Page 25 of Lady Sophia's Lover
“If I hadn’t joined in the pursuit, Butler would have gotten away.”
“Oh, yes,” Morgan said sardonically. “Sayer said you were a hell of an impressive sight. According to him, you climbed up to the roof like a damned cat and followed Butler right over to the next building. A five-foot jump between parapets, with certain death awaiting if you lost your footing. And after Butler fired, no one knew you’d been hit, because you kept going until you caught him. Sayer claims you’re a bloody hero.” Morgan’s tone made it clear that he did not agree with the assessment.
“I did not fall,” Ross pointed out, “and all has ended well. Let it rest at that.”
“Let it rest?” Although Morgan was still controlling his temper fairly well, his face was covered with a betraying flush. “What right have you to risk your life in such a manner? Do you know what would become of Bow Street if you had died tonight? I need not remind you of all the people who would be only too happy to use your demise as an excuse to dismantle the runners and turn the whole of London over to private thief-takers and crime lords such as Nick Gentry.”
“You wouldn’t let that happen.”
“I couldn’t stop it,” Morgan countered. “I haven’t your skills, your knowledge, or your political influence—not yet, at any rate. Your death would jeopardize everything we’ve worked for—and that you should risk so much because of awoman, for God’s sake—”
“What did you say?” Ross demanded. “You think I went on that rooftop because of a woman?”
“Because of Miss Sydney.” Morgan’s unwavering green eyes focused on him. “You’ve changed since she’s come here, and tonight is a prime example of that. Although I won’t pretend to understand what you’re thinking—”
“Thank you,” Ross muttered darkly.
“—it is clear that you are struggling with some problem. My guess is that it stems from your interest in Miss Sydney.” The hard planes of Morgan’s face relaxed as he viewed Ross with a perceptive gaze. “If you want her, take her,” he said quietly. “God knows she would have you. That fact is obvious to everyone.”
Ross brooded and made no reply. He was not the most self-aware of men, preferring to examine other people’s motives and emotions in lieu of his own. To his uncomfortable surprise, Ross realized that Morgan was correct. He had indeed acted recklessly, out of frustration and yearning and perhaps even a strain of guilt. It seemed so long ago that his wife had died, and the pain he had carried for five years had faded. Lately there had been days at a time when he didn’t even think about her, yet he had sincerely loved Eleanor. However, the memories had become distant and pale ever since Sophia had entered his life. Ross could not remember if he had felt this passionately about his wife. Surely it was indecent to compare them, but he couldn’t help it. Eleanor, so willowy, pale, fragile…. and Sophia, with her golden beauty and feminine vitality.
He turned an expressionless face to Grant Morgan. “My interest in Miss Sydney is my own concern,” he said flatly. “And as for my somewhat precipitous actions this evening, from now on I will try to limit my activities to those of a more cerebral nature.”
“And leave the thief-taking to the runners—asIhave learned to do,” Morgan said sternly.
“Yes. However, I wish to correct you on one point—I am not irreplaceable. The time is not long in coming when you will easily be able to fill my shoes.”
Morgan grinned suddenly, glancing down at his own gigantic feet. “Perhaps you’re right. It’s the fellow who has to fillmyshoes who will have the most difficulty.”
A light tap came at the door, and Sophia entered cautiously. She looked tousled and tempting, her hair coming loose from its pins. She carried a small tray with a covered dish, and a glass of what appeared to be barley water. Despite Ross’s weariness, he felt his spirits surge in her presence.
Sophia smiled pleasantly at Morgan. “Good evening, Sir Grant. If you would like some supper, it would be no trouble to bring up another tray.”
“No, thank you,” Morgan replied pleasantly. “I will return home to my wife, as she is expecting me.” Bidding them both good-bye, Morgan made to depart. He paused at the door, his gaze meeting Ross’s over Sophia’s head. “Consider what I said,” he remarked meaningfully.
The pain in Ross’s shoulder made rest difficult. He woke frequently and considered taking a spoonful of the opiate syrup that had been left on his night table. But he rejected the idea, for he disliked being muddle-headed. He thought of Sophia sleeping a few rooms away, then conjured up a number of excuses he might use to summon her to his bedside. He was bored and uncomfortable, and he wanted her. The only thing that kept him from calling for her was his understanding that she needed to rest.
When dawn crept timidly over the city and sent its weak gray light through the half-open curtains, Ross was relieved to hear sounds of people stirring in the house. Sophia’s light tread as she went to Ernest’s tiny attic room to awaken him…the housemaids carrying coal pails and lighting the grates…Eliza’s broken footsteps as she headed toward the kitchen.
Finally Sophia entered the bedroom, her face scrubbed and glowing, her hair pulled back in a thick plait that had been coiled and pinned at the nape of her neck. She carried a tray of supplies, set them on the night table, and came to the bedside.
“Good morning.” Gently she laid her hand on his forehead, then pressed it against the beard-roughened space beneath his jawbone. “You’re a bit feverish,” she observed. “I will change the wound dressing, then have the maids fill a tepid bath. Dr. Linley said that a bath was acceptable as long as you don’t get the bandages wet.”
“Are you going to help me bathe?” Ross asked, enjoying the sudden tide of color that washed over her face.
“My nursing duties do not extend that far,” Sophia replied primly, although amusement tugged at the corners of her lips. “If you require assistance with your bath, Ernest will provide it.” She stared at him closely, apparently fascinated by the sight of his dark-stubbled face. “I’ve never seen you unshaven before.”
Ross rubbed a hand over his scratchy jaw. “In the mornings I’m as prickly as a hedgehog.”
She considered him appraisingly. “You look rather dashing, actually. Like a pirate.”
He watched as Sophia busied herself, drawing the curtains aside to admit fresh daylight, pouring hot water into a washbasin, and carefully washing her hands. Although she tried to appear matter-of-fact about the situation, it was evident that she was not accustomed to being alone with a man in his bedroom. She did not quite meet his eyes when she returned to the bedside and laid out the materials for the new dressing.
“Sophia,” he murmured, “if you are uncomfortable…”
“No,” she said earnestly, her gaze flying to his. “I want to help you.”
Ross could not suppress a mocking smile. “Your face is red.”
