Chapter Seventeen
The Rostov Tearoom was a study in polished comfort, mahogany paneling, tall windows draped in soft green, and the scent of fresh bread mingling with tea.
The low hum of conversation wrapped the room like a warm shawl.
Two women sat at the center table, speaking in low tones over plates of seed cake.
A couple occupied a small table near the hearth, while in the back, Felix Townsend looked up from his tea and gave Gabriel a brief nod.
By the door, a man sat with a newspaper held high, the print rustling now and then as he turned a page.
Gabriel guided Leticia toward a small table tucked in the corner, away from the main flow of the room. A server came over with a polite bow, leaving menus and promising to return with the day’s selection.
“The Historical Society does draw a crowd,” she observed, glancing around. “I suspect Lady Westcott would have been disappointed if it had not. Our presence, yours especially, will give her something to remark upon the next time the ladies gather for tea.”
“She was especially pleased at meeting you,” Gabriel said, his tone mild. “Tolliver also tells me the ladies of the houses are already speaking of a love match.”
Her brows rose. “Are they?”
“It seems they enjoy imagining the shape of other people’s futures.”
She smiled faintly. “And do you?”
His gaze met hers, deliberate and steady, and her toes curled in her slippers before she could stop them.
“Only when the imagining is worth the time.”
The server returned with the teapot and two delicate cups.
As he poured, the fragrant steam curled upward, warm against her cheek.
She lifted her cup, the warmth sinking into her hands.
“Earlier, when we were in the gallery, what Miss Notley said about the brooch. It looked very much like one in a picture in your hall. My mother’s brooch has the same arrangement of stones. ”
Gabriel’s expression did not shift, but his eyes sharpened. “You remember it clearly.”
“Only from childhood,” she said lightly. “It is the sort of thing one notices without understanding why.”
He studied her a moment longer, as though weighing what had been said—and what had not.
“Patterns like that are rarely accidental.”
“No,” she agreed. “They are usually chosen.”
Gabriel leaned back, studying her with a gaze that measured more than her words. “And yet some pieces remain exactly where they should.”
Her lips curved faintly. “Yes.”
From the corner of her vision, Leticia noted Townsend glancing toward them again before returning to his tea. The man by the door lowered his paper briefly, revealing a neatly trimmed beard and the clean line of a collar. His eyes swept the room once before the paper lifted again.
Gabriel’s gaze followed hers for a moment, “Observation,” he said quietly. “It’s the most useful skill in any investigation. Look at Felix. What do you see?”
She tilted her head. “He’s having tea.”
“Yes. Where is he sitting?”
“In the back of the room.”
“How is he sitting?”
She cast him a sidelong glance, unsure what he wanted.
“Look again.”
Her gaze returned to Felix. He lifted his cup, met her eyes briefly, and nodded in greeting. She turned back to Gabriel. “He’s watching me.”
“And do you think anyone could come up behind him unnoticed?”
Her expression shifted as she considered. “No… his back’s to the wall.”
“Exactly.” He inclined his head, faint approval in his eyes. “Now the other gentleman.”
She glanced toward the man with the paper. “He’s looking at the people in the room.”
“And?”
She studied him a moment longer before her brow arched. “He’s sitting by the door. For a quick escape.”
Gabriel sat back, satisfied. “You learn quickly.”
The server returned with a plate of currant scones, their sugared tops catching the light. Gabriel broke one in half and passed her the portion with the most fruit.
“Thank you.” She took a bite, the soft crumb melting on her tongue. “You are quiet.”
“I was considering,” he said slowly, “whether our visit to the Historical Society accomplished what I hoped.”
“And did it?”
His mouth curved slightly. “It confirmed several things. Not all of them were in the exhibits.”
She lifted her cup again, watching him over the rim. “You are a man who enjoys keeping his conclusions to himself.”
“Until the moment is right,” he agreed.
She set her cup down and rested her hands on the edge of the table, not touching his. “If I tell you something without asking for a conclusion, will you promise not to give me one?”
“I can attempt moderation,” he said. “For the length of one pot of tea.”
“Acceptable.” She breathed in the citrus of her Earl Grey. “When Lady Westcott congratulated me in the receiving room, I felt… exposed. It was kind, and yet every eye turned at once. I do not enjoy being looked at as if I am a character in a story.”
“You are,” he said. “Only most people do not realize they have any say in the plot.”
That drew a quick laugh from her. “And you, Gabriel, always revise the ending.”
His eyes warmed, the change so slight she would have missed it months ago. “Only when the first draft is poor.”
“You are impossible,” she said, still smiling. “And infuriatingly calm.”
“Tolliver, my valet, says the same when I alter our departure by a quarter hour without warning.”
She leaned in, conspiratorial. “He does more than say it. He arranges your boots an inch out of place as revenge.”
Gabriel blinked. “You noticed that.”
“I notice many things. He places the left pair just ahead of the right. I think he believes you will correct them and feel restored to order.”
A low sound escaped him, not a laugh, not a sigh. “I have been managed.”
“Expertly,” she said. “And with affection.”
They fell into an easy quiet. The two women at the center table traded plates.
The couple by the hearth leaned closer, heads almost touching.
Felix’s cup remained steady in his hand, his posture careful, his attention turned inward.
Thomas Wade turned another page, the paper rustling like a small wave.
“Tell me something I do not know about you,” Gabriel said at last. “Something not in any report, not in any drawing room account.”
