Never Too Late (29 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

H
e hadn’t been to the club in ages. He hoped getting back into his usual routine would help him regain his usual equanimity, help block Mrs. Honoria Duchamp, heroine of the downtrodden—correction:
Miss
Honoria
Evans
, the only woman with the power to devastate him—from his infernally distracted mind. So far, a few drinks, a few rounds of billiards, and he was starting, ever so slightly, to feel like his old self again.

“Hey, Devin, old boy! You’ve finally deigned to grace us with your presence again?” It was Carlton Ashleigh, a chum from his Eton days. And, of course, trailing close behind him were the Anderson brothers and the ever cynical John Hartley. After hearty handshakes and pats on the back all around, he ordered a round of drinks for his circle and settled into amiable conversation about sports and the railways and travel.

Just when he thought he’d managed to forget about Miss Honoria Evans, Ashleigh poked him in the side and said in a low voice, “I hear you’ve finally taken up a mistress, Devin. About bloody time.”

He opened his mouth to object, to deny, but didn’t get the chance.

“Didn’t you hear, though,” interjected Hartley, “that he got this wrong as well? Attached himself to an old crone when there’s any number of young, nubile widows and actresses and, heck, seamstresses he could choose from. A bluestocking and a reformer, to boot. I would have thought such a one would have a steel trap for a quim.”

Without thought, he leapt up and had John pinned against the nearest wall, his arm against the man’s throat.

“One should not speak of issues one knows nothing about. Moreover, one should never speak of a gentlewoman, any gentlewoman, so coarsely.” He heard himself growl, actually growl, but could not regret it.

Hartley’s surprise was evident as he held both hands up in mute surrender, perhaps because the poor fool couldn’t take a breath to speak. Equally surprised by his own ferocity, Alex stepped away.

“I apologize, Lord Devin. Truly, it was in jest.”

He nodded. Still, he would kill the next man who spoke of Nora thus. But even as he fumed, he saw that what she had said was accurate. Whatever their connection, their relationship, it would not be recognized by the world for what it was. Whatever affection she had for him—and he was sure she held strong feelings for him, despite her protestations—their association was tainted by the wider world. He would be condoned (clearly, he would be praised) for having a mistress; she would be castigated for being said mistress. No one would believe that he courted her, that he genuinely wanted her. But it mattered. For her sake. He did court her (after a fashion), he did try to woo her (after a fashion), and he most definitely wanted her with every fiber of his being.

And he wanted everyone else to recognize that she was worthy of such attentions.

Chapter Twenty-five

Evans Principle #more: Keep your ears, your eyes, and your heart open. When the best opportunities arise, you will know.

S
he recognized the Devin carriage as it stopped in front of the store. Yet, when she steeled herself to face Lord Devin, she was surprised to see Lady Devin alight, followed just as inexplicably by Mr. and Mrs. Browning. She rushed to the door to assist their entry.

“It’s an honor to have you all in my modest shop.” She curtsied to them, not out of expectation but out of heartfelt respect. “Mrs. Browning, Mr. Browning, if you wish, I would be happy to show you the shelves where I house your work.”

“Please, allow me to get you some tea,” she offered, once they were all comfortably situated. “I’ll only be a few moments.”

“I will come with you, dear,” said Lady Devin, following her.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dream of it. You’re my guest. Please have a seat.”

“I insist, Honoria. Contrary to what you might expect, I know my way around a kitchen. And I will not be refused. Now lead the way.”

She began to dread any and all conversations that took place over tea.

“Nora, I am certain I have told you before that my cousin in Paris found herself a widow somewhat late in life and ultimately remarried,” Lady Devin said as she counted teacups and saucers. “What I refrained from mentioning, and what even my children do not know, is that she remarried a Frenchman much younger than she. The French, she told me, are far less stuffy than our English compatriots about what constitutes love.” Her voice dipped low. “She tells me she derives exponentially greater pleasures from her current match than she ever did in her youth. She says it is not so uncommon in France for the women to reach their sexual peak later than the men. I tell you, she so recommends the experience that she almost makes me want to take a discreet lover or two in order to test her theories.” She winked like a naughty schoolgirl. “Almost.”

