And, of course, what man could possibly resist the thought of a young and beautiful woman who was alone and so terribly vulnerable?
“It is a decision to which I will have to give some thought,” he muttered.
Sophia was too intelligent to press for an answer. Instead she carefully eased her way past his instinctive need to play hero to the more prosaic side of his nature.
“Her father is very wealthy, is he not?” she asked softly.
He shrugged. “As rich as Croesus, if the gossips are to be believed.”
“Then surely he would be willing to pay a ransom for his only child?”
His scowl returned. “It is difficult to know with men such as Silas Dobson. He was willing to sell Talia to the highest title, so it is obvious he has little affection for her.” His voice was edged with disgust. Jacques found social climbers as repugnant as nobles. “He might very well decide his daughter is no longer his responsibility.”
“There is only one means to discover if he is willing to pay,” she gently urged. “I shall be happy to assist you in writing the ransom note…”
“Non.”
“Jacques?”
His eyes blazed with a warning that could not be ignored. “The Countess of Ashcombe is my responsibility and I will decide her future without interference. Is that understood?”
Sophia bit back her words of protest. Mon Dieu. Had she not caused enough harm for one night?
She had intended to be subtle. She was, after all, a woman who had been beguiling men since the tender age of thirteen. It should have been a simple matter to discover the depth of Jacques’s feelings for Talia and from there to covertly begin the process of eroding his regard for the unwelcome bitch.
She had done it a dozen times before.
Perhaps a hundred.
But never for a man she loved, her battered heart whispered.
And now her blundering had only made Jacques more stubbornly determined to protect the poor, sadly abused Lady Ashcombe.
“Of course,” she managed to murmur.
With jerky motions, Jacques pulled out the chair near the desk. “I should return to my correspondence.”
“As you wish.” Forcing herself to cross the room, Sophia paused at the door. “Do not work too hard, chéri. You must remain strong for all of us.”#p#分页标题#e#
He did not bother to glance in her direction. “Bonsoir, ma belle.”
“Bonsoir.”
Sophia walked down the vast hallway, the rustle of her silk gown the only sound to break the heavy silence. She paid no heed, however, to the empty grandeur of her surroundings as she traveled grimly back toward her chambers.
Her disturbing encounter with Jacques had convinced her that she had no choice. The Countess of Ashcombe had to leave France.
The sooner the better.
And there was only one certain means of accomplishing her goal.
With her decision made, Sophia entered her rooms to collect a blanket. Then dismissing the voice that whispered she was taking the greatest risk of her life, she silently made her way to Jacques’s private office. Her heart was thundering in her chest as she snuck into the darkened room. But she refused to give in to fear as she searched until she at last discovered what she was seeking in a locked desk drawer.
Slipping the small piece of jewelry in one pocket of her dressing gown and a sealed letter in the other pocket, she headed back into the hallway and toward the nearest staircase with an air of purpose.
She continued her swift pace ever downward, sweeping past the curious guards until she reached the cellars and the soldier who stood directly before the locked door.
Summoning her most charming smile, Sophia gestured toward the blanket in her hand and assured the wary guard that Jacques had sent her to make certain their guest was made comfortable. The man hesitated, then with a faint shrug he turned the key in the lock and pulled open the heavy oak door.
Sophia stepped past him, waiting for the door to be shut behind her before moving into the shadowed room, her breath squeezed from her lungs as the tall gentleman lifted his graceful form off the narrow cot and prowled toward her.
Even for a woman jaded by a lifetime of men, Sophia had to admit this one was a magnificent specimen.
In the torchlight his hair shimmered like the finest gold, and his perfectly chiseled features looked more fitted for an angel than a mere man. But for all his astonishing beauty, Sophia felt a chill of premonition inching down her spine.
Unlike most of the nobles she had entertained over the years, the Earl of Ashcombe was no primping dandy, nor was he a debauched lecher. Non. This gentleman was a sleek, dangerous predator who regarded her with a cold, silver gaze that seemed to pierce through her hard-earned defenses.