After several minutes of frantic searching, he heard her squeal with triumph.
“This looks promising,” she said, holding up a thin volume covered in tan leather. “Astronomical Tables: Sun, Earth, Moon.”
She opened it up. “It mentions the moon on many pages. I think this will do.”
The relief on her face was palpable.
“Excellent,” he said, taking the book from her and placing it in the basket. “What’s next?”
She let go an exasperated sigh.
“Near the rose that will never fade, a token kept close to this fair maid.”
“You must be the maid,” he said, looking over her shoulder at the line. “I assume you will know what the token is when you see it.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But I wasn’t asked for any.”
“There is a small painting of a rose in the front entry,” he said. “Let’s start there.”
He took her by the hand, leading her through the corridors, navigating the labyrinth to the gentlemen’s entrance. On the way, they spied two more items on their list—a beetle of all things, framed under glass, and a bottle of ink. The urgency of the search allowed Tom to ignore the forbidden joy of simply being with her. It was like they were back at Whetherby, running through the woods, hiding from Georgie’s governess.
He brought her to a halt in a small alcove, where a Chinese vase bursting with flowers stood. Above it was a small painting, not much more than a miniature, of a pink rose.
“A rose that will never fade,” he said, pointing to the exquisite painting of a single pink rose, painted in the style of the still-life of the Dutch masters. “Now we must find the token.”
The moment Tompointed to the painting, she saw it. Her heart leapt into her throat as she reached for the small wooden toy, cupping it in her hand and drawing it her chest.
How on earth did this get here? She cradled the fox, roughly carved out of wood, close to her chest. She’d packed the trinket along with all her other belongings she couldn’t bear to part with before coming to London, understanding that her chances of returning to Whetherby were almost nonexistent. It had beenwrapped in a scrap of cloth at the bottom on her trunk for safe keeping.
Tom had carved it for her, years ago. She might have been ten at the time. He’d found her in the woods, crying after discovering what happened to the foxes after one of her father’s favorite pastimes.
“What is it?” he asked, concern crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“You’re going to think this is silly,” she said, wanting to die of embarrassment. “Childish.”
He smiled in that good natured way of his that made her feel as if everything would be fine. She’d missed that smile.
He was looking at her so expectantly. She hadn’t been able to truly trust herself for so long. She’d allowed Tom to claim her heart long ago, and the pain of letting him go had gutted her for so long.
“Georgie,” he said, glancing around to ensure he would not be overheard, “you should know by the way I just kissed you, the very last way I see you is as a child.”
That kiss. Heat bloomed in her cheeks, and her stomach flipped at the very thought of it. She’d wanted one last kiss from him.
She brought her hands closer to him and opened them up. The little fox, worn smooth over the years from being handled, stood at attention on her palm.
She glanced up at him. “Do not laugh at me, Tom.”
Tom did not laugh. The smile on his face stalled as his eyes widened, then fixed on the toy in her hand.
“Is this what I think it is?” he asked.
She nodded. “I don’t know how it got here. It was packed in my trunk. Mrs. Dove-Lyon must have involved the baroness.”
Perhaps he didn’t hear her. He seemed transfixed by it, his gaze moving from the toy, to her, then back again.
“I didn’t know you would have kept it,” he said.
“It was all I had of you after you left,” she said. “He was my little good luck charm. A reminder of better days.”
