Chapter Twenty
Evans Principle #m: Have faith. In business, in people, in yourself, have faith.
Satisfied that Minnie was recovering sufficiently and that her brother would now be a caring help to her rather than a hindrance, she left them conferring quietly. She needed time—a moment to think things through. But Lord Devin waited downstairs—at her insistence, she recalled—and the reckoning was overdue.
He’d been tidying up. Instead of reshelving books, he’d stacked them in front of the empty cases. Prudent. She would have to sort through them to see which pieces were still intact, which volumes were still salvageable. At the thought, she laughed out loud, a harsh bark of a laugh. Nothing here could be saved here any longer.
He looked around the shop and said, “You deserve more than this, Nora.”
“Deserve? You’ve said that before. As if the coincidence of my birth into a noble bloodline entitles me to more than someone else.” She grabbed a fistful of pamphlets and thrust them in front of her. “By that logic, these children deserve all the misery and squalor they live in, simply because of the misfortune of their birth into poor families. The people in these stories—any of them would think themselves in heaven to sleep in a featherbed rather than a pallet on the floor. To sleep in a bed of their own, not shared with the rest of their family, would be beyond belief. To have a bedroom of their own would be unthinkable.” She was shaking the pamphlets at him. No—her whole body was shaking. “I have more than I need. If I deserve anything more, it’s only inasmuch as they all deserve more.”
“That is not what I mean.” He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “You run this shop because it was your father’s. Because you feel responsible for continuing his legacy. Right now, you are the last of his line. What happens after you? What do you want, Nora? What do you want to accomplish in your life? What do you want to leave behind?”
Her silence compelled him further down the path. He longed to grab her, shake her out of her complacency.
“You are magnificent, and you do not even know it. You know your own mind, you have no fear when it comes to defending the defenseless, and you put everything you are into whatever you decide to do.”
“None of that prettiness is to the purpose right now,” she replied. “I need to figure out who is responsible for this filth and how to end it. Whatever you want of me, whatever you think of me, is on a far lower rung of priority. Get over yourself. Either help me or leave. Distraction and petty, solipsistic meditations do not constitute help.”
His jaw clenched at her hard assessment of the situation, but he could not fault her for it. Her directness and devotion were among the things he loved most about her.
The doorbell chimed as someone entered. She hated that damned clanging. It might as well be a death knell.
“Mother said I would find you here! I must admit I scoffed at the idea that I could find you in a town bookstore.” A young man in traveling dress, hair windswept, and breeches spattered with mud, bounded toward Lord Devin. A lavender scarf was thrown jauntily around his neck. His height, build, and coloring made his identity irrefutable; even if he hadn’t referred to their mother, he could only be Alex’s brother.
“Andrew! My God, what are you doing here?” Alex rushed to him and they embraced heartily.
“The Continent got boring,” Andrew said as they pulled apart. He tossed his hair and affected a jaded expression as he leaned against the nearest shelf. “And it is far too hot to go to Turkey or India.”
“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.