John didn’t regret it until he woke in the cold chill of morning. His sleep had been deep, complete, dreamless except for a vague sense of flying as a bird in warm dry air. Then he opened his eyes and discovered it was well past eight, the fire in his hearth was out, and he had gone to sleep in only his smallclothes, so drunk had he been on Miss Preston’s body.
He raced from the bed to his armoire. That alone was enough exposure to shock his skin with cold. The Abbey’s stone walls were beautiful, historic, and solid, but warm they were not. Nor did his window keep out the worst of the autumn wind, which delighted to find open air after getting caught in the forests surrounding the estate. He piled on clothes, hardly caring about the order, until at last his feet were wrapped in wool stockings, his legs stuffed in trousers, his torso embalmed in shirt and vest and coat.
If only there were some sort of outfit to keep the chill of remorse from freezing the organs of his soul.
It wasn’t that he regretted the act itself. In the moment, it had been perfect. Teetering towards overwhelming in the wonderful, delicious way that exploded into orgasm. Even when he pulled her away and spurted into the air like some kind of wanton child, the moment had felt right and natural. And working her into a lather next–never had John felt so powerful.
What changed in the morning was that John realized he still knew so little about Miss Preston. He had allowed her to play him like a fiddle while even now, he did not know why she refused to marry. Or why she distanced herself so ferociously from her family. Or why she would not even share the most basic facts of her life without descending into a tantrum.
Last night, he had tricked himself into thinking those facts didn’t matter. What mattered, he had thought, was that she needed his help. She had been soft and vulnerable and holding onto herself like a child in need of a hug. John had allowed himself to get swept up. To believe that desperation equaled some sort of soul bond between them.
He knew well enough that a bond borne out of vulnerability could just as easily be broken when the other person felt safe again. Leaving him holding the fragmented chain, alone and cold.
John didn’t want to fall for Miss Preston only to discover that she had never intended an attachment at all. That was too shameful. Too embarrassing.
Too heartbreaking.
The regret chilling his skin felt like a reminder from his body of what happened when he gave his trust too easily. When he mistook Garrett for a cousin, and not a man who happened to share his blood.
Dressed, he hurried downstairs. He had promised Lady Widlake to help with the young ladies in the absence of a governess, yet here he was, showing up later than any prior morning. He found them in the drawing room. Miss Cosgrove practiced the harpsichord while her sisters held hands and danced sedately about the carpet. Lady Widlake stretched on the settee, a wet towel across her forehead.
John wished he had time for a coffee. Some toast wouldn’t be out of order, either. However, he had pledged himself to this new duty, and he would see it through. “I apologize for my tardiness.”
Lady Widlake peeked out from beneath her towel long enough to exclaim, “Thank goodness you are here, Mr. Anderson.”
Miss Francesca danced up to him. “My rash is still gone. See?”
He had been checking on it every morning since applying the paste. She was still all skin-and-bones, pasty, and rather hollow-eyed for a healthy girl, but at least the rash seemed to have been banished.
“Do not go showing gentlemen your rashes without them asking first,” Lady Widlake scolded from her seat.
“I am glad you are feeling better. Now, would the young ladies like to assist me in examining their mother?”
Miss Francesca’s answer was an enthusiastic yes. Miss Mary nodded with a little more caution. As for Miss Cosgrove, she continued plodding through Haydn, pretending she hadn’t even heard the question.
John decided to ring for a maid to bring him coffee after all.
The day disappeared quickly. First, he tended to Lady Widlake with Miss Francesca acting as nurse. His patient suffered from sores in the mouth, a headache, a backache, and constipation, all of which John was sure were made worse by the stress around a felonious governess. He ordered her to bed for the day on a strict diet of clear broth, hot tea, and nothing else.
Then he corralled the young ladies into a semblance of a school day. In his life, John had been in many positions. Kitchen helper, pupil, troublemaker, surgeon, midwife, mender, cleaner, lover, wage earner, even employer. Never had he been in the position to mind children. It was, he discovered, a thankless task.
The twins Harvey and Herbert, sensing the disruption in the household, were at their worst, breaking free of Nurse to race around the house, raid the schoolroom, and throw anything from wadded paper to heavy books at their sisters. Poor Nurse hobbled after them, at one point grabbing them each by their braces and hauling them backwards, but her victories lasted no longer than three quarters of an hour before the little monsters returned for more mischief.
