Chapter One
London, England, September 7, 1819
Theodosia Cecil dipped her head, hoping her gray bonnet would hide her tall form amongst the crowd of Burlington Arcade shoppers. Her heart beat a rhythm of fear as her brow fevered with questions.
Could it be him?
Why was he haunting her now?
She spun, praying her wobbly legs would support her flight from the ghost. Spying a path between a chatty woman and her admirer, Theodosia claimed it and swayed toward the open door.
Safe in the shop, she put a hand to her thumping heart. Seeing the face of someone dead… It shook her, forced too many memories. The image of Ewan, her deceased first love, had to be a figment of Theodosia’s conscience, nothing more. Why would this vision rear up now—questioning her resolve to be in town garnering letters offering matrimony from strangers?
Her hands trembled, puckering the stiff seams of her new kid gloves as she stuffed the sealed papers into her reticule. What if she’d dropped them in her mad dash? With all the people milling beneath the sparkling glass roof of the Arcade, the responses would’ve been lost, and with them, her dream of protecting her son. Hope in her plan slipped from her grasp, even with her onyx mitts. This time, there would be no kind Mathew Cecil to pick her up and wipe her clean.
She missed her late husband and his endless patience. He should be the only dead man in her head. Yet, there stood Ewan Fitzwilliam’s ghost, vividly in her imagination. Perhaps it was her heart crying out at this unromantic way of finding a new husband.
“Ma’am, may I help you?”
Theodosia lifted her gaze from her gloves to a small cherry-red face.
“Our store has much to offer,” the young girl said. “Did ye come for something special, Mrs. Cecil?”
Startling at the girl’s use of her name, Theodosia raised her chin, then scanned from side to side at the pots. She took a breath and smelled sweet roses and lilacs. “What is this place? A perfumer?”
“Yes, Mrs. Cecil, and we use Cecil flowers to make the best fragrances.”
The girl knew who she was, and the lilt in the young blonde’s voice made Theodosia’s lips lift. Respect always felt good.
A little less jittery, she nodded at the girl then turned to the walnut shelf and poked the lid of a greenish jar. The scent of lavender filled the air. Pride in her and her husband’s accomplishment inflated her lungs. “Cecil flowers are the best.”
The calm ushered in from the soft, sweet scents allowed her thoughts to right. Ghosts didn’t exist. If they did, then it would be Mathew visiting her, guiding her, pushing her cold feet forward whenever she felt she couldn’t do something, as he’d often done during their five short years of marriage. He had died almost a year ago.
The shop girl came beside her, dusting the shelves. “Would you like some of the lavender, Mrs. Cecil?”
That beautiful name, the only last name she’d ever possessed—the repetition of it inspired questions. “You know me from the flower fields? Have we met?”
“Everyone knew Mr. Cecil. God rest his soul. And all the flower girls know you. If a Blackamoor… Sorry, if a shop girl could be more, then we all can.”
Theodosia, dark skin and all, an inspiration to others? If those shop girls knew the whole of things, they would be scandalized. Horrified at the things she’d done, Theodosia became teary-eyed. She’d received unmerited favor catching Mathew Cecil’s eye and his mercy.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean nothing.”
Theodosia nodded and tugged at her sleeve, hitting her reticule against her buttons, which clinked like serving bells. Her fine clothes hid the past, the fatigue and hunger of living on the streets. She forced a smile. “Becoming more is the beginning.”
“Yes, ma’am. Quite a good ’ne.”
From the outside, it must look like that, but some secrets were best kept in the grave. She turned from the almost-hero worship look in the shop girl’s eyes and counted the brightly colored decanters in hues of salmon and cobalt blue lining a near table. “This is a lovely place. Have you done well since the shop’s opening?”
“Some days. Some mornings, we’re good and busy. Others, slow and easy. So much different than selling on the streets.”
