Never Too Late (3 page)

“My condolences.” He did not, however, apologize for his forwardness. “How interesting,” he continued, as he picked up his purchase and turned the volume in his hands. “This is a handsome edition of Lane. Have you read it?”

“Yes,” she said, “I read a copy when they first arrived. One of the unparalleled pleasures of this business, I suppose.”

“What did you think of it?”

Surprised by the question, simple as it was, Honoria looked up at him and noticed for the first time how strikingly green his eyes were, like new oak leaves in spring. She forgot his question. When he repeated it, his demeanor indicated it wasn’t an idle question; he wanted an answer. Every day, she offered recommendations based on individual purchases, but no one stopped to ask her what she herself read or preferred. It was her role to steer conversations with clients; being on the receiving end left her unnervingly open to the unexpected. It took a moment for her to compose a moderate response.

“Yes, well,” she said, hesitatingly, “it’s so very fantastical. So much variety and exoticism.” Lord Devin grimaced for a moment, so quickly she thought she might have imagined it.

“You don’t find the fantasies extreme? Unrealistic?”

How can we really tell what is unrealistic?
she thought. Some children have seen horrors no one should ever see, that no one would ever believe. Unrealistic they might seem, but true nonetheless. She shuddered but kept these thoughts to herself. Instead, she responded, “Well, of course. They’re intended as such, to catch the attention of a jaded king. What binds them to our world, as I’m sure you know, is Scheherazade herself. That is, the legend of such a storyteller, one with the creative power to deflect the vengeance of a ruthless king with simply her words—what a dream such a gift would be.”

She looked out the shop windows, lost in thought.

“But?” Lord Devin prompted with an open palm. It was terribly kind for him to indulge her in such conversation, when he surely had more important business and powerful people to attend to. It must be such a bore for him. She couldn’t imagine why he lingered here in idle literary conversation. The gliding motion of his hand distracted her. His long, graceful fingers, encased in pristine gloves, seemed so out of place here.

“Oh, but the brutality. So much of it against women and children, powerless and weak.”

“You contradict yourself. You just said Scheherazade herself is a paragon of cleverness and ingenuity. Isn’t that power in the end?” Lord Devin focused on her with an intensity she couldn’t interpret. Those spring eyes were darkening to the emerald of summer grass. It had been a long day, and obviously her fancy was running away with her.

“Yes, but how sad that the heroine must use such trickery to protect herself.” Again, feeling discomfort in his presence, she slipped back into her professional persona. That was when she realized she hadn’t finished writing up his receipt. No wonder he hadn’t left.
How much of a flibbertigibbet am I today?
“Shall I wrap this for you and deliver it directly to your mother?”

“Have it delivered to me at Devin House in Eaton Square. I would like to give it to my mother in person.”

“Very good, my lord.” Accustomed as she was to customers being curt and overbearing, she gritted her teeth nonetheless at his orders. The trouble was she didn’t think he was being rude or inappropriate, and yet his tone rankled her anyway. “Will there be anything for you? Might I interest you in one of these abolitionist pamphlets? It is edifying. Come to think of it, this might be a reasonable base to balance out Mr. Lane’s rather acidic view of Negroes in
One Thousand and One Nights
. I highly doubt his tone toward that group is true to the original story.”

“Of course, please add that and this labor treatise to my purchase. I’m curious. Are these bindings done in-house?” He glanced around the shop.

“Yes, we do offer bookbinding services. The machinery is in back. Mostly, we handle minor repairs. We can also do limited printing orders, mostly signs and pamphlets. Why do you ask?”

“My family has some books that have seen rough usage and want fresh binding.”

“If you bring them in, I would be happy to estimate the cost of rebinding.”

“Just so,” he replied. At the completion of the transaction, he added, “I am pleased to see you have recovered easily from your little fall.” Amusement lit his eyes for a moment, or perhaps she just imagined it.

“Yes, thank you, my lord.”
My boy would be more likely
, despite the strange little flutter in her belly and that now-embarrassingly recurring sensation in her nipples, as if they had a memory of their own. These unusually extreme pitches of emotion unnerved her. These silly manifestations would subside, she was certain, after his lordship disappeared. “I am completely fine. Your arrival was fortuitous.”

