June 20
S
TONECLIFFE
H
OUSE
M
AYFAIR

Climbing from the hired hackney, Nicholas realized he had been home in England for
nearly two months, but this was only his second visit to the family townhome. He stood
on the sidewalk and looked up at the impressive pile. He had very good reasons for
staying away, Smeade and the Bishop the most obvious two. Still, he had to admit,
even without the search for Lady Afton’s killer, Nicholas was fairly sure that he
would have avoided the townhome one way or another.

The sky above him opened up and large, fat drops of rain began to fall in earnest.
Still, Nicholas remained standing in front of Number 3 Grosvenor Street. He was waiting
for the sense of dread that always appeared whenever he set foot on his father’s property.
The dread was habitually accompanied by the humbling realization that he was nothing
compared to Langdon, and the inescapable truth that he never would be.

Nicholas brushed his wet hair from his eyes and continued to wait. His greatcoat grew
heavier and wetter by the second, soaking up the rain as if it were made to do so,
and yet he waited.

“Nicholas!” Sophia stepped from her carriage and
joined him on the sidewalk, followed closely by Mrs. Kirk. “What on earth are you
doing out here? You are soaked from head to toe.”

He ventured one last look at the exterior of the house, daring the old, tired feelings
to return. But they were gone. “Saying farewell to the past, as it happens.”

“Isn’t it possible to do so in front of a warm fire?” Sophia asked, adjusting her
parasol to cover Mrs. Kirk.

“I suppose so,” Nicholas answered, smiling widely at the woman he loved. “I do like
a bit of drama, though. Besides, I’ve always let the past define me. And now that
I am embracing my future, I want to leave it behind. Out here, in the pouring rain,
where it belongs.”

“A future?” Sophia asked, either hesitation or excitement in her voice, Nicholas could
not quite tell which.

“Yes,” he answered, “a future. Or, to be more precise, our future. I don’t know why
Langdon summoned us here, but I am not going to waste the opportunity. We owe it to
my brother to tell him the truth. And we owe it to ourselves. I do not want to spend
one more day without you—nor you, Mrs. Kirk,” he added dryly.

“Then I suggest we go inside before we’re all swept away,” Mrs. Kirk said, picking
up her skirts in an attempt to keep the hem somewhat dry.

Nicholas gestured for the women to go first, then followed them to Langdon’s front
door. The footman, who had been patiently waiting to assist them, bowed and opened
the door wide.

“Good God, have you all drowned?” Langdon exclaimed, rushing to Sophia’s side and
relieving her of the dripping silk parasol.

Nicholas allowed a footman to remove his greatcoat, then shook his head. “Almost,”
he said meaningfully, discreetly locking glances with Sophia.

“Yes, well, from the looks of it we’re readying for a biblical flood in the entryway,”
Langdon replied,
handing the parasol to the footman who had assisted Sophia in removing her pelisse.
“So if you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. Kirk, James here will show you to the parlor, where
tea and a seat by the fire await you.”

Mrs. Kirk curtsied before the duke and dutifully followed James down the hall, looking
over her shoulder and giving Sophia a supportive smile.

“As for you two, come with me,” Langdon continued, calling a maid over and asking
that she bring drying towels to his study before walking on.

“You have news of the Bishop, I hope,” Nicholas said as he followed his brother past
the green drawing room, Sophia by his side.

Langdon sighed at his impatience. “All will be revealed, Nicholas.”

They reached the study at the back of the townhome, the maid Langdon had asked to
bring the towels hurrying toward them from the servants’ stairs.

“My lord,” she said in greeting, handing one length of linen to Sophia and one to
Nicholas. “Will there be anything else?”

Langdon gave her a brief smile. “Yes, please. Have tea sent up in thirty minutes.
That will be all.”

“Of course, my lord,” the maid dutifully replied, bobbing a curtsy before turning
back down the hall.

“Shall we?” Langdon asked, waiting as Sophia entered the study, and then Nicholas.

Sophia took her seat in front of Langdon’s large mahogany desk, patting dampness from
her cheeks and chin.