Throughout this chaos, John managed to teach the girls a few basic cures for cuts, had them each read and analyze a Donne poem, and set them to an hour of embroidery. For this last task, he had no clear idea of what they might accomplish, and he suspected Miss Cosgrove led her sisters in a merry ring around him, but really, he didn’t care so long as no outside observer found him wanting.
And there were outside observers. Shaw, Lady Widlake’s maid, was assigned to sit in the room as chaperone, though she seemed happy enough for an opportunity to close her eyes. Nurse put in a word of advice each time she popped in to retrieve one of her charges; John didn’t see how she expected him to heed her when she couldn’t even keep three-year-old boys locked in a room. Lord Widlake popped in around nuncheon, on his return from a morning ride about the estate, and quizzed the girls on their activities.
By the end of the day, John’s every limb ached from the effort of putting his best foot forward. He retired to his room for a quiet supper. What he most wanted was to climb into his bed and never leave it again. But he had promised Miss Preston he would help discover who was behind the counterfeit banknotes.
Then the maid Polly arrived with his supper tray–and a letter.
As soon as he saw it, he knew it was from Garrett. His cousin’s handwriting–always a little heavy on the ink, smudging letters even on an envelope–obliterated John’s appetite.
It was Garrett’s reply to John’s letter. How confident John had felt after posting it. How proud he was of himself for expressing his dismay at Garrett’s treatment of Amma.
John didn’t feel any confidence as he opened the letter. And his split pea soup and boiled veal went uneaten as he read:
To my cousin John:
I trust this letter finds you in good health. Your last arrived in time for my daily dinner with Mrs. Anderson, and we read it together, as we are wont to do now that she has graced my house with her incomparable person. It was with shock and shame that I read my own cousin’s words to me.
Your Mrs. Ghosh was made welcome first in my father’s household and then mine for more years than any good person may consider an obligation. My family extended generosity in money, shelter, and spirit to both her and you out of love for my departed uncle. When Mrs. Anderson reasonably hired more appropriate help for our new household, we offered your Mrs. Ghosh ten pounds to see her through the year and assisted her in seeking a new position by reading postings aloud to her, writing letters of inquiry for her, and ensuring she arrived safely at Captain Attree’s residence. I confirmed that Captain Attree was indeed a sea captain for the East India Company these past thirty years. From there, I considered my obligation to my dear departed uncle finished.
If you were so greatly worried about your mother’s welfare, I wonder that you did not long ago arrange for her to hire a letter writer, or take her into your household altogether.
Mrs. Anderson agrees with me that I am overburdened with correspondence, and so I advise you that after this letter, she will be your correspondent regarding my family. Rest assured that my brother and sisters are well.
Cordially,
G. Anderson
If he’d been speaking to John in person, he’d be scrunching his eyebrows in some facsimile of emotion. Making John think he cared. That this was the hardest conversation he would have all year.
When really, what he was saying was this: You are not my family.
John didn’t reread the letter. He couldn’t stand to. Even looking at it stabbed him with guilt.
Garrett was right, of course. If John did care about Amma, he would have started supporting her himself long ago. No matter that he could hardly cover his tailor’s bills at the moment. He should be the one caring for his mother. Instead of sending money when he could and visiting even less frequently.
He hid the letter in his desk. At least he had other duties to distract him for the evening. Tucking his medical bag beneath his arm, he set out to discover what he could about counterfeit notes.
He went first to Mrs. Edwards’s apartment, which was just down the corridor from his. He had a twofold plan: first, if there was no answer to his knock, he would let himself in and search for evidence of counterfeiting; second, if she answered, he would find a way to ask her about the counterfeiting situation to see if she betrayed herself.
Neither part of the plan was particularly strong, but it was best that John could come up with. After all, he was a surgeon, not a Bow Street runner.
Mrs. Edwards answered his knock. Though it was only seven in the evening, she had already changed into nightclothes. A thick cotton robe covered her body, her feet were swathed in woolen slippers, and her hair had been swallowed by a cap that was a hideous explosion of lace and lavender satin ribbons.
Her hand clutched the robe even closer at the neck. “Mr. Anderson. Is something the matter?”
