They left soon after and walked the long way in silence back to the art school, Mrs. Bronwen’s hood pulled low, the valise, lighter now, swinging between them. They stopped to gaze atseveral shop windows, where she seemed to admire the chairs in the shops beyond more than the wares being sold.
“I know,” she said, her face downturned, “it is not the done thing to speak of money.”
“That’s only for people who have it.”
She huffed, and it sounded like a laugh, and his chest swelled as his mouth curved. He’d amused her. Made him feel… proud.
“True, my lord. And I’m glad you do not seem to be bothered by it, because I’m almost certain the Duke and Duchess of Diamonds are going to give us more than my jewels are worth.”
“Likely. They’re the sort. The duke at least. He’s got full pockets. Overfull.”
“They are nothing as I imagined. Despite the gossip. Or perhaps the gossip misled me.” She rolled her shoulders, and the small, unconscious gesture pulled a harp string in his gut, sent music vibrating through him.
“Gossip is half truth, half story, Mrs. Bronwen.”
“Clara.”
He stopped. She continued on without him, and he hurried to catch up.
“Clara?” he repeated when he caught up once more.
“Yes. You must call me that from now on.Mrs. Bronwenis my married name, but I will no longer be that woman. Soon.” She’d be Lady Atlas Bromley. “Besides”—she rolled a hand in the air, smiled—“it is more convenient. Fewer syllables.”
“Clara,” he said, the finalacurving his lips into a smile that felt soft. Like most soft things, the smile did not last. It floated downward, a feather on a gale. “Clara is a beautiful name.”
She tilted her head back to grin at him, and her hood fell down her back. The curve of her cheek annihilated him. But before he could stoop to kiss it, to worship it, the art school appeared, and Mrs. Bronwen—Clara—sped up her steps until she stepped inside.
And immediately bounced right back out, followed by a small fury of a body with whirling arms and legs. Alfie.
“Mama!” The boy stopped, legs spread wide, hands fisted at his side. “Where have you been? It’s dangerous for you to go out.”
Her head fell back on her neck. “Alfie.” His name a groan. “Get inside. I’m perfectly fine. We’re leaving London tomorrow, and you should be with, who is it now? The poetry man. What’s his name?”
“Leaving?” The boy’s shoulders slipped away from his ears. “Where to?”
She knelt before him as Atlas crept closer, stood right behind her, casting a shadow over them both. Alfie looked up at him, scowling, all the wild yellow hair on end like a frightened cat. Or an angry one.
“Alfie,” his mother said, “I have agreed to marry Lord Atlas, and tomorrow we will leave London for his home, Briarcliff.”
The boy’s mouth fell open, and his scowl deepened, settling on Atlas. “I told you tohireher, not marry her!” He crossed his arms over his chest, which had puffed out like the feathers on some indignant baby bird. Cat or bird? Which was he?
The boy bolted back into the house. She bolted after him, calling out, “Do not worry, Lord Atlas! We’ll be ready to leave first thing in the morning!”
“Excellent.” But they were already gone.
Was it excellent? Yes. Of course it was. He was saving her. And her son. And if he left a year from now, they would not mourn his absence. No one should. He trudged up to his room. Tried to, at least, but a footman intercepted before he reached his door.
“This only just came for you, my lord.” The footman held out a parcel wrapped in paper and twine.
“Thank you.” In his chamber, Atlas unwrapped it, found a box and a note written in a strong, masculine script.
Lord Atlas,
Enclosed, you’ll find the funds we discussed at Frampton’s today as well as something unasked for. Rejected, really. But I could not let you leave London without something for your bride. I’m a bit of a romantic. Please consider it a wedding present. And if you send it back to me, I’ll merely send it back to you again, and neither of us have time for such games.
I wish you the most felicitous union with Mrs. Bronwen.
Crestmore
