Amara Royce

by Never Too Late

  “This way, Mother.” Devin led the way with authority, dividing the crowd with his stature and purposeful stride. It was as if the world truly did bow to his whim.

  When their little group returned to the dazzlingly massive Central Transept, however, a circus show was in full swing, drawing a wall of onlookers impenetrable even to the great Lord Devin. Colorful jugglers spun and crossed the floor in intricate patterns, attending only to the balls they tossed in the air. Dancers wove through their paths. And then, the main attraction drew all eyes toward the sky: a trio of tightrope walkers suspended high above the crowd made their way across an impossibly fine thread. Two of the walkers supported a bar between them, hooked in some way over their shoulders, while the third walker balanced above them on that bar. They stepped slowly but surely along the rope, which trembled from their movements.

  “Can you persevere, Mother?”

  “Of course, my dear.”

  Still, Lady Devin’s pale skin had developed a fine misty sheen. Honoria gripped her hand, as if to transmit her own strength. She was distracted though by sharp gasps from the audience. She followed the eyes around her up to the tightrope, where one of the performers wobbled dangerously.

  “What a foolhardy risk,” she said.

  “That is the career they have chosen,” Lord Devin responded, his eyes likewise riveted above. “Presumably, they train regularly to maintain peak performance. They accept the risk.”

  “I could never do something so dangerous.”

  “Could you not? I wonder if you do not do so every day.”

  She tore her eyes from the spectacle above to stare at him.

  “Whatever could you mean by that? I don’t put myself at risk.”

  He looked at her fully.

  “You are a single woman, running your shop and living on your own. Your fortunes could change at any moment. Sales run dry. A careless fire could leave you with nothing.” Damn it, woman, you spread truths people want to kill you for. Of course you put yourself at risk.

  She replied as if she’d heard what he did not say. “One cannot live as a prisoner of fear. We do what we must because it is the right thing to do, because we could not conceive of living a life without it.”

  “There are many things you could—”

  Whatever he’d been about to say evaporated as danger sparked above. The audience gasped as one. The highest tightrope walker, the one being supported by the others, had slipped and now gripped the bar with one hand, dangling and jostling against the rope. The walker behind him tried to offer a hand but was too far out of reach, kept at a distance by the bar he shouldered. Unable to assist him, his partners focused on trying to stay balanced as the rope swayed and jiggled. The walker in peril tried to catch at the rope with his legs, but that caused them all to shake more violently. He tried to grasp the bar with both hands to pull himself up, but it wouldn’t work. If he could not stabilize himself, all three were at risk of plummeting. As he continued to struggle, the clouds that had been drifting randomly over the building all morning broke, releasing a wash of light that blinded the upturned audience. There was no way to see what was happening to the tightrope walker right then—no way to know whether he inched closer to safety. Only sound conveyed the truth: a woman’s high-pitched scream and an awful, dull thud revealed his fate.

  The chaos afterward was horrible. The crowd scurried in contradictory directions with people colliding and stumbling, children crying. Someone barreled into Honoria, as she tried to make her way toward the fallen performer. The impact nearly knocked her down, but Lord Devin caught her awkwardly.

  “Honoria, what are you doing? We must get out of this crush!”

  “That man needs help!”

  “I am sure his people are helping him!”

  “More hands make light work,” she was fairly yelling now over the crowd.

  “Do you have any medical experience? If not, you will only be in the way. You are endangering yourself, not helping. We must get to safety. And we need to get my mother out of here.” With that, he lifted her by the waist and carried her, struggling like a wild cat in a sack, along with the escaping crowd until he could veer into a quiet alcove. So many people had rushed into the hallway to see what the fuss was about, while the people already in the transept were stampeding out, that some exhibits were nearly empty.

  The moment he let her down, she moved to return to the crowd, but he held her arm steadfastly.

  “You don’t have the self-preservation instinct God gave a goose,” he said impatiently.