John should have been used to this by now, but it always took him by surprise how someone who looked healthy and hearty by day seemed so vulnerable–so frail–at their bedside. Deprived of her hairstyle and gowns, Mrs. Edwards looked every day of her fifty-odd years.
He lifted his medical bag as excuse. “Both Lady Widlake and Miss Preston have complained of stomach ailments of late, so I thought I would pay you a visit. Have you been feeling well?”
Her gaze was harsh as it moved from the bag to John and back again. He thought she would deny him this ruse, and then he would have nothing except failure to report to Miss Preston. But then Mrs. Edwards stepped back, admitting him into her room.
“It is good of you to think of me, Mr. Anderson. It seems you are the only one who does. You are the third accoucheur to attend my daughter in these years and the first one to consider whether anyone else in the household feels the stress of the births. As her mother, I am unwell from worry about what she is to go through. You know as well as I do what I mean. It is her seventh confinement. In too few years. Lord Widlake gives her no time to recover. Too obsessed with his legacy, I suppose, without any concern for whether his wife dies in childbed or not. You must instruct him to take more than one month away from her this time. It is dangerous to her health. She must have at least six months to recover, if not a year.”
This all said on almost a single breath. Mrs. Edwards retreated deep into the chamber to take a seat by her hearth. Her apartment had more furnishings than his, boasting two fireside chairs, a table with chairs for dining or cards, and a handsome chest in addition to a standing armoire. John sat opposite her by the hearth.
“Lady Widlake is in good health, all things considered,” he assured her. “As long as the babe turns itself appropriately before birth, I have every hope of a safe and easy delivery.”
“An easy thing to say now. What will you say when my daughter dies of puerperal fever because the child couldn’t get its head in the proper position?”
John knew there was no response to this. He hovered his fingers over her stomach. “May I?”
She remained quiet only long enough for him to palpate beneath her ribs. “It is no secret to me that my daughter considers me a burden. I am not an idiot. She is embarrassed by me, always has been. That is my fault, I suppose, for raising her to be a class above me. It was her father’s dream, you see, that she would marry into the peerage. And his luck that he was dead before seeing her catch Lord Widlake. Dead in the arms of his mistress, you know. I suppose you do, everyone knows. Though she wasn’t his only mistress. At the time of his death, he was keeping two women in London and one in Bath. I pray that my daughter never has heard of it, though I have little hope that is true. Still, she was always naïve. Always anxious to love the men in her life, though they have done little to earn it. So perhaps even if she heard the rumors about her father, she refuses to believe them.”
Her heartbeat sped up through this monologue, belying the ease with which she spewed the information.
John wouldn’t be emotionless about his spouse’s infidelity, either. Still, it was not about bygone woes that he wanted to hear. “It’s a terrible business, isn’t it, these fraudulent banknotes.”
“It doesn’t surprise me. The Preston family has always been clearsighted on matters that the rest of Parliament is too greedy to see. You are likely too young to remember, but when Lord Preston announced he was closing Northfield Hall to goods touched by any form of slavery, the House of Lords nearly arrested him for treason. Creating fraudulent banknotes is an excellent experiment to illustrate the uselessness of paper currency. Although, it is the shopkeeper who loses out, isn’t it? No one is going to reimburse the seller for the bad notes. That part is surprising to me. I always thought Baron Ashforth prioritized the common man. I suppose no one is perfect.”
John gave up the pretense of checking her stomach. “You believe it was Miss Preston, then, who created the notes? I myself can’t think where or when she forged them.”
“Oh no, I imagine she utters the money that someone else forges. It must be manufactured at Northfield Hall. All sorts of people live there, you know. Likely Lord Preston recruited some of the fellows with a criminal history to run the operation. It is very clever, though I imagine he never meant for anyone to be caught with the bad notes. Perhaps he meant for himself to be caught, since they can hardly arrest a peer, can they?”
Distracted as she was with her own thoughts, Mrs. Edwards didn’t so much as glance at John as he looked about the room. There was no obvious equipment lying about. But she did have that chest underneath the window, large enough to store three sea trunks at least. If she were behind the counterfeiting, that might be where she hid the evidence.