“I hope I can be of service to you again someday, Mrs. Duchamp.” He stood still for a moment, looking at her intensely, if inscrutably. Then he bowed and took his leave.

Now what was all that about?
she thought, as she locked up and went in the back to square the accounts and start the printing press.

“Make the woman’s acquaintance,” Mr. Withersby had said.

Well, I have certainly done that
, Lord Devin thought. Upon entering, he hadn’t expected to do more than scan the shop and get a general impression of its owner. Unobtrusive, subtle, distant. Instead, he’d become abruptly and intimately acquainted with her ample bosom before he even formally knew her name.
Bloody hell
, he’d thought as her body careened at him. He could still recall the faint scent of lilies that wafted from her. He could still feel the delicate weight of her in his arms. And on his skin.

“Investigate and neutralize,” Mr. Withersby had said.

Lord Devin still needed more time and information to comprehend why there would be a need to neutralize such a harmless, albeit lovely, matron. She might be able to convince customers to drop an extra penny or two they hadn’t planned to spend, but she was no threat to the future of British society.

Two days prior to the bookshop encounter, Lord Devin had found himself in the dark, smoky, heavily appointed office of Mr. Withersby, attorney-at-law. He abhorred this dank building, this increasingly seedy district, and this man, this sniveling excuse for a man whom he’d enabled to claw into the Devin family’s stronghold.

“You have a job for me?” he said as he barged into the office. He didn’t care if Withersby was otherwise occupied, whether with client for business or, just as frequently, with some skirt for pleasure.

“No time for pleasantries today, Lord Devin? Have a seat.”

“I do not take kindly to being called like a dog, Withersby. You called; I came. I do not want to be here any longer than necessary.” He remained standing, glaring down his nose at the short, stout, spectacled solicitor, who resembled a woodchuck, with his beady eyes and pointy face.

“Quite right, milord.” Withersby stood and went to the mahogany sideboard to pour himself a brandy. He swirled the dark liquid in the tumbler. “I have a client who complains of a nuisance, and I want you to take care of it.”

“What kind of nuisance are we talking about, a thorn in the paw or a spear in the side?”

“Oh, to be sure, it’s a mosquito, my good man.” He waved a hand around his head by way of illustration. “Tiny. Distracting. Mildly irritating. But it’s proving annoyingly difficult to swat.”

“Hard to believe such a miniscule nuisance, as you called it, would require special attention.” Lord Devin recalled the last “mosquito” Mr. Withersby sent him to swat; it turned out to be a peer with outrageous bestial impulses that needed to be curbed. It was an unpleasant encounter. He knew there was much more to this story and hoped to high heaven that this pest didn’t prove to be as messy or distasteful. “I am sure you have plenty of flyswatters to hand. More to the point, I am sure you have expert pest exterminators who would make quick work of this without blinking an eye. Why not give this job to one of them?”

“Considering this particular little fly, my clients would prefer the situation be handled with a certain finesse and exactness. My usual workforce is a bit too blunt and heavy-handed for this kind of project. We need a cunning spider who can set a fine but sticky web.”

“Do tell,” Lord Devin said flatly. He quickly tired of this discussion and the annoying insect metaphors. He resented the hell out of this perpetuated obligation and made no efforts to disguise his feelings.

“Have a look for yourself.” Mr. Withersby returned to the desk, set down his glass, and slid a thin envelope from a pile on his desk.

Lord Devin took the envelope, weighed it in his hand, and removed its contents: a single sheet of paper. Previous assignments involved much bulkier documentation. The smooth cream page had few lines written on it, taking up less than half the page. He scanned the simple dossier and looked at Mr. Withersby in open surprise.

“Of all the—Is this a joke? This is your mark? A mosquito, indeed.” Several things seemed wrong with this assignment. First, he had never targeted a woman before; it seemed beneath him. Second, she hardly seemed worth targeting. “Your client wants to harass a lowly widow? A widow who runs a bookshop? You can’t be serious. She can’t possibly require this kind of attention.” The page provided a brief biography, physical description, and a rough schedule of her weekly activities. “For God’s sake, the woman is entombed in a bookstore and attends a weekly knitting group for orphans. Are you saying this meek mouse of a human being is a danger to the realm?”

Withersby shrugged.

“My client has his reasons.”

