Amara Royce

by Never Too Late

  Yet here on the brink, in the front hall, she couldn’t quite imagine how she’d gather the audacity to make her way through this house, a palace compared with the plebeian home she inhabited. Having seen some of the upstairs during her previous visit made it even worse. She knew exactly how out of place she was here. A maid stood a few feet away, as ordered, waiting to show her to her room. She just couldn’t take that first step, an alien in this opulent, foreign land.

  “I thank you, Lord Devin,” she said. “I am convinced that your intervention adds gravitas to the investigation. The police have much to do, and the officer who took my statement while you were upstairs was, shall we say, less than diligent before you appeared.” She was silent for a moment, thoughtful. “Funny how you have entered my life at a time when I have the greatest need of you.”

  “Funny,” he echoed in a tone she could not identify. “Would you like to sit for a moment? Perhaps a drink?”

  “Yes, please God, yes.” A small measure of relief crept into her. The drawing room she recognized. Something as normal as a drink she could manage. And she certainly needed a drink.

  He nodded to the maid, who retreated to the back of the house, and then he led her not into the drawing room but to the library. He bade her to sit and then, from behind yet another false panel, he poured two tumblers of brandy. She almost asked for whiskey. They sat in silence, a silence that gave her the space to think about her losses, to decipher the dark emotions crowding in on her from the moment she’d seen the shop’s front doors ajar. She appreciated that he didn’t push her to talk or to think, just paved the way.

  “The bookstore has been my safe house for as long as I can remember. Even as the locale went into decline,” she said finally. “It was all I had. It was my stronghold and oasis, my den and my escape. Did you see how systematically the shelves were ruined? Everything was laid to waste. And Jupiter and Janus . . . I have no idea where they’ve gone.” She couldn’t bring herself to give voice to what had happened upstairs. She couldn’t even think about it.

  He nodded and replied, “It must have taken quite a crew to do so much in such a short time.”

  She considered that and shuddered at the thought of a gang systematically working its way through her refuge, through her most private things. Somehow the image was even more disturbing than the notion of a single random intruder, even the single disgusting intruder they’d encountered. She pictured a gang exactly like him and wanted to cry.

  “Mrs. Duchamp.” He interrupted her churning thoughts. “I would in no way question your business dealings, but even honest merchants have enemies. Is there someone who would wish you harm? Is there any reason you can think of for someone to target your shop?”

  “No. No one. I’ve never had any complaints from customers. No rivals to speak of.”

  “What about the political tracts you print and distribute? Has anyone ever objected or challenged you over them? The printing press, all the print jobs in the back, the destruction of the press implies that someone wanted to stop those activities.”

  She thought of the broken, unusable press and of the stacks of handbills she’d found, soaked in solvent, an illegible mess of pulp.

  “Customers who don’t want them simply don’t take them. Such things are just as easily found in local churches. I suppose a client or two has frowned upon them, but no reaction so severe as to suggest this. . . .” She trailed off as she remembered her most recent foray in Haymarket.

  “Nonetheless, tomorrow, after we talk with the police, you should contact those anonymous authors to warn them of what’s happened.”

  “That will be easy to do.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, and she realized she may have said too much.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I—I’m sure it does not signify. A month or so ago, I noticed a child being followed by some shady fellows in Haymarket and made a bit of a fuss with the local police. It came to nothing.” She moved on, deflecting his keen attention. “I think perhaps I’m more upset about the devastation of the store than the burglary of my home upstairs, except for my father’s ring. A part of me has been destroyed with the devastation of the store. The shop is my life. Some of the books have been my closest friends, my talismans, for years.”

  “The store can be rebuilt, the building made more secure. Your sense of security has been shaken, but you will feel safe again. And you are completely safe now, here.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She looked at him for a long moment in return, adding and subtracting values behind her eyes. “You’re already so kind to me, coming to my immediate aid with all deftness and surety. I envy your self-possession.”

  “I think, under the circumstances, we might do away with formalities. Call me Alexander, or Alex if you prefer. You should get rest. Daisy shall show you to your room.”

  “Alexander,” she said slowly, “thank you. You are welcome to do the same.” She hesitated, then added quietly, “My father called me Nora.” She nodded without purpose and rose to leave. She looked at him, uncertain, and gestured to her attire. “I fear I am . . . I have nothing with me.”

  “Daisy has been instructed to provide anything you need.”

  Simple. Authoritative. Everything was taken care of. She had nothing to fear. If anything, she had more available to her at this moment than she ever did in her normal life. Yet her anxiety and alarm and grief remained unabated.

  He forced himself to stay in the library, to separate himself from her, as much as every fiber of his being wanted to stay at her side, to watch over her every moment. Her drawn face, her stooped shoulders, everything about her indicated she needed privacy and time to herself. And sleep, definitely sleep. In turn, he needed to work out the events of the day. But she was shaken, as much by the animal’s hands on her as by the destruction done to her shop, and he wanted to save her, to erase the awful memory for her.

