around the rented room. There were no books to occupy him, no horn to practice. There was nothing to distract him from his own thoughts. In the past, he might have bought a bottle, gambled a bit on a game of cards, flirted with a barmaid. But now all he wanted was cream cakes. The only sort of card he cared for was the kind he lettered for the shop window. And he’d no desire to flirt with anyone at all.
How long he sat there, he didn’t know. A knock at his chamber’s door roused him at last. When he opened it with more force than grace, he was greeted by the familiar red-haired maid from Fairweather’s.
“Alice?” Simon blinked at her, puzzled. “What are you doing here? Did you bring a message?”
“Of a sort.” Fool that he was, he hadn’t noticed she was holding anything until she thrust a massive paper-wrapped package at him. Without another word, she curtseyed and turned on her heel, strolling away.
Mystified, Simon shut the door and placed the parcel on his bed. As soon as he untied the twine, he realized what was inside.
His horn case. Popping open the latches, he saw the brass instrument—shining and intact as if it had never left his possession.
Somehow, Rowena had redeemed it. How had she known where he’d sold it? He patted his coat pockets. No pawn ticket. It must have fluttered from his pocket in her workroom.
He lifted the bell, wondering at the heft of the cold metal. He hadn’t thought the instrument would be his again. He hadn’t thought he’d mind if it wasn’t, but here he was choking on emotion like a child given a beloved toy.
What was this? Papers, rolled up and tucked into the bell of the horn. Simon tugged them free, heart thumping wildly.
Here was the letter he’d torn in half and discarded. And here was a note from Rowena.
All right, he’d read the damned letter from Market Thistleton. He spread the pieces out flat, lining up the torn edges.
It was brief, and he was surprised to be disappointed by that. A few courtesies of greeting, a willingness to communicate with Mr. Thorn “in any way he sees fit.” It was signed simply “Howard.”
Had Elias Howard himself written this? Signed this? What was the feeling behind the tidy script? Was there any feeling at all?
Carefully, Simon refolded the pieces and tucked them into the pocket of the case where he sometimes carried sheet music. Then he opened the message from Rowena. It was even shorter than the letter, a mere four words.
Go make it right.
Maybe she had understood, after all. This was a good-bye, but it was also a farewell. Fare well. Have music. Be forgiven.
He would never deserve someone like Rowena—no, correction, he’d never think he deserved someone like Rowena—and would never be able to enjoy life without doubt and guilt, unless he went to Howard. Put the money in his hand, saw the operation completed, and apologized. Begged for forgiveness.
Could he do it? After all this time?
Until he bought a ticket to Market Thistleton, he hadn’t been sure he really intended to go. Before the coach departed, he had just enough time to pack a satchel and buy a copy of How to Ruin a Duke. Something to read along the way. A distraction from the everyday, as Rowena had described it.
And he was off, away from London. Traveling northwest to Staffordshire like a bird flying home after a long winter. Unlike a bird, free and fresh, he’d spend the four-day journey in a cramped carriage full of odoriferous strangers. The thought was distracting enough that he’d wedged himself into his seat, the horses clopping off for the journey’s beginning, before he realized he had neglected to ask Rowena about the final terms of the lease. What would the fate of Fairweather’s be?
He could guess: She wouldn’t give up. She’d keep the building, the business, the name. She would manage it all. Hadn’t she offered him everything he’d asked, to see him packing? She’d made it possible for him to leave, just as he’d always told her he wanted to.
He ought to be happy about that. He was on his own, unfettered and free to try whatever he wanted. He could be anything.
But for a little while, he’d been a part of something valuable. He’d been Rowena’s, and how grand it had been.
After dispatching Alice with the pawnbroker’s ticket, papers to tuck in the horn, and a banknote, Rowena made