Chapter 10
Ten
The bell above the bookshop door gave a muted jingle as Theo stepped inside.
He took in a deep breath and welcomed the cool hush of the place, for he needed the silence today.
As he moved further in, a burst of laughter broke the quiet—light, clear, entirely out of place—and every muscle in his body went taut.
He knew that sound. Theo turned a corner between two towering shelves and found her.
Lady April stood at the counter, animatedly speaking with the elderly bookseller, who looked half-delighted, half-bewildered. She held aloft a lurid-looking novel titled The Castle of Mist and Mourning, the kind plastered with improbable castles and swooning heroines.
“But you must admit,” she was saying, “there is something terribly heroic about a hero who spends half the novel brooding in dungeons.”
The bookseller chuckled and shook his head, and Lady April grinned, radiant and unburdened.
Theo leaned against the nearest shelf, arms crossed, unseen for the moment. He watched her—the lively expressions that danced across her face, the way she leaned in when making a point, the utter lack of self-consciousness.
How easily she lived.
The bookseller spotted him first and inclined his head. Lady April turned, her blue eyes widening in surprise before lighting with mischief.
“Your Grace,” she said, sweeping him a curtsy far too grand for such a humble place.
“Lady April,” he replied, inclining his head, dismissing the urge to curve his lips.
She straightened, her mouth curving into a grin. “Are you here to seek novels as grim as your disposition?”
“I might be,” he confirmed. “Unless you intend to recommend something… lighter?”
“I doubt you would survive it,” she teased, handing him the gothic novel with a solemn air. “Perhaps you should begin with this. A sturdy dungeon or two might suit you.”
He accepted the ridiculous book, turning it over in his hands with mock gravity. “If I do not survive the experience, I shall hold you responsible.”
“I accept full responsibility,” she said, laughing. “Though I suspect you are hardier than you appear.”
“Appearances are dangerous things,” he observed, arching a brow.
“Especially when one wears them like armor,” she shot back, flashing him a knowing smile.
He tilted his head, considering her. “And what armor do you wear, Lady April?”
She tapped the book against her chin. “Laughter, Your Grace. It confuses the enemy.”
“I should like to see you attempt it on a battlefield,” he said dryly.
“If you think the ton is less treacherous, Your Grace, you have not been paying attention,” she argued, her voice dancing with amusement.
“A fair point,” he admitted.
She tilted her head, pretending to examine him closely. “You look rather better suited to storming a castle than dancing at a ball.”
“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, “here I stand, frightening booksellers and young ladies alike.”
“You do not frighten me,” she pointed out, sounding very certain. He believed her. “Come,” she said, holding out her hand as though commanding him. “Recommend me something.”
He scanned the shelves, reaching without hesitation for a slim, battered volume. He held it out to her.
“This,” he said.
She took it, reading the title aloud: Meditations on the Nature of Honor. Her nose wrinkled adorably. “It sounds terribly serious.”
“It is.”
“And here I thought you would recommend something cheerful, given the setting.”
“Grave taste,” he said dryly, “is difficult to abandon.”
She considered the book then him with mock severity. “I shall add it to my growing collection of terrifying titles, alongside The Torments of the Mind and The Sorrows of Young Werther.”
“A formidable library,” he observed, amused despite himself.
“Formidable and gloomy,” she teased.
“I should like to see your collection,” he said before he could think better of it.
She lifted a brow. “Careful, Your Grace. That sounds suspiciously like an invitation.”
“And if it were?”
“I might begin to think you enjoy my company,” she said, laughter bright in her voice.
“Dangerous thought,” he murmured, stepping back before the temptation to reach for her overwhelmed him.
The bookseller cleared his throat politely, and Lady April moved toward the counter to make her purchases. Theo lingered near the shelves, appearing disinterested, though he watched her from the corner of his eye.
Without a word, he selected a second copy of the ridiculous gothic novel she had mocked and handed it discreetly to the bookseller along with payment for his own selection.
Lady April glanced over her shoulder as she finished, catching his gaze. She smiled—bright and sweet—and tucked her book under her arm.
“Enjoy your reflections, Your Grace,” she called as she walked away.
He watched her go, the ridiculous novel clutched to her chest, and thought, How easily she makes even the darkness bearable.
The next day, Theo found himself walking the narrow streets near Covent Garden, the cold morning air biting at the back of his neck.
The interrogation earlier had yielded little but frustration—words twisted into lies, glances that darted away at the first true question.
He would find what he needed—he always did—but not today.
He had not intended to visit her, but as his boots turned up the quieter lanes, as his mind circled endlessly back to Lady April’s laughter in that bookshop, he let his steps carry him forward.
When he reached the modest townhouse, he rapped twice and entered without waiting for the butler.
His maternal aunt, Eugenia Forest, was seated by the fire, a knitted shawl wrapped around her frail shoulders, her sharp blue eyes immediately lighting at the sight of him.
“Theodore,” she greeted, holding out a thin hand.
