“Did your . . . traveling companion . . . return with you?”
“Michael is probably in Germany or Austria by now. I had no idea you kept such close watch on my activities.”
“Of course I would. I could not have my only brother traipsing around the world getting into trouble.”
Honoria had excused their rudeness up to this point, attributing it to the unbridled joy of their reunion, but enough was enough. Her mind was awash with information and worry and responsibility, and she couldn’t just stand there. Heaven forefend! “Gentlemen, pardon my rudeness, but I must part company and be about my business.”
“Nora, my God, how could I be so thoughtless?”
She caught the arch of Andrew’s brow at the sound of her name. She flushed at the implications of Alex’s familiar tone. But Andrew was unruffled . . . and unsurprised, it seemed.
“So this is she,” the newcomer observed.
“Pardon me?” She tensed.
“You must be Mrs. Honoria Duchamp. My mother has written me about you. She quite admires you, I think. She says you are all grace and charm and wit.”
“Oh,” Honoria said, faintly. “How kind of her.” It felt strange to think of Lady Devin writing particularly about her, of anyone really taking enough notice of her to talk up her personal qualities to other people. In regards to the shop and its success, she rather hoped good word spread easily about her work and wares, but personally . . .
“And she mentioned that my brother has grown quite fond of you.” He repeated himself for emphasis as he looked at his elder brother. “Quite. Fond. She says.”
Honoria stared at him, training her eyes on him to avoid following his gaze. Again, Lady Devin’s perceptiveness shocked her. So did the lady’s bluntness.
Alex cut in.
“So it is clear that you know of Mrs. Duchamp. Allow me to complete the introductions. Honoria, may I present my idiot brother, Andrew.”
“Need I remind you I took two firsts at Cambridge?”
“He is also quite a bore.”
The change in Alex’s demeanor made her head spin. How he could suddenly appear so jovial when such serious matters needed attention brought a bitter taste to her mouth.
“Please do celebrate your joyous reunion, but I pray you will excuse me.” She curtseyed before either of them could speak and left the room, her hands shaking.
With the prodigal son returned, Devin House became a whirlwind of activity as a suitable feast was prepared. Alex breathed a sigh of relief that he could now keep an eye on Andrew’s activities and whereabouts and companions more directly and focus his energies instead on assisting Honoria. He might even be able to ask his brother to be more discreet, more self-aware, although he couldn’t begin to imagine how that conversation might go.
After a suitable interval enabling Lady Devin to lavish chiding attention on her youngest child, Alex called him into the library for a serious talk. Andrew wandered around the room as if he’d never seen its contents before, although very little had changed in the past five years, certainly nothing since his departure for the Continent.
“Do sit down, Andrew.” He grew increasingly annoyed when his brother ignored the request and instead continued to wander the room, scrutinizing knickknacks.
“What have I done now, oh, Alexander the Great?”
He merely raised a brow and waited for his younger brother to settle down.
“You know,” his brother noted, “you always call me Andrew when I’m in some kind of trouble.”
Well, that could not be denied. It was an automatic thing, he realized, calling both his younger siblings by their full names when the seriousness of the situation called for it.
“Mother does it too,” Andrew added, soothingly.
“In any case, I must inform you that some unsavory rumors have surfaced about you during your sojourn abroad.”
“I have never known you to give credence to idle gossip, brother.”
“Unfortunately, this appears to be more than idling.” That finally caught Andrew’s attention.
“Is that so?” Eyes narrowed, his younger brother sat down to face him.
In that moment, he was shocked by how strongly Andrew resembled their father. That same wave of his hair, the tanned skin, the bright blue eyes, the strong chin pointed as if toward a new destination. Anger pierced through him, sharp and jarring.
“Surely, you must know that your behavior is under public scrutiny and that what you do always reflects on the Devin name.”
“What are you suggesting, Alexander?” Andrew’s voice grew deeper, harder. “Surely,” he said with an edge, “you do not imply that I would knowingly besmirch the family’s honor?”