That worn-out heart of Theodosia’s started moving within her chest. She caught the girl’s shy gaze and said, “Slow days mean no money, but they can give ease to the back.” With her palm, she cupped her mouth. “I meant selling flowers…long days.” There were worse things for the back than an honest day’s work selling flowers. Her mother’s work at a brothel—that had been hard.
The younger woman nodded, but frowned as a shadow engulfed her.
A thick, portly fellow wearing a heavy burlap apron stepped from behind them. “Do ye belong here, m-m-miss?”
Theodosia blinked then stared at the man who stood with arms folded, disapproval flexing each meaty muscle. “Are you sure you’re supposed to be here? Black servants don’t come unattended. Blackamoor or whatever you are?”
“Sir, this is Mr. Cecil’s widow,” the shop girl said as her gaze dropped.
The man gawked as he glared at Theodosia. After an eternity of seconds, he said, “Oh…that Mrs. Cecil.”
The pride she’d felt at hearing the Cecil name slipped away. It fell to the floor, ready to be trampled by her own short heels. With silk ribbons trailing her bonnet and an onyx walking dress stitched with heavy brass buttons, he still saw her as low. Was he thinking, as she often did: mistress, half-breed, by-blow, whore?
No matter what Theodosia felt about her past, she’d not let the sour shop clerk, or anyone else, stuff her into one of those names. She was a widow to a good man. “I’m not a servant, sir. In fact, you are one of the many vendors who use my family’s wares for your livelihood.” She took a step closer to the man. “I’m your business partner.”
The man turned a lovely shade of purple, darker than fallen bee orchid buds. The veins on his neck pulsed.
As wonderful as it was to make him uncomfortable, it was never good to leave a bull enraged. Mathew had taught her that. She jangled her reticule, letting the tink-tink sound of clanging coins speak for her. “I’d like to be a patron.”
The man harrumphed over his glasses. “We have many items.” He pivoted to the shop girl. “Sally, go dust in the back. I’ll take care of Mrs. Cecil.”
The young woman nodded. “Good meeting you, ma’am.” She offered another smile then pattered away.
Theodosia forced her shoulders to straighten and paced around the man. As a free woman and a proper widow with money, she could shop here. A glance to the left helped her settle on a practical item. “I’d like to purchase some soap.”
The man nodded and pointed her to a table skirted in crimson silk. He dogged her footfalls, following close behind, as if she’d steal something.
She sighed. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to become used to this treatment again. The last year of grieving had protected her from outsiders, and the years of having her late Mathew’s guidance had almost made her forget.
Almost.
She pressed her gloved fingertips against a jar colored lapis blue. “What type of soap is inside?”
The clerk pushed up his thick spectacles that had slid down his condescending nose. “A fine lavender. Very expensive, about four shillings a piece. Not so much for Cecil’s widow.”
Though she had the money to buy most things, years of thrift and haggling still pumped in her blood. She poked at the glass, tilting its heavy lid. The fragrance, honey-like, wafted from the pressed bars, stroking her nose. Surely, they had been made from Cecil spike lavandin—for nothing else could hold such strong perfume.
This had to be a sign from Mathew. He must approve of her actions to marry again in order to protect the son he’d so loved. She must buy the soap. She stroked the jar. “I’ll take two pieces, and wrap it in paper. Make sure the scale is clear of fingers. I’d hate to pay more than what’s necessary.”
The man picked up the container. His head bobbed up and down as if it had taken this long to see past her face to her wealth. “I’ll weigh this out…ma’am, without a finger on the scale.”
Half watching the clerk, half watching the window glass, she decided the store front was more interesting than the man’s balding head. She filled her vision with the sea of sleek top hats and crisp bonnets passing through the Arcade. None of them an apparition. She sighed again, the tight grip of apprehension further loosing from her spine. The vision had been her nerves.
Slowly, carefully, and in full view of the clerk, she dipped her fingers into her reticule pulling out the foolscap letters she’d retrieved from the stationer. She flipped to the first, a thin sheet of light gray paper, and mouthed the address. This was the second correspondence from a man with the rank of squire to her marriage advertisement. Though his crisp writing of her name, Mrs. Cecil, denoted elegance, their meeting last week had been far from elegant. It had been dull, lifeless, and made worse by his obvious discomfort in talking with her. He hadn’t even had the courage to hold her gaze.
