Tyson leaned back and grinned. Seth Weston’s wrath was terrifyingly splendid. Such a man, seasoned to war, to hardship—and yes, even to women—was just what Sophy needed.
Over to you, Miss Sophy van Houten. Challenge an old dog, would you? Sophy deserved what was going to happen to her. Did she really think she could get away with blackmailing him? She needed to be taught a lesson. And Seth Weston was just the man to give it to her.
The door opened slowly to reveal a short, plump, middle-aged woman dressed in a plain gray gown with a white starched apron. In the middle of the room sat Sophy, dark head bent, lips slightly parted, writing. The scratching of pen on paper was the only sound to be heard as she entered a total on her inventory sheet with a flourish.
“What is it, Tessa?” Her voice was soft and calm, but sable eyebrows rose at the interruption.
Smoothing her apron with a reproachful gesture, the older woman set a vexed mouth, before she offered dourly, “Sorry to disturb ye, Miss Sophy, but there’s a gentleman downstairs says he’d like to see ye.”
Sophy van Houten lowered her head again to her journal, sighed and laid her pen aside.
“I’d hoped to finish my accounts this morning. He didn’t say what he wanted, I suppose?”
“No, I never asked.” Tessa’s voice was severe as she continued, “Ye’ll ruin your eyes with all that book work.”
Sophy’s smile was brilliant and an imp of mischief glinted in the gray eyes. “How old must I get, Tessa, before you will realize that I am no longer a green girl?”
Tessa’s round face shone with indignation as she remained standing close by the door. “None of your lip, young woman. Ye’ll always be a bairn to me. Shall I tell him to come back later, Miss Sophy? No respectable person comes visiting at this hour, or in this weather! It’s only ten minutes past the hour of nine! Positively indecent!”
A small smile touched Sophy’s lips at the servant’s impertinence. Tessa Fraser had a bad habit of thinking Sophy still needed a nursemaid. It came with twenty years of loving and caring.
“Don’t fuss, Tessa. I am not about to be ravished in my own house. This is 1865, after all. Show the gentlemen into the parlor, please. I’ll be down in a moment.”
Sophy’s thoughts spun round in her head like windmills as she carefully wiped the nib of her pen, closed the journal and slipped both into a drawer. Perhaps Mr. Tyson had sent someone? He had seemed quite certain after their little talk two days ago that he would be able to find a suitable prospect.
Since then, she had discovered several flaws in her plan. She touched her lip with the tip of her tongue. Perhaps it was not too late to back out of her hastily conceived strategy?
Needing a moment to consider how she could squash her rash scheme, Sophy unlatched the French window, and stepped outside. Droplets clung to the ironwork balustrade. The view below was flat and uninspiring. A dark canyon of street, and stark black elms outlined against the dull gray sky. Sophy grimaced. Winter was early this year. A wind slanted the rain, blowing a mist into the room.
It reminded her of the gray mist in Mr. Tyson’s banking chambers two days earlier. He had sat there, the smoke from his cigar veiling his eyes, and listened to her. She was sure his brown eyes had been alight with mischief when she had carefully explained what she wanted. But he had been very polite.
Of course, while she had not told any direct lies, she had not been exactly truthful either. She had just let Mr. Tyson assume she was fulfilling her father’s wish that she wed a man who needed her. Where was the line between lie and truth?
It was a little late to issue warnings to herself. Fastening the window latch, Sophy straightened her back, tilted her head proudly and headed for the parlor.
Only nine-twenty! Staring into the face of an ornate ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, Seth Weston asked himself for the hundredth time why he had allowed his ungovernable temper to trap him into traveling all the way to Yonkers.
For what? Dismissal? Ridicule? He’d heard Sophy van Houten had rejected so many suitors her father had laughingly declared she would die an old maid..
Within weeks of Lincoln’s assassination, her father, returning home on the Sultana after arranging the return of Union soldiers from Southern prisons, had been killed when the steamer exploded on the Mississippi. Now she was left quite alone, the old maid her father had predicted, before she was twenty. Also a very wealthy one.
Seth shivered, bent and poked the ashes in the grate with the silver tip of his walking stick. No warmth there. Cold. Cold as last year’s love. Probably as cold and frigid as the van Houten woman. Another shiver ran through him. Hell, it was chilly even for October. He should leave now, before he made a fool of himself.
Instead, he removed his hat and gloves, drew the collar of his jacket higher about his neck, straightened his shoulders and faced the door to await his nemesis.
Small sounds indicated her arrival, light footsteps crossing the hall, a soft musical voice requesting coffee, the rustle of fabric. Dark against the open doorway appeared the shape of a woman dressed in black. She was small. He doubted she reached five feet.
She stood there, perfectly still, a dark shape around whose head the lamplight fashioned a halo of flashing daggers that pierced him with unease. Seth heard her soft exclamation. For a moment she stood there, hand gripping the doorknob as though it were a iifeline. Then, with another exclamation, she swept toward him.
Entering the parlor, Sophy gave an involuntary gasp of surprise and stopped in confusion. Here was a new type, someone she had never seen before. Her heart was in her throat, pounding.
The lean, darkly powerful man who stood aggressively across the room from her was handsome, but there was an uncompromising severity about his dark eyebrows and the hard, controlled line of his mouth. A long, straight nose and firm chin added strength to his features.
Some interesting lines marked his finely chiseled face, giving it an elegant maturity. It was the face of a man who had stood at the doors of hell. Sophy looked at the tall length of him, the splendid breadth of his shoulders, the stiff-legged stance and ebony walking stick.
Stunned, her hand tightened on the doorknob to prevent it from going out to him. Eyes of brilliant blue met hers with some indefinable expression in their depths. Hard. Calculating.
A ruthless man, Sophy decided, and a relentless one. He would go where he wished to go, do what he wanted to do, with implacable will and drive. Her stomach lurched, and for a moment a strange, unfamiliar sense of dizziness almost overwhelmed her.
Sophy was looking for something in life; she did not know what. All the men she had met she could rule. None of her would-be husbands had made her feel as this one did!
She tore her eyes from his assessing gaze with a distinct effort, directing them toward the empty grate. For a moment, she battled with an odd uncertainty. Then she began to breathe again and coherent thought replaced the drumbeat in her head.
Sophy strode forward, hand outstretched. Her slender body moved quickly, and she walked with a purposefulness that few women possessed.
“Good morning. I’m Sophy van Houten. What can I do for you?”
The words were no more than a whisper, and seemed to come out in an exasperated rush.