  Abruptly, she turned on him and swung her reticule at him hard. But the weight in her hand felt terribly wrong.

  “Oh, my God! Oh, God!” She began scanning the floor frantically. There was no sign of anything.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “My reticule! Look, it’s been cut! Everything is gone.”

  He examined the purse. The bottom had been slashed from end to end, and now the purse gaped open, empty.

  “What are you missing?” Lady Devin was at her side immediately.

  He watched her mentally list her belongings, her head nodding as her fingers counted off items. Then her eyes opened wide and she said, “My keys! Oh, no, my keys to the shop are gone.” He watched in fascination as she talked herself calm. “The thief can’t possibly know where I live. I carried nothing today with my name or address on it. The fan and the mirror could fetch some coin, but the keys will be useless. Won’t they?”

  Lord Devin stilled. Could this be more than a common pickpocket? Could this be the work of Withersby and his lot? Did Withersby have other crews on this job? If so, then someone was currently on his way to the shop with the keys and nefarious intent.

  “Mrs. Duchamp, I have a presentiment that we should get back to Evans Books and see it secure. If you wish to see more of the Exhibition, I can gladly escort you another day, but I think it is best if we return you immediately.”

  His words did not have a calming effect. She began looking around like a cornered animal seeking even the smallest avenue of escape. When she took his proffered arm, she ceded control and allowed him to part the crowd with his imposing presence and furious energy. He couldn’t have erased the scowl from his face if God himself ordered it. Once outside, Lady Devin came round and put an arm over her shoulders. “It will be all right, dear.”

  He hoped his mother would be proven correct, but he had serious doubts.

  Chapter Eight

  Evans Principle 8: Sometimes dips in productivity can’t be avoided. Accept it. Dust yourself off. Start fresh with the new dawn.

  It would most certainly not be all right. Not a chance. Any hope Lord Devin had that the loss of Honoria’s keys was random misfortune died a sharp and stabbing death as the coach pulled to a halt in front of the shop. As he disembarked, he gave directions for the coach to take his mother home and see her safe, and then for his driver to fetch the police. He handed Honoria out of the coach and stood with her for a moment, silently assessing what they could see from the pavement in the fading light of day.

  The double doors hung open with only the first few feet of the interior visible. Through the large front windows, some panes of which had been smashed, he could see emptied shelves, battered fixtures, and shredded volumes. Walking into the store ahead of her, he attempted to shield her from the full impact of the destruction. The perpetrators had moved quickly. From the moment they (there must be more than one, considering the widespread devastation) took possession of her keys, they must have raced at top speed to the shop. More than half the shelves were emptied onto the floor, mixing with random torn pages and shredded pamphlets. An acrid odor wafted up from some damp areas, and he didn’t want to surmise the liquid source. The sales counter had been chopped up. He was impressed by Honoria’s composure; each new devastation showed on her face, but she continued on to survey the wreckage, without a tear or even a gasp.

  The building was silent, a small blessing that suggested the c
ulprits were gone. Unable to convince her to remain outside, he made sure Honoria stayed close behind him as they searched the premises, and he was the one to move first into the back room.

  The printing press was destroyed. Not only had it been dismantled, but large pieces had been pounded against each other to warp them beyond repair. Twisted, mangled, strewn across the scarred floor. And here was more concrete evidence of human waste than just damp odor. What animals. At least they hadn’t set the place ablaze. Could this really be Withersby’s men? He knew Withersby used unsavory characters on occasion, but this seemed extreme even for them.

  “Jupiter! Janus!” she called, before he could motion her to silence. He wanted to be sure the house was empty.

  In the darkening of twilight, he lit some candles so they could check the upstairs. Once he confirmed the upper floors were empty of intruders, she went right to her wardrobe, picking her way carefully through broken glass and porcelain. The scent of lilies was overwhelming. One of the wardrobe doors hung off a broken hinge; as she pushed it carefully aside, she gasped and knelt. From what he could see, the interior was as desecrated as the rest of the building. Urgently, she tossed great handfuls of clothing that had been piled on the bottom of the wardrobe until she revealed a low drawer, one that had been taken out and smashed.

