Holy Hepplewhite. She should be panicking. Not lusting. The fear and anxiety of a life on the run had clearly addled her brain.
She should be angry with Lord Atlas, not aroused.
She swung her feet to the floor, made her way to the small wardrobe where she’d kept her meager belongings since arriving here. She flung the doors open and counted reminders.
One: She’d lusted for her husband once, too, back when he’d seemed kind and strong enough to save her. He’d shielded her from penury but bent beneath the cruel winds at his home, Coledale, leaving her open and vulnerable. She could not expect another man to do any better.
She pulled out her pelisse and shook it free of wrinkles.
Two: Something must be done because London, while big, was not a perfect hiding spot. She needed obscurity, distance.
Donning her pelisse and bonnet, she set her steps out the door and down the hall.
Three: She would do anything for Alfie—to keep him happy, to keep them together.
But what exactly she would do next, she could not fathom. Stepping onto the London street and into a heavy, cold fog, Clara determined to find out.
A narrow escape. And from his own killing blow. Thank God Mrs. Bronwen had refused Atlas’s offer of marriage. A moment of clear madness that still sang in his blood. He tore his gaze from the open doorway she’d exited through and sat at the pianoforte. His hands trembled as he hovered them over the keys.
“Bollocks.” He clenched then flexed his hands, exorcising the ghostly feel of her hand clasped between his, then setting his fingers to the keys. He could play away the odd matrimonial impulse, the madness. His fingers swept across the keys in a common ballad, one he’d written words for before. He hummed,always the prelude to the creation of new lyrics. He opened his mouth.
But no words came.
Hm. He tried a new tune, hummed, opened his mouth, and—nothing.
He growled and stood, paced away from the instrument, shoving his hands through his hair. Where had the words gone? Didn’t matter. They’d return, and he had much to prepare for. Heand Mr. Mathewswould leave on the morrow.
He stomped out of the room and up the stairs, counting the reasons it was good she’d said no.
One: He planned to leave Briarcliff.
Two: He had no money. Another excellent reason to rejoice at her rejection.
Three: He could be difficult some days, his shadows too heavy, his body too tired. The nightmares…
Atlas opened his door, chest caved in, shoulders heavy. And he rocked back into the hallway, slamming the door shut with a yelp. Had he imagined it? He opened the door once more. No, not a flight of fancy. There really was a young boy sitting upright and solemn in the middle of Atlas’s bed.
Atlas flung the door open wider. “Who are you?”
“My mother made me promise not to put horse shit in your boots.”
That answered nothing. Produced more questions, actually. “Erm… give her my thanks. Why, exactly, have you been contemplating ruining my boots?”
The boy swung his legs over the edge of the bed and hit the ground with a soft thud. He straightened the lace collar of his skeleton suit and strode toward Atlas, stopping just before him with a chin held proudly high and clasping his hands behind his back. The boy puffed out his chest. “I am Mr. Alfred Simon Bronwen. You may know my mother.”
Atlas looked left. Atlas looked right. But the hallways held no sign of the boy’s mother. He peeked over Mr. Alfred Simon Bronwen’s shoulder to check into the spartan corners of his temporary chamber. Empty.
“Where is your mother?” he asked. “Does she know you’re here? Why are you here? And why the, erm, betrayal of my boots?” Knowing who the boy was now, the reason for that became more apparent.
The boy’s eyes narrowed. He stepped forward so that his little chest was almost bumping into Atlas’s legs. “You should have hired my mama. You should hire her now.”
“Ah.” Atlas tugged his cravat. He admired the little fellow. Had a backbone like his mother—seemingly unbreakable. He hated to disappoint him, but… “I see. There are reasons you may not be able to understand, Mr. Bronwen.”
“I understand.” He poked Atlas in the gut. “And I promise you I won’t be any trouble. I’ll stay all day in a room and do my studies.” His face scrunched up. “Promise.”
“That would not be fair to you. Young boys need air. We can’t just lock you up.”
“Well, if you don’t, my grandfather will, and?—”
