The collective groan that followed was instantaneous.
Dev had thrown out.
The weathered sea dog to his right scooped up the dice and blew on them for luck, and the impromptu Hazard game moved on.
Relieved of his throwing duties, Dev settled back on his bench and crossed his arms over his chest. He hadn’t been at all interested in the play, as he wasn’t a gambler, but it was a way of passing the time before the Channel crossing, which wouldn’t be for another few hours, if the storm presently raging outside had its way.
It was all manner of folk presently crowded beneath the roof of The Crown—reputable sailors…disreputable smugglers…those of the middling class and gentry…a few lords and ladies…the other sort of ladies, too. The ones of the night. Locals and foreigners, alike. Nothing like a blowing storm to bring all and sundry together beneath any roof that offered shelter and sustenance.
When everyone had first crammed into the taproom, the air had fizzed with barely contained annoyance that wanted to give way to all-out fractiousness. Then the drinking had commenced, the cards and dice revealed, and all found themselves in a jollier and more accepting frame of mind.
Everyone, except Dev.
His frame of mind had been decidedly, immutably dour these last two weeks.
Drink and gaming weren’t the answer for him, either. He’d witnessed the attempt to drown one’s sorrows in the bottom of a bottle on too many occasions. The endeavor never met with success. No, drink wasn’t the answer—work, however, was.
He’d accomplished more work in this last pair of weeks than he had in the last pair of years. Tethered to his draftsman’s table, he’d been.
It was the only way.
The only way to stay away from her.
For that was his true accomplishment these last few weeks.
He’d kept away from Beatrix.
Though it had been necessary to give up his rooms at Mivart’s. One mad night, he’d drawn a detailed street map of Mayfair and had begun charting routes to her house—which hadn’t been a useful exercise. The knowledge that a full-on sprint could have him at her doorstep in a matter of four minutes and fifty-three seconds hadn’t been good for his peace of mind.
So, he’d decamped to Primrose Park, where he spent his nights, then his days at the Camden factory. A far better use of his time and mental faculties, which had mostly served to keep her in a back corner of his mind.
Mostly.
Shaw inquired about Lady Beatrix once a day, as did Mama and Papa. They were rather ruthless in their inquiries, in fact.
He’d thought Beatrix would’ve come to her senses by now.
Wasn’t it as obvious to her as it was to him?
They were meant for each other.
But he’d heard not a single, solitary word from her.
Which was why he’d agreed to accompany the steam engines to France. London wasn’t big enough for the both of them—and neither was England. Not if he were to keep away from her.
Not if he were to allow her to come to him.
Possibly it was a terrible plan.
No.
It wasn’t.
For them to have a chance at happiness together, they needed to leave what had brought them together behind—money…his idiotic pursuit of another…
For them to be happy, apparently they needed to be miserable first.
The fact was he missed her—as a friend…as a lover…
