Amara Royce

by Never Too Late

  Once safely inside the coach, ensconced in its dark, close interior, she allowed herself to reflect on the conversation she’d overheard. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. On her way to tea, she’d intended to see if Lord Devin—Lord Pisspot!—was available to escort her. She just wanted to see him. Oh, how girlishly foolish she’d been. The door had been slightly ajar, and she’d been taken aback by the voices within, sharp and unfriendly. Unwilling to impose or interrupt, she’d been just about to continue downstairs when she heard her name.

  “Mr. Withersby insists that you terminate the threat Mrs. Duchamp poses and that you do it immediately. We now know she is responsible for these publications, and we are prepared to take more serious steps if you do not. But these delaying tactics are insufficient. She must not be allowed to continue her investigation, and she must be immediately discredited.”

  Honoria thought the visitor’s voice sounded familiar but couldn’t place it. She couldn’t hear the content of Alex’s response, either, only the timbre of his voice. It was angry but not affronted or indignant. It was damning.

  She slouched back into the coach cushions and thought about her first few meetings with him. His inquisitiveness, both in her and in the shop, made so much more sense now. She’d known all along he couldn’t genuinely be interested in either, but it hurt viscerally to know how thoroughly he’d deceived her, how completely he’d seduced her.

  Her stomach clenched as her memory of their encounters unfolded behind her eyelids. Even last night, his declaration of love was all part of an elaborate falsehood. Her skin crawled as she thought of his caresses, of every kiss, of every stroke, of every damned thrust that now made her want to turn herself inside out. She’d guarded herself so carefully for so long. To be so easily fooled and so thoroughly debased made her want to skin herself alive. He’d made her feel valued, made her feel desirable, made her believe he just might . . . possibly . . . love her. She gripped at the leather of the seat, wanting to tear it apart, wanting to destroy something.

  As the carriage put more miles between her and Sharling Worth, she forced herself to focus on what to do next. She would have to dismiss the Devin workers and complete the repairs herself. The Needlework ladies could perhaps be of some assistance, but she hated to ask. Perhaps most importantly, she would have to figure out how to replace the press.

  All she could think of were problems upon problems needing attention. He’d made her believe he could help solve them. Little did she know he was the problem, incarnate. Resting her head back against the squabs, she fought back tears. Weakness would not do. She needed to be strong, needed to find the Mrs. Duchamp that she once was and reestablish her position of safety and reliability. That was a life she knew and trusted.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Evans Principle Theta: Kindness is not the same as weakness, even though others may try to interpret it as such. Be as kind to yourself as you are to everyone else.

  After the visit from Withersby’s henchman, Alex furiously tried to figure out how to get Honoria out of this situation. He closed himself up in his study for over an hour trying to puzzle through scenarios: convince Honoria to stop investigating the company and publishing her findings, convince Withersby it wasn’t Honoria’s doing and have him call off his dogs, or perhaps simply guard Honoria around the clock and fend off whatever attackers were sent her way.

  He was so preoccupied with these thoughts that he didn’t find out about her departure until lunchtime, when he went to find her.

  The note she’d left for his mother simply said she felt she was needed back at the shop. But he couldn’t help doubting the coincidence that she left so soon after his unpleasant meeting with Withersby’s man. She’d left no note for him. Not a good sign. By now, she was miles away. He could only imagine what must be running through her mind. How much had she heard? He must look like the worst kind of villain. He needed to go after her, and he sped out the door unthinking.

  Only the sight of the road managed to jolt him out of his tunnel vision. Their coach was taking her to London at that very moment. His best chance of catching her was . . . on horseback. A hollow pit formed in his gut as he looked in the direction of the stables, his mind doing calculations on speed and power. There was nothing for it. His mild Proserpine didn’t have the strength and stamina for this purpose. Even as he felt chills run down his spine and out to his extremities, he knew he not only had to ride like the devil but on the animal he now thought of as the devil incarnate: Andrew’s enormous stallion. Black as hell and just as fiery. Zeus. On Zeus, there was a chance he could catch up to the coach before it reached London. There was just as much chance he’d break his fool neck. But it was worth the risk. He had to get to Nora, had to face her wrath, and maybe, with God’s grace, convince her of the truth.

