Amelia set her steps toward the art school, the letter clutched tight in her fingers. She wanted to rip it to shreds. The effrontery! She shoved it in her pocket instead. The letter offered insult but also—she should die of shame on the spot—it felt terribly nice to bewanted.
It did not take long to reach the school, and she slipped quietly inside. She passed the upstairs room where they’d interviewed the prospects for Lord Atlas.
Lord Andrew still sat there, occupying the small writing desk she’d sat at earlier, his large frame hunched over the surface, elbow propped on the table, the elegant lines of his profile resting upon the curled fist of his hand. She wanted to draw that profile so she did not forget it in the month that would take her away from him. But he would never allow it. He considered art of any sort a waste of time.
His hair was messier than usual, as if he’d run his fingers through it many times, and he’d removed his jacket, rolled the sleeves of his black shirt up to his elbows to reveal strong, muscled forearms with a light dusting of dark hair. His gold-framed glasses rested, useless, next to his elbow. His hands were naked, the gloves sprawled haphazardly across the tabletop. She rarely saw those hands. Always,alwayshidden by gloves. They were long and lithe and sinewy—capable of great things.
Beautiful hands. A beautiful man when curved like the vulnerable limb of a tree. No wonder she’d fallen so very hard, so very deeply.
He growled and dropped his forearm to the table. His head soon followed, his foreheadthunkingagainst the surface, against a soft white slip of paper resting in the very center of the dark, polished surface. Her notes? Or… his list?
She turned from him and heard movement in the music room across the hall. She slowed as she passed because she recognized both voices.
“No, I am sorry, Mrs. Bronwen.” Atlas spoke deep and low and with true sorrow in each note of his speech.
“Just consider, my lord.” Mrs. Bronwen’s voice almost sang with despair. “Consider that?—”
Amelia strode on, no desire to eavesdrop on a woman’s attempt to be heard. She went in search of her bedchamber. Pulling her arm free of her pelisse, she heard a crinkling—the letter—and pulled it free from her pocket. A month’s holiday from Lord Andrew would not heal her heart. She’d have to return to him, and he’d be married.
The letter burned in her fingers. Remaining at Hawkscraig offered nothing but death by loneliness; she must return here, to people, to life. But… there were, it seemed, other options. Though she must return, she did not have to return to Lord Andrew.
Five
Manchester, a fortnight later
Lord Andrew hated it—the silence of his house since Mrs. Dart’s departure. She’d been gone but three days, and he already… missed her?
No. Not that. He didn’t even miss his family. Hadn’t in years. Ever? Well, when he’d first started out, he’d thought the world a bit too quiet without four brothers and a precocious sister at his side, but that wasn’tmissing. He’d certainly not missed his father.
The clock in the hall ticked too loudly. A horse outside made a fuss. Some servant indoors dropped something. Each sound magnified louder than usual.
He hadn’t missed his father. Men died. After they ruined lives. It was why Drew did what he did, why the agency existed. To give a home and some dignity back to those who had lost it through no fault of their own.
He didnotmiss Mrs. Dart.
He was aggravated with her. For leaving him at such a crucial time. The London houses were still undecided and today,this very afternoon, he’d be visiting the top candidate on his matrimonial list. Sally Cresswell. A rich mine owner’s daughter who he… may have met once?
Mrs. Dart would know. But she’d refused to even glance at his list.
He inspected his reflection in the mirror. Did he appear too dour for courtship? He’d conceded his usual all black for a crisp white cravat and shirt beneath a navy-blue waistcoat. Everything else gray. Like the gown Mrs. Dart had worn as she’d entered the coach three days ago and left him.
For a whole damn month.
At least he’d sent a footman to protect her. And a young woman, new to the agency and in need of a position, as Mrs. Dart’s companion. Women did not travel alone, especially not over such distance. Bernard, the footman, liked to box quite a bit. Or what passed for boxing in the streets. He’d protect her. And Miss Angleton, seemed a chatty thing. She’d keep Mrs. Dart company. What more excellent companion for a dart than an angle. Both sharp women who would enjoy one another well.
No need to brood. Ormiss.
But aggravation was called for, certainly.
He peered into the looking glass, practiced a smile. And almost fell over in terror. So would Miss Cresswell if he looked at her with wide maniacal lips and every single tooth showing. Had he… forgotten how to smile? Surely not. He tried again, just the corners of his lips. Better. But a bit—he sighed—dour. No hope for it. He was as he was, and Miss Cresswell would have to accept him that way. He wouldn’t change just because he’d married. Not like Theo who smiled more. And Zander who had changed careers. Nor like Raph who couldn’t do a thing without saying something about Matilda and getting a silly grin.
He and Miss Cresswell would enter into a business arrangement, so Drew swept into the hall and down the stairsand up into the carriage waiting for him outside. An October wind followed him inside and he pulled his greatcoat tighter about him, but that knocked his hat loose, and it toppled toward the floor. He reached over, retrieved it. Paused.
“What’s that?” A square of paper dotted with a red wax seal peeked out from between the door on the other side of the coach and the seat. He set his hat beside him and snatched the letter from its hiding spot. The seal—not one he recognized. Certainly not his own nor that used by the agency. He turned it over. Mrs. Dart’s name curved across the square.
The letter belonged to her. Who had sent it to her, though? He leaned into the squabs as the coach lurched forward. Crossing one booted ankle over his knee, he tapped the corner of the letter on his thigh. He’d have to have it put in her bedchamber so she would have it after she returned. Or he could send it to her at Hawkscraig Castle. Did she need the epistle?
The seal, already broken, crumbled away under his none-too-tender ministrations, and a square of paper unfolded.