Honoria’s face flamed at Lady Devin’s suggestiveness, at the slightest possibility that Lady Devin might suspect what pleasures her son was capable of giving.

Still, without shyness, Lady Devin continued. “What I am trying not so subtly to convey to you, my dear, is that my son loves you with a depth and intensity I have never seen. You make him happy. Or at least, you made him happy. These days, he swings between being a ghost and a bear, miserable either way. If he makes you as happy, then all the rest of it be damned.”

Shocked by Lady Devin’s plain speaking, Honoria didn’t want to say what she had to say next. As terrible as it felt to lower Lady Devin’s esteem for her, she had to reveal the truth.

“Lady Devin, you have a right to know. I don’t deserve your son. I don’t deserve his affection—or your kindness. The woman you see before you is built on a lie, a lie all the worse because it feeds on the pain and pity of others.”

Lady Devin withdrew her hand.

“I am not a widow.” Honoria paused, silent as the grave. “I was never married. I perpetrated a fraud to qualify for my uncle’s inheritance and keep my father’s bookshop running.” God, but ever since she’d first admitted the truth to Alex, the almost-forgotten gut-wrenching desperation that spurred that old deception had reawakened. The pain simmered afresh just below the surface of her skin. Way back when, she’d thought it a brilliant scheme, the only way out. “It was the only way I could protect my father’s legacy and stay out of the poorhouse myself.” She felt deflated, unable to fill back up with air. “You were so kind to share with me your loss, under the belief that yours was kindred to my own. And I am so sorry I abused that sacred trust. I am not equal to such kindness.”

To her inexpressible relief, Lady Devin reached out to her again.

“My dear, you may not have had a husband, but I know you have felt loss at your core. The loss of your parents, your only family, devastated you. I can see that it devastates you still today. You have harmed no one with this prevarication, except perhaps yourself. I do not presume to know what it is like to be in such dire straits. But I plainly see that you are a fine, upstanding woman. And I see that you love my son as much as he loves you. And you are, in every way, deserving of it.”

Honoria couldn’t lie to Lady Devin anymore, couldn’t deny the feelings she so keenly perceived.
You are, in every way, deserving of it.
She fervently wished she could believe it. She carried the tray down the stairs with Lady Devin following close behind and carrying an extra plate of biscuits.

Once Mr. Browning was sure that his wife was comfortable and that he’d spent a polite amount of time with them, he excused himself. The affectionate look he gave his wife before he walked out the door spoke volumes.

Mrs. Browning’s eyes were kind and gentle as they looked around the room. Her manner was open as the three women conversed about many things. Yet it was clear that she and Lady Devin had come here on a mission.

“You know something of my life story, I suppose,” Mrs. Browning said. “It is no secret that Robert and I have faced some obstacles. My failing health, my brother’s death, my father’s decree that none of the Barrett children marry—I had nothing but my work until Robert’s letters began to arrive.

“Look upon me, Honoria, and listen well. My limbs are useless, but my heart is strong. I am six years older than Robert, and I don’t care. I love him with everything I am. And with all that loving
me
entails, he does so, unconditionally. We have both accomplished so much more together than we ever had apart.” She looked pointedly down at her body. “Even at my advanced age, God has blessed us with a miraculous son. Do you think I have not feared loss? Do you think, at every juncture, I have not considered the safer path? Love is not for the timid, but I see that you are no coward. Embrace the gift that is before you and hold it to you for as long as you can.”

Nora battled in vain to prevent brimming tears from spilling down her cheeks.

“I leave you with this reminder, which you are not, under any circumstances, to sell!” Elizabeth handed her a slim volume, her own
Sonnets from the Portuguese
, published just last year.

As with many other new arrivals to the shop, Honoria remembered skimming it quickly all those months ago upon release, and they’d struck her as sweet and pretty. She’d recommended it as a wedding gift more than once. She’d memorized several of the sonnets and easily remembered the one that gave her the sharpest pain now.

