Never Too Late (10 page)

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He’d acted like a green boy, confronting tits for the first time, pawing like an uncontrolled beast. He was more talented at the art of love than this. He hadn’t been this awkward about sex since his first time; by God, even his first time had been more careful and moderate than this, smoother by nature, if not by design. He should probably count himself lucky he didn’t prematurely release himself, to top it all off.

He thought offering the Folio was a stroke of genius, impossible to refuse. And yet she did just that. In his state, he would have promised her anything. He knew her rejection should not bother him as much as it did. He could easily find a plethora of other women, including several tractable widows, who would accept a much lower offer. He knew, too, that he was acting just like a child, desiring the forbidden object that was even more tantalizing because it was out of reach. But his want was so damn strong. He could still smell her, still feel her under his hand, still hear the small sounds of pleasure deep in her throat.

And yet he had just agreed he would never again seek any of that. She had the right of it, though, he realized. As he replayed the moment in his mind, he knew it was dastardly of him to pursue her in light of Withersby’s orders, even though they were orders he didn’t want to fulfill in the first place. If he could get out from under the man’s thumb, well, he couldn’t even start down that path....

As he returned to the party, a servant delivered a small, folded note.

Lord Devin:

Tick tock. Tick tock.

—Mr. A.

And here was the one thing he needed to make the evening a complete travesty, as if he’d conjured Withersby with his thoughts. What would he do about this mission? He could not allow Withersby to destroy her livelihood. If indeed she were the author of those pamphlets, what could she possibly have brewing that would be so devastating to Withersby’s client? Everyone knew the problems of child labor, everyone knew the horrors of slavery, and yet these didn’t rent asunder any major industries. She could, and clearly did, print reformer pamphlets, but what could she possibly print with such devastating anticipated effects?

Chapter Six

Evans Principle 6: There’s always more than one person to please. Consolidate your efforts but never compromise yourself.

“S
o where were you last week, Honoria?” Predictably, that would be the first thing Marissa would ask. The tenacious Mrs. Marissa Clarke always dove headfirst into whatever question preoccupied her. Some might even say she resembled a bulldog, with her stout, solid body and her snub nose. One could never say Marissa gave them the wrong impression. People saw exactly who she was and what her intentions were; she saw no need for finesse or tact. Such subtlety was the job of the sisters, Mrs. Helena Martin and Mrs. Elizabeth Addison, the same Helena and Elizabeth who sat across the room by the picture window, ostensibly minding their knitting. They’d appear so even if they were eavesdropping; such was a skill they’d mastered as children in their father’s study.

“A business opportunity arose,” Honoria explained, “a dinner hosted by Lady Rose Devin, and I thought it would be an excellent chance to make some new connections. The guests were among the country’s most touted intellectuals. I made sure to offer them my card in hopes of having them do public readings at the shop. I suspect one or two might even be open to disseminating our more controversial work.”

“Speaking of which,” Marissa replied, “I think Helena has new information for us from a visit with some Bethnal Green children. But that can wait. How did you come to be acquainted with Lady Devin?”

“By chance, really. Her son Lord Alexander Devin purchased a book from Evans as a birthday present for his mother. I suppose he must have mentioned the encounter and she must have thought it would be conducive to have a bookseller among the book authors.”

“Sensible enough. Seems peculiar, though. How often does one make a purchase at a shop and think to make the seller’s personal acquaintance? Sure, we all know the shopkeepers along your row and at most establishments who can garner us access to information, but we’ve cultivated those acquaintances purposefully.”

By now, Elizabeth had given up the pretense of talking needlework with Helena and piped up, “Marissa, you seem to be leading us to a particular conclusion. What is it?”

“I was simply testing your hearing, dearie,” Marissa shot back with a sly grin. But then she added, “It seems unlikely the Devin family would take an interest in you, Honoria, so suddenly. I don’t know why, but my gut feels unsettled about the invitation and abrupt familiarity.”

