Never Too Late (28 page)

Without conscious thought, she stood. Devin tried to pull her close behind him, shielding her body with his, but she refused to be subdued. Instead, she stepped in front of him, touching his sleeve as if to keep him in place, and said, “You cannot get away with your depravity. I will see to it that you are prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law for your abuse and indecent exploitation of women and children.”

“Ah, this day is lookin’ up,” said the hooligan from her memory.

She fought hard to suppress the tremor of revulsion that ran through her. The thugs remained emotionless while the well-dressed men behind them laughed.

“My dear woman,” said the man on the left, the one with a blazing golden waistcoat finely embroidered, “you say that as if you believe you will be allowed to leave here alive. Surely, following the trail of bodies like bread crumbs, you must realize there is only one possible conclusion.”

“We are not the only ones who know about this place, about your . . . business,” she said. “Several authorities have been notified. I’m sure they are making their way here as we speak.”

“That is unfortunate. For you.” The Golden Boy looked to the other gentleman and said, “Mr. Smith, please make ready to welcome any additional guests.” The other man quietly stepped out. She feared what these degenerates might have in store to defend against intruders.

“Gentlemen.” Alex drew their attention away from her as he walked slowly toward the center of the room. What on earth was he doing?

“Watch yer step, pup. I already owe you and mean to collect very soon.”

“Gentlemen,” he repeated in an unbelievably reasonable tone, seeming to ignore the brute and address only the leaders behind him, “there must be a way for us to resolve this without bloodshed or assault. Surely, you realize how impossible it would be for you to dispatch a viscount and a respectable merchant without drawing intense scrutiny. As the lady has said, our visit here is widely known. In fact, I have a dossier being held in trust that documents what we can prove of your activities. Sales records from chemist shops throughout the region suggest a pattern and identify a regular purchaser.”

As stunned as she was by his revelation, it was nothing compared to Golden Boy’s reaction. His face drained of color.

“That is impossible,” the man said as he took a step back toward the door. His voice squeaked. The ruffians turned back to him and then to each other for guidance. Clearly, they were disconcerted by their leader’s show of weakness.

“It is not only possible, Lord Feldspar. It is a fact. Your name and that of your associate, along with a hefty file of documentation, have been delivered to Bow Street. The Lexington Company will not be pleased to hear that you have used company funds or staff for such depravity. Silver nitrate is common enough, but when combined with the glassware, paper, and other materials that can be traced back to the same account, the evidence is clear enough.”

When the no-longer-golden Lord Feldspar turned tail and ran out the door, his guards followed close on his tail, hollering that he pay them before he escaped.

With their lives no longer in imminent danger, Honoria’s legs suddenly gave way. The dull thud of the pistol as she sank to the floor drew Alex’s attention.

“Are you all right, Nora? What was that?”

“Ridiculous is what it was. Mrs. Clarke loaned me a pistol. Despite having never fired one before in my life, I thought it might prove useful in this situation.” She gave a sad laugh.

“It could very well have, if Lord Feldspar or his associates had responded differently. Come. Can you stand? We should see if we can find the unfortunates being held captive. My brother should be here soon with reinforcements.”

Chapter Twenty-three

Evans Principle (I’ve given up counting, dear daughter): The deepest truths, the clearest answers, can almost always be found in a book.

T
wo months passed as chaos slowly resolved into order. Reflecting on what they had accomplished together, Honoria felt pride tinged with ambivalence. Alex’s inquiries with local chemical suppliers and other vendors proved critical, and he’d performed his investigation without her knowledge. He’d been the one to inquire about the new collodion process for creating photographs, the process they’d seen on display at the Great Exhibition. He’d done all of it without seeking her assistance, which she had to admit hurt, but he’d also done it without expecting any praise or attention from her. He’d done it not as a way to woo her but simply because it needed to be done.