“It is too bad about Miss Preston, of course. My granddaughters need a steady influence, and I was gratified that Lord Widlake consented to have them molded by the daughter of such an astute family. If only my daughter would let me take up the mantle. You will forgive me for finding it ridiculous that she prefers to have an accoucheur tutor the girls over their own grandmother. They need an education on being a woman, not to be quizzed on useless facts. But it is as I said; my daughter is embarrassed of me. I don’t know what I do to deserve it, I must tell you, Mr. Anderson. I am a cheerful person, I can make conversation with anyone, and I offer every member of this household my entire heart. And this is how they treat me!”
She might be going off like this to distract him from the topic of the false banknotes. But John didn’t think so. Passionate, radical, and annoying as she might be, he couldn’t believe her to be the counterfeiter.
Packing up his kit, John extracted himself from Mrs. Edwards with the excuse that he must check on Lady Widlake once more before she went to sleep. This he did, a quick exercise in changing out her plasters and adjusting the pile of blankets to ensure she stayed at a healthy temperature.
Then, kit in hand, John passed through the family corridor into the service wing. He owed Miss Preston a report. A large part of him wanted to give it to her. Craved, in fact, the attention she would heap upon him with her intense eyes and grateful lips. John was no fool: the idea that he alone stood between Miss Preston and her hopelessness intoxicated him.
Yet his palms sweated as he entered the darkened corridor that housed Miss Preston, Nurse, and the other upper servants. Mrs. Edwards’s complaints echoed through his head. Though her feelings of neglect were perhaps out of proportion, they nestled in her breast all the same. He could only imagine how his mother felt, being ejected from his cousin’s home now after thirty years of keeping their house. Even Amma, the most cheerful person John had ever known, must be feeling lost. Alone. Exiled.
Regret consumed him again. Regret at how he had treated his mother. Regret at how he had allowed himself to trust Garrett. And regret that he might this very instant be willfully misinterpreting Miss Preston’s intentions, too.
When he arrived at her locked door, John hesitated. An intoxicated man must at some point turn away from his drink, no matter how he enjoys its effects. If John were wise, this might be the moment he chose to turn away from Miss Preston. Protect his own heart. No matter the consequences to her.
He considered it. But, even knowing the danger lurking behind it, he opened the door.
❧
When Mr. Anderson entered the room, Sophia’s thoughts were still spinning from her last visitor.
It had been Lord Widlake, spilling into the room as Polly collected the dishes from Sophia’s supper. “I bear good tidings,” he had boasted, and Sophia’s hopes had leapt, expecting to hear the true culprit had been apprehended. “I rode into town today to meet with Mr. Ord and his committee members myself. A good thing I did, too, for I was able to negotiate a favorable outcome for you. The Bank has agreed that, in exchange for a confession of your guilt in uttering false notes, they will grant you clemency for the crime based on the assumption that you were ignorant as to the notes’ bad provenance.”
“Confess?”
“Yes, and they will grant you clemency. It will be a few days of paperwork, perhaps, but by the end of the week, the whole matter should be sorted. You may resume your duties here, with no need for Lord Preston to intervene.” Lord Widlake was close to grinning, so proud was he of finding this solution. But Sophia didn’t see how it was a solution at all.
“But I have committed no crime. I did not utter bad notes, knowingly or otherwise.”
At last, Lord Widlake noticed her lack of enthusiasm for his plan. “Someone paid Mrs. Chapple with bad notes, and you cannot deny that they were in your reticule.”
“They were in my reticule when Mr. Ord searched it. I do deny that they were in my reticule while shopping in Boughampton. I would have noticed if I had a bad note in my hand.” Too late, Sophia heard the edge sharpening her words. She cast her gaze down to the ground. “I do not mean to be ungrateful, my lord, yet I cannot in good conscience confess to a crime that I know I did not commit.”
She considered saying more. If she explained her theory about Mrs. Edwards, Lord Widlake might be willing to entertain it–or even help investigate it.
He replied before she could decide. “Think on it. I am sure I can delay a day or two before delivering them your confession. If you are willing to concede you may not remember that shopping trip as well as you think you do, then we may all forget this episode ever happened.”
It was his certainty that he was correct–that it was her poor memory that had landed her in this position–that outraged Sophia most. “Except I would not be able to forget. I would still be considered a criminal, even if I do not have to serve a sentence.”