“What familiarity? I attended a dinner with thirty other guests.” She felt a need to keep silent about the events that transpired in the Devin library. Familiar, indeed. Marissa’s forwardness was due in no small part to her keen intuition; her instincts were nearly unnatural in their accuracy. Why should this time be any different?

“It’s not like you to be secretive, Honoria.”

“I’m not being secretive. There is very little to say about the event. I attended dinner; I conversed on a wide array of topics with several well-known writers, which was quite an honor. And I hope I made enough of an impression on them that I can call upon them in the future to help further the success of the shop. As I said, it was a rare business opportunity I felt I could not decline.”

This time Helena inserted herself into the discussion with “Strange as it may seem, I agree with Marissa. I know what it is! The invitation was based on Lord Devin coming to your shop for a book. That in itself is rather unusual. Moreover, you’ve said nothing about your dealings with Lord Devin. Something must have happened to garner enough of his attention that he had his mother invite you.”

This was too much.

“Ladies, there is really very little to tell about dinner or about the Devins. They are lovely people, and I was uncommonly fortunate to be rather randomly invited. Let us not get caught up in trivialities. We have work to do.”

True enough. Whether they were genuinely dissuaded or simply acceding to her obvious desire not to talk further about the subject, Marissa went to get some knitting out of a basket in the corner. Honoria inwardly breathed a large sigh of relief and made her way toward where the other two ladies were seated, stopping to pick up her satchel along the way. Each of the women placed their yarn projects on their laps, pieces large enough to hide the notepaper on which their reports to the group were based. If anyone happened to make an unscheduled visit, they could easily secret their work away in their needle projects between the butler’s announcement of the visitor and the actual presentation of said visitor in the drawing room. Even when they met at Honoria’s more humble abode, they maintained the pretense of knitting or needlepoint and occasionally even finished some of those projects as they worked through more important strategies. Helena’s interviews took precedence this evening, and they quickly moved far away from discussion of Lord Devin, his mother, and the peculiar dinner invitation, although Honoria’s thoughts didn’t stray far enough from them.

Chapter Seven

Evans Principle 7: All that glitters—well, you know the rest . . .

T
he glass and metal structure, at once encasement and centerpiece of the Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations, gleamed as sunlight broke through the clouds. Awestruck by its effulgence, Honoria marveled, openmouthed, like a child. It was massive yet delicate, imposing yet ephemeral. The building suited the elaborate name of the showcase.

“What do you think of it, Mrs. Duchamp?” She didn’t miss the note of amusement in Lord Devin’s voice. In fact, he seemed to be perpetually amused by her or perhaps by life in general, a sardonic amusement.

“It is lovely,” she admitted. “Breathtaking, even. Quite a feat of architecture and engineering. I expect it to collapse like a house of cards or shatter if a stiff breeze arises. It’s amazing.”

“I agree,” he replied. “It is a jewel. The exhibits within are equally spectacular. I would be honored to serve as your guide.”

“Oh, Alex, you must make sure she sees the textiles from Turkey and Greece,” Lady Devin added.

“But what do you wish to see, Lady Devin?” she asked. “Since you have both seen many of the exhibits before and everything is equally new to me, I would be happy to explore sections new to you.”

“That is too kind of you, dear.” Lady Devin moved in front of her son to link arms with Honoria, reinforcing the sense of little girls at play. What an odd pair they must make, a regal lady and a nobody. “Let us seek out a newer world!”

Exactly as he said, the interior of the Crystal Palace was as astounding as the exterior. Colors and smells she’d never experienced before, a mishmash of sensations, bombarded her. Everything bathed in golden sunlight. The wave of humanity entering with them directed their path, rushing them through the entryway and ultimately depositing them in the West Hall.

A photography demonstration drew their attention immediately.

“I have heard about this,” said Lord Devin. “It is a remarkable new process for making multiple copies of an image—rather quickly too.”