Arrests were made, though not of those truly responsible. Lowly scapegoats, including Mr. Withersby and Lord Feldspar, bore the brunt. Untold cartons of children’s photographs and exposures were carted out. Untold lists of clients were seized, but, again, only a few lowly figures on the list were publicly identified and charged. The most severe offenders, likely also the most powerful and wealthy, remained unpunished. There was also no telling how many photographs had already been released. Buyers would not dare identify themselves or volunteer information. There was also no telling how many other such outfits might exist, especially considering how easily they could change locations if needed.

At least these women and children were saved.

Lord Devin did indeed present what many praised as an impassioned speech in the House of Lords about the insidious distribution of obscene materials. Under Honoria’s guidance, the Needlework ladies together produced a series of accounts relating the mistreatment the women and children of Peaseblossom House experienced and their subsequent reentry into decent society. It was rumored that novelist and publisher Charles Dickens, after reading some of the accounts and learning that the biggest culprits had not been brought to justice, nearly went into apoplexy
.
Still, the victims who’d been imprisoned and abused were now free. For the most part, the girls and boys found stable homes. A few returned to relieved families, and the ones who had nowhere left to go found a home in a Devin estate a few miles outside of London, which was rechristened Temple Haven.

During those two months, Alex’s drive and influence and stature in public were magnificent to behold. She wasn’t the only one to note it either. At least two news articles praised his newfound extroversion as remarkable, calling him “a changed man” and “a modern leader.” She marveled at how different he was from when they first met.

Yet throughout this period, they barely spoke. Written correspondence served their purposes most of the time. On the few occasions when she saw him in public, he’d been cordial, formal. They never touched, barely looked at each other. It was to be expected, of course, after exposing such criminal obscenity and mistreatment, that they should present unimpeachable public personas. Still, she missed him—his hand on her shoulder, his low chuckle as it rumbled through her.

As she shelved some new acquisitions, made possible by the tremendous surge in customers after the public scrutiny of the Peaseblossom scandal, she noticed a fine rain had begun outside. Even rain sparked her longing.

So mired was she in melancholy and regret over what could not be that she almost didn’t hear the door open, chiming to announce a new customer. She brushed off her skirts as she prepared to greet the newcomer but paused as an all-too-familiar and piquant fragrance reached around the corner of the bookshelf. Her breath caught, anticipating, grasping toward even the most ephemeral traces of him.

“Mrs. Duchamp. May I speak with you?”

“Lord Devin.” She made to curtsy, but he took her hand instead. Her heartbeat sped as she looked up at him. He was dressed impeccably, a large emerald pin glittering in his simply tied cravat. But it was the clear, bright look in his eyes, soft as moss, that took her breath away. She would never be free of whatever this influence was. She nodded, barely cognizant of what question she was answering, and then took a moment to make sure the shop was empty before locking up and offering him tea. If they were going to speak, they would be civilized about it.

Preparing tea and making pleasantries could not forestall Lord Devin, however, who began his campaign as soon as she settled into her armchair.

“As you can yourself attest, I already have a fine and upstanding mother, one who, in fact, is the very paragon of maternity, grace, and parental guidance. I do not seek another mother.”

She hadn’t prepared for such a direct frontal assault. She froze in the act of bringing her teacup to her lips.

“My psyche is not in any way bruised or malformed,” he continued. “I simply desire you as a woman. There is nothing wrong with that. Your intellect and selflessness and vitality and, yes, your beauty are ageless. You inflame my passion in ways no other woman ever has. I love you. Now marry me.”

She finally managed to put the teacup down before spilling tea all over herself. The porcelain clattered as she shakily set the cup in its saucer.

“This is impossible. It will not work, Lord Devin.” Her formality made him wince. “Your social capital would be ruined. I do not fit in that world.”

“What does that matter? What a happy excuse for me to play the hermit, visiting the House of Lords to pass reform bills and spending the rest of my time firmly ensconced in your arms.”

She put a finger to his lips to interrupt him, but his eyes plainly identified exactly where he intended to house himself on her person.

“That won’t do, and you know it.”

