Me:Yeah, we all try to forget that he does that. No one ever said he wasn’t a bastard—just broody and hot. And his and Catherine’s hearts are one, etc., etc.?But the INTERVIEW—should I be concerned if Mirabel’s lawyer sees it?
Henry:Hell no. They wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. I’m still digging, but I’ll touch base soon about the case. There’s some crazy stuff in that family!
I’m wildly curious about what he’s finding, but I’m meeting up with August in an hour. I finish my coffee, quietly admitting to myself that I’m trusting and liking Henry more by the day.
While walking beside August, I remember how much I love summer strolls through Westminster. I’ve been here several times over the years for research and fun, and it always takes me by surprise, like a window breeze or a whiff of roses.
Under the midmorning sun, the waves of the Thames roll softly. Big Ben chimes over the background noise of cars and buses. I take a sip of my milky iced coffee with stevia and one pump of vanilla. August has a similar concoction. Philip always drank his with a splash of soy milk. We rehash the highlights of last evening, both agreeing that although we started out a little like Johnny and Baby in their infamous awkward first performance, everything went uphill from there. I open up to August a bit more, reminiscing about Philip, and how he always wanted the two of us to take dance lessons.
“I envy your love,” August says.
“You’ve never been in love?” I ask.
“Well, that’s a million-dollar question.”
“Sorry if it’s too personal. But have you?”
He takes a sip of coffee and stops walking momentarily to stare at an interesting, red-painted houseboat. I’ve hit a nerve, and I suspect he’s stalling.
“I suppose so. But I haven’t found it yet. I don’t worry. Didn’t Oscar Wilde say something about not trying to spoil love by making it last forever?”
“Probably.”
“There you have it. It’s a good creed.”
“But tell me about someone who was really special to you. That one woman you can’t forget.”
“You don’t stop, do you?”
“Never.”
“Alright, well then. There was one, Cressida. I was... thirty... I think? We met at a writing conference, and everything happened quickly. I could have seen myself marrying her, but then she made a bad choice that rather broke my heart.”
“She cheated.”
“Yes.”
I’m waiting for him to tell me how it made him feel or if she tried to win him back. But he’s quiet, suddenly interested in the pavement.
“Before Philip, I had a boyfriend who cheated on me. It’s the worst. He really broke my heart.”
“But you were able to love again.”
“Yes, I suppose I was.”
“You should be bloody proud of that, Elizabeth.”
We’re quiet for a while as we stroll and finish our coffees, and I mull over hislove againstatement. Does that mean hehasn’tbeen able to love again after such betrayal? Maybe the cad persona is a means to protect himself.
“So...” August says slowly, staring down at the pavement again as we walk and then up at me. His blue eyes are startling in the sunlight. “I had an event yesterday afternoon forBlood Oathand have an ungodly amount of oysters and champagne at my flat. How about heading over for an early lunch? Champagne at noon?”
He raises an eyebrow. It’s just lunch—a lunch of oysters and champagne with a dashing bachelor, unchaperoned at his flat. I see him standing beside me in the dark last evening, bare, toned arms under the lights. I remember how he lifted me up into the air during my solo. Oh... of course Queen Victoria wouldn’t do it, but... I glance down at my long, black sundress...
“That sounds lovely!”
August’s Bedford Gardens flat looks exactly how I would have imagined A.D. Hemmings to live.
A luxury apartment with modernist furniture and odd, pricey-looking sculptures displayed in nooks in walls, and everything is a testimony to his books’ success. He gives me a quick tour. Framed book covers hang over a pristine mahogany desk in the study. There’s a guest bedroom and his bedroom, both tastefully decorated. I blush when I peek at his king-size bed, inappropriately imagining how much excitement happens there.