Surely, between the folds sat a polite no, and for that she’d be grateful. Theodosia was in want of a man’s protection, but a new husband needed to be like Mathew, a Boaz protector. Yes, one of those gentlemanly fellows who cherished family above everything and who’d never be ashamed to be seen with her son.
What if it was a yes? She tapped the second letter to her bosom. If she had another offer she’d get her friend Ester to help pen a rejection to the squire. Ester’s chaste brain had to be filled with clever ways of saying no.
Chuckling silently, she switched to the next response. This one addressed her advertisement number not her name. A first correspondence. New air filled her chest.
The primrose-colored paper felt thick beneath her fingers, and the thick glob of red wax sealing the note held an indentation of a crest. Could it be from a gentleman? Maybe someone titled? Maybe this could be the man who would stand up for her boy. The notion of such decency lifted her lips, even the bottom one she chewed when nervous or frightened.
“Mada…Mrs. Cecil.” The shopkeeper’s impatient voice sounded, cutting through her woolgathering. “I’ve more paper in the back. Another minute.”
The heat from her kid glove made the wax melt a little. She should open it now and read the particulars, his age and situation, but having her dearest friends’ dueling perspectives would help make sure she wasn’t getting too excited. All the money in the world could not make a man want to father a sickly child and wouldn’t help fight for the boy’s interests.
Loud voices sounded from the backroom. The door opened and a shaking Sally came out. The blonde twisted her hands within her long apron. The stocky clerk passed in front of her and stood behind the counter. “That will be eight shillings.”
Theodosia shoved her letters under the crook of her arm and fished out a half guinea.
The bright shine of the gold coin reflected in his widened eyes. They bulged like greedy hot air balloons. “Is there anything else you wish to buy?”
She shook her head and waited for two shillings and sixpence change. Everything her late husband had told her was true—money trumped questions. Pity all men weren’t like her honest Mathew, or dreamers like her apparition. No, most were manipulative, lying as soon as they opened their mouths.
She picked up her package, shifting the treasure between her palms, and looked at the hurt painting the shop girl’s face. She looked like Theodosia had used to look, contemplating the wrong choices. That couldn’t happen. She flicked the edge of her parcel, making a hole. “Sir, might I have more paper? I don’t want to lose these.”
The man slapped the counter. “Aye. Picky. Seems money makes you the same as the rest.”
Theodosia bit her tongue, then her lip, to keep a tart reply inside her mouth. She needed a moment alone with the girl.
As soon as the clerk headed into the back, Theodosia came alongside her. “Sally, was it? If you ever need an honest job, where you will be paid fairly for a good day’s work, come visit Cecil Farms. Tell them Mrs. Cecil said to hire you. Whatever you decide, come to our Flora Festival in a few weeks.” She dipped into her reticule and gave her three shillings to pay for transportation. The farm was a post ride out of London.
Amber eyes smiled at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Cecil.”
The man returned, harrumphed, then settled the jar between them on the shelf. “Here’s your paper, ma’am.”
Theodosia took the blue material and carefully wrapped her soaps. Feeling good at being able to help another, she turned to the door. “Thank you, sir.” Keeping another woman from making mistakes would honor Mathew’s memory. Even Ewan’s ghost would smile, if the shop girl could find a way to dream.
As she stepped back into the crowded throughway, her letters slipped and landed near a man’s boot. She bent to retrieve them, but the fellow grabbed them first and held them out to her.
“Thank you.” The words crawled out slowly as her gaze traveled up his bottle-green waistcoat and broad chest, past his lean cravat and thick neck, to a familiar scar on his chin. She didn’t need to see his thick, wavy, raven hair. She stopped at his eyes, the bluest eyes, bluer than the sky stirred clean by a thunderstorm.
“It is you, Theo,” said the man.