  She knew as well as he did that the break-in was a premeditated act. Whoever stole her keys knew who she was and approximately how long it would take for her to return. With the timing of a military strike, the burglars also knew exactly how to hit her in her most vulnerable spots—the press, the locked cabinets filled with handbills, her father’s signet. He hadn’t told Withersby about the locked cabinet, and he hadn’t even known about the ring. So someone else close to Honoria must be passing information . . . perhaps to Withersby . . . perhaps to some unknown menace.

  God, the horror on her face as she’d absorbed the rank and twisted remnants of the printing press, the frenzy with which she’d dug for the ring. At first, he feared she’d go hysterical. But he should have known better. As upset as she was, she never lost control, never lost her quiet air of determination and resolve, not even when she was terrified upstairs. He finished his second brandy in a single gulp. Recalling her anguish, he wanted to run up the stairs and just hold her, hold tight and never let her go. Protect her, erase those terrors from her mind. Cherish her.

  He waited through one more glass of brandy, suppressing his own overwrought emotions. He waited until he was certain no one else in the house stirred. When he finally decided he was calm enough to sleep, he slowly made his way upstairs. He walked quietly along the second-floor hallway; guests were always put on the second floor to give them discreet privacy and distance from his usual room on the third floor and his mother’s on the fourth. Hearing nothing, he was reassured that Honoria had managed to fall asleep. She would need rest to fortify her for the work ahead.

  When he reached the third floor, candlelight spilled out from under the door next to his room. He frowned. Surely, Mother wouldn’t have put a guest—wouldn’t have put her—in the room next to his. The quiet rustling he heard prompted him to knock gently.

  “Are the accommodations sufficient? Do you need anything?” he asked when she opened the door a few inches. “You seemed distraught downstairs.”

  “Do you know that you have a tendency to ask multiple questions at once?�
�� She smiled, a tiny, fragile twist of her lips. “It can be difficult to figure out what to respond to first.”

  “My apologies.” He returned her smile. “Allow me to rephrase. Are you all right, Nora?”

  “I am fine,” she said, even as her voice shook. When he nodded and turned to go, she moved swiftly. The door opened wider, and she touched his arm. “No, wait!” She shook her head and then the rest of her body started quivering uncontrollably. “I don’t know if I can take this. I’m at my wit’s end.”

  He stepped into the room and pushed the door nearly closed.

  “It is a shock, but you will survive it. You are a strong woman and will recover quickly. Of that, I have no doubts.”

  Still, she couldn’t stop shaking, and she didn’t respond. She covered her face with both hands, her borrowed robe rippling everywhere, continuously, uncontrollably. So he did what his instinct had called for earlier. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly. She leaned into him, her hands still covering her face, and she wept.

  The candle on the dresser melted lower and lower as they stood there. He held on as long as she needed. Slowly, very slowly, the shuddering ceased, and her breathing became less labored.

  “Alex, I have not been completely honest about my printings.”

  He continued to hold her, but his brain whirred. She’d called him Alex . . . and she spoke of her printings.

  “What about them?”

  “Some of them are more controversial than others. And I have been investigating some terribly upsetting situations involving children. I suspect the perpetrators have discovered my inquiries.”

  “Children? Like the children you mentioned at dinner? What have you found?”

  “Oh, it’s so much worse. It’s horrible. It’s evil.”

  He sat her on the bed and went to pour them both a drink. He brought it to her and then pulled a chair next to the bed.

  “Tell me.”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head, but then she took a sip of wine and began to speak.

  “I have reason to believe destitute children are being sold for their bodies, short and long term, and used for lewd photographs, also sold for profit. I believe there’s a rather large organization running this horrifying enterprise.”

  He leaned forward, waiting for her to open her eyes. When she did, she looked at him hesitantly. He took her hand to reassure her and asked, “How do you know this?”

  “It’s a rather long and winding story. I’m not sure how much I can impart tonight without making a total hash of it and sounding mad.”

  “Whatever you can tell me might aid in the investigation.”

  She stood and started pacing. She’d gone back and forth across the room twice before she spoke.

  “As I said, I was in Haymarket and a young girl caught my attention. She was unkempt and alone, and yet she had a strange air about her, watchful and too . . . still. With such unsavory characters lurking in that area, I worried for her safety so I watched her for a while.”

  “How long is a while?”

  Her pacing had shifted direction multiple times. At this point, she faced a window, her candlelit reflection wavering slightly against the darkness beyond. Her eyes met his reflected in the glass.

  “Five hours.”

  “Did no one notice you watching a strange child for five hours?”

  Again, she paced . . . to the dresser, to the entry, to the closet, to the window, aimlessly.

  “Sometime I sat and pretended to write or draw. At one point, I had tea, and oh, how I wished I could call her over and give her a crumpet or some morsel. And she didn’t spend all five hours by the peddlers. I ended up following her.”

  “I begin to think you just might be mad, Nora. What did you see in all that time?”

  “I’m sure she went to Haymarket alone. I saw no adults in her company when I first noticed her, nor for the first three hours. But then two men approached her. Two gentlemen, by their attire, although I never saw their faces. They spoke with her for a few moments. I remember she nodded and then curtseyed prettily to each of them. When she walked away, they didn’t accompany her, but they followed a few yards behind.”

