Lady Sophia's Lover (Bow Street Runners #2)(66)

“And you were meant to be a servant?” he pointed out sardonically. “Don’t sit in judgment, Sophia. We’ve both done what was necessary to survive.”

They approached a heavy door at the end of a cramped passageway, and Gentry reached to open it for her.

As Sophia stepped inside, she was stunned to find an elegantly decorated set of rooms. Papered walls were covered with gold-framed Baroque looking glasses and fine paintings. The French furnishings were heavily gilded and upholstered in brocade, and the windows were swathed in blue-gray velvet.

Stunned to find such elaborate rooms in a ramshackle building, Sophia glanced at her brother with wide eyes.

He smiled casually. “Just because I have to stay on West Street doesn’t mean I have to live badly.”

Feeling weak after receiving what was surely the greatest shock of her life, Sophia made her way to an overstuffed chair. Gentry went to a sideboard, poured two drinks, and brought one to her. “Have some of this,” he said, pressing a glass into her hand.

She obeyed, grateful for the smooth burn of the brandy as it slid down her throat. Her brother sat beside her, tossing down his drink as if it were water. His gaze fastened on her, and he shook his head with apparent wonder. “I can’t believe you are really here. For years I’ve thought about you, never knowing what had become of you.”

“You could have let me know that you were still alive,” she said crisply.

His face was suddenly expressionless. “Yes, I could have.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He stared at a stray drop of brandy in his empty glass, rolling the vessel gently in his long fingers. “The main reason was that you were better off not knowing. My life is dangerous, not to mention unsavory, and I didn’t want you to bear the shame of having a brother like me. I was certain that you would have married a long time ago, to some decent man in the village. I thought you would have had children by now.” His voice became edged with baleful ire. “And instead you’re a spinster!” He made the word sound like a curse. “For God’s sake, Sophia, why are you a damned servant? At Bow Street, of all places!”

“Who would have wanted to marry me, John?” she asked ironically. “I had no dowry, no family, nothing to recommend me except an attractive face, which I can assure you held no great value for the farmers and workmen in the village. The only offer of marriage I ever received was from the local baker, a fat old man who was nearly twice my age. Working for Cousin Ernestine was far more appealing. And as for Bow Street… I like it there.”

She was tempted to tell her brother about her shortlived affair with Anthony, how she had been ill-used and betrayed. However, in light of his wicked reputation, she decided to keep that matter private. For all she knew, he would arrange to have Anthony killed or tortured in some way.

Gentry made a scornful noise at the mention of Bow Street. “It’s no place for you,” he scoffed. “Those runners are no better than the thugs who work for me. And if that coldhearted bastard Cannon has mistreated you, I’ll—”

“No,” Sophia cut in hastily. “No one has mistreated me, John. And Sir Ross is very kind.”

“Oh, of course he is,” Gentry said with purest sarcasm.

The reminder that her lover and her brother were sworn enemies caused a stab of pain in her chest. This was going to change everything, she thought with sick trepidation. Ross had overlooked so much about her. But the fact that her brother was Nick Gentry, the man Ross despised most… well, that could not be dismissed. The situation was so dreadful and strange that she felt a wobbly smile touch her lips.

“What are you thinking?” Gentry asked.

She shook her head, the smile vanishing. There was no need for him to know about her romantic relationship with the Chief Magistrate of Bow Street. Not when that relationship was very possibly finished. Managing to shove the despairing thoughts to the back of her mind, she studied her brother intently.

The promise of handsomeness that she had seen in his boyhood had been more than fulfilled. At twenty-five, he possessed a sleek, hard-boned grace that reminded her of a tiger. His features were dramatic, precisely angled, the chin sharply defined, the nose jutting in a straight, strong line. The thick arcs of his eyebrows surmounted a remarkable pair of eyes. They were of a shade of blue so dark that the black pupils nearly vanished into the intense irises. However, the extravagant masculine beauty of his face did not conceal a ruthlessness that troubled her deeply. Gentry seemed capable of almost anything, as if he could lie, steal, or even kill without a flicker of remorse. There was no softness in him, and Sophia guessed that any sense of mercy or compassion had been driven from him long ago. But he was still her brother.

Wonderingly, she lifted her hand to the side of his face. He remained still beneath her cradling fingers. “John, I never allowed myself to hope that you were still alive.”

Gently he took her hand from his face, as if he found it difficult to tolerate another person’s touch. “I was shocked when I saw you in the Bow Street strong room,” he muttered. “I knew who you were at once, even before I heard your name.” His jaw flexed tightly.

“When that bastard Cannon shouted at you, it was all I could do to keep from ripping his throat out—”

“No,” she interrupted swiftly. “He was concerned for me. He was trying to protect me.”