  “It’s gone,” she said, incredulous. He could barely hear her.

  “What is it, Mrs. Duchamp? What’s missing?”

  When she looked up, tears welled in her eyes. Her voice quivered as she said, “My father’s signet. I don’t know how they knew where to find it. Out of all this”—she waved her arms wildly—“that ring was the only thing of actual value to me. Now it’s gone.”

  “We will find it. I promise you, I will get it back for you.” He had no idea how he would accomplish this, and she didn’t believe him anyway.

  “Don’t trouble yourself. It’s impossible.” He hated the tears streaming silently down her cheeks and leaving dark trails on her skirt. More than that, he hated the resignation in her voice, in her slumped form.

  “I will have agents monitor the local pawnshops and jewelers. Whoever took it will seek to profit from it, count on that.”

  “You are too kind,” she said, but her voice sounded empty.

  She stood slowly and opened a closet.

  The sudden flurry of motion caught him, shocked him, and he froze. A curse escaped him as he realized he’d let his guard down, assumed they’d searched everywhere and the intruders were gone. Bloody idiot, he thought, as he stared at the dirty blade now being held against Honoria’s throat. He swore to himself that if this scum hurt her in the slightest, he would tear the vermin limb from limb with his bare hands.

  He quickly assessed the assailant. Approximately six feet tall, judging by how the doorway framed him. The thug’s face and hair were darkened, perhaps with coal dust or ash, to mask his features, but he might be able to recognize the man by the contours of his face . . . and by his eyes. Dark, vicious eyes. Alex stood motionless, tense—if he had to let that scum go to prevent Honoria from being harmed, he would. But justice would be meted out eventually.

  The hand holding the knife didn’t waver. Good. He could reason with a calm, calculating criminal. Someone who felt panicked would be more likely to act impulsively and irrationally; desperation was more likely to result in bloodshed.

  “Let her go,” he said in a low voice.

  The criminal’s eyes moved back and forth between him and the door, gauging distance and speed, no doubt.

  “Give me back my father’s ring!” Honoria blurted. Loudly.

  A dark laugh rumbled through the room.

  “Sorry, lovey. I ain’t got it. My buddy found it first. Long gone, he is.”

  “Let. Her. Go.”

  “No, my good sir,” came the mocking response in an exaggerated affectation. “I don’t believe I shall. I quite like this little lovey in my arms just now.”

  “If you hurt her, I will kill you,” he said, never more sure of a statement in his entire life.

  “If I choose to hurt her, you can’t do a thing about it, man.” The knifepoint bit slightly into Honoria’s neck, close to her ear. She whimpered, and the anger in her eyes abruptly turned to fear.

  “Release her, and we will let you walk out freely.”

  “I could just as easily kill you both and walk out freely anyway.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me just now. If you hurt her, I will end you. If I have to rip you apart with my bare hands and with my last dying breath.... Harm her in the slightest, and you will never leave this room. Just release her and go.”

  Just when he thought the intruder was convinced, the man shifted his stance. Honoria gasped and her eyes went wide. Then the man’s free hand moved. That’s when Alex finally understood what was happening. The hand, that disgusting paw, slipped down her body, stopping briefly to squeeze her breast hard through her clothing, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes, and then moving down lower, unspeakably lower. Honoria closed her eyes and seemed to curl inward visually at the awful intrusion.

  “I was promised things, I’ll tell ya. Aside from the ring, there wasn’t anything worth stealing. Had some fun downstairs but not worth the trouble. I could use some real entertainment tonight.”

  “Get your hands off of her!”

