*
Owen watched hergo, feeling more morose the instant she left the shop. This was a lonely, sad business, attempting to track down Sophia’s murderer. And when he realized how a normal person, such as the quiet, unassuming Lady Adelia, could buy a tablet of the very paper he sought and multiplied that by the number of ladies and gentlemen in London, he understood the frustrating futility of his search.
What choice did he have?
His mother was still so distraught, she could no longer function. His father, instead of conducting either the business of mining coal or the business of Parliament, haunted City Police headquarters in Whitehall almost as much as Owen. The cremation and funeral had been private, and they were keeping Sophia’s ashes until such time as they returned to the Burnley country home in southern Wales. She would be interred in the family cemetery, alongside grandparents and siblings who had not survived infancy.
Suddenly, he didn’t want to be alone. Nodding to the shopkeeper, who undoubtedly believed him a lunatic, Owen hurried out after Lady Adelia. She was only half a block away, a maid he hadn’t previously noticed trailing behind her.What did he intend?
Again, he was spurred by an irrational notion that it was better to be in her company than alone, so he closed the distance and called her name.
“Lady Adelia.” His tone was perhaps a tad brusque, but his mood was one of bleak simmering fury nearly all the time. It was too late to try a softer voice.
The young woman turned, those lovely green eyes of hers growing wide at seeing him following her. Out in the daylight, her hair was a pleasing caramel-colored shade of brown, reminding him of one of his favorite horse’s manes. And she wore a jaunty blue velvet bonnet perched atop, giving her a pleasing appearance—far more welcoming than her actual manner.
Her maid turned, too. In fact, all those on the pavement around her also glanced at him before moving along. He wanted to bark at every one of them to mind their business.
Lady Adelia stood motionless, waiting for an explanation. He didn’t have a good one. He had been spontaneous in calling her name and certainly impetuous.
“May I walk with you?” The words spilled out.
If ever he’d seen an expression of sheer horror, Lady Adelia wore one now.
“I…I…,” she trailed off, shaking her head.
No matter. It couldn’t possibly be him personally she disliked. There could be no reason for her to have an unfavorable sentiment that he could think of. They’d barely spoken, and he’d carried her out of harm’s way the other night. Perhaps she was merely embarrassed, in which case, he would ease her mind. He was known to have a way with females. His best friends, Westing and Whitely, judged him alternately too capricious, as he dismissed one woman after another for various and sundry reasons.
In any case, he knew how to talk to the fairer sex and how to set their minds at ease. Usually, this led to an assignation in a garden bower or an empty drawing room with neither party having regrets.
As for Lady Adelia, she was positively the most reticent woman he’d ever met. A rare gem, in fact, unless one was longing for a chatty companion. At that moment, he would welcome someone to take his mind off the impossible task he’d set for himself.
Without her permission, Owen moved into position abreast of her. He gestured ahead of them, intending to get her walking again.
“Are you perfectly recovered after the other evening’s fainting spell?” he asked, taking a few steps, unsure whether she would fall in next to him or refuse to move.
After a brief hesitation, in which she looked around and back at her maid, she did, in fact, begin to walk once more. However, she did not answer his question, nor did she say anything, continuing along beside him in silence.
Normally, that might be uncomfortable for two strangers, but as he sensed silence was her usual state, he took no offense. He hoped she didn’t mind if he did the talking.
“I am not often in a stationer’s shop,” he began. Truthfully, he’d never been in one prior to that day. “I do not write letters,” he admitted.
He hadn’t written much of anything since school days. He considered the paper in his own townhouse. There were tablets in his desk drawer and monogrammed paper, too. He used these to pen an occasional invitation or thank-you note. He had never committed the folly of writing a love letter since the receiver could use it as evidence of a formal arrangement.
“When I do—write, I mean—paper seems to be there. I suppose my butler ensures I have adequate supplies.”
She nodded at his inane talk, keeping her gaze directed in front.
“You seem to have a particular type of paper you prefer,” he continued, “and it was the very same which I sought. A coincidence, don’t you think?”
She barely lifted a shoulder by way of a nonchalant shrug.
He had the inexplicable desire to tell her why, to confess he wasn’t randomly looking at stationery but for this particular paper, and explain the importance of one person who had owned a sheet of it.
“May I ask, Lady Adelia, where one procures a handkerchief? In this neighborhood, I mean.” Truthfully, Owen meant anywhere. It was another thing he left to others. His valet maintained an ample amount, all with the letterBembroidered on the corner in silver thread. He considered them quite attractive and handed them out to young ladies in precisely the manner that a medieval lady would hand out ribbons to show favor to her knights.
Now that he thought of it, it was a somewhat expensive habit, and he often wished he could get some of them back. One never knew when one lady for whom he had a new fondness was going to see another lady to whom he’d previously paid court waving around his monogrammed token.
Lady Adelia didn’t answer. She looked to her left at the shops they were passing as if a handkerchief shop might spring up alongside her. Eventually, her steps faltered until she stopped walking altogether.
