direction of the sound. Before they’d taken a dozen steps, a shadow slipped out of Quint’s study and into the corridor. A man. He was wrapped in a brown cloak pulled low over his forehead. The shadow glanced their way and froze, and Sophie saw he was wearing a black mask, like some sort of highwayman.
“Do not move,” Quint ordered the man and took a step toward the study.
In an instant, the intruder bolted. He ran toward the dining room, which Sophie knew would lead to the terrace. Quint sprinted after him, Sophie right behind. He was faster, though she did her best to keep up. In the dining room, she saw the figure throw open the French door and disappear outside. Quint skidded to a halt at the threshold, and she heard him utter a curse.
“Why are you stopping?” she shouted. “Go after him!”
When she came alongside, he was standing there, still as a statue, his face contorted in anger and misery.
“What is wrong? Are you ill?”
“No,” he snapped.
“You are letting him get away?”
He said nothing, his lips pressed tightly together.
Confused but determined, she ran out onto the terrace. “Then I shall get him myself!”
Quint stared, mouth agape, as Sophie streaked across his terrace like some sort of avenging Valkyrie. He hadn’t thought for a moment that she would give chase, alone. Had she no sense at all? Whoever that man was, he would not want to risk discovery, which meant he’d hurt Sophie without remorse. Christ, she could be hurt. Killed.
For God’s sake, man, he told himself. Just go. She should not be forced to risk herself because he was too bloody afraid. What kind of a man was too scared to leave the house? Do it, his brain shouted.
He took a deep breath and placed his foot on the stone beyond the dining room. Before he could take another step, his heart tripped and cold perspiration broke out all over his body. No, not now. He swayed, determined not to give up, and gripped the frame. Brought another step forward. Focus on the logic. You’ve done this a thousand times before. A breeze fanned his skin, an unwelcome reminder that he was partway out of the house, and his vision sparkled. The sense of panic intensified a thousandfold and, with a desperate lurch, he threw himself backward into the safety of the house.
Bent at the waist, he placed his hands on his knees and struggled to draw air. Shame and guilt washed over him. He could not do it, could not go out there, no matter how much he needed to. Was this to be the rest of his life, then? Ruled by unfounded fear and uncontrollable physical reactions? Perhaps he should go ahead and put a ball in his brain now.
Anger rose in his blood, sharp and fierce. At himself, at Sophie, at the person who’d dared to break into his home. And where was his damned staff? He stomped to the bell pull and nearly yanked it off the wall.
He was waiting at the terrace door when a slightly winded footman appeared. “You rang, my lord?”
“An intruder has gained access to the house. He ran into the gardens, most likely headed to the alley. Take this sword”—he pointed to the foil on the ground—“and make sure he has gone. Take care not to engage him in a fight, however. It’s not worth your life.” He turned to add over his shoulder, “When you’re done, see that Lady Sophia returns home safely. Then report to me in the study.”
“Very good, your lordship,” the boy said, taking up the weapon.
Quint retreated to the study. The one room in the house that he enjoyed. The one room in which he spent most of his time. And the one room just invaded by a footpad. So what had the intruder been searching for?
The study sat at one end of the library, the stacks of old, familiar tomes more precious to him than a lover. He’d read all of them, most more than once, and had discovered a passion for learning in this very space. Even though his parents had hired the best tutors, Quint had preferred to teach himself. Reading at the
“Do not move,” Quint ordered the man and took a step toward the study.
In an instant, the intruder bolted. He ran toward the dining room, which Sophie knew would lead to the terrace. Quint sprinted after him, Sophie right behind. He was faster, though she did her best to keep up. In the dining room, she saw the figure throw open the French door and disappear outside. Quint skidded to a halt at the threshold, and she heard him utter a curse.
“Why are you stopping?” she shouted. “Go after him!”
When she came alongside, he was standing there, still as a statue, his face contorted in anger and misery.
“What is wrong? Are you ill?”
“No,” he snapped.
“You are letting him get away?”
He said nothing, his lips pressed tightly together.
Confused but determined, she ran out onto the terrace. “Then I shall get him myself!”
Quint stared, mouth agape, as Sophie streaked across his terrace like some sort of avenging Valkyrie. He hadn’t thought for a moment that she would give chase, alone. Had she no sense at all? Whoever that man was, he would not want to risk discovery, which meant he’d hurt Sophie without remorse. Christ, she could be hurt. Killed.
For God’s sake, man, he told himself. Just go. She should not be forced to risk herself because he was too bloody afraid. What kind of a man was too scared to leave the house? Do it, his brain shouted.
He took a deep breath and placed his foot on the stone beyond the dining room. Before he could take another step, his heart tripped and cold perspiration broke out all over his body. No, not now. He swayed, determined not to give up, and gripped the frame. Brought another step forward. Focus on the logic. You’ve done this a thousand times before. A breeze fanned his skin, an unwelcome reminder that he was partway out of the house, and his vision sparkled. The sense of panic intensified a thousandfold and, with a desperate lurch, he threw himself backward into the safety of the house.
Bent at the waist, he placed his hands on his knees and struggled to draw air. Shame and guilt washed over him. He could not do it, could not go out there, no matter how much he needed to. Was this to be the rest of his life, then? Ruled by unfounded fear and uncontrollable physical reactions? Perhaps he should go ahead and put a ball in his brain now.
Anger rose in his blood, sharp and fierce. At himself, at Sophie, at the person who’d dared to break into his home. And where was his damned staff? He stomped to the bell pull and nearly yanked it off the wall.
He was waiting at the terrace door when a slightly winded footman appeared. “You rang, my lord?”
“An intruder has gained access to the house. He ran into the gardens, most likely headed to the alley. Take this sword”—he pointed to the foil on the ground—“and make sure he has gone. Take care not to engage him in a fight, however. It’s not worth your life.” He turned to add over his shoulder, “When you’re done, see that Lady Sophia returns home safely. Then report to me in the study.”
“Very good, your lordship,” the boy said, taking up the weapon.
Quint retreated to the study. The one room in the house that he enjoyed. The one room in which he spent most of his time. And the one room just invaded by a footpad. So what had the intruder been searching for?
The study sat at one end of the library, the stacks of old, familiar tomes more precious to him than a lover. He’d read all of them, most more than once, and had discovered a passion for learning in this very space. Even though his parents had hired the best tutors, Quint had preferred to teach himself. Reading at the
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