The Deepest Night

sides and thick-stitched seams and brass brads holding everything together along the edges. It looked as if it might survive a sinking ship.

Perhaps it’d have to.

“Eleanore Jones. I think we ought to have a chat.”

I looked up from folding a blouse over my bed, discovering Sophia sauntering past the door.

“I thought ladies knew to knock before entering someone else’s boudoir.”

“That eliminates the element of surprise.” She was dressed for dinner in the sort of gown that wouldn’t be for sale around here in a million years, a long black satin sheath, tight metallic lacework over the bodice and sleeves.

Dinner. The clock on the desk informed me I was about to miss it; my stomach growled.

In perfect counterpoint, a rumble of thunder came from beyond the windows. It was miles off still, but the sky above Tranquility had gone a bubbly deep soot, leaving only a feeble, jaundiced wedge of light stuck between the sea and clouds.

Sometimes I heard that rumble and it wasn’t thunder at all. It was the sound of the Germans bombing cities and towns far, far down the coast, a sound that only I could perceive. But tonight it was just thunder.

Rain was coming. Bad timing, but it was too late to switch things up now.

“What is it?” I asked absently, realizing I was going to need to change my dress yet again. Morning dresses, tea dresses, dinner dresses, dance dresses, different wraps and hats and gloves for each … I was beginning to understand what upper-class women did all day.

My armoire was empty. I’d already packed nearly everything, so I went back to the case and began to rummage through it.

“I understand you’re leaving us soon.”

“Uh … yes. I’m afraid so.”

Sophia reclined sideways along the settee against the windows, ankles crossed, one arm slung over the top. She looked like she was posing for a painting.

“Accompanying Lottie Clayworth to Tewkesbury?”

“That’s right.”

“To help with her sick cousin Gracie.”

There. A jade brocade number. That would do. I grabbed it, shook it out with both hands.

“Not sure how much help I’ll actually be,” I said, working at its buttons. “But when she asked, I thought it was the least I could do.”

“How generous of you.” Something in her tone warned me at last; I glanced up, and she gave her sly cat’s smile. “But, say, here’s a quandary, Eleanore. Charlotte Clayworth doesn’t have any living cousins. Not a single one.”

Damn.

I returned to the buttons, nonchalant. “I don’t think that’s right. She was very specific about it. Perhaps she meant a second cousin, something like that.”

“I’ve known the Clayworths my whole life. There was a Gracie, as it happens, but it turns out she died about forty years ago.”

Damn, damn.

I took a breath. “Perhaps this is—”

“I looked it up in Standish’s Peerage of the Empire to be sure. Lottie is the last of her line. And since she’s going on and on about her dear cousin and dear Miss Jones who’s going to help her, and what a relief it will be not to have to travel alone, I find myself pondering what, exactly, is going on. Are you thinking of robbing her?”

My jaw dropped. “What did you just say?”

“Because as much as I find her a stuffy bore, she’s ancient and obviously potty and I can’t allow it.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” So openly. “Grant me some bloody credit.”

“I’d be glad to.” She abandoned her pose to sit up, regarding me with flinty eyes; the metallic lace sparkled and bit into her skin. “If you tell me what’s really going on.”

“She told me she needed help with her cousin!”

“And I told you she doesn’t have one.”

I was desperate; I darkened my voice. “Yes, she does.”

“No—”

I let loose my gown and grasped both of her hands in mine, holding hard. “Yes, she does. She does, Sophia.” I made a decision. Trying to fool her with my voice hadn’t worked—I might have known it wouldn’t—but I needed her cooperation. I chose my next words carefully. “And Armand will be gone, too. And we are absolutely not going somewhere together for the next few weeks. Do you understand?”

She pulled her hands free.

“Is that it?”

“Yes. That’s it.”

“An elopement?”

I felt the blush climbing up my neck. “No.”

Her head tipped; she looked at me coldly. “That’s too bad. Eloping with him would likely send Chloe around the bend.”

“You can’t tell her. You can’t tell anyone.”

She stood in a swish of satin, walking past me to examine the mess of my things upon the bed. “Aren’t you the most cunning little fraud? We’re just friends, Sophia! Really, truly, honest-to-golly-goody-good- goodness! What a lot of tosh.” She picked up one of my garters, pinching it between two fingers, then let it fall. “You very nearly convinced me. Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, would it?”

“Well …” I struggled to think of an explanation that wouldn’t sound too blatantly false. “You can imagine how it went. Secret trysts, forbidden love. You yourself called it the definition of rebellion, remember? The last thing I needed was for Westcliffe to catch me upsetting her lovely applecart of rules. We weren’t sure whom to trust.”

“I believe my feelings are hurt.”

Like hell they were. “Sorry.”

“How on earth did you manage to induce Lottie to have anything to do with this?”

“It—it turns out she’s more romantic than she lets on.”

Sophia released a throaty laugh. “No, she isn’t.”

“You’re right.” The lies were flowing more smoothly now. “Armand is paying her. I guess her funds are short or something. She agreed to cash quick enough.”

“Now, that sounds like the truth. How very sordid!”

“Sophia, you can’t, can’t tell. Think of the shame poor Lottie’d feel.”

She raked her nails across the covers, then sighed. “Fine. I’ll keep your secret. But you owe me. You and Mandy both.”

“Fine!”

She pushed off the bed and walked to the door. “Tell him to buy you some baubles to go with those frocks. You look naked without them.”

“He didn’t buy—”

She sent me a steely, testing look.

“Right,” I said. “Good idea.”

“Have a nice holiday, Miss Jones. I will be collecting on your debt to me when you get back. Don’t forget.”

I stood there with the jade gown a wrinkled spill at my feet, hearing the dinner gong sound from stories below.

Don’t forget.

Bugger me. As if I could.