In fact, the photographer showed off images he had taken and developed there at the Exhibition. A few of the more interesting ones, such as a view from the exterior, were available for purchase. When the photographer offered to take their portrait, however, she immediately shook her head and deflected the question. “Perhaps you would like to have a portrait of yourself and your son, Lady Devin?”

Lady Devin murmured to her son, who spoke in professional tones with the man and handed him a calling card. The two men shook hands, and Lady Devin led them farther into the hall.

A massive panel display of art competed with a Far Eastern porcelain display for their attention, both of them in the shade of a tree, around which the building must have been erected. As they rounded a corner, they found themselves again in a crush of people, this time waiting to glimpse what was assumed to be the most highly prized gem in the world: the Koh-i-Noor diamond. When would she get another opportunity like this?

The diamond turned out to be disappointingly unremarkable. Large, certainly, but not especially attractive. For all she could see, it looked like a large chunk of dirty glass.

Lady Devin stopped to speak with a tall couple but urged her son to take Honoria farther into the international displays.

Near the overblown hunk of rock, bright color and delicate movement from the Chinese alcove caught her eye. A lovely girl who she could only guess must be Chinese stood in front of a display of porcelain vases, her voice carrying over a small group of tourists obviously charmed by her. The child’s long braids stood out against her pale robes, embroidered with exotic flowers and birds. As Honoria moved closer, she was struck by the girl’s articulate erudition. She wanted to ask about the bronze statues at the end of the neighboring display because they shared motifs with some of the vases, but before she could get the child’s attention, she felt Lord Devin’s hand at her elbow.

“Have you found something of interest here?”

“These displays from the East are lovely. That child, though, is even more fascinating. I do not see her parents, though they must be close by.”

“I shall have to point her out to my mother. She lent a few items to the collections here and has more at home that she wants to be appraised for authenticity. Perhaps the child’s parents can be of some guidance.”

Though the sight of the exotic child nagged at her without clear cause, she was equally struck by an undertone in his comment.

“Was your father often in the Orient?”

“My father was everywhere. I have no doubt he was often fleeced when he traveled, particularly in Asian countries where he did not speak the language. He was overconfident and easily impressed.”

“Excuse me for stating the obvious, but you seem to talk rather flippantly and disdainfully about your father.”

He dipped his head, and she watched the tips of his ears turn pink before he responded.

“You have noticed that as well? I can assure you I do not normally talk about my father at all, much less so derisively. Certainly not to someone outside the family. And yet with you, it simply slips out. I find myself saying the words before I have had proper time to censor myself. It is unaccountable. Suffice it to say that I disapproved of some of his choices. And now it seems only fair then that you reciprocate—you have said little about your family, but it has always been with a tone of wistful happiness. Tell me about them and why you adored them so.”

He’d unknowingly found the right key. She didn’t have much opportunity to speak of her parents, less and less opportunity as time passed. And
adoration
was such a mild word for what she felt toward them.

“My father’s family was landed gentry,” she began. “My grandfather held a baronet but wasn’t much of a land manager. As the second son of an estate in decline, my father didn’t have much to live on. Between the modest income supplied by his brother and the modest dowry from their marriage, my parents made do. But when it became clear my uncle was not only inept at management but actively gambling away what little he had left of the family legacy, my father decided he wanted to set out on his own. I understand they had quite a row over it—a baron’s son turned merchant. Apparently, not for the first time, they came to blows just before my parents married. My uncle was furious about the shop, even though he couldn’t really afford to interfere. My father loved books, and so he got it in his head that he wanted to open a bookshop and make it his legacy. My mother was supportive, in her own way. And, in truth, I think he fastened on to the bookshop precisely because he was so in love with her. She was an aspiring poetess, you see. She spent much of her time at her escritoire, and I think deep down he dreamed he would one day be able to feature her poetry in the shop. He would have so enjoyed showing off her work.”