  The stable master called undecipherable warnings to him as he rode away. Control was an illusion. He hadn’t been able to control Withersby . . . or the way the truth shot out in unruly directions. He couldn’t control what would come out about Andrew’s romantic relationships. Zeus wasn’t in his control; he felt it clearly in the horse’s muscles, in his own panicky but ineffectual grip on the reins. None of that mattered. All that mattered was getting to Nora.

  She didn’t hear the swift hoofbeats until they sped right past the carriage. Alarm gripped her as the coach pulled up suddenly. She’d been told that highway bandits were rare on this stretch but not impossible. Then she heard his voice shouting for the carriage to halt. Heard a heavy thud, followed by the sound of something landing heavily on the ground. Followed by an awful groan. His.

  She couldn’t get the door open fast enough. The driver was already on the ground by him. She gripped the doorjamb as she gingerly lowered herself to the ground and then ran to his side as fast as her skirts allowed. She grabbed his hand, finding it warm but slack.

  “My God, Alex, what happened?! Alex!”

  “I saw it all, miss,” said the driver. “ ’Twas Zeus, miss. Caught his foot in a hole and slammed into yonder tree. They were flying when they wheeled so it was a right brutal hit.”

  She could see the beast, huge and intimidating as night itself, stomping nearby. Clearly, Zeus was still shaken by the accident himself. Fortunately, he didn’t appear to be limping. Such a stumble could easily lame the animal, which equaled a death sentence. The wild look in his eye suggested he might bolt at any second, but the rest of him showed remarkable restraint, as if he knew his place was here.

  Focusing on the horse gave her a moment to brace herself before looking down at the rider, at Alex. During the carriage ride, she’d resolved never to see him again, damn his bloody hide. She’d never been more certain of anything in her life. He’d nearly destroyed her. Everything from him—every word, every moment, every sensation—everything had been a lie. And she would never let him near her again.

  But when she heard those sickening thuds just as she realized it was him, all her rationality and anger and resolve disappeared. Her heart seized. Fear for him . . . and love for him . . . gripped her so hard she thought she might go mad. It was a long moment before she could bring herself to look at his face. Her hands shook as she ran them over his throat lightly, looking for a pulse. She found one, fast but steady, yet his eyes remained closed.

  The driver came up and handed her some salts he’d found in a traveling case. When she held them to his nose, he shook his head briefly and lethargically.

  “Alex! Alex, can you hear me?” Desperately, she patted his cheek and brushed hair from his forehead. She wanted to shake him awake—rather violently, given her anxiety—but couldn’t risk causing him further injury.

  He moaned as his hands reached for the one touching his face.

  “It’s me, Alex, it’s Nora. Please, open your eyes.”

  He mumbled something she couldn’t hear. She bent to his lips and whispered, “Say again, please. I’m here with you. What can I do?”

  Then she heard it. No more than a breath.

&
nbsp; “I’m sorry, my love,” he said.

  She sank back on her heels and burst into tears. Between her sobs, she said haltingly, “You—you have to be all right. I—I can’t—I cannot bear to—lose you.”

  He opened his eyes and smiled, actually smiled, at her.

  “You cannot get rid of me that easily, love.”

  She could not bring herself to smile in response, but the sight of him conscious eased her nerves tremendously.

  After perhaps as much as an hour, she and the driver helped him to stand, and he seemed to suffer no serious injury. The driver assisted him matter-of-factly into the carriage and went to hitch Zeus to the back. Only after they were safely ensconced did she realize how much they must have revealed—she’d used his given name, for heaven’s sake. Her face burned with shame.

  He rested his head back with a groan, wiping away all thoughts of external scrutiny.

