Eveline took it reluctantly, expecting to see the name of some gossip-mongering acquaintance of her mother's, or worse, someone from those scandal sheets that seemed to multiply like rabbits in London's moral gutters. Instead, she found herself staring at elegantly engraved letters that made her pause:
Theodore Browne, Esq.Scholar of Classical AntiquitiesCorresponding Member, Royal Historical Society
"Theodore Browne?" she murmured, genuinely surprised. She knew who he was, of course—anyone with even a passing interest in classical scholarship did. His essays on Byzantine manuscripts were considered definitive, and his translation of Theocritus had earned praise from universities across Europe. But what could such a man want with her?
"Shall I tell him you're not at home, miss?" Mary asked hopefully, clearly eager to escape back to the safety of the kitchen.
"No," Eveline said slowly, setting aside her pen. "No, show him up. But perhaps..." She glanced at her reflection in the small mirror above her writing desk, taking in her wan complexion and hastily arranged hair. "Give me five minutes first."
Mary bobbed a curtsey and fled, leaving Eveline to attempt some hasty repairs to her appearance. She was still in her second-best day dress and there was little to be done about the shadows under her eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights. But she managed to pin up the worst of her escaped curls andpinch some color into her cheeks before a knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," she called, rising to greet her unexpected visitor.
The man who entered was nothing like what she'd expected. She'd imagined someone elderly and dusty, perhaps with the stooped shoulders and myopic squint common to those who spent their lives buried in ancient texts. Instead, Theodore Browne was tall and elegantly proