The image of her once-comforting, steady, white marble column rose up in her mind. But its original meaning had evolved into something dark and unappealing. It now resembled nothing so much as a prison tower.
She wouldn’t think about that, either.
“Your man can be trusted?” her voice questioned.
“Yes.” Jake drew level with her on the short walk to the door. “But for insurance purposes, I shall see to it that he has a shiny new frock on the morrow.”
He’d made a joke, and it was funny, but all her lips could do was curve upward into what felt like the memory of a smile.
“We shall not be able to avoid each other, I’m afraid,” she said. “It seems our daughters have become the fastest of friends, but don’t worry. I shall do my best not to promote anyconcept of us.” She didn’t understand why she’d said that last bit. Wasn’t it what she wanted?
“Olivia—”
“Nothing has changed, Lord St. Alban.”
Her knuckles gave a single rap on the stubborn door. The next instant, Jake’s man pushed it open and stood aside, his eyes discreetly lowered. Her quiet, slippered feet carried her across the hall and down the coiled staircase, leaving behind a visibly bewildered Jake.
He needed a wife, and she didn’t need a husband. They were completely wrong for each other. She almost believed it, except when they were together, they felt so right.
No wife of mine will ever be subject to such a marriage.
She must do herself a favor and forget he’d ever uttered those dratted words. Only then would she be able to free herself from the unnamed emotion that had wrapped around her heart and refused to let go.
Chapter 22
Next day
Veins jumpy with anticipation, Jake cleared the short trio of steps leading up to the humble doorstop and tapped the rusted door knocker twice. He took a wide-legged stance and waited. The day had arrived for him to silence the man on the other side of that door.
He leaned his long body back and peered up at the building’s façade, plain, gray, paint flaking, decrepit. He wasn’t certain if it was gray from age or coal soot, but one thing was certain: the building hadn’t been white in a great many years. Nothing could stay white for long in Limehouse.
An aged servant cracked open the door, and a wary eye examined him up and down as if he was street riff-raff. “Are you here for an art lesson?”
“No,” came his clipped reply. “Tell your master that Lord St. Alban is calling.”
“Mr. Jiro is not receiving,” the servant replied, succinct and implacable.
When she began to close the door in his face, his hand shot out and held firm against surprisingly sturdy oak, preventing her from shutting it. She wouldn’t block him out. He’d come to resolve this matter. “Tell Mr. Jiro that we have a mutual acquaintance. The Kimura family of Nagasaki.”
The servant nodded once, no light of recognition registering on her lined face as she closed the door against Jake’s now slack hand.
It was just as well that he was standing out here in the gunmetal gray mist. After a few days of respite, the typical dreary London weather had reasserted its supremacy. Perfect weather for his current state of mind.
He’d awakened this morning to a brain the consistency of a wet woolen sock, sodden and listless. After last night . . . well, he’d had a difficult time motivating himself to rise. Then Mina had strolled into his bedroom. “Father, I’ve had the carriage sent round to deliver me to school.”
A reason to leave bed suddenly struck him. He swept the blankets off his body and swung his legs off the bed. “I’ll be ready in two minutes.”
“I am quite content to take the carriage alone.”
“I insist on seeing you settled.”
Mina’s eyebrows met in perplexity before releasing in acceptance. “I shall await you in the sitting room.”
If not hope—he knew that was lost—then something else bright and happy bloomed in his chest. He would see Olivia. That was all he needed, a glimpse of her. The scantest morsel would be enough to sustain him. He’d been sure of it.
However, as they’d passed in the corridor, she’d been true to her word and cut him dead. Her eyes held not even the slightest glimmer of recognition or acknowledgement, and a hollow of despair opened inside him.
He’d been wrong: he couldn’t live on morsels of Olivia. It would be better to do without her altogether. Which, of course, he must.