  “If it would make you feel better to lie down, don’t mind me.”

  “No, being vertical is definitely better.” He shifted, though, and closed his eyes only to reopen them almost immediately. “Oh, mustn’t do that.”

  “What happened?”

  “When I close my eyes, I feel nausea. Not a good sign. A tutor at Eton always warned us during cricket that we should watch for nausea, dizziness, and blurred vision if we ever caught a good hard knock on the head. And we should avoid falling asleep if we do have those symptoms.” He groaned again, also not a good sign, considering the general British male’s “stiff upper lip.”

  “I hate to sound uninformed, but what would that mean exactly?”

  “It would mean I have a concussion, a brain injury.” He spoke flatly and stared at the ceiling of the compartment.

  She gasped and made to move toward him. “That sounds serious. We must get you to a physician!”

  “Not much a physician can do at the moment. There is no definitive treatment for it, except to immobilize the skull and give the brain time to heal. Some surgeons might even suggest drilling a hole in the skull, but I would prefer to avoid such a course. I am reassured by the fact that I have not lost consciousness.”

  “But you did! When you first fell off Zeus, you were unconscious for several moments.” Several awful, awful moments.

  He cursed and winced as the carriage hit a deep rut, jostling its occupants.

  “We can’t continue on, Alex! We must get you out and give you time to recuperate.”

  “Where? On the side of the open road? We will arrive in London soon enough; I shall rest at Devin House.” As she humphed loudly, he added with a wink, “You can nurse me there more comfortably than here.”

  Suddenly, the painful facts that had been driven from her mind by concern for him rushed back with visceral clarity. She’d been so sure that the next time she saw him, if ever, she would not speak with him. So much for her resolve. She’d thought she couldn’t possibly bring herself to acknowledge his lying, deceptive existence. And yet none of it mattered when she saw him lying unconscious, when she feared the very real possibility of losing him. Her capacity for self-deception was apparently bottomless. She looked out the window at green fields and wildflowers as she considered a complex onslaught of emotions, guilt foremost among them. He had come after her. When she admitted the truth about her marriage, he had forgiven her unreservedly. He hadn’t made the truth public knowledge, which he easily could have done.

  He’d said he loved her.

  Yet she couldn’t trust any of it anymore, could she? How much of it had been faked? Was it all just a cruel and elaborate ruse?

  When she finally looked back at him, she noticed his eyes were closed, his body slumped.

  “Alex! Alex, wake up!” She rushed to grab his hand and pat it. When her gentle ministrations didn’t work, she slapped his cheek hard enough to sting her hand but not to rock his head. He raised his head a fraction, and his eyelids fluttered. “Alex, it’s me. It’s Nora. Can you hear me?”

  He opened his eyes—thank God!—and she held his head in her hands, forcing him to look her in the eye. “Stay awake, Alex. Stay with me. Do you hear me? Stay!”

  He nodded slowly.

  “I’m sorry, Nora. I never wanted to lie to you.”

  “Leave that for now.” She brushed hair away from his face, her heart seizing when he laid his cheek in her palm. “We’ll discuss it later. Right now, we need to get you to London, and I need you to stay awake. Talk to me.”

  “About what?” he said sluggishly.

  “Anything.” She cast about for a subject, any subject that might keep him talking. “Tell me what possessed you to get on that demonic horse. You know better.”

  “Zeus is the fastest horse in the stable, by far. He was the only one who could catch up with you. Under regular circumstances, I would not take him, but I did not have a choice.”

  Didn’t have a choice. How often had he used that reasoning? she wondered. Surely, that’s the excuse he would give for deceiving her. And yet here he was, having braved an animal of which he was terrified and getting injured in the process. For her. What a difficult life, indeed, if he didn’t have free will over any of the events that got him here.

