“Hmm?”
“The man at the war office, the one you work for, what is his name?”
“William Fletcher. Now rise and shine.”
She bolted straight up.
“Stocky man with a bulbous nose and a love of brandy?”
“You know him, I take it?” Alex asked.
“I know a Will Fetch, as a solicitor! He’s my contact for the Prince Regent!”
“Was,” he corrected automatically, reaching for his breeches.
She ignored him and grabbed her chemise. “Why would he lie to me, to both of us? And why bother with such a minimal change in name?”
He pulled on his shirt. “I don’t know.”
She wiggled into her gown and strained to reach the buttons in the back. “Does this mean I work for the war office or—”
“As of yesterday morning, neither.” He reached for his boots and she resisted the urge to pick up one of her own and toss it at his head. She was tying the top bow on the second boot when she realized he had finished dressing and was now pacing. It would be a bit then, she thought, before they left. She settled back on the blankets and watched him for a moment longer before losing herself in her own thoughts. She had spent weeks picking locks, climbing in and out of windows, and rifling through the personal articles of several prominent members of society—all on the assumption that she was doing the bidding of the Prince Regent himself. Now that the identity of her employer was suspect, she wondered if she was nothing more than a common thief.
Good Lord, had she traveled all the way to London to become a criminal debutante?
Sophie hastily dismissed the notion, only partially because the idea was so unpalatable. Clearly the war office knew of her activities, and their involvement provided at least some measure of validity. Why then, had they made a point of keeping their involvement a secret? And why had they not wanted her to work with Alex? Things would have been a great deal easier if she’d had someone to create distractions, watch outside of doors, read letters written in French.
Sophie smiled a little at the picture of Alex in the role of assistant spy.
The sound of shattering glass in a distant part of the house broke the fantasy.
Alex was pulling her to her feet before she had time to fully register what the sound meant. He bustled her toward a large nearby storage closet, his expression cold.
She balked at the door. “I can’t,” she whispered. “It’s dark.”
“There’s a window, Sophie,” he answered. He pulled back the curtains to allow the light of the setting moon into the little room. It was just enough to keep her terror at bay.
“Stay here,” he ordered, pressing the knife she had given him earlier back into her hand. She wanted to tell him to take it, he was certain to need it more than she, but he was gone before she could open her mouth to speak.
He left the door cracked open several inches. It took her a moment to realize he had done so on purpose—nothing looked quite so suspicious as a closed door—and then she noticed the way the light from the dining room began to dim. He was blowing out the candles. Sophie gripped the knife tighter and huddled into the far corner of the closet. It was going to be very, very dark in that room.
The sound of splintering wood reverberated into her little hiding spot. Sophie pulled her knees up tightly against her chest. She heard masculine voices. Then the telltale sounds of a scuffle. Shouting, swearing, the sound of bone meeting flesh. How many were out there? How outnumbered was Alex?
Get up! she ordered herself.
Can’t. Too dark.
Get up!
I can’t!
Something smashed. Someone yelled, then grunted in pain.
Death was out there.
Alex’s death. He was out there fighting for his life, for her life, while she sat cowering in a closet.
Get up, damn you!
Alex was going to die, and if she didn’t move, she was going to let it happen.
Something inside her snapped at the thought. She gripped the knife in her hand and slid from her hiding spot to crouch against a wall of the dining room. It took a minute for her eyes to become accustomed to the dark, and in that minute she felt the terror threaten to overwhelm her. She battled it with every ounce of courage she owned. But it wasn’t enough, so she thought of Alex instead. The fear abated. Her eyes focused.
Someone moved to her right. A faint outline of someone short and stocky betrayed itself against a beam of moonlight that had snuck around the edges of a curtain. He wasn’t watching her. He hadn’t seen her.
She saw his arm raise and point a pistol at the struggling forms at the far side of the room. Without stopping to think about it, she sprung up and threw the knife.
He screamed and lurched. Glass shattered. The pistol fired. Someone else screamed, but it wasn’t Alex and that was all that mattered.
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the sound of heaving breathing across the room.
“Alex?” she whispered.