“If they conclude you are guilty without your confession, you will be considered a criminal and find yourself exported to New South Wales. If not worse.”
Lord Widlake had locked her in the room with one last admonition to consider the proposal. In the intervening time before Mr. Anderson appeared, Sophia turned it over every which way in her mind.
There were practical reasons to confess. The ones that Lord Widlake had listed. The ones that guaranteed her a future, vague though it might be.
Yet Sophia knew herself to be innocent. She couldn’t bring herself to lie about that, to tarnish her own name, just to satisfy the Bank of England that it had caught its criminal.
Mr. Anderson entered looking ready for a London drawing room. Crisp necktie, squared shoulders beneath his pressed coat, tan buckskin trousers that clung to his thighs.
Excitement thudded through her body. The distraction felt good, wiping away the anxiety crusting her thoughts, and she welcomed it.
While the door was still open, he asked, “How fares your stomach today?”
“The same.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I have brought a few more remedies to try.” Shutting the door, he locked it, then tucked the key into his jacket pocket.
Protected by privacy, Sophia dropped the façade. She lowered her voice to say, “I rather liked last night’s remedy, if you think we should try it again.”
But Mr. Anderson did not return her smirk. In fact, he did not even look her in the eye. He moved the chair to the farthest corner of the room–three feet from her mattress–beneath the window. “I have had an eventful day.”
She was not to be distracted for long, then. Sophia tucked her hands around her ankles to suppress a sigh. “As have I. The Bank of England has apparently offered me complete clemency if I confess to uttering false notes.”
She waited, holding her breath between her lips, to see which side Mr. Anderson would land on. His first reaction was surprise, which swept across his face in a brisk expression of wide eyes and dropped jaw. Then he raised a hand to his cheek, as if to hide emotion. “Will you do it?”
At least he didn’t take her participation for granted. “And be branded a criminal for the rest of my life? Lord Widlake said I may keep my position here, but I can’t imagine many other employers will offer me opportunities when they discover this in my references.”
“Yes, I can see it has its disadvantages.” His gaze left her for a moment, growing dark and hazy. “Still, I didn’t know the Bank could be so accommodating.”
Sophia didn’t need him to remind her that she was lucky to even have this opportunity. She could already hear it in a chorus of her family’s voices: Anyone else would already be condemned to the gallows, innocent or not.
But it wasn’t anyone else accused of this crime. It was Sophia, and these were the circumstances afforded her, and she would make her own calculations about what was best for her.
She needed distraction again. “Tell me about your eventful day.”
Mr. Anderson cleared his throat. “I spoke with Mrs. Edwards.”
“What said the blackguard?”
He played with the handles on his black leather surgeon’s bag as he responded. “She had much to say, but none of it indicated to me that she bears guilt in this matter. In fact, she believes your father to be operating the counterfeit scheme and that you pass the notes into the market on his behalf.” His gaze flicked up to meet hers. “Could there be any truth in her theory about your father?”
“Of course not.” The denial came swiftly and automatically from her mouth. But this was the second time someone had thrust the possibility before her. And this time, she wasn’t reeling from the shock of discovery. This time, she had spent a whole day ruminating on nothing but the question of fraudulent banknotes.
Papa believed in a better world. He believed in treating all people–men and women–fairly. He also believed in taking whatever actions were necessary to live life according to his own rigid principles.
If he were behind this, it wouldn’t be the first time he had bent the rules of society to meet his needs. It wouldn’t even be the first time he adjusted his own logic, since there had been the whole fracas with Berkshire linen not three years ago that had thrown Ellen and Max together.
But if Papa wanted to make a point about paper money, he would rail against it in the papers and at the House of Lords. At most, he might abolish currency within the realm of Northfield Hall.
He wouldn’t risk anyone’s life over it.
“Then I am not sure what to think. Mrs. Edwards didn’t have any printing paraphernalia in her room that I could see, nor can I think when or how she would create the notes, any more than you could do so.” Straightening in his chair, Mr. Anderson pressed his lips into a thin line before saying, “Perhaps you would be better off accepting clemency after all.”