  “That is not conclusive of anything.”

  “I know that. Of course I know that.” She leaned her head against a bedpost. “But the girl would occasionally glance back, as if confirming they were still behind her. If they were slowed at a crossing by traffic, she would wait while maintaining a constant distance from them. She drew them. She didn’t seem frightened or suspicious. It felt . . . wrong.” She stopped pacing. Instead, she sank down to sit on the mattress, appearing deflated.

  “Can you tell me more, Nora? If you can’t, it can wait until morning, but this may be significant to report to the constable.”

  “I will tell you this. She arrived at a nondescript corner town house with all the shades drawn. She let herself in through a servant entrance, and the men went to the front door. From what I could tell, a lavishly dressed woman met them, kissed them both, and ushered them in. I overheard them introduce themselves, and one said he was impatient to see more of the merchandise.”

  “What makes you think anything untoward happened there? What you describe could have a plausible and entirely innocent explanation.”

  “It was the girl. She didn’t have the look of innocence. I feel in my bones she was not safe there. I tried to sneak into the house—”

  “You didn’t!”

  “I had to try! I could hear muffled sounds from the lower windows, but every possible entry was locked tight.”

  “You almost broke into a mysterious house because of a feeling?”

  She pulled herself up, straightened her spine, and looked him full in the face.

  “Yes,” she said. “And it was the right thing to do.”

  He could only shake his head slightly. The day’s harrowing events, followed by this insight into her activities, would need a clear head to parse out. And she needed rest.

  “I have kept you too long. How thoughtless of me. Please, get some rest and we shall talk more in the morning.” He made to leave, but, as he reached the door, she whispered. He almost didn’t hear her—except that his entire being was keenly attuned to her every breath.

  “Alex,” she said timidly, “may I request something of you?” She slowly walked toward him, hesitant as a fawn. Yet, when she reached him, she continued full into him, putting her arms around his shoulders. His arms rose to embrace her of their own volition.

  “Anything.”

  She took a deep breath that stretched his arms but didn’t loosen his hold.

  “I feel adrift. Lost in the wilderness,” she explained. He nodded, and she continued. “Could you, that is, would you please stay with me tonight?” She looked at him, beseeching, visibly swallowing her pride. At his look of surprise, she hastened to add, “Not for . . . that. God, not for that. Just . . . for companionship. I’m . . . I’m afraid to be alone tonight. I keep going over what happened in my head, and I just need not to be alone with it.”

  “Of course, my dear. If you wish, I will sit by your bedside and keep the watch all night.”

  “I do appreciate your thoughtfulness and propriety, but I was hoping for something more concrete, more of an anchor. All right, I’ll spell it out—would you lie with me, just lie by my side, just to sleep? Just so I know I’m not alone?”

  “Well . . .” He elongated the word. “You have but to command me, Nora, but I must point out some potential pitfalls in your request. As I said, my servants are discreet, but tongues might wag more loosely if we are found abed together, even fully clothed, than if I am chastely seated as your guard.” His attempt to lighten her mood was met with another fragile almost-smile.

  “We both know the reputation of a widow is tenuous at best. What do I care if false rumors circulate about my private life?”

  “If we were caught, the rumors wouldn’t really be false, now would they? And, anyway, more to th
e point, our prior experience suggests to me that my self-control suffers in your presence.” At this, he grinned at her broadly, openly. “Frankly, I cannot guarantee we could share a bed without . . . that.”

  She returned his grin with a chuckle and a gentle, genuine smile of her own.

  “At least you’re honest. I do believe I will take my chances.” Despite her lightness, her confidence in his honor made his chest swell ever so slightly. Her smile waned, though, as she added in a tiny halting voice, “I’m . . . afraid.”

  How could he possibly refuse? Already, he felt deep in his gut that he didn’t have the power to refuse her anything.

  “Consider yourself fairly warned. I will do my utmost to lie next to you, chaste as a monk.” At her sigh of relief, he added, “You are the very devil of a temptress, you know?”

  Without a trace of humor, she met his eyes.

  “I promise I will ask for nothing. I will do nothing to tempt or inflame you.”

  As if she needed to do anything other than be within arm’s reach to inflame him. But he would never allow himself to take advantage of her under such conditions. It would be unconscionably crude. She needed security and tenderness and companionship. And companionship was exactly what he would provide. He released her with the promise to return momentarily after his evening toilette. When he did, he was still fully clothed in his shirt and trousers. She had tucked herself into bed, covered entirely by the counterpane. He blew out the candle on the dresser and lay down on top of the bedclothes, careful not to touch her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Anything for you, Nora. Anything you need.”

  Chapter Ten

  Evans Principle 2: Yes, again! It’s that important! Opportunities, girl, opportunities!

  She’d never slept in such luxury, not even as the child of a baronet. The linens, the fancy nightdress, the soft mattress, the bed stand itself of thick, carved mahogany, all of it orchestrated to lull its occupant into the embrace of Morpheus.