She considered his question while looking at her hands. “I can tie a bowline with my eyes closed.”
A small lift touched his brows. “You can.”
“My father taught me at the summer races. He said there are knots that hold and knots that look as if they will. One should know the difference before trusting a sail, or a promise.”
Gabriel’s gaze steadied. “Wise advice.”
“You did ask for something you did not know.” She hesitated, added, softer, “When the wind is right, you can hear the bells from the outer harbor from our garden. I used to count them at night and try to make stories from the pattern. If there were three, it meant good fortune. If there were five, a letter would arrive.”
“Did it?”
“Sometimes,” she said, smiling at her own foolishness. “I decided the bells liked to keep their secrets.”
He looked as if he might say something more, but he sat back and studied her, and the look was almost enough by itself.
“Your turn,” she said, to break the intensity before it made speaking difficult. “Tell me something that is not in any report.”
“I cannot abide boiled carrots,” he said.
She blinked, surprised into another laugh. “That is your offering?”
“You asked for truth. I am giving it.” He paused. “Also, when I was twelve, I tried to teach myself the violin. The house still bears the scars.”
“Your uncle allowed that?”
“He was out. The butler did not wish to contradict an Ashcombe.”
“And the violin?”
“Returned to its case,” he said, “where it has done no harm since.”
“A tragedy for music,” she said. “A relief for the staff.”
He tipped his head. “Do you see, Leticia, what you have done? You have coaxed a confession from me.”
“I will be discreet,” she said. “Except when it suits me to tease you.”
This time he did laugh, a quiet, rich sound that startled them both. He looked immediately away, as if the laugh might escape again if not watched. She let the pleasure of it move through her, light as a breeze.
“About the brooch,” he said after a moment, more gently than before. “You recognized the pattern because of the picture in the hall. You said your mother’s brooch is the same.”
“It looks like her.”
“You remember it clearly,” he said. “Enough to recognize the pattern.”
“Perhaps,” she said lightly.
The question settled between them like a coin on velvet. “If I had it, I might,” she said, her voice even. “But my parents died in a carriage accident… the brooch wasn’t among my mother’s things.”
He accepted that with a small nod. Outside, a cart rolled past, iron-rimmed wheels clattering over the street. Somewhere in the kitchen, a bell chimed once again. The teapot had cooled to a soft warmth. The scones were nearly gone.
“You asked where I would go if I could be anywhere,” she said. “May I change my answer?”
“You may.”
“I would still choose the cove,” she said, “but only if you promised not to speak for the first five minutes.”
“I can be silent for far longer than that,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, amused. “That is precisely why I would allow only five.”
He considered her, and the look in his eyes was not quite a smile, not entirely a question. “Very well. Five minutes. After which I reserve the right to remark upon the superiority of your shell-collecting to mine.”
“I am not competing,” she said, fighting a grin. “I am winning.”
“You have not yet seen my technique.”
“You will tell me there is a report on it.”
“There is not,” he said. “There is only practice.”
She reached for the last currant scone and broke it cleanly in two. “Half each.”
“Half each,” he agreed.
A quiet pride moved through her at the simple exchange. It was less like politeness, more like a fact. Half each. Contentment was not loud. It did not declare itself. It arrived, pulled out a chair, and made a place at the table.
They spoke of the town’s autumn fair, the booths that showed overnight, the sweet smoke of roasted nuts that lingered long after the stalls closed.
He admitted a fondness for the chessboard that old Mr. Hollis set by his door, a board that challenged any passerby to a move.
She confessed she avoided it because she disliked losing in public, and he warned her that Mr. Hollis had the patience of a saint and the cunning of a fox.
“I would pay to see you lose a pawn,” she said.
“I am certain you would,” he said. “You would frame the moment and hang it by your bed.”
“Only if it were signed.”
“You drive a difficult bargain.”
“So I have been told.”
Across the room, Felix lifted his cup. The women at the center table stood to don their gloves. The couple by the hearth rose, paid, and stepped out into the light. Thomas Wade turned his page again, folded the paper once, and held it neatly on his knee.
Gabriel settled the bill. As they stood, Felix offered a small nod. Leticia returned it. The man with the newspaper lowered it just enough to watch them pass, angled it slightly toward the back tables. She noticed, tucked the image away, and said nothing.
Outside, the afternoon was brighter than the quiet of the room they had left behind.
They walked without haste, the town unfolding around them.
She was keenly aware of the comfort in his silence and of the questions they had both chosen not to voice.
It was not avoidance. It was a promise that the time would come to say what mattered, when it mattered.
Gabriel glanced at her. “The tide will be fair tomorrow afternoon.”
She understood him. Or thought she did. “Tomorrow will do.”
They reached a corner where the street opened toward the green. Children chased a hoop past them, the ring humming over the cobbles. Leticia watched it roll along. Her spirits were lifted, and the cause had nothing to do with the weather.
“You laugh easily today,” Gabriel said. He did not look at her when he said it, which made the words land more truly.
“Not always,” she said. “But I like that you noticed.”
“I like that I heard it,” he said. “I find I would like to hear it again.”
She did not answer at once. Finally, softly, she said, “You must give me a reason.”
He considered that, and the corner of his mouth tipped, not in a smile, but more in an admission. “I will try.”
They went on together, and the town seemed to draw back a little, as if giving them space.