Her heart ceased beating. Theodosia looked down to see if it had flopped outside of her stiff corset. Ewan Fitzwilliam stood in front of her. He wasn’t dead. Didn’t look the least bit distressed or deceased from the war. And he was no ghost, unless hell made apparitions look this good.
…
Six years had passed since Ewan Fitzwilliam had seen this beauty. The last time, the locks of her long, straight hair—a gift from her father, an Asian junk sailor, who’d been portside long enough to purchase companionship—had been free about her shoulders. Her deep bronzed skin, a blessing of the negress mother she’d barely known, had been exposed at her throat from a hastily put-on blouse. Her wide almond-shaped eyes, onyx pools of decadent wonder, had been afraid, like now. “Theo, the Flower Seller.”
Chewing on her bottom lip, she nodded and blinked her lengthy, silky lashes, hiding the largest irises he’d ever seen. Before, those eyes had captivated him. He’d thought them passion-sated, but now, he knew them to be big with avarice, another of her deceptive guises. “It’s been a long time, Theo.”
She nodded and maybe took a breath, but still said nothing.
One look at her expensive frock, the tailored obsidian-colored walking dress that sculpted her hourglass form, and any doubt of her greed left his jaded heart. The sands of time had been good to her curvy form, and Theo had used her womanly wiles to attain wealth. Despite her humble background, she was no different than the ladies Ewan had met at the balls his mother forced him to attend. All were young women seeking advancement or larger purses, something a second son didn’t possess. “Six years and you have nothing to say to me?”
“You died.” Her alto voice dropped lower. “You are dead. An apparition.”
“Very much alive. You look to be breathing, too. Barely.”
She squinted and shifted the ribbons of her bonnet. “Whatever you are, can I have my letters? Then you may return to being dead.”
Playfully, he waved the sealed papers fanning his chin. “Can you, or may you? A woman should know her capabilities. You know, like the ability to deceive.”
He waited for her to respond. His Theo would offer a stinging retort, something with fire.
But this woman stood still, her fingers hovered inches from his as if she were afraid to take the letters. This wasn’t his Theo.
Nonetheless, when she bit her lip again, he knew the folded notes held some importance for her. Out of habit, he swept them farther away, tucking them close to the revers of his tailcoat. Would this new Theo reach for something that was hers?
The woman glanced to the left and then to the right, but did not move. Part of him soured even more. Yes, she’d been shy when they’d first met, but never this cautious, not with him. This wasn’t the girl he’d ruined himself over. Perhaps she had never existed, just a novel characterization his playwright mind had invented. “Are you sure these belong to you? Let me check for a name.”
He read the markings on the folded papers and burned at the written name, Mrs. Cecil. “It doesn’t say Theo the Flower Seller, but Mrs. Cecil. Is that you?”
She put a hand to her hip. “Yes. Give me those letters.”
He waved at her again, fanning the pages near her cheek. “Then take them from your old friend. I don’t bite. Well, not unless provoked or dared. Remember, Mrs. Cecil—my dearest Theo?”
She snatched the letters and stuffed them into her reticule. As she looked up at him again, her henna-colored cheeks darkened. “Too well, Mr. Fitzwilliam. How are you not dead? They said you died in Spain.”
He extended his arm to her. “Perhaps we should get a bit of refreshment and have a long chat. You seem rather faint. Let’s go to your shop. I recall you scheming to get a flower shop.”
“I…I have no shop.”
She did look faint and the part of his heart that should know better made him take the tissue-wrapped package from her lean fingers and support her palm atop his forearm. “There’s a coffeehouse, Theo. Let me buy you a sweet. That will give you time to recover.”
“No. No, I must go. I can’t be seen with you.”
She pulled away, leaving him holding her parcel. With elbows flying, reticule swinging, the daft woman dashed into the hustling crowd. He stood there watching until her form disappeared beneath the triple arch at the south entrance on Piccadilly Street.
She’d gone from the Burlington Arcade. Where? Where did she lay her head at night? And, whose pillow now possessed her?
