Rook by Sharon Cameron Read Free Book Online Page B

of a debtor’s cell.”
    Sophia stood stock-still on the road, wind whistling through the rubble of the empty building, the smooth handle of the knife in her concealed hand. “You would have the fortune of your own family confiscated?”
    LeBlanc shrugged. “We have never been close.”
    “Monsieur LeBlanc,” she said, “I am very sorry to disappoint you, but I know nothing of this matter. I have nothing to give you. Nothing at all.”
    “But I think you do. Or that you very soon will. You will see. You will discover. You will listen to the talk in the kitchen. Women can do these things. Succeed, and you will have your marriage fee. Fail, and you will lose your father and your home. I trust that these instructions need no more explanation?”
    When Sophia said nothing, he bowed his head slightly and turned to walk away down the lane.
    He was several steps away when Sophia called, “Have you spoken to your cousin about this?” LeBlanc spun slowly back around.
    “Do you believe in Luck, Miss Bellamy? I do, most fervently. Luck is the handmaiden of Fate, and I think I will try my luck with you.” He began to walk again down the A5, calling over his shoulder, “You will find me at the Holiday, Mademoiselle. For one week. That is all the time I can spare!”
    Sophia watched LeBlanc’s retreating back, wind stirring little tornadoes of dirt and fallen leaves, waiting until the rooks had hushed and the lane was empty again. Only then did she slide the knife back into her belt, its handle part of the buckle’s decoration. The trees behind her rustled, and she turned her head.
    “You heard?” she asked as Tom came limping out from the undergrowth.
    “Yes,” he replied. “Enough.”
    He stood beside her as they both stared down the empty road. “I’m thinking misdirection,” Sophia said quietly. “You?”
    “Yes, possibly. But we are going to have to play a very careful game, my sister.”

    “Do you play, my love?”
    Sophia glanced up at René standing beside her father’s chess set as if he were posing for a portrait titled Parisian Rake . She went back to stroking St. Just’s head, the fox settling deeper into the gauzy pink of her gown. It was full dark outside, the storm that the wind had promised now lashing for its third day at the windowpanes. Bellamy slumped in his chair—he never stayed awake for long after dinner—while Spear and Tom sat on either side of the fire, Spear reading a legal newspaper, Tom thumbing through his illegal Wesson’s Guide . Tom’s interest in Wesson’s was less about clothing and more about what the subjects of the copied drawings might be doing, and where they might have been doing it. Proving the theory that Wesson had copied Ancient paintings in abandoned London before it was lost was Tom’s constant pastime.
    Sophia wanted a pastime, or at least one that could be done in a sitting room, where sword fighting was frowned upon. Three days of torrential rain had left her cooped up and testy. René Hasard had been haunting her steps, paying her unearned compliments, stating his opinions on music, magazines, Parisian actresses, and, most memorably, an endless dissertation on his particular preferences in nursery carpets. Tom had nodded sagely while listening to this, asking her fiancé such detailed, serious questions that Sophia thought holding in the laughter might actually kill her. And if she did manage to be without René’s presence for the odd moment or two, up he would pop unexpectedly, full of a restless, boundless energy and incessant talk that, good looks or no, stretched her patience to the limit.
    St. Just lifted his head from her lap, sniffing at her foul mood. René’s suggestion of a game was not appealing, but then again, Sophia wasn’t certain he could have suggested anything that was. Her father snorted, startling belatedly from his doze.
    “What?” Bellamy said. “What? Play my Sophia, Mr. Hasard? Oh no, I don’t advise it. I’ve been playing