Grosvenor’s Street. Was it possible to more clearly illustrate the futile nature of this endeavor? Half a mile. Half a mile and a few thousand pounds separated me from Celine.
Her home was not part of the Rosehill portfolio, I knew that for certain. She had money of her own, independent from her marriage to Rycliffe.
It explained some of her difficulty blending into the background in her maid’s outfit. Her manners were innate, born of decades of practice. It was a part of her now, her frame, the way she moved.
She hadn’t looked in askance at my little one-bedroom apartment above the office. But how much of that had been shock, how much good breeding, and how much was a genuine lack of concern?
I found her house by the columns and the fence, just as she had directed last night. She had a well-manicured little lawn behind the fence that I hadn’t noticed.
Her little off-white house was more modest than the homes surrounding it. Only four stories whereas the surrounding homes had six. Hers had a delicate balcony that wrapped across the second story.
Balconies and multiple stories, I never learned…
Still, I promised to call. And I’d never been able to think with my head when beautiful women were concerned. Why start now?
After a deep breath, I knocked on the black double doors. The butler I hadn’t caught a good look at last night answered. “Mr. Hart, do come in. She is expecting you.”
“Thank you...”
“Bouvier. She is awaiting you in the drawing room. At present, she is free of blood and soot. Please see that she is returned in the same state.”
“I… I will. I—is it customary for staff to scold guests?”
“Lady Rycliffe is a well-loved employer. There are more than a few of us who would be willing to do far worse than scold.” Of course she would be a good employer. It was not as though she could be wretched to her staff or anything else that would make her even somewhat dislikable. There was nothing about her that I could cling to as a balm when this foolhardy endeavor ended spectacularly at my feet.
“Noted…”
“I trust you will have her home at a reasonable hour.”
“She is widowed and in her thirties. Also, I don’t know that we are intending to leave.”
“I fail to see what that has to do with the matter.”
“Have you met her? I doubt God himself could take or keep her anywhere she did not wish to be.” That earned me a laugh that was poorly covered by a cough.
“She is in the drawing room. This way.” Light poured from the windows behind me, casting long beams down the hall. The entry space was open and airy with golds, soft greens, and creams.
I followed the butler to the drawing room. He’d returned to his solemn professional countenance.
He announced my arrival to the occupant with more than due ceremony. Even from the hall, I could hear the smile in her answer.
“Bouvier, I told you I was expecting him and you could just direct him here. Did you use the time to lecture him as well?”
“I would never, madame. That would be impertinent.”
“Oh, of course. Send him in, will you? And tea, I think. When you have a moment.” He turned back to me with a warning eyebrow, then gestured to the opened doorway.
And there she was, bathed in the afternoon light pouring through the windows. Impossibly, she was more beautiful than the night at Wayland’s. With her face unencumbered by a mask, there was nothing to distract from her expressive eyes and button nose. Today, she wore her own gown instead of a borrowed maid’s uniform. She was herself for the first time since we’d met. And she was breathtaking.
“Hello, William,” she said, forcing my frozen feet into action. Her lips curved into a delicate, pleased smile. At least she appreciated the effect she had on me. If she found it off-putting this would be a very unpleasant afternoon.
“Good afternoon, Celine. I brought you these.” I thrust the flowers, clasped too tightly in my hand, toward her in the least gentlemanly manner possible. Gone was the easy familiarity brought by danger and darkness. In its place, an awkward solicitor with ink still smearing his wrist.
She stopped a few feet from me and tugged the flowers gently from my grasp.
“Irises… Thank you.” Her voice was thick as her eyes widened and welled slightly with tears.
A poor choice indeed. I hadn’t studied the language of flowers—what on earth had I given her? I made to pull them back, but she refused to release them.