He wanted answers. But chasing after Theo shouldn’t be done. His pride wouldn’t let him. However, he was holding the schemer’s bag.
Like breathing, his fingers automatically sought to fist, but her bulky pack sat in his hands. A few nosy pokes released the strong bittersweet scent of lavender. The flower had meant something to him once, not a sop for the soul, but of being caught in a thunderstorm. The scent came to him in his dreams. Isolated in one of his father’s carriage houses close to the Tradenwood flower fields, trapped with the business-minded flower seller who hadn’t talked about bouquets when he’d finally taken her lips.
Who was this Cecil who had them?
Did he know lies lived within each kiss?
Or had Theo lied only to Ewan?
Craning his neck toward the skylights above, he warmed his chilled blood with the sunshine. Yet more questions filled his breast.
Why did Theo think him dead? Was it another of her falsehoods?
Slinging her package under his arm, he spun in the opposite direction she’d fled and marched out the north side of the Arcade onto Burlington Gardens. Seeing the past twice in one day would be too much.
With each step, Ewan stewed a little more. His gut ached. The words of his father’s letter, recounting how Theo had run away with another man, mocking Ewan’s choice for love, burned as badly now as it had when he’d first read them, laying near death in Spain. And this Blackamoor harlot you wished to make a Fitzwilliam.
Blood started to hiss and boil in his veins. He plodded down Bond Street, taking the long way back to where his brother’s carriage awaited, all while repeating his father’s slur.
Before a footman could jump down, Ewan gripped the pearl-black door and flung it open. Dragging himself into a seat, he prepared himself for questions and hoped his mind could swallow up the bitter dregs unearthed from seeing his past.
“Are you all right, Ewan?”
The concerned, low-pitch voice of his brother Jasper Fitzwilliam, the Viscount Hartwell, startled him.
Ewan gave himself a shake and dumped Theo’s package onto the dark tufted seat. Theo. How could she still have a hold upon him? Hadn’t he poured out all his anger at her lies into the lines of his latest play? He’d used his mad muse to re-create Theo as the perfect Circe, the goddess the playwright Homer had created to turn men into swine. Risking everything for Theo had made him low, like his father’s hogs. No, he wasn’t a fool in love anymore.
“Hello, in there.” Jasper leaned over and thumped Ewan’s skull. “Not creating your next masterpiece, are you? Have you tried selling the first?”
“Not my first, but by far my best. My first would have been exhibited at Covent Garden six years ago, if not for Father’s influence on the manager. He made Thomas Harris renege on his commitment to buy my play.”
His brother poked his lips into a full grimace, so different from the man who loved to laugh. “Please, not that again. There are more things afoot than six-year-old misunderstandings.”
The way Jasper said afoot, made the writer in Ewan sit up straight. He leaned forward to give the man his full attention. “I’m listening.”
“I asked you to help me with these newspaper responses, but there’s more I need to involve you with. You’ve been in London these past three months and haven’t come out to Grandbole, yet. Why haven’t you seen him?”
The him, their father, the Earl of Crisdon, hadn’t yet summoned Ewan, and he hadn’t had the energy to volunteer for another dressing down. A Fitzwilliam doesn’t write plays. The theater isn’t a profession for a Fitzwilliam. “Jasper, please. It’s difficult enough to visit with Mother and listen to her constant complaints of how I was cheated of Tradenwood. But I was not cheated. Only bad luck.”
“Well, the report of your demise did make your uncle designate a new heir, who was not your mother. Their feud never ended.”
Ewan stared up at the ceiling. Counted to ten. Yet, in his head, he heard his mother’s soft-voiced lament of his uncle changing his will to leave Tradenwood and all its fields to a distant cousin—all because of the incorrect report from the battlefield. He shook his head, banishing the loss. “Another subject. Your mystery woman had already picked up her mail. Our clever note is on its way to the intended victim. And since you corresponded as one of Father’s lesser titles, Lord Tristian for his barony, your identity is safe.”
