Chapter 10
Kensington was quiet in the early dawn hour, the gas lamps casting long pools of golden light across the slick cobblestones. The carriage rolled to a stop in a quiet, familiar street.
What he loved about the neighborhood was that it was genteel, but not ostentatious—a place for well-heeled professionals and diplomats, rather than the landed aristocracy.
Perfect for a pair of agents who craved anonymity as much as comfort.
When he lived here, he had not been Viscount Greystone, but simply Nathaniel…
Alice’s husband. They had turned the cozy modern townhouse into their dream home.
And they had been happy here.
Yet he hadn’t set foot in this house in six years. Not since his brother’s death had catapulted him into a world of inherited responsibilities and gilded cages. Now, staring at the familiar red-brick facade, with its white stucco trim and wrought-iron gate, Nathaniel felt an ache deep in his chest.
After paying his fare and descending from the hackney, he hesitated a moment on the step.
His hand rested against the door, thumb brushing over the brass knocker.
The windows were dark. No light flickered to suggest anyone within.
Of course not. Alice had likely not yet returned from delivering the Phipps babes to safety.
Where would she take them in the middle of the night?
An almshouse? A charity shelter? No, she wouldn’t do that.
He had seen the way she had looked at the babies.
Had almost expected her to turn to him and say she wanted to keep them.
The strange thing was…he wouldn’t have minded.
Maybe she had returned home after all and was inside, tending to the babies herself.
He would find out soon enough. He rapped on the door, though part of him hoped she would not answer.
He didn’t want to give her the chance to ask him what he was doing here—he had no good answer—or worse, send him away.
When no sound came from within, he let his fingers brush over his coat pocket.
He had a key—his key—still on its ring. But would it even fit anymore?
Or had she changed the lock after their separation?
He drew it out and fitted it into the lock, half expecting resistance. But the tumblers turned smoothly, and with a soft click, the door yielded.
The scent struck him first—a subtle combination of beeswax polish, dried lavender, and a hint of paper and leather. A warm, familiar embrace. As if the house itself was welcoming him, waiting for its master’s return. But he was no master here. Not anymore.
Nathaniel stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind him.
He removed his gloves and turned the brass key on the wall sconce with practiced fingers, hearing the faint hiss of gas filling the pipe.
He found the matches in the same shallow drawer of the entrance table.
A moment later, as he struck the match, the flame flared, and soft golden light bloomed across the hall.
He turned deliberately, surveying his surroundings.
Nothing had changed here—the slim oak table beneath the looking glass, the umbrella stand they’d bought from a street market in Naples, the Persian rug with the fringe Alice was forever tripping over.
He walked to the drawing room. The furniture was all as he remembered: a cozy arrangement of chairs angled toward the hearth, their cushions slightly worn but plumped with care.
A teacup sat abandoned on the side table, a ball of yarn with the needles sticking out next to it, as though Alice might have paused in her knitting only minutes ago.
He let his gaze roam hungrily around the room.
The artwork and ornaments were as varied and eccentric as their adventurous life.
A hodgepodge of styles and interesting objects they had chosen and collected on their travels.
Each object had a memory attached to it.
They weren’t merely decorative, but a reflection of their lives.
His boots whispered across the carpet as he crossed to the library.
Ah, the library, with its wall of tall sash windows overlooking a narrow garden.
It had always been their favorite room, their sanctuary.
Books still lined the shelves, his own favorites—dog-eared and slightly out of place—testament to Alice’s habit of never returning them to their precise spots.
He smiled faintly, rearranging a few volumes out of a long-ingrained habit.
How many evenings had they spent here, the fire crackling low, Alice curled on the settee with her knitting while he read aloud from whatever volume had caught his fancy?
French poetry, English detective stories, Russian novels.
Or dramatic gothic novellas that were no great literature but so much fun to read.
Sometimes they read. Sometimes they argued over Foreign Office ciphers.
And sometimes—more often than not—they made love, desperately, hungrily, as if the world beyond these four walls didn’t exist. His face landed on the heavy mahogany desk, his mind conjuring images of taking his wife on this desk countless times.
He yanked his gaze away, and his eyes fell on the half-full decanter of whisky sitting on the side table, next to the deep-cushioned armchairs gathered around the hearth.
He lifted it, pulled the stopper, inhaling the smoky sweetness.
Glenlivet. She still stocked his favorite whisky, even though Alice never cared for the stuff.
Why? It was almost as if…as if she’d been waiting for him. Or unable to let go.
The idea settled uneasily in his chest, a mingling of warmth and something sharper.