Sophia had been cooped up for too long for grace. “So you are here to say that you have fallen in line with Lord Widlake and Mr. Ord in believing me guilty, is that it? Especially since you know that I did indeed purchase contraception, and you know exactly how I was planning to use it. You have decided to conclude I am a lying slut, have you? You will leave me to face my fate without guilt because you tried your best to clear my name? Or is it because you had your fill of me last night that you are ready to desert me? Too bad you aren’t man enough to fuck me properly, otherwise I might keep your attention at least one more day.”
Her anger carried her on a wave long enough to enjoy watching the man flinch at her words. She relished how he ducked his chin. How he didn’t dare look at her, not when she skewered him with what must be the truth.
But her righteousness evaporated with the last of her words. Once expressed, her fury deserted her. And she was left with nothing but her terrible accusations ringing in the air.
Oh, she had done it again. Let her tongue have its way and wrecked any hope of kindness. Mr. Anderson rose, as well he should. If she were him, she would flee, too.
Tears stung her eyes. Flooded them, more like, and her nose filled with pressure, and all of a sudden she was crying. He would think her a manipulative female. She was sometimes a manipulative female, but not now. This was a storm she couldn’t help any more than she could have stopped herself from saying those awful things. Sophia slapped her hands to her face, as if that could hide it all. As if that could plug the dyke.
Let him leave. Let him desert her to her own meager devices. In his place, Sophia wouldn’t stay to help a person who was such a wretch to her.
He owed her nothing. Therefore, Sophia would survive without him.
Except Mr. Anderson didn’t unlock the door. He sat beside her, a sudden weight that made the ropes holding her mattress dip. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. A loose embrace that asked for nothing, the kind of comfort her brothers Benny or Nate might offer. And he said, “Miss Preston, I am not that kind of man.”
❧
John hadn’t meant to sit on the bed. His plan had been to share the information he had gathered, collect new instructions, and be on his way. No physical touch involved whatsoever.
Yet she was in distress. And John was trained to aid people when they were in distress, no matter who they were or where their pain originated. If her foot bled, he would wrap it with a bandage. If her arm broke, he would set the bone in place. If a fever raged, he would cool her with every remedy he knew.
If he would do it for a stranger on the road, then it was natural that when Miss Preston wept, John held her in his arms.
Miss Preston was no frail and wilting flower, even now as her shoulders bucked with her hiccupping diaphragm. John’s arm nearly couldn’t span her frame. That felt natural, too, for she was a woman of far more personality and depth than he could ever hope to capture. He anchored his palm on the curve of her upper arm. The touch–more intimate than anything that would ever pass between him and a patient–did not spark dizzying waves of desire. Yet it upended the reserve to which he had hoped to cling for this interview.
He had meant to remove himself from her influence. He would help her as much as he could, but at a distance. Without the confusing addition of physical touch and personal confidences. That way, he would protect himself from feeling discarded when she no longer needed him.
And if there was anything he heard in that vicious speech of hers, it was that she intended to break with him as soon as he outlived his usefulness.
Yet here he was, holding her. Touching her. Comforting her.
“Anyone would be overwrought under such circumstances,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I know you aren’t involved in this scheme. I will do everything I can to help you.”
He reminded himself that he knew next to nothing about her, except the things that would break her away from him. She kept an independent mind. She fostered a fierce spirit. She indulged herself, in thoughts, in material goods, in sexual pleasure.
He should see those traits for what they were: warnings. Instead, John was intoxicated by them.
Eventually, she had let loose all the tears in her body. Her shoulders shrank into a stiff board. She removed a handkerchief from her bodice, blew her nose, and said, “How mortifying. I never lose control of myself like that.”
His hand fell with her movements down to her elbow, which felt awkward, so he removed it entirely. Only it felt strange resting on his own knee, too. “We like to pretend we have control of our bodies, when really, I find, our bodies control us. Often for the better. After all, if our bodies didn’t know to run a fever, how would we fight off illness?”
“I should like to have more control over my body, then. Sometimes I even feel that I am leashed by my own lust, rather than deciding with my own independence to be a lustful woman.” A glob of mucus drooped from her nostril. She caught it just before it descended and blew her nose even more ferociously. “You shouldn’t watch me. I am disgusting.”
“I am an accoucheur, Miss Preston. It takes much more than nasal discharge to disgust me.” In fact, her nose fascinated him, now that he looked at it closely, for it was almost a perfect forty-five-degree angle from her forehead, with a gentle curve at the end that was currently rubbed red.
