He began pacing, his long legs needing only five strides to get from one side of the music room to the other before he had to bounce back in the other direction. His steps hitched a bit, and he absently rubbed his thigh as he continued pacing. The wound? He’d not said if it still pained him, only warned her it was not pretty, as if its inconvenience to himself hardly signified.
“It sounds as if your situation is urgent,” he said. “I do not think we have the time to wait for bans to be read.”
She began pacing alongside him. “And we cannot hie off to Scotland.”
“Of course not. Such a journey would be difficult with Alfred, and we cannot leave him here alone.”
She stopped pacing, a startling clarity ripping through her. Lord Atlas thought of Alfie as he planned their wedding. He thought of Alfie, of what would be best for him. Marrying him was not as mad as it seemed. Lord Atlas would protect her son well, make him a consideration in every decision. As she did.
“Alfie,” she said, reaching out to clasp his wrist and stop his pacing. His brow wrinkled. “You must call him Alfie. Since he’s to beyourson as well. To the world, I mean. The world will think him your son.”
Lord Atlas’s lips suffered through a series of odd contortions, as if not quite sure what to do—stretch into a grin or turn down into a scowl. The grin won, and it was the shyest thing, like a flower unfolding on a foggy morning with the first sunbeam. “I’ll take care of him. And you.” He started pacing again. “Not Gretna Green. And a special license is too dear, but even a common license costs?—”
“I can pay for it. The jewels I told you about. Only… I don’t know how to safely sell them.”
“Are you sure?” He stopped in front of her, almost reached for her, but before his gloves could touch her bare forearm, he snapped his arms to his sides. “It feels wrong. I can pay for it.”
“Yes, I’m quite sure. I fear I receive most of the benefits in this arrangement. Let me do this one thing. Except… I’m worried. I’ve not sold them yet because what if the pawnbroker sells them, and when the buyer wears them, my father-in-law sees them, then finds out where they were bought, then somehow uses that to find me?” She inhaled big enough to make up for all the breaths she’d not taken while speaking.
He stared out the window, a single boot tapping. Then he turned, as sharp as a blade, and held out his arm. “Come along. I know just where to go.”
Hesitation stopped her fingers mere inches from the wool of his jacket. Tall and straight and wide, he looked every bit themilitary man he used to be. Another man to order her about, tell her what to do and where to go. The voices from her past begged her to run. But the patience in his sky-blue eyes, cloudless and sunny, looped her arm up with his.
Six
Once more, Atlas’s base impulses had kicked him in the arse. At five years of age, he’d brought a cat home because it had been mewling piteously and had shred all his clothes trying to make a bed of his wardrobe. Then, of course, he’d enlisted in the army when he discovered he could do so without paying a commission. The only time he’d not paid for his impulses was at Waterloo. A wound was a mere ha’penny. He should have paid in pounds with his life. He hadn’t, though.
Now he’d returned to battle. This foe unseen, his ally the woman creeping down the pavement at his side. Usually she seemed a tigress, but currently, she appeared more like that kitten who had shredded his clothing—meek and mewling with hidden sharp claws. She’d pulled her cloak low, hiding her face, and she clutched an expensive valise she refused to hand off to him.
As with the kitten and enlisting, he’d acted on impulse—to save her. But unlike those moments, he felt no impending dread. Helping her was the bone-right thing to do. He might sacrifice his bachelorhood to the cause, but he wasn’t using it to begin with. No loss. Only gain.
“I’m a bit worried, Lord Atlas,” she said.
“Oh?” he peeked down at the top of her cloaked head. “I would never have guessed.”
If she caught his sarcasm, she ignored it. “Some of the pieces are not in the best condition. But they are from the best jeweler in all of London. I promise I did naught to break them, but?—”
“And who is the best jeweler in London?”
“A one Mr. Foggy. Or so my father-in-law says. So Everette, my husband, said.” She held the edge of her hood up to shield her face as she turned to look up at him. Red silken tendrils framed her face, and her green eyes were mere shadows behind the blue velvet.
“They are mistaken. He’s a charlatan. The best jeweler in London is my sister-in-law’s family, the Framptons.”
“What? All of them?”
“Something like that. The daughters learned their trade from the father. They’ll be right interested to see your pieces if they were made by Foggy.” He pointed across the street. “There’s the shop. Let’s go.” He slipped his arm through hers and escorted her across the busy street.
The light, warm touch of their arms wound together felt like a hint of summer on a day rolling from autumn into winter—so full of light and life. Could his steps take any more bounce? Likely not, but he also could not contain it.
“Is Mr. Foggy’s shop nearby?” Her gaze swept left and right, and not out of caution for careening carts and horses.
He opened the door beneath the Frampton & Son’s sign swinging in the wind. “I’ve no idea.”
The door banged shut behind them, and she pushed her hood back off her head. “Holy Hepplewhite. Everything’s so… sparkly.” Her voice had slipped into that rougher register again, and it kicked off a little flutter in his chest. The shop could blind a person, everything gleaming glass and, behind that, a rainbow of glittering gems. Gold and silver, emerald and ruby. Shattereddiamond light sparkled on the candle-flickering ceiling. Only one customer inhabited the shop, monopolizing the attention of the woman working behind the counter.
“Come on, then. Let me introduce you.” He pulled her toward the counter at the back of the shop and the two women there, one on either side of it. The woman behind the counter had white-blonde hair and a regal bearing. She didn’t even stoop as she inspected the clasp of a bracelet. Atlas had met her twice, both times when she’d been visiting her sister at Briarcliff. Then, she’d been known as Miss Posey Frampton. Now he must call her Duchess of Crestmore. Though the papers called her the Duchess of Diamonds, mocked her for working in a shop though she’d married a duke, mocked the duke for marrying so low.
Her Grace did not appear bothered by the talk, though. She seemed tall and sure behind her counter, holding the broken bracelet nearer the light. She exchanged words with the customer before the customer left her trinket on the counter and left the shop.
