Page 91 of A Bluestocking’s Secret Courtship

It had been too quiet, and she woke with a start, her heart pounding in her ears. Only once she had spotted Uncle Charles snuffing the fire and Jonathan packing their belongings had she been able to breathe easily again.

On the trek down the mountain, she had refused either of their help and walked ahead while they chatted amiably as if they hadn’t broken her heart a few hours earlier.

As they walked farther into the village, Jonathan glanced back at Uncle Charles and furrowed his brow.

“We’ll stop here for a bit. Timothy needs a rest.”

Her uncle huffed. “Pampered donkey. How many rests does he need?”

Jonathan suggested Evangeline and her uncle wait for him at the tavern. She headed toward the tavern before she softened and thanked him. She didn’t want to feel gratitude toward him. It didn’t matter that he had fought for her uncle’s release or was attentive to his needs now.

Jonathan lied about who he was—what he was—and no matter how vigorously he denied it, he had used her. He made her care for him, to trust him. But she was guilty of ignoring her initial reservations and asking for his help. She had allowed herself to love him, and that was unforgivable.

Her arms and legs felt like sacks of rock as she trudged into the shuttered stucco building. Uncle Charles was several steps behind her, but he joined her at an olive wood table big enough for only two. The scent of garlic and thyme hung in the heavy air.

When a serving girl approached, Uncle Charles held up three fingers and ordered whatever was cooking over the fire. The girl answered in Greek and sauntered away.

“I hope you like chicken stew,” he said.

“Mm-hmm.” She didn’t have much of an appetite, though she needed the sustenance to keep walking.

The girl carried two bowls to the table and turned to return to the cauldron.

“Ask her to wait to serve Jonathan,” Evangeline said. “It will be cold otherwise.”

Her uncle did as she requested, at least she assumed.

“Why didn’t you teach me Greek?” she asked.

“Ah, you’re speaking to me at last.”

She frowned, and his smile fell away.

“If you had shown an interest in learning, I would’ve allowed you to study Greek. You determined your education.”

That was true. He had never discouraged her from pursuing her interests, and yet, he had kept so much knowledge locked away.

Her focus shifted to her bowl of stew, no longer engaged.

“You said your sister helped decipher my journal, but it was you who figured out the key.”

She glanced up, eyebrow raised. “You sound self-assured.”

“I know you and Regina,” he said. “She never cared for puzzles.”

“And we never knew you at all.”

His shoulders slumped, and he shoveled a spoonful of stew into his mouth.

“It’s true,” Evangeline said. “Were you even on digs when you were away?”

“Sometimes.”

“But not others.” She leaned toward him, lowering her voice. “Is this why you kept delaying me joining you? You were off spying?”

His lips thinned. “My work is dangerous whether I’m on a dig or not. I don’t have the luxury of changing hats to become an antiquarian some days and others a Regent’s man. I’m both, always.”

“Well, this might come as a shock, but your work placed all of us in danger—Aunt Beatrice, Regina, Sophia, me—not to mention the staff at Wedmore House.”