He resisted the urge to chart his fingertip down its length.
Oh yes, he was in this woman’s thrall. And it felt as awkward to call her by her formal name as it did to keep his hands to himself. He couldn’t keep down the impulse to ask, “May I call you Sophia?”
Under the pretense of fetching a new handkerchief from her desk, she left him. Where her body had brushed against his was now frigid air. She remained on the other side of the room–though he could clasp her skirts in his fingers, if he stretched out his arms–and dotted the new handkerchief against her cheeks as if to wipe up tears. “I suppose so.”
“And you will do me the same favor in return?”
He shouldn’t have pressed. The victory felt hollow. It got worse, though, when she said, “I don’t know your Christian name.”
That was natural, he supposed. Whereas she was the daughter of a peer, listed in Debrett’s and probably countless newspapers, John was a nobody. No one in the household would have used his first name, so when would she have come across it?
Except John didn’t read the peerage books, nor did he follow the gossip columns in the newspapers. He knew her name was Sophia the way he knew she smelled of pears and disliked personal confessions and preferred coffee to tea in the morning: because all along, he had been so intrigued by her that every fact he could collect stuck in his mind like iron to a magnet.
Apparently, she didn’t feel the same way about him.
“John,” he supplied, though disappointment constricted his throat.
“John? Haven’t you any nicknames that are more distinctive?”
“Why should I need to be more distinctive?”
“John Anderson has to be one of the most common names in England. Wouldn’t you rather be known as something memorable like…I don’t know…Rook, or Devil, or Duke?”
It felt like an argument. Her cheeks had turned pink, and her hands flew through the air emphatically, handkerchief waving like a red flag to a bull.
John had disappointed women before. He had rejected advances, put pause to physical encounters, and even once earned the ire of a widow named Jenny for declining her invitation to stay for Sunday roast. But this was the first time he had disappointed a woman by having the wrong name.
“I would prefer to be memorable for my actions rather than my name.”
She deflated. “I’m sorry. I am not myself.” With a sigh, she turned her back to him and fingered the detritus covering her table. John considered what he might say in response. His heart hammered too fast to sort through his thoughts. He waited long enough that she flipped open one of her enamel boxes, removed a tobacco pipe, filled it, and lit it with her taper. She returned to her seat beside him on the mattress. “Would you like to smoke, John?”
He accepted, though the offer startled him. Tobacco was one of the imports Lord Preston railed against in newspapers, Parliamentary speeches, and any other forum he could find. He wondered if she enjoyed it for its own purposes, or if she only smoked as a rebellion against her father.
Her blend was deep yet delicate, with a hint of the same bergamot orange that sometimes flavored tea. John recognized the taste from their kisses, so much so that his body reacted almost as if he were kissing her right then.
“So, John–” she leaned into the name again, drawing out the vowel and letting the n sing between her teeth “—what do we do next?”
The tobacco calmed his nerves but not enough to make him forget the tension of the argument. On an exhale, he handed back the pipe. “We must both get some rest. In the morning, perhaps the situation will be clearer. I shall think on who else might have the opportunity to produce the false banknotes. More and more, I believe it is someone outside the household.” For good measure, he added, “Either way, you mustn’t accept the Bank’s offer unless it is what you believe is best for you.”
John rose, almost expecting her to grab his hand and pull him back into her. But she nodded. “Thank you.” Watching him, she sucked at the pipe, then blew out a ring of smoke towards the window. She waited until his hand was on the knob to say, “John, could you leave the door unlocked?”
He paused. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t immediately agree.
“I promise not to run off from the Abbey. I only want to stretch my legs. See walls that aren’t these four. I’ll be back in bed by morning like a good girl.”
She blinked up at him, the picture of innocence. If innocence included a tobacco pipe, a crumpled dress, and teeth catching at her lower lip.
John could have lost his wits over any woman in the world. He didn’t know why it had to be this one. He only knew that it was, no matter that even now, she used his name as a weapon to get her own way.
“Of course.” Unlocking the door, he handed her the key. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
There was no other answer for him to give Sophia. But as John took himself off into the night, he knew there were two ways this love affair could end: either he would earn her heart in return, or she would use him so badly that he ended up hating her.
He supposed it was up to her to determine their fate.