He crossed the room swiftly and bent to kiss her knuckles, the gesture one he had done since boyhood. Then, without waiting for invitation, he settled in the chair beside her, the firelight catching the sharp line of his jaw.
“You are thinner than last time,” she observed, studying him critically.
“London does not feed a man well,” he replied dryly.
She chuckled, the sound soft and warm. “Nonsense. You just avoid every hearty meal in favor of brooding.”
“You know me too well,” he said, leaning back, crossing one boot over the other.
“That I do,” she agreed, pouring him tea with trembling hands. “You were brooding even in the cradle.”
He accepted the cup, the faintest gleam of amusement in her eyes. “Your cousin Gregory wrote me. He is still enjoying the Continent with his wife and children but he shall be returning soon.”
“So, his letter said,” Theo murmured. “He has been promising to return for months.”
“Oh, he wrote you, as well?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me,” she said, settling back with effort, “is there any happiness yet in your life, my boy?”
He hesitated, glancing into the flames. Then, carefully, he replied, “I am… courting.”
Her eyebrows rose with delight. “A lady?”
“Lady April Vestiere,” he confirmed, allowing himself the small pleasure of saying her name aloud.
“April,” she repeated fondly. “A spring name. How fitting. Is she lovely?”
“She is,” he admitted. “And clever.”
“Good,” Eugenia said. “A woman should be clever. Keeps a man honest.”
He smiled faintly and accepted the tea she handed him though he barely tasted it.
“Where did you meet her?” Eugenia asked, her voice bright with curiosity.
Theo sipped his tea, buying a breath of time. His hand slid into his coat pocket without conscious thought, fingers finding the worn handkerchief he always carried there.
“At a ball,” he said, deliberately vague.
Not the truth—but close enough to pass. He thumbed the cloth absently as he added, “She dances well. Speaks well. She is… bright.”
Bright enough to chase shadows from rooms I didn’t realize were dark.
Eugenia nodded. “A lady who dances and speaks well is already a treasure. But a lady who makes you smile, Theo—now that is priceless.”
He ducked his head, masking the twist of something in his chest. That lady might not exist, for it is not her with the faults but me.
“When will I meet her?” his aunt asked.
“Soon,” he said, hoping it was not a lie. He thought, with a touch of frustration, of the remaining outings Lady April had yet to arrange. Three more. He needed her to move them along, so she could reach her decision.
And he needed—God help him—to be ready when she did.
They spoke of lighter things after that. Of books and the dreadful weather and the antics of her pet cat, who stalked the window ledges like a jungle beast.
“You always did favor the heavier poets,” Aunt Eugenia obserbved with a chuckle, reaching for a worn volume on the side table. “Read to me, Theo. It has been too long since I heard you.”
He hesitated then took the book from her—an aged copy of Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene.
“Choose something hopeful,” she teased, “or I shall think you mean to depress an old woman.”
Turning a few pages, he selected a passage he had always remembered for its strange, aching beauty:
“For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.”
“A good beginning,” Eugenia said, her hands folded serenely on her lap.
He continued:
“In vain it were to think to turne the streame, when roaring with the lashing raines it flowes.”
“As stubborn as you,” she said, her voice bright with teasing.
Theo gave a slight tilt of his head, the barest hint of surrender, and read on:
“But yet the end is not so desperately desperate, since by seeking still, it may be wonne.”
“Hope,” she said, her voice softer now. “There’s always hope, Theo. Even when you least believe it.”
He finished the passage, letting the final words hang between them.
Eugenia shifted, tugging her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
“When I was a girl,” she said after a moment, “I loved a young man named Jonathan. He had hair the color of ripe wheat and a laugh that could coax flowers to bloom early.”
Theo listened in stillness, the only movement the faint tightening of his jaw.
“He went to war,” she said simply. “We wrote letters—so many letters. I promised to wait. And I did. But he never came home.”
The fire cracked softly.
“I thought,” she said, staring into the flames, “that my heart would stay broken forever. But the heart… it mends. Not cleanly. Not perfectly. But it mends.”
Theo bowed his head slightly, a gesture of reverence.
“Sometimes,” Eugenia said, her smile wistful, “the cracks let the light in.”
Theo’s fingers tightened around the book’s spine before he laid it gently on the table.
He rose soon after, bending to kiss her brow and murmuring something about returning soon. She caught his hand as he straightened, giving it a small, firm squeeze.
“Don’t let fear cheat you, Theodore,” she said. “You deserve joy, even if you must fight for it.”
As he stepped back into the brittle sunlight, he drew the handkerchief from his pocket, feeling the frayed edges under his thumb.
He didn’t need to look at the handkerchief to know what the haphazardly embroidered flowers, butterflies, and his crooked initials looked like, for he had every detail committed to his memory.
He folded it carefully and tucked it away. Hope, he thought grimly, was a dangerous thing. And yet, for the first time in years, he found himself wondering…
Could he allow himself to hope again?