“No, I won’t be staying long.” He blinked over at the tasteful furnishings, the damask drapes, the expensive sconces and bric-a-brac. She hated that she held her breath to hear what verdict he might pass.
He said nothing as he paused at the high-backed chair Titus favored, and put his hand on the crest, posing like a royal in a painting. He made a quick assessment of her unbound hair and the frothy gown that reminded her of the purple pansies in their gardens. “You’re not wearing widow’s black, Honoria.”
Any hope for paternal concern evaporated like the morning fog from the Thames when sliced by shafts of sunlight through the buildings. “You don’t actually expect me to mourn William, Papa; he was a murderer and a monster.”
“I know very well what he was. He used my shipping company to smuggle for a gangster, if you’ll remember.” He exclaimed this as if it were William’s worst sin of the lot, before his eyes narrowed upon her. “Still, tradition dictates you wear black. It is imperative that you’re seen doing everything properly.”
Deflating, she gestured to the arm bound to her body. “I’m not seen doing anything at all, Father. That’s rather the point of being in hiding. I see no one but my sisters, Nurse Higgins, and Doctor Conleith.”
“Yes… Conleith.” He gave their lush surroundings another thorough inspection, as if looking for something to condemn them. To Nora’s smug relief, their surroundings were every bit as fine as the furniture at Cresthaven. The rooms even larger and the amenities more tasteful and modern.
Her mother often pointed out to her father that they could relocate to some of the grander and newer houses being built in Belgravia and beyond, but Clarence Goode stubbornly held on to their Mayfair square, the one where the names were ancient and the titles as archaic as the homes.
Such things mattered more to him than anything, after money, of course. Tradition, position, reputation, followed by zealotry disguised as faith.
What an empty and terrible way to live. It was such a shame she could only come to that conclusion after the worst had happened. After she’d lost everything that he held dear. Her position in society, her reputation.
But what she’d found with Titus was so much more precious than that.
Passion, acceptance, a sense of wholeness, hope, and wonder. And—someday—forgiveness?
Dare she hope…love.
“That boy is taking a great risk keeping you here,” her father remarked.
“Morley doesn’t think so. Since Mr. Sauvageau doesn’t seem to know I’m here—”
He pinned her with his most imperious glare. “I’m not referring to the gangsters, Honoria, but everyone else. Everyone who matters. Though your circumstances are greatly diminished and Conleith’s have exponentially elevated, so much about the impossibility of your situation remains unchanged.”
“Doctor Conleith,” she dared to correct him, wanting her father to give Titus his due. “And I don’t understand—”
“Of course you don’t,” he snorted. “Doctor Conleith has both made and spent an impressive and astonishing fortune on a bevy of new surgical schemes, or so I’ve gathered.”
“I know this already—”
“He’s still nobody, Honoria. He is nothing without his reputation as a surgeon and a man. He has no title to protect him, no lands to rely upon for income. His entire future is built upon the skill in his hands and the trust of his wealthy patients and patrons here.”
The weight of all that was pressing upon Titus’s shoulders became a heavy lead stone in her gut. Because she knew what her father’s next words would be. And the truth they contained threatened to extinguish the tiny flame of hope with which she’d awoken, and plunge her into a pit of despair.
“A relationship with you could taint him. You realize that, don’t you? You could ruin the success of any of his future endeavors. That’s how far and completely you have fallen.”
Her legs gave way as her father yanked the rug out from under them, and she landed on the velvet chair behind her.
Hard.
Cresthaven reached into the pocket of the mahogany vest that stretched over his impressive paunch and retrieved his watch to check the time.
As if he had somewhere more important to be.
“Your mother and I have discovered a way out of this debacle you’ve found yourself in.”
At that, her temper flared. “I didn’t find myself anywhere, Father. My husband tried to murder me. This was no fault of mine.”
He waved his hand in front of his face, as if dispelling an unpleasant scent or swatting