“First,” she said with a laugh, “that’s what publishing is. Second, why are you writing biographies, if not to share your wonderful stories with the world?”
“Distemper?” he guessed. “Sometimes when I’m gassy, the most absurd fancies come to mind—”
“Thaddeus,” she interrupted, her eyes warm and sincere. “You have talent. You should use it. What are you waiting for?”
“Fate?” He lifted his palms. That was what he was always waiting on. Destiny to ride in on a pale horse and sweep him into his future.
“You are the one who determines your fate,” she said firmly.
“Actually,” he explained, “that’s the opposite of what ‘fate’ means—”
“Fate isn’t life,” she interrupted, her gaze intense. “Fate is waiting around for the future to come to you, rather than going out and making it happen. Fate is in the palm of your hands. Your very lovely, talented hands.”
“Talented in many ways,” he assured her. “Would you believe I can tie a neckcloth without aid of a valet? Perhaps instead of being a biographer, I could become a professional cravat knotter, traveling from coast to coast to assist less dexterous gentlemen in—”
“Actually,” she said, her eyes bright and intense, “with your love for meeting new people, I’m surprised your first love isn’t travel. The world must be full of stories you could tell.”
“It is,” he agreed. “Everyone has an untold story. I could spend the rest of my life writing biographies without ever leaving London.”
When her smile wobbled, he realized she hadn’t been thinking of far-flung biographies, but whether there was any chance for their futures to intersect.
He didn’t need to leave London, though he wouldn’t mind doing so if it meant more time with her. Any holiday would be more enjoyable with Priscilla at his side.
But he wouldn’t want to give up home altogether. He liked having a familiar place to return to. A shelf where his journals belonged, a comfortable chair before the fire, a favorite view from his balcony.
He’d been hoping to share that with his wife, rather than abandon it to try and keep her.
“The truth is…” he began.
He was saved from having to say what they both already knew by a sudden explosion of activity in the basket under his arm.
“What,” she asked politely, “is that?”
“My kitten,” he announced, as if even Brummell would not leave the house without a rakishly angled cat on his shoulder.
Priscilla stared at him in confusion. “Your what?”
He lifted up a corner of the lid.
A tiny, black-and-white paw poked out.
“Kitten,” he repeated brightly. “I brought Wednesday to meet Saturday. Or Konan to meet Koffi. It’s not every day I get to mix up languages and days of the week with one introduction.”
“You brought a cat,” she said slowly, “to meet my bird.”
“Wednesday is a genteel cat,” he assured her. “Very genteel. The genteelest.”
Priscilla narrowed her eyes in warning. “If I see a single claw anywhere near my parrot…”
“No claws,” Thad whispered to the basket.
The tiny paw disappeared under the lid.
“I’m warning you,” Priscilla told Thad, then turned toward the corridor.
He followed her to the drawing room where Koffi lived and set his basket on the floor.
Priscilla walked not to the cage, but to the bell pull.
