I wonder if she likes Shakespeare,he found himself wondering. The thought was delightful, but he pushed it harshly away. He had no idea about who she was, and the less he thought about her, the happier he would be.
All the same, as he wandered into the house, heading towards the library and the solace of his books, he could not help but wonder if she enjoyed reading and if she would have enjoyed the Shakespeare that he had found.
Chapter Four
Evelyn tied a ribbon into her brown hair, winding it carefully into a neat bun and pinning it in place as she did every morning. The actions were so habitual she scarcely needed to think of them. Her thoughts were elsewhere—lost in imaginings of the man upon whom she had tumbled the previous day. Heat pooled through her, sweet and forbidden, as she recalled how it had felt to lie in his powerful arms, her cheek pressed against his solid chest. His strong, muscled frame had been firm and exciting beneath her, his handsome face charming her instantly.
She pushed back her chair and stood up, annoyed with herself.
“There is a great deal of work to be done today,” she reminded herself firmly, cheeks burning with delicious shame as she thrust the thoughts aside.
She crossed to the window and drew open the curtains. Below, the street lay misty and grey, only a few early pedestrians braving the chill. It was half-past seven; the sun had risen more than an hour earlier. She glanced about her chamber, her gaze falling upon the well-worn novel by her bedside. It was too familiar to distract her. She regretted mislaying the Shakespeare volume, yet reminded herself she had precious little time for reading in any case.
With a steadying breath, she made her way down the hallway to the breakfast room, her mind fixed upon the difficult problem of James’s debts.
James had given her very little with which to work. Whomever the creditor was, the nature of his threats made it clear he was not a man inclined toward negotiation. Any such hope was futile.
She poured herself tea and reached for a slice of toast, her stomach growling. Last night’s meagre dinner had hardly satisfied her, and she was ravenous. Bread remained one of the few things they could still afford in abundance, and she intended to enjoy it.
As she bit into a slice of hot, buttered toast spread with her favourite marmalade, her gaze wandered the room. The blue-patterned chintz curtains had been drawn back to reveal the grey morning. A fire burned brightly—a mercy for which she was grateful. Their fare might be plain, but they could still afford coal, and could still pay the three servants who loyally remained. The furniture—the old round breakfast table, the wooden chairs, the chintz-covered armchair by the fire, the sideboard—was simple but serviceable.
She reached for another slice of toast, sipped her tea, and set the cup into its saucer. As she reached for the butter knife, her eye caught the stack of papers beside the hearth. One headline bore the name ‘Caldwell.’
Her surname.
Her brows knit. Had some distant cousin disgraced himself in town? Curiosity pricked sharply. She fetched the papers and carried them back to the table.
Her stomach dropped. The sheet bearing her name was not a newspaper but a scandal sheet—worse,one featuring her.
“Miss Caldwell in Compromising Act”.
Her heart lurched as she read. Each line seemed worse than the last. Someone in the crowd at the milliner’s had identified her, and the tale had spread—embroidered, suggestive, damning.
A young woman of apparently lax standards, willing to throw herself—quite literally—into the arms of a wealthy gentleman in order to secure his interest.
“No…” she whispered. Part of her wanted to thrust the sheet into the fire and pretend she had never seen it. Another part sat frozen in disbelief. It could not be real. Yet she knew all too well that it was.
The damage was real and impossible to ignore. Anyone reading it would form the worst possible opinion of her—and in London society, opinion was everything. Without her reputation, she had nothing.
No protection, either,she thought with a shudder. If men believed her capable of such behaviour, she would be seen as fair game for exploitation—utterly unsafe.
“Oh, what am I to do?” she breathed, a tear escaping despite her efforts at composure. Fear vibrated through her. She would have to flee London altogether. But then—James, Mama—she could not abandon them. Most young ladies would have been sent away by their families after such a scandal; she could not even rely on that. They needed her.
Her throat tightened. She pressed her hand to her mouth to stop a sob. A soft knock sounded at the door, unnoticed at first. Only when the knock came again did she look up.
“What is it?” she called hoarsely.
“Miss Caldwell?” came Mr Soames’s voice. “Miss Harwick is here to call on you. Shall I show her in?”
“Please,” Evelyn said at once, rising swiftly.
Before she reached the door, Lucy entered. Her expression was stricken.
“I saw the scandal sheets,” she whispered. “I am so very sorry.”
She opened her arms, and Evelyn fell into them, drawing comfort from her dear friend’s embrace and the soft scent of her rose perfume.
“I don’t know what to do,” Evelyn murmured, struggling to steady her voice. She motioned Lucy to the table, for speaking was suddenly too difficult. Lucy sat and clasped her hand tightly.