  “I’ve just had a promising thought.” The cur lowered his mouth to Honoria’s ear, although he still spoke loud enough to be heard across the room. “I think it’s time to lock ol’ spoilsport over there in this closet and . . . have ourselves a little party.” With the knife digging into the other side of her neck, Honoria couldn’t move as he ran his tongue along her ear—a tongue that Alex vowed to cut out at the first possible opportunity.

  Honoria looked directly at Alex then, and her eyes went hard. She wasn’t going to allow this to continue, but he couldn’t tell what course of action she would take. All he could do was be ready to strike.

  She visibly relaxed against her attacker, whose response was immediate.

  “Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” A sinister chuckle. “I’d heard widows were easy sport. Mayhap you have a taste for the danger . . . or for the dirt.” The knife lifted away from her neck slightly as the other hand roamed her body again. A hand that would be bloodied and ideally dismembered very, very soon.

  “Let me turn around,” she said quietly, her hands light on his restraining arm.

  “Your man over there ain’t too happy about this.” The man under discussion was working hard to stifle a growl in his throat and tuck his clenched fists against his thighs.

  “He’s not my man. I barely know him.”

  “Don’t seem that way right now. He can’t be very good if you’re so willing to whore yourself so easily.” Her eyes closed, as if steeling herself against the thought. Surely she didn’t really mean to go through with it! Surely she would move to escape him soon.

  “I said I barely know him. Now may I turn around or not?”

  “Eager, eh? That’s nice. But we’d better figure out what to do about that one first. He sure objects to our plans. In the closet, I think.”

  “You could just let him go. We won’t be needing him.”

  “I’m not so stupid, lovey. I let him go, and I’ll as like find him bashing my head in while I’m bashing your—”

  She’d spun in his arms and covered his mouth with her hand. She rubbed up against him. It was a sickening sight. But she’d captured his attention fully, if only for a moment.

  Alex took that moment to move in front of the dresser and grab a candlestick. He only had his eyes off the couple for a moment, but he heard metal clatter to the floor. Suddenly the attacker was doubled over, moaning, hands between his legs, and Honoria was kicking the knife away from his grasp. Handicapped as he was, the filthy dog still managed to trip Honoria as she tried to rush away from him. Alex’s vision went red as he rushed forward and swung the candlestick hard. The man slumped unconscious, and Honoria scrambl
ed away toward the door, sobbing.

  He ran to her, quickly scanned her to make sure she wasn’t bleeding or injured, and held her for a moment. Then he ripped off his cravat to tie the intruder’s hands behind his back. He could still see the man’s chest rising and falling, and he couldn’t guess when or if consciousness would return. Better to take precautions. Then he guided Honoria downstairs and they waited for the police.

  Chapter Nine

  Evans Principle 9: Accept help when it is offered with a sincere heart. Accept it, but don’t become dependent on it.

  “You will be safe here. In the morning, we can go to the police station to follow up on the investigation.” It was well after two A.M. by the time they’d given their statements to the police, who performed a quick survey of the damages and promised a thorough investigation in daylight. “In the meantime, you know you cannot stay here tonight,” Devin had said. “Your locks will need to be changed, windows repaired, and I am not at all convinced that these criminals are done with you. Do you have somewhere else to go?”

  Her silence had been answer enough. She’d given Minnie and Erich the day off. They would not return until tomorrow, and she could not bring herself to impose upon them in their tiny apartment. She was unable to convince Alex that she would be safe alone, that barring the upper floors would be sufficient. In the end, he had offered to see her settled in his mother’s keeping and then depart for his own apartments for her comfort.

  And so here she was again at Devin House.

  Lady Devin . . . Rose . . . was so kind. Visibly drained from hours of waiting and worrying, the viscountess retired soon after their arrival but not until she’d made clear Honoria was welcome to stay as long as she wanted and was to have full and open access to the house—to treat it as her own. And Rose meant it. Honoria was struck anew by her genuine concern and hospitality. She owed this woman so much.