It was now clear that they were, little by little, delicately revealing things to each other. Feeling about the periphery of trust.
Or maybe it was more that they were coming intofocus to each other. As though each of them was a sun, burning away each other’s obscuring mists.
“Did it work?” she whispered.
It was not a remedy she would have even conceived of. But she saw the brilliance in isolating a moment of pain as art. To externalize it.
When he went still, she realized he understood she was asking this question on her own behalf.
It was a moment before he spoke.
His words seemed carefully chosen.
“Yes, it worked. For a time, it did. But no one thing works forever. And it’s forever we have to contend with, Mrs. Gallagher. It is an evolving thing.”
Was there a different quality to the way he’d said her name? Had it sounded a little ironic?
But so gentle.
He was like that knife inked onto his body. All implacable, dangerous, bright edges. But vulnerable beneath, she thought.
She stared at his remarkable face, and imagined again tracing the contours of that tattoo with her finger.
The space between them suddenly seemed as hot and dense as flesh. For a mad instant it seemed unbearable that there should be any distance between them at all. Heat flared in her limbs and robbed her of breath.
Desire was complicated, but it was unequivocal, she understood now. It was not something that could be rationalized into being. The way she had done with Brundage.
Mr. Hawkes had a good deal more experience with not blinking than she did. She didn’t mind. His eyes fascinated her. They both revealed and obscured his moods.
“Passage across the sea comes dear,” he commented almost idly. “A packet crossing costs fifty pounds or more.”
“Yes,” she said shortly. When she heard the sum, her stomach tensed again.
She was afraid of the onslaught of inadvisable, anarchic things she felt in his presence. One of those things was happy. Such a simple thing seemed destined to be strangled like a flower among the weeds of her life. She’d told him her brother’s name because she’d forgotten to lie, and that was foolish. She was too tired, and he was too charming, and she was obviously not good at subterfuge and she didn’t like to be reminded of this.
She ducked her head and studied the remaining leaves of her tea, which revealed nothing to her.
And for a time neither of them spoke.
Finally, she took a steadying breath and looked up again.
“Thank you, Mr. Hawkes. I am grateful to you for the tea and sympathy. My mood is much improved. If you would be so kind as to help me into a carriage, I should like to return to The Grand Palace on the Thames now. I have interrupted your errands long enough.”
He understood people, Mr. Hawkes did. He seemed to, at least. And while he hesitated, and she sensed he was still full of questions and concerns, all he politely said was, “It would be my honor.”
Chapter Sixteen
Hawkes wanted badly to sit for a time alone and bask in the aftermath of being with Aurelie, the way one would linger after watching an astonishingly perfect sunset. He wanted to sort through her words for meaning that might have escaped him.
But time was critical. So after he assisted Mrs. Gallagher into a hack, he directed his separate hack to Guthrie’s Antiquities off Bond Street.
He finally found it—a very small shop, with a small elegant sign hanging on chains over the door, featuring only three objects in the window—vases of varying sizes and dubious provenance. It didn’t appear as though a good deal of effort had been made to intrigue passersby. Perhaps their custom was all by referral.
Or perhaps it was a front for nefarious activities.
A little bell hung from the door handle jingled when he entered. Inside it was sparsely furnished with objects, arranged on shelves, which had all been dusted. He possessed some sense and knowledge of antiquities. Some of the things displayedwere, in fact, decent pieces.
“Good morning,” he said admiringly to the young woman behind the counter.