“Andrew, there are photographs, photographs of you carousing with Mr. Michael Hadley at a Roman bathhouse and other . . . places.”
Andrew’s unbridled laughter shocked him. His brother should be ashamed, prostrate on the ground asking for forgiveness and protection; instead, he sat half out of his chair, doubled over with body-shaking guffaws.
“You have led such a sheltered life, Alex.” But his sibling sobered quickly, presumably in reaction to the harsh look on his face. Truly, if eyes could shoot fire, the impudent fool should have needed dragon scales. “Pax, brother! I simply mean that Roman bathhouses are simply tourist attractions, not dens of iniquity. I wasn’t there for an assignation, certainly not with Hadley, for God’s sake! If it provides you any consolation, I am certain I can order an affidavit from a very talented courtesan I met in Florence. She sang my praises quite vocally, although it is possible she may have just been stroking my ego.”
“Enough, you rascal. My interest in your romantic adventures is not prurient, you understand? The photographs are enough to prompt suspicion and rumor. I feared they would have been enough to convict you in absentia. Mother would have been devastated by the scandal.”
His brother waved his hand dismissively. “Some enterprising photographer was showing off the newest developing techniques outside the bathhouse—he took photos of anyone who would let him. I don’t recall posing for any, but I assure you it was common enough and completely innocuous. Besides, you underestimate the dear Mater. You know as well as I how progressive she can be.”
“Politically progressive, she may be, but she would not survive the condemnation and imprisonment of her golden son, especially on charges of... immorality.”
Andrew looked at him coolly, almost like a stranger.
“What bothered you more, Alex? That the Devin name was on the brink of ruin or that I might be a sodomite?”
He grimaced. No one had confronted him with the question before. Silence stretched between them as he thought hard.
“I guess I have my answer. Don’t I,
brother
?” Andrew stood, his face red and drawn, his fists clenched at his sides.
“Wait, Andrew! Let me explain.”
“What is there to explain? It is lucky I am not a lover of men, isn’t it? It is even luckier that I consorted with a prostitute who would willingly attest to my masculine charms, correct? God help us if the situation were otherwise.
You
would never live down the shame, the sinfulness.”
“Enough! Important questions require careful thought.”
“No, Alexander. That which is truly important—your family—should require no thought whatsoever.” When he shook his head, Andrew added, impatiently, “What if I or Mother objected to your Mrs. Duchamp? What would you do in that case?”
“I would tell you to go to hell. I would respectfully request that Mother mind her own business.” His answer was immediate, instinctive. He got his brother’s point. “Look, you know I would support you in every possible way. Without hesitation, I would stand up for you. Yet sodomy is still punishable by imprisonment or even death. If you were—I have no adequate wording for it—if you lived thus, any public shame would be nothing compared to the loss of you. That is why I hesitated, you dolt, because the thought of losing my only brother would break my heart! Even if he is an idiot.”
Andrew nodded, his expression softening. They had never spoken so openly before.
Alex paused as a new line of inquiry occurred to him—“It all comes back to photographs.” They needed to locate the photographers and their developing laboratory. Miss Hearsh’s photographs had to originate somewhere. He was so preoccupied with sorting out how to do so that he nearly missed what Andrew was saying.
“. . . Michael has been struggling with his inclinations. He is a good person, and I only meant to support his self-discovery. I can assure you I am wholly interested in lovely ladies, although not, of course, your Mrs. Duchamp.”
So there was one mystery solved. He felt Andrew’s intense scrutiny and braced himself.
“What is she to you, Alex?”
That was no mystery.
“Everything, Drew. She is absolutely everything. And yet I have damn near destroyed her.”
Andrew simply laid a hand on his shoulder. Sometime in the past year, his brother had learned when to talk and when to shut up and just stand by.
“I will fix this,” he declared. He’d always been able to do so before, and he had no doubt he would do so now. Withersby, Honoria, the obscene photographs—he would solve all of it. He simply had to puzzle out how.
