By the fourth day, she was on verge of tears. Nothing had succeeded in dislodging, even for a moment, the suffocating pain in her chest. She missed Alex with every breath. And to make matters worse, she had crossed off nearly every name on the list. Lord Verant had made a comment about the questionable wisdom of letting females travel to “such uncivilized lands” and had been the first to go. Mr. Carrow had then nodded vigorously, necessitating his own removal. Lord Chester had let it slip that he was courting a young woman of considerable wealth, and Mrs. Packard had made it clear that her son, Sir Andrew, was expected to do the same. Sophie looked over the remaining names and made a decision—she would ask Sir Frederick…soon.
When it was over and done with, she could explain everything to Alex. If he still wanted to be friends, then…. Well, somehow “friends” didn’t sound appealing. She didn’t want to be friends with Alex. She wanted so much more than that. She wanted everything—which was unlikely to happen, and would be a disaster if it did.
“Ugh. There’s simply no winning…. I’ll just marry Sir Frederick and hope for the best.”
Her only other option was to marry Sir Frederick and fear for the worst.
Twenty
The first ball had had no theme beyond a color scheme of gold and white, but the second ball was a masquerade.
Lady Thurston confided to Sophie that the mid-party ball was her favorite because the guests provided the most elaborate decorations. And she was right—some of the masqueraders had costumes that went past elaborate and straight into bizarre. The woman in the feather gown was certainly an odd sight. Most guests, however, chose costumes that were considerably tamer. Many, like Sophie, opted for an ordinary ball gown, but all of them wore masks.
The secretive atmosphere suited Sophie’s plans perfectly. She needed to return to Lord Forent’s study, since she had been unable to get into it on the night of his ball, and she needed to pay a visit to Sir Frederick. She would do both to night.
London was less than two hours away. And who would miss one more partygoer in a pale rose dress with a demimask? Mirabelle and Evie might, but she intended to ask for her friends’ assistance anyway.
Alex certainly wouldn’t notice her absence. She’d been all but invisible to him for the entire week, receiving only formal greetings and polite inquiries when they met in the hall or were thrown together for a game of whist. And God help her, she’d been sorely tempted to find ways to be in a position for even those small scraps of interaction. But she couldn’t do it. He had made his wishes known, and she would respect them.
She would engage herself to Sir Frederick to night, sneak into Forent’s office, return before morning, and then tell Alex everything first thing tomorrow.
First, however, she needed to find Mirabelle. Lady Thurston had mentioned that Mirabelle had returned to her room to fix a torn hem, and Sophie had immediately offered to seek her out and offer assistance. She couldn’t sew two stitches in a straight line, but the opportunity to speak with Mirabelle about the best way to go about sneaking out of Haldon Hall was too good to pass up.
She made it to the stairwell landing in the west hall when she heard the first muffled cry for help, and she was halfway down the hall before she could hear the sounds of a struggle and pinpoint which room they were coming from. Sophie picked the lock in record time and barreled into the room.
Mr. Jarles had Mirabelle pinned against a bed, one hand covering her mouth and the other grabbing at her skirts. Mirabelle was clearly fighting him, but the man was a good three times her size.
“Let her up!”
Surprised by the intrusion, Mr. Jarles loosened his grip on Mirabelle long enough for her to give him one mighty, disgusted shove and scramble off the bed. Sophie pushed Mirabelle behind her, then reached down to her ankle and retrieved one of her knives.
Mr. Jarles climbed off the bed in the nonchalant manner of a man who had never been held accountable for his sins and had no intention of being subjected to that practice now.
Sophie watched him warily as he brushed off his coat and went through the motions of straightening his cravat.
Behind her, Mirabelle’s breath came in ragged gasps. “I didn’t want that,” she whispered. “I didn’t invite—”
“I know.”
“We should go,” Mirabelle urged.
Sophie didn’t answer. She held her knife by the tip and brought it up for Mr. Jarles to see. “You will remove yourself from this house party before morning. You will give whatever excuse your little mind can manage in the next hour, and then you will take yourself off to some other estate where you can spend your time devising a way to never come within a hundred yards of Miss Browning again. Do I make myself quite clear?”
Mr. Jarles looked unconcerned. Completing the affectation of righting his appearance, he walked to a dresser and picked up a glass half filled with a dark liquid.
“I’ll do nothing of the sort. The chit’s undowered and unprotected. She’ll only end up a mistress.” He leaned against the wall carelessly and added, “Might as well be mine.”
“And,” Sophie continued, as if he had not spoken at all. “You will apologize to her.”
Mr. Jarles made an ugly snort. “Apologize? To a whore?”
Sophie threw the knife at his head. It embedded itself in the wall two inches from his ear with a solid thump.
Mr. Jarles paled and dropped the glass.
Mirabelle let out a little squeak.
Sophie retrieved her other knife and held it up for him to see. “Apologize.”