Jasper rolled his beaver dome between sweaty palms. “Who else should borrow but his heir? Being the eldest has its privileges.”
“And its headaches.” Ewan shook his chin, wanting nothing to do with his father’s grooming or any of the ways the man sought to control Jasper. “But you seem to manage.”
His brother nodded as his smile shrank. “It’s my humor. It comforts me. So, no peek at what the grand woman looked like?”
Beautiful as ever, but Theo wasn’t the lady his brother was asking about. “Pardon?”
“The newspaper advertisement owner. The woman who placed the matrimony request in the paper.”
“The new shop clerk hadn’t seen her. I waited past the usual time you said the widow checked for correspondences. Sorry, old boy, your stationer has things wrong. Don’t let Father know a Fitzwilliam failed to obtain secret information. That would bring the earl such misery.”
Jasper dropped his hat and folded his arms about his jacket, a hunting garment with oversized sleeves. It was hard to make someone so big look even bigger, but the man achieved the impossible with dozens of tiny diamond shapes running north and south upon his copperplate printed waistcoat. “That’s what I get for sending a writer to do a spy’s work. Should’ve sent Father.”
The unflappable Jasper seemed nervous, a side of his half brother Ewan had never seen. With his brow rising, he felt his quill finger cramp as if preparing to write dialogue for a new play. “I am surprised the earl’s encouraging you to find a bride like this. Maybe he has changed after all these years.”
Jasper shrugged his shoulders. “He doesn’t know that I am. I’m taking a turn at being the rebellious one and doing something Father wouldn’t approve of.”
“How is that working?” Ewan chuckled.
“A few disappointments. Mostly, I’ve exchanged letters with women of the wrong temperament or situation.” His brother shuffled his boots. “You don’t know how I’ve missed your assistance. You visit with your mother in Town, but what of us?”
The us was Grandbole and all that came with the grand house. Ewan did miss it. He missed the land and walking it to clear his head. He missed all the Fitzwilliams under one roof. “There are many things to remember, many things to forget.”
“If I hadn’t spied you at the countess’s party, would you have let me know of your return?”
“I missed your wit whilst I soldiered in the Peninsula, even the jokes at my expense. But I didn’t miss the arguments with the earl. It is he that gives me pause, not you.”
Jasper looked down again, as if a humbled posture could wipe away the vitriol of their father’s famed rants.
Ewan had given up on the earl. The pressure of never measuring up would build inside, until his lungs exploded. He was glad the scars on his chest bound him together, kept the rage from showing.
He took a small breath. The pressure released. He wasn’t that weak-minded person anymore. Hadn’t the bad memories, the disappointments, become part of his sharpened sense of humor, the kindling wood for his farce comedies? Tweaking his cravat, Ewan sampled a little more air and sank into his beloved sarcasm. “Jasper, I would love to be the genesis of this rebellion, but take it from me, start small. Borrow the earl’s hunting dogs without permission. Then work your way up to…oh, I don’t know, petty larceny. Then you’ll be ready to take a bride without his approval.”
Jasper sat back and drummed the black leather seat beneath his thick fingers. “I haven’t picked the lady yet, for it is so important to do this well. Once a gentleman proposes, there’s no taking it back. What if she doesn’t like children, as she says? What if this one is like the others, not as young as she stated in her advertisement?”
“If you are fretting, go about finding a bride the old way. Pick a chit during the Season and propose. Lady Crisdon will help.”
His brother’s face grew more serious with his jaw firming, his eyes drifting to the right. “I can’t bear to hear how none of them are like Maria. I know that.”
The man quieted. If his eyes moved more to the right they’d fling from his skull. It must be hard losing a good wife. From the letters the brothers had exchanged over the years, Jasper had cared for her himself until the stomach cancer had taken its toll.
“I’m sorry, Ewan. It will be a year next month.” Jasper tugged at his sleeves, readjusting his cuffs over his thick wrists. “Have you asked for your mother’s matchmaking assistance? That might get her to come back to Grandbole. We should be unified now.”