Lord Devin couldn’t make sense of it. He perused the sheet again for more weighty information. Then a new and exceedingly distasteful thought occurred to him.

“You mentioned that the case requires finesse. What exactly do you mean?”

“This isn’t, as you so charmingly suggested, an extermination. Nothing so extreme or crass. I do have several associates who could perform such a task easily and efficiently. But removal of this particular pest would not, my client believes, solve the underlying problem. Hence, the objective is to have this woman disgraced publicly, her judgment and integrity completely discredited such that her connections and opinions are likewise brought into question.”

“You will need to be more specific about how I am expected to accomplish such public disgrace,” Lord Devin stated. Then the most absurd thought occurred to him. “Hold! You want me to seduce her? A forty-some-year-old bookselling widow, who is probably as dry and papery as her wares?”

Mr. Withersby guffawed for a full minute, losing his breath and turning purple.

“The look on your face, man! As if you were a maiden about to be sacrificed to a barbarian horde. No, Lord Devin, nothing of the sort.” He continued to chuckle as his coloring returned to normal. “Make her acquaintance. As you see in the dossier, my client believes she may be printing and distributing incendiary materials. Combined with the proposed legislation, her alleged work begins to pose a significant threat to my client’s industry. Investigate and neutralize. If possible, get the woman not only to desist but to renounce prior work. If sedition charges could be brought, so much the better.”

“Hundreds of crackpots spout outrageous ideas regularly in Kennington Common. What difference can this one woman’s voice possibly make?”

“Yes, well, apparently, putting things on paper makes a difference. And these inflammatory materials have been making enough of an impression to spur demonstration and to raise alarms. That’s all I can say at the moment. So?”

The question hung in the air, as if Lord Devin had a choice in the matter. Of course, he would do it. Just as he’d done the other odd jobs Withersby had thrown at him. He would do anything to protect his brother’s reputation, to protect his family from disgrace and scandal, and Withersby well knew it. One of these days, though, Withersby would go too far in these assignments. Lord Devin just needed more time to plan a way to circumvent Withersby, a way to make his threats impotent.

“My patience is near its end, Withersby. I shall do this, but I am tiring of these games.”

“Do this well, and perhaps it will be the last.”

“Perhaps? That is not good enough.”

“It will have to be. I’ll be sure to keep you abreast of your brother’s . . . jaunts. I’m sure Andrew would appreciate your conscientious concern for his . . . well-being. If photographs are available, I’ll pass them along as well.”

Lord Devin clenched his jaw and gave a curt nod. He resented the hell out of Withersby dangling his brother at him. He resented his brother’s supposed jaunts and indiscretion almost as much. After all, if it weren’t for his brother’s recklessness . . . But that kind of thinking wasn’t productive. He would sever this commitment to Withersby one way or another.

“We’re done here, milord. I’m sure you know the way out.” Withersby slumped into his leather chair and reached for a stack of files without looking at him again.

The dismissal rankled at him, but he had nothing more to say and didn’t want to perpetuate the meeting. He left the door open behind him.

And so, now here he was. Introductions had been made. He recalled her open conversation with him. Her composure impressed him. No shy, tittering ingénue. No haughty, challenging debutante. No fawning. She’d been irked by his impertinent questions, certainly, but she showed no doubt or self-consciousness. No pretense. No excuses.
Is it a function of her job or a result of her maturity
, he wondered,
that she speaks to each and all as an equal, mindful of their interests?

He was surprised too by the physical appearance of this Mrs. Honoria Duchamp. The file described an average woman, brown hair, brown eyes, medium height and build, past middle age, unremarkable in every way. He wasn’t prone to the effluvium of the day’s popular romance novels, but there were marked differences between the basic one-sheet and the flesh. The woman before him had porcelain skin, mahogany tresses with hints of chestnut pulled back into a tight chignon, and intelligent, piercing eyes, eyes that dimmed when she spoke of her father. She’d felt light in his arms, movable as a chess piece. And her form, what he could see and feel of it, was slim and taut, except for her . . . ah, those breasts. He could still feel the warmth and weight of them against his skin. She had the body of a full-fledged woman, not one of a girl on the threshold of womanhood. No sign of shriveling or age, just a bit of dust from that pesky upper shelf. Just updating the file with accurate observations, he told himself.