  The drive to London seemed endless and the roads abominably maintained. As they turned onto a smoother avenue, she noticed homes built more closely together. She kept him talking about nearly anything and everything, from his next planned speech in Parliament to the building of the railways to the actual costs of tea in China. She also managed not to touch him again. As much as it hurt her not to, she still could not trust him one whit. She’d get him to Devin House and see him properly cared for, and then she would sever their connections completely.

  “Hit me,” he said abruptly, interrupting her thoughts.

  “What?”

  “Hit me. As hard as you can.” He looked clear-eyed and somber. Those eyes she’d found irresistible were a hard jade green, and she so wanted to give in. “It won’t erase the awful things I’ve done to you, but it might make you feel better.”

  “You’re certifiably insane.”

  “Do it. I deserve it.”

  “That is indisputable, but I cannot.” She tore her gaze from his and folded her arms tightly across her chest. “You are already seriously injured. In any case, it would solve nothing, and the notion of touching you, even in violence, is too disgusting for words.”

  He closed his eyes, but she could not help feeling he wasn’t done. They couldn’t get to Devin House soon enough. And yet, she wasn’t sure what made her heart ache worse—his utter perfidy or the imminent loss of him—and she hated herself for her weakness.

  “Please, Mrs. Duchamp, you have been most kind throughout this journey,” he said without a trace of irony and, he hoped, only a little begging, when they arrived at Devin House. “It would be a great favor if you could assist me in getting settled. I fear I am still unsteady, and you seem adept at handling emergencies.”

  She nodded tightly, and his heart thrilled at the tiny victory. He could not let her leave without offering her an explanation. Despite the many servants available, including his very capable butler Johnson, he made clear she was his guide and helper, and the others acceded to her directions. Soon enough, he was comfortably arranged on a sofa in the library with a copious tea placed before him.

  “You must stay, Mrs. Duchamp, at least for tea. You have done so much and cannot have eaten in hours. It is the least I can offer as your incapacitated host.” The footman left the library doors almost closed.

  Again, she replied with a single, decisive nod, unsmiling. In all her attentiveness, she’d spoken directly to his staff and spared only minimal words for him. Perched on the edge of her chair, she served them both tea. She made both without sugar or milk and placed his tea and a biscuit within his reach; he struggled to remember when she might have learned his preferences—which she’d captured exactly—especially since he did not recall learning hers.

  “Nora,” he began, but she flinched at his
use of her name. He closed his eyes against the sight, damning himself for his dishonesty. There was no other way but to spit out the truth before she abandoned him.

  “It is my brother, Honoria. Withersby is threatening to expose my brother for sodomy, which I am sure you know is punishable by death.” He said it in a rush, the words sounding strange even to him.

  “Are you sure, then, that your brother is . . . has . . .”

  “Fool that I was, I hired Withersby to keep track of my brother when he first left home. Andrew is so fragile and naïve, you see. My mother was beside herself with worry the first month he was gone. I just wanted to make sure he was safe and did not run into trouble. Three months gone, reports came in that Andrew had formed a very close relationship with one of his former school chums, that they went everywhere together, that they were inseparable, that they eschewed the company of women. Then came the reports of visits to bathhouses of nefarious reputation.”

  Her brows drew together. “But that’s all still speculation.”

  “Somehow, Withersby managed to obtain a few photographs of them together. I have not seen all of them, but what I have seen is suggestive enough to raise suspicion. And my brother cannot be subject to suspicion.”

  Her breathing was slow and deliberate. He watched her mobile face as she considered.

  “I fail to see,” she said finally, “what that has to do with me and Evans Books.”

  He forced himself to look her in the eye as he admitted, “Withersby ordered me to discredit you or else he would make public my brother’s disgrace. Andrew could be arrested, imprisoned, even hanged, and the scandal would destroy my mother.”

  “Does your brother know all you do to protect him?”

  “Of course not. I would never presume to talk with him about this . . . proclivity. He is my brother, and it is my job to protect him. Without fanfare. Without acknowledgment.”

  “If you were my brother, I’d want to know what you know about me. I’d want to be told what slander people sling about me.”