Unity? At what cost? Ewan pushed at his temples with fingers that now reeked of lavender, Theo’s lavender. He put his palms onto the seat, gripping the edge, as if that would ground him from the memories of a fleeting romance with one of the Crisdon flower sellers. No luck. She’d be in his head tonight, tormenting him. “I’ve no time, or the finances, for a wife—not until one of my plays succeed.”
Jasper rubbed at his chin. “What of that ginger-haired girl you danced with at your mother’s dinner last week, the one with freckles? She didn’t seem to mind the absence of a fortune.”
That was unusual in London, to be sure. Mother must’ve whispered nonsense in the girl’s ear. “She’ll become enlightened by her own matchmaking mama. The second son from a second marriage can only do so much, particularly one recovering from banishment.”
Jasper sat forward, folding his arms. “Father’s irascible, but he only did what he thought was best. I will admit he is often misguided, but sometimes… Sometimes he’s right.”
Yes. The earl was right in the worst ways. He’d said Theo was after Crisdon money. He’d said she wouldn’t remain faithful. Groaning, Ewan looked down again at his hands, his fisting hand. “The earl also does wrong. Lording his money over our heads, doling it out when we do as he wants. But then, he stops us from gaining the means to be independent. Not this time. My new play will succeed.”
“How would Father put it?” Jasper held his nose up and made his voice strangled and low. “Fitzwilliams do military or religious service. We may go to the theater, but not perform in such. Ewan, use your writing talents for sermon making.” He laughed and wriggled his nose. His voice returned to its normal energetic pitch. “That would’ve made Father very pleased.”
Ewan’s stomach churned, thinking of both the difficulty of doing as the old earl wanted and the image of himself being struck by lightning behind the pulpit. He spoke very slowly. “The black sheep can’t wear white frocks, and I’ve already done my military service. Five and a half, almost six, years of service in Spain and the West Indies. My Fitzwilliam dance-card-with-bullets is jotted in full. I should be able to live as I want. I have stories to tell. They should be on the stage, no matter what the old man thinks.”
Jasper dropped his hat as his shoulders slumped. “This new one is very good. It was a pleasure to read, but I hate being caught between you two. I’m not sure what has seeded the ill will, but this is a new day. We need family to pull together.”
Not wanting to argue or mouth aloud Theo’s name, Ewan sighed. “So, how do you intend to tell the old man of your plan for a new wife?”
“If advertisement number four lives up to the promise made in the newspaper, he won’t mind adding another fortune to the family.”
Ewan couldn’t disagree with that logic, even if it felt wrong and unromantic. “Perhaps, but I still think you should give the traditional way a chance.”
Jasper ran a hand through his curly, reddish-blond hair. His frowning lips turned up. “My rugged features do pale against yours, but I have three girls who will require dowries that my modest income will not profer. I don’t want their fates to be under the earl’s control. I need a young heiress who will be a good mother to my brood and add to my coffers. That can’t be had at Almack’s.”
Maybe this finding-a-bride-by-newspaper-advertisement was a safe way for his brother to start living again. “A lovely brood, from what I can remember. Your wife gave you all she had. That is to be treasured.”
Smoothing a wrinkle from his waistcoat, Jasper nodded. “I’m done with sentiment. You’re only allowed one great love in a lifetime. The next will be a marriage of convenience.”
That couldn’t be true. His heart shuddered at the notion of only loving once. It would take a great deal of vanity for Ewan to convince himself that what he’d felt for Theo in those heady days before he’d left for war, was less than love. Oh, if only he were that vain.
What had started as an innocent, well, almost innocent, flirtation between the errand boy for the largest flower grower of greater London and a sassy street vendor had changed everything. Wanting Theo had cost Ewan dearly. He’d been disowned, dispatched from the family, and had almost died in the war. He grimaced, allowing his gut to knot and twist with the horrid truth. Seeing how things had turned out: she’d apparently married a wealthy man, he’d written a farce of Theo’s love that would draw all of London. Perhaps she had been worth the sacrifice. Yes, his humor had matured.