She began to recite Mrs. Browning’s words quietly: “ ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways: / I love thee to the depth and breadth and height / my soul can reach . . .’ ” By the time she reached the end of the sonnet, she was openly sobbing: “ ‘—and if God choose, / I shall but love thee better after death.’ ” She looked up at Mrs. Browning and leaned in to grasp her hands.

“What if I cannot?” she asked, trembling.

“If I can, Honoria, you can.” Mrs. Browning squeezed her hands hard. “But you must make the choice. And then you must commit to it with your whole heart. No one can convince you. Only you can make that decision.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Evans Principle # 8,526:

Believe in happy endings, dearest Honoria, because you deserve one.

Signed,
with everlasting love,
your father.

M
asquerade balls had become cliché in London society, or so Honoria had read in the society papers time and again. The grandeur of the elaborate costumes had become just another competition of strutting peacocks, male and female, trying to outdo each other and themselves with their cleverness and innuendo. And the mystery of masked identities had become a tired game. Everyone knew everyone else. By now, most everyone knew who was using the masquerade for illicit trysts with whom. Even the occasional surprising reveal wasn’t really all that surprising. Some young miss, once an ugly duckling, would be revealed like the climax of a magic trick, complete with dramatic hand flourishes, to have grown into a ravishing, elegant, heart-achingly beautiful swan of womanhood.

Yet, as blasé as the ton had become about them, when invitations to Lady Devin’s masquerade ball began arriving at their doorsteps, people took notice. They set about planning and sketching and coordinating, and speculating about whose costumes would be most (and least) impressive.

She had never been to a masquerade ball. So, for her, the entire experience was novel and, if she were being honest, very entertaining. Her dress, again something borrowed from Amelia’s old wardrobe, didn’t fit her character, but it was the prettiest of all the very pretty options. And, since she was masked, who could judge that she was too old to be a butterfly, fleeting as their lifespans are? She’d been mesmerized by the striking combination of orange and blue, lined with delicate black patterns, but she declined to wear the wings that went with the dress. Some things were simply too out of character. The elaborate mask edged with tiny gossamer wings and the fanning pagoda sleeves would have to suffice.

As enthralling as the ball was at the start, its appeal eventually faded. Her natural aversion to large groups and small talk soon outpaced the novelty. Still, she was rather fascinated by the effects of masquerade: she’d been approached by no less than four nice young men so far, each clearly curious about her identity and clearly assuming she was just another young miss to flirt with. Although she’d arrived unescorted, she hadn’t been alone since the moment she stepped into the ballroom.

She quickly became tired of the attention, of being constantly on guard, and so, when one of the flock asked, for the tenth time, clutching her hand . . . “What is your name? Can’t you give us a clue?”

She blurted out, without thinking, “Mrs. Honoria Duchamp. Mystery solved and now you can move along.” She was horrified by her rudeness and felt sure she’d never be invited to one of these extravaganzas again—which, she thought in turn, suited her just fine. She thought identifying herself as a Mrs. would dampen their ardor, but the boys didn’t move along. If anything, their circle tightened, wolves closing in on a kill.

“Oh!” one said knowingly. “So you are Lord Devin’s newest paramour.” He leered.

She felt her face go red, felt her ire shoot up to dangerous levels. What had he said about her? He wouldn’t have talked about her so cavalierly, she was sure. But these boys . . .

“I shall have to update my view of dowagers for you are surely the most delightfully sensual creature I have encountered this evening,” said another young upstart, who then had the audacity to put his hands, his scrawny, presumptuous hands, on her waist.

“Take your hands off of me,” she said, shocked. She batted his hands away, but that only seemed to tighten the group again. Surely, they wouldn’t do anything in a crowded ballroom. She could easily raise her voice to draw attention to their . . . antics . . . but she couldn’t seem to find her voice. Her mouth went dry, her throat closed, as their collective stench of cigarettes and brandy washed over her in such close quarters. Why didn’t anyone notice this absurd clustering, anyway? Surely, a pack of leering, sniveling brats would draw some attention. But then she noticed she’d somehow ended up at the border of a dark alcove, accented with heavy drapes. The very thought that she could be in any danger here was ridiculous—crowds of people nearby, brightly lit, except for the alcoves built into this wall. She simply needed to relocate.