“How did he…”
“He was a copper alchemist. Many born near Bristol are. Copper is abundant here. He liked to go into the mines. Said he felt most powerful there. One day, he did not come out.”
A gasp like a startled breath. The flinch of her arm twined it with his own, so he finished the action and threaded their fingers together. She squeezed, and he took her comfort, let it wash over him, buoy his next words into the air.
“He loved the time between Christmas morning and Twelfth Night. Thought it important to make every day magical. When I awoke, starting on Christmas morning, it would be to a new copper toy. Like the ones I showed you. After he died, I had no family to go to, so I was sent here. To the foundling hospital.”
“I thought you were raised by the Grants.”
He nodded. “But they did not discover my father’s death right away. Once they did, they brought me to London to livewith them. But until then…” He looked out across the tangled garden. It used to be bright and alive even during the winter. “This was home.”
“Why did you return here?”
“It felt right. I can work my silver anywhere. I have no desire to go into any mines.” A shiver rippled through him, and her hand closed tighter about his. “I suppose I’m trying to figure out what step to take next. At some point, I’ll have to do something other than make silly little things. Statues and toys and dolls.”
“Not silly. They are art. They are… happiness.” A small smile curved her lips.
Oh hell. What a wonderful knife to his heart. She could carve her name right on it. Hers without a doubt.
Hers?
Yes. How could he do anything but love a woman like her, so different from himself. She possessed the courage he coveted. She knew what she needed and marched right after it.
She cleared her throat. “Have you always made toys?”
“No. I threw all the toys my father had made for me into a fire after his death.” Anger burned a person. Grief scorched who they’d used to be into ash. “When I came back here, I began to make the toys. No reason. Just to give my hands something to do. Your father had not died yet, and I had been back to the hospital, seen how well he kept the children there. Just as I remembered it. After he died, I watched the building deteriorate, the children’s clothes were not replaced when they were ruined or when they grew out of them. Then your brother appeared for a visit, and with a flick of his hand—all better.” But not all better. Just hidden.
Was that what Nico was doing? Pretending everything in his life was fine when it was not. London shop languishing, professional ambitions dead and in the grave. Worse, he waspretending he did not wish to change. He was pretending he did not have the power to change it.
Nico pulled Jane deeper into the shadows. “Last Christmas, the children were somber. They mourned your father, and they mourned their warmth, and they worried for their futures. You know that. You came, and you saw.”
She nodded.
He leaned low, their foreheads touching, sparks igniting. “I wanted to give the children what my father had given me over and over again. A magical moment.” For a few held breaths, the words bloomed between them, warm and soft and so full of potential. “Sometimes that is all we need to go on. The promise of magic. That promise made good.”
She licked her lips, and in that solemn, sacred, sizzling space between them, he wanted to taste what she did—her worry, her fear—and take it away, give her magic instead.
“And you promise,” she said, her voice so low, a hum of the earth and nothing more, but he could hear. “You promise not to die? Promise that some magic, the silver in your veins will keep you safe?”
Ah… he could not.
When he did not answer, she slipped from his grasp. But she laid a palm on his cheek. “Your staying alive is the only magic I’m interested in, Sir Nicholas.” Her touch felt better than silver in his veins, and it was gone too soon. She left him in the shadows, scrubbing his hands up and down his face. Silver lightning sparked all over his body in a storm of frustration. She had no idea what the future held for her, but still she fought. Jane Dean would never give up.
But he would. He had, a long time ago.
Goddamn it! He was a coward. But he didn’t have to be.
A shadow stepped under the tree. One of the hired guards. “Everything good in here, my lord?”
“Not even remotely. Are you trying to stop my heart?”
“I’d prefer not to. But the duke’s who gives me my coin, and I doubt he’d like to hear of his sister hiding beneath trees with local baronets.”
He smiled as brightly as he could. “Naturally he would not. You need not worry, my man. We were discussing Christmas, our plans, what the children can expect. That sort of thing.”
Silence. Then, “What can the children expect?”
Interesting question. Why had the fellow asked it? How best to make use of it? Before he’d fully made up his mind, Nico laid into the pathos. Hard. “Nothing but cold and dreariness, my friend. Seems the duke’s used up his expendable funds hiring you lot.” Putting it on thick. Good. If the man had a conscience… but he might not. “The blankets have holes, you know.”