“Pay attention over there.” Jasper smiled. It was his infectious weapon. “Do you remember your nieces? You should see them. My eldest is now a petulant ten.”
He stuck a hand in his pocket and shrugged. Staying away had cost more than time. Deep down in his heart, he missed his family, that sense of belonging. “Perhaps you can bring them to town. My flat is small but clean.” And not under the old man’s control.
Jasper raised his brow. “You should come see them today.”
Ewan shook his head. “No.”
“But I will need your plotting abilities. I could pay you to help write my correspondences to number four of the Morning Post. If this woman is indeed young, with a fortune, and not so bad on the eyes, there could be competition.” He shuffled his boots. “And if you are not courting, who’s the package for? Smells like lavender. What secrets are you keeping from your elder brother?”
“No. I bumped into a woman in Burlington Arcade. She left it. I’ll toss them away.”
“Pretty expensive wrapping. A pity to disregard. When did you have time to make a new acquaintance? Did you miss my mystery woman when you were flirting?”
“I’d hardly call a pleasant exchange flirting.” But what would he call running into his past? Though Theo wore expensive garb, she could be like him, all outside trappings. These perfumed soaps shouldn’t be abandoned. Perhaps he should return them to their owner and have that final chat. He whipped off his top hat. “Our mission is done today, Jasper. Drop me back to my residence.”
“No, you must come with me for dinner with the girls…and Father.”
Ewan slumped in his seat, wrinkling the vest he’d labored to pick out for an evening of cards at his mother’s house in Town, not for seeing the earl. What type of mood would he be in after seeing Theo and his father in the same day? He shook his head. “I’m beginning to feel tired. Yes, very tired.”
Jasper groaned, loud and long. “The chest wound?” His brother’s voice raised an octave. “Does it still bother you?”
“Only on wet days…and during thunderstorms.”
“Come to dinner, Ewan. So much has changed. The family needs to pull together. Don’t be stubborn like Father.”
Like the old man? His brother might as well have punched Ewan in the face to utter such horrid words. “I’m nothing like him. Stop the carriage. I’ll walk.”
Grabbing his arm like a madman, Jasper kept him from leaping out of the carriage. “I’m sorry, but it is true. I won’t say it again. Have one meal. Get his complaints off my shoulders for a day. See my girls.”
His brother had always tried to keep the old man at bay, even slipping Ewan a fiver upon occasion. “One quick meal, but as soon as he starts in, I’m gone. I’ll steal a horse and return to London. In fact, give me money to stable a stallion now. For you know it won’t take long for Father’s harangues to start. It’s about three jokes before he fumes.”
“Fine, that will take care of one problem. For the second, you must also agree to help me with my potential newspaper bride, lady number four. I want to know more about her before I ask for a meeting. She’ll respond to your quip. We’ll need a clever note to follow. Help me write something to keep her attention. You’re the clever one.”
“You want to see her true character, then ask a question of substance. Let me think on it.”
“Well, come up with something to match your riddle, Ewan. Maybe it will be so good you’ll use it in your next play.”
Avoiding the temptation to roll his eyes, Ewan nodded. “All right…I’ll help.”
“You think you’ll find the owner of the package, or do you think my girls might like it? Is it too personal?”
Anything regarding Theo was too personal. Yet, returning this package intrigued him. She had obviously purchased this in the Burlington Arcade. Perhaps, the perfumer knew where Mrs. Cecil resided. Ewan eased his head onto the seatback, preparing to sleep all the way to Grandbole Manor. Since she’d be in his brain, he piled up all the questions he wanted to know of Theo. Perhaps, he’d ask them the next time he saw the flower seller. “It should be returned to its rightful owner.”
And there would be a next time. Fitzwilliams were good at finding things—weaknesses and secrets. Nothing else brought a smile to Ewan’s jaded heart than the thought of improving his characterization of his play’s villainess by visiting Theo, his personal Circe.