A short while later, a package arrived at Evans Books for Mrs. Honoria Duchamp. Dutifully, Minnie placed it on her desk with other mail and paperwork.
After closing up shop, which was really an empty gesture since the shop wasn’t ready for customers and no one came, Honoria finally sat, dusty and filthy and overwhelmed by how much was left to do. The package’s exterior gave no indication of who it was from. Still, once the wrapper fell away, the sender was clear. It would have been impossible for her not to know. Although she’d only seen it once, the leather and parchment of the volume were unmistakable. It was the First Folio. Between the cover and the first page was tucked a note:
Dear Mrs. Honoria Duchamp,
I cannot apologize enough. This is not payment. It is penance. While I cannot ask your forgiveness nor hope to regain your trust, I cannot deny my love for you. I owe you many things that cannot be recompensed. This belongs to you.
—A
Honoria blinked quickly to fight the prickles in her eyes. It wouldn’t do for such an historic and priceless work to be sullied by tears. She couldn’t possibly keep it, nor could she forgive. Still, she tucked the note away in a desk drawer, looking forward to a time when reading it would not crush her heart and break her spirit yet again.
Chapter Twenty-one
Evans Principle 4b8a: Be fearless.
H
onoria made her way to Peaseblossom House. She’d dressed as nondescriptly as possible, which wasn’t difficult, given her limited wardrobe. With a large but simple cap covering her hair and her gray worsted suit, she could be any respectable working woman. It was inevitable, she supposed, ever since she first followed that little blond urchin. She’d stumbled upon a much larger, much deeper den of iniquity than she’d even suspected, and she could not let it stand. They’d threatened her livelihood, her life, and her loved ones. She would not be cowed.
Once Minnie described the building she’d been taken to, Honoria immediately recognized it as the one she followed the child to. Minnie was led through the same side door the child had gone through. Based on Minnie’s description, she found the peaseblossom design carved into the shallow portico around what must be a servant entrance.
She made her way toward the back of the house, checking every window for a possible weak point of entry. To no avail. She slipped into the shadows and paused to reassess her plans. Finally, she accepted that she hadn’t been thinking clearly. Surely no one so despicable would make it easy for someone to slip into their lair. They would be stealthy and protective; she needed to think more like them. After some quick thought, she decided to pass herself off as a poor, desperate widow willing to do anything for quick funds. She would simply go up to the front door and beg for employment. She rearranged her clothing to look a bit more disheveled and took a deep steadying breath.
Just as she was about to emerge from the shadows, however, a large hand covered her mouth from behind and she was pulled back into a hedge behind the house.
Immediately, her mind flashed back to the night of the break-in, the knife against her throat, the nauseating panic and helplessness. She struggled with all her might but could not break the hold. She tried to scream, but couldn’t even breathe.
“Hush, Honoria!” Alex! She knew that voice, even in a whisper! Relief flooded through her, unclenching her muscles. Her body suddenly felt boneless, relying on his solidness to support her. Only then did tears slip from her eyelids, unbidden. He sucked in air when they slipped down her cheeks toward the hand still covering her mouth. He quickly loosened his grip and turned her around to face him.
“Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head but didn’t trust herself to speak. Her hands shook. He seemed to read her mind when he said, low but fierce, “I’m so sorry, Nora. Forgive me for a thoughtless lout. It must have seemed just like that night at that shop.” His hands stroked up and down her back soothingly. “Miss Hearsh told me how to find you. I only wanted to catch you before we were noticed.”
She nodded and whispered, “All the windows within reach are locked. I’m going to pretend I’m a destitute woman looking for a means of support.”
“No.”
His forbidding tone only shored up her resolve.
“But, my lord, this house is crucial. I must find a way to get inside.”
“No.” This time, his voice and his firm grip on her arms brooked no objection. “We will summon the proper authorities. I will make a speech in the House of Lords next month. You will print all the damn pamphlets you want—we shall scatter them throughout Hyde Park! But you are not breaking into that building this evening,” he said imperiously.