Why would she preserve all of this? Why keep his books, his liquor, his very presence in the house intact? It made no sense. She was the one who’d walked away. The one who’d left him to his title, to his duty. And yet…here it all was. As if for her, this house had remained their home.
And God help him, he still wanted it to be.
He still loved her. Standing here in their home, amidst their things, surrounded by the props of their old life, he couldn’t summon the anger he had clung to all these years.
All he felt was a longing so profound it nearly choked the breath out of his lungs.
And after watching Clara Phipps die, he couldn’t silence the terrifying thought that life was too fragile. Ephemeral. Dangerous. He might lose Alice too—this woman who refused to be protected, who insisted on throwing herself headlong into danger.
He set the decanter down with a hard clink and wandered toward the kitchen.
Small, neat, functional. The air was cooler here, carrying the faint scent of coal dust and soap.
They had never had live-in staff, only a maid-of-all-work who came by during the day.
He set about lighting the range and setting a kettle to boil.
It was the least he could do while he waited for her, to heat water for their bath upstairs.
No. Not their bath. He had no right to think of it as such anymore.
He was stoking the fire higher when the front door opened. He walked towards the foyer slowly, calling out to her, not wanting to startle her with his unexpected presence.
She paused at the threshold. “Nathaniel. What are you doing here?” She looked tired, worn to the bone, her shoulders drooping beneath her plain cloak. But she didn’t seem startled to see him. Or displeased. Her calm acceptance of his presence was comforting.
“Why wouldn’t I be here?” he countered quietly, meeting her gaze. “This is still my house. And you’re still my wife.”
“‘Still’ being the operative word.”
His lips curved, though without humor. “I’ve arranged for Mrs. Phipps to be interred next to her husband. It seemed…right.”
Her face softened, sorrow flickering in her eyes. “Thank you.” She let out a shaky breath. “I took the Phipps’ babies to the Duke and Duchess of Aycliffe. Josephine and Michael have agreed to take them in.”
Surprise tugged at his brow. “You know the duke and duchess well enough to call them by their given names? Or knock on their door in the middle of the night?”
“I do,” she replied simply. “Last year I was sent with John—that is, Lord Ardmore—to negotiate Lady Josephine’s release from Egypt. Since then, we’ve remained friends. She and a few other ladies have founded a charity for women in desperate straits. I help when I can.”
The mention of Lord Ardmore, her lover, was like a splash of cold water on his face, breaking the golden enchantment he had felt since he stepped foot in the house.
Reminding him everything was not the same as before.
The fact that she had slipped and called him by his given name was further proof of their intimacy.
He felt the old anger rise in him, but he tamped it down ruthlessly.
He didn’t want to think about that now. Not when they were getting along so well.
When he felt more at home than he had in six years.
He regarded her, a wry smile ghosting his lips. “You’ve found a way to carve out a place for yourself in society after all.”
She shook her head. “I’ve done no such thing. I’m not part of their world, Nathaniel. I collaborate with them, but I’m not one of them.”
“But you are,” he said softly. “You are a viscountess. Their social equal.”
Her laugh was quiet and bitter. “No title is going to change what I am. They are all ladies born and bred. No matter how much I try to fit in, I’m the daughter of an actress, and a spy.”
“You can be anything you set your mind to. Play any role. You are brilliant, Alice.”
“Then maybe that’s a role I don’t want to play.”
Something inside him tightened. It wasn’t about him—not really—but it felt like rejection all the same. Why was she so against living in his world?
He pushed the thought aside. “I’m heating water for a bath. I’ll bring it up for you.”
“You already went upstairs?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Didn’t want to invade your privacy. I only…needed to be here.”
She studied him for a long moment, her tiredness softening into something warmer. “Thank you for coming,” she murmured. And then, “ I’m glad you are here.” The confession seemed torn from her soul.
There was a world of betrayal, pain, anger, and rejection still between them.
Nothing had been resolved. The same issues that had torn them apart before were more valid than ever.
But none of that mattered right now. It was the most natural thing to open her arms to her.
And there was no hesitation on her part as she stepped into them.
Alice pressed her face into his chest, the scent of her hair and the warmth of her body so achingly familiar he could barely breathe. Her shoulders shook as her tears came—quiet at first, then harder.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered against his coat. “I don’t know why—”
“Don’t apologize.” He pressed a kiss into her hair, holding her tighter. “I understand. God, I understand.”
He felt his own throat tighten, grief and longing and love coiling into a knot. For a moment, they simply stood there, holding on as if they could keep the rest of the world at bay.
“I shouldn’t fall apart like this,” she whispered.
“You don’t have to be strong for me,” he whispered. “I’m here for you, Alice.”
He almost added, ‘always’. But of course, that would not be true.