“ ‘Had we but world enough, and time, / This coyness, lady, were no crime.’ Marry me, Nora.”

She was standing now, putting her chair between them. She shut her eyes. Of course, he would quote poetry to her. Of course, he would speak its uniquely intimate language to her. Her knees buckled, but she leaned on the chair for support.

“I,” she said imperiously, “am too old to be coy. And you hit upon exactly the problem. We do not have enough time. ‘Time’s winged chariot’ chases us down.”

“What is it, Nora? What is your real objection to marrying me? Do I disappoint you in some way?”

“No! It’s not you, dear boy—”

“Stop that!” He leaned toward her, shoulders taut as if he were about to spring forward. “Stop using condescension to distance yourself from me. You keep throwing these excuses between us as if they are insurmountable, but none of them matters.”

“Our ages are not trivial. Our stations are not trivial. Of course, they matter. We do not live in a bubble, frozen in time in our own private Eden. You are really so much younger than I. It matters. For heaven’s sake, I was your age when Her Royal Highness Queen Victoria ascended the throne. You couldn’t have been out of short pants yet. Think of the talk. The speculation—either about your perverse attractions or my perverse mercenary intent. The scandal would be unbearable.”

“Speculation be damned. I love you and you love me, I know it. Our ages do not matter. You glow with life. If our ages were reversed, no one would think to question it.”

That was all well and good, but whatever light he thought she exuded wouldn’t last forever. In ten years, or perhaps twenty if she were really lucky, she would be gray and decrepit, likely senile as well. He, on the other hand, would still be bursting with vitality, almost certainly even more devastatingly handsome than he was at this moment. Love would become an undue burden. And, even if it took twenty years to happen, she could not bear to grow so dependent on him only to watch as his ardor devolved into annoyance and pity. Her heart physically hurt at the image of them in her mind’s eye, years hence: his still-powerful stride and ramrod spine in stark contrast to her gnarled and weary demeanor.

She floundered for a compromise and faced him to recite: “ ‘Come
live
with me and be my
love.
’ ” She touched his cheek as she continued. “ ‘And we will all the pleasures prove / That hills and valleys, dale and field, / And all the craggy mountains yield.’ ” She took one of his hands and laid it on her body.

His eyes roamed over her hills and valleys. But he didn’t miss the message.

“That is not
yes
. You are offering to be my mistress instead?”

“I am. You offered this option yourself some time ago, as you may recall.”

He nodded. The Folio.

“That offer expired long ago,” he said. “And I tried to give you the Folio without obligation, to no avail. Why will you not marry me?”

“Marriage is out of the question. But we can surely still enjoy each other’s company a while without such a binding contract.”

“That would be enough for you?”

“Absolutely.” She hoped.

“What if it is not enough for me?”

“I am well aware that you should wish to continue your line.” She chose her words carefully. “You are expected to marry well and procreate. I would accept what I can have, assuming all parties were amenable to an arrangement.”

He gaped at her for a moment before indignation transformed his features.

“How can you suggest that? How can you think that, with all I feel for you, I could marry another and divide my affections? Divide my body?”

“Don’t you see? For you, I can be all pleasure and no obligation.”

“You see marriage to me as obligation?”

No!
Her heart cried out.

“Yes.” She’d lived a lie for so many years, it should be easy to lie now. But the word choked her. He refused to see. Marriage would be an obligation—for him. It would become an unbearable obligation, trapping him with a withering prune, at best. She could very well decline as her father had, eventually losing his memory of who he was and how to function. She could not allow him to shackle himself thus. He simply could not see how he would suffer under such a commitment.

“I see,” he said coldly. “More fool I. Of course, you prize your independence, meager and fragile as it might be, more than a life of comfort and affection with me. Far be it for me to
obligate
you any further. I shall see myself out.”

When the door latched behind him, she sank to the floor, her legs trembling too much to stay upright.
This is best for him
, she promised herself. Hurting him now would not be nearly as cruel as accepting his proposal.