However, when he reached his office, a wide white box was on his desk, looking oddly like the packaging the modiste’s clothing for Evelina had arrived in.
Lifting the card resting on the box, he read, “For my dear friend Ellie, to wear on your wedding night. Love, Victoria Rothwell.”
For a moment, he was tempted to chuck into the fireplace anything connected to the Rothwells—it was either a trick or a lure to be tricked—but he paused. This was Evelina’s friend.
Maybe I should put my grievances with Benedict aside and give her the benefit of the doubt…
“Right,” he called out. “When did this arrive?”
Stepping into the room, Weston fixed his spectacles. “This afternoon, Your Grace. It was hand-delivered by Lady Victoria herself. Her reasoning is that she tried to give it to your wife’s relatives first, but as they did not have an address for you, she brought it here.”
Lifting the cover to see the white satin bed inside, Dorian murmured, “A lady of the ton walking into a gaming hell on her own takes courage…” he dropped the cover. “Maybe I should trust Evelina with her judgment of the girl…”
“The copies of the ledgers, sir.” Weston rested the book near the box. “Is there anything you need otherwise?”
“No,” Dorian said. Tucking the book under his arm, he hefted the box in both arms and headed down to the carriage. “As usual, please alert me if any of mycompatriotsarrive. Except for Lord Portsmouth, he may stay unbothered.”
Then, he stepped into the moonless light and headed to the waiting carriage.
Bored out of her mind and in search of distraction, Evelina found herself in the library after nine in the night, lighting a lamp and drifting down the rows.
In under ten minutes, Ellie had an opinion of Dorian’s literary tastes.
“He is not one for the superfluous…” she murmured as her eyes landed on Aristotle’s Rhetoric. “Is he?”
The room was colorless and void of life, the carpet bland and grey. There was no artwork on the walls and certainly no cozy seating to lie down and read. The fireplace was shuttered, and the mantle dusty, but his collection of books occupying shelves spanning from the floor to the high ceiling could give her a lifetime of exploring the literary hedgerows.
“I assume he is not a leisure reader as I am…” She came to a desk where a few law books were scattered on the surface. “…But only takes what he needs for the moment.”
There were parts of the wall that, from the brighter hue of the wallpaper, hinted that portraits once rested there, yet for some reason had been removed.
I’ll ask him about those. If he decides to return tonight.
“Your Grace,” Agnes knocked at the doorway. “I am about to retire. Is there anything you would need from me before I do so?”
“Yes, two things,” Ellie nodded, even while her eyes remained fixed on the wall. “Were there portraits once hanging here, and can you send up a tea tray with those delightful tarts Cook had made?”
Stepping closer, Agnes answered, “Yes, Your Grace, you have a keen eye. There were portraits hanging here long ago, one for His Grace’s uncle, I believe, who at one point was a trustee of the Wolfthorne Dukedom.”
The uncle Dorian wants to find…
“I see,” she murmured. “You may send up the tea tray and the buns, thank you. If you do happen to see His Grace, please tell him where I will be. Or you can ask the footmen to inform him.”
Bobbing her head, Agnes gave her word and then left the room. In her maid’s absence, she checked the shelves again and found a copy of Orpheus and Eurydice. Pulling it from the shelf, she gasped when the cover nearly fell off. The book was worn to the bone.
Who had read this book so much it was falling apart? Certainly not Dorian— he did not believe in love. Carefully, she took the book to the lone chair and rested the lamp on the small end-table.
She opened the cover and saw finger marks pressed into the pages. Someone truly adored this specific novel.
Agnes soon returned with a tray in hand; the steaming teapot was behind platters of blackberry tarts, but there were small cakes iced with marzipan, jellied fruits, and fresh cream.
“Thank you,” Ellie replied as the tray was set on the table as well. “Have a good night.”
“You too, Your Grace,” Agnes curtsied.
Left alone, she made her cup, tucked her toes into the massive armchair, sipped, and read. On the third page, her mind drifted to the very day she’d met Ash at ten years old.
Peeking her head out of one of the few backdoors of her aunt and uncle’s substantial home in St. John’s Wood, young Evelina Frampton took her chance, lifted her skirts, and dashed across the lawn and into the woods.
