Inside the warmth of the bookshop, the air smelled of beeswax and old parchment. The boys darted between the towering shelves, their boots thumping softly on the Turkish rugs.
“Look, Miss Lewis! A book on the great explorers!” Arthur cried, pulling a heavy, leather-bound volume from a lower shelf. “Uncle Ambrose likes ships. Do you think he would like this?”
Imogen leaned over him, her fingers brushing the embossed gold leaf of the cover. “It is exceptionally fine, Lord Arthur. I’m sure His Grace would find the cartography fascinating. You are quite thoughtful.”
“We should get him a gift then, Miss Lewis,” Philip suggested, his eyes bright with a rare moment of mischief. He wandered to a section of more lyrical volumes and pulled out a small, slim book bound in dark blue silk. “This one matches his eyes. What is it?”
Imogen took the book, her heart giving a traitorous leap as she read the spine.Sonnets of the Heart.
“It’s… poetry, Lord Philip,” she murmured. “I am not sure this is quite your Uncle’s cup of tea, but perhaps he would like it.”
A heat that had nothing to do with the shop’s hearth rose in her cheeks, staining her skin a deep, tell-tale crimson as she thought of him reading poetry… to her. She could almost feel the weight of Ambrose’s gaze on the landing, the memory of his voice calling her name like a prayer. Or was it a dream?
“You’re turning red, Miss Lewis,” Arthur noted, squinting at her. “Is it too hot in here? Are you feeling ill?”
“I am perfectly fine, Lord Arthur,” she lied, quickly shelving the poetry and replacing it with a sturdy, safe book on the history of the English Longbow. “Let us take the maps and the history. They are far more practical. Shall we?”
Despite her words, her fingers lingered for a second too long on the blue silk spine before she steered the boys toward the counter.
Three tomes later and a small treat at the nearby confectionery, they were on their way back to Welton townhouse. Inside the carriage, the twins’ energy bounced off the leather walls. Arthur was waving the history of the longbow through the air, nearly clipping Philip’s nose, while Philip drummed a frantic, irregular rhythm against the windowpane with his gloved knuckles.
“Do you think Uncle will let us try a real bow, Miss Lewis?” Arthur demanded, his eyes wide and sparking. “In the gardens? Or maybe in the gallery if it’s raining? Or when we’re in the country?”
“Most certainly not in the gallery, Arthur,” Imogen replied, but her voice was a mere whisper against the rattling of the wheels. “The country, perhaps. It is a most diverting activity, and a good skill, for young gentlemen such as yourselves.”
“Maybe during the holiday,” Philip said excitedly. “When we return to the country estate for Christmas!”
“That is a great idea, Brother!” Arthur clapped.
As the carriage turned onto their street, the damp, biting chill of the sleet finally began to win its battle against the footwarmers, as their excitement died down. Philip pulled his knees up to his chin, shivering until his teeth made a tiny clicking sound, while Arthur began to kick his heels against the floorboards, a restless fidget that spoke of cramped muscles and freezing toes.
“Almost there,” Imogen encouraged, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair beneath Philip’s cap. “I’ll have to make sure we fetch you some hot cocoa to warm you both up!”
The carriage had barely jolted to a halt before the townhouse when the door was flung wide. The footman hadn’t even finished unfolding the iron steps before the boys were a blur of navy wool and flying scarves. They didn’t wait for a hand down. They leaped, their boots skidding on the slushy cobblestones as they hit the ground running.
“I’ll be first to the fire!” Philip shrieked, his breath puffing out in a frantic white cloud. “Race you!”
“Not if I trip you, you stinky bug!” Arthur roared back. “I’ll win!”
They sprinted up the wide stone steps, their laughter trailing behind them in long, ghostly ribbons of steam that lingered in the freezing air for a heartbeat after they disappeared into the glowing warmth of the foyer. The sound warmed Imogen’s heart.
Imogen started to follow as the waiting footmen helped the running boys avert a slip, her boots hitting the slick pavement. But she quickly realized Arthur’s new volume of maps, the one they had chosen for his uncle, had slid deep under the velvet seat during their scuffle.
“Oh goodness! Go on inside, boys and listen to the footmen! Straight to the nursery!” she called after them, her voice lost to the wind. “I shall be but a moment!”
Why am I always forgetting something?
She turned back, leaning back into the darkened interior of the carriage to retrieve the heavy book, unaware of the shadow detached from the pillar of the neighboring house.
She turned back to the carriage, leaning in to retrieve the heavy book. By the time she straightened up, the carriage had already begun to pull away toward the mews, and the street was momentarily deserted. Or so she thought.
A shadow detached itself from the pillar of the neighboring house.
“Left all alone in the rain?”
“I beg your pardon?” Imogen asked the shadows, her heart beating fast in her chest.
“How very careless of His Grace to leave you so… vulnerable,” a voice drawled, thick and slurred. “It is quite a cold afternoon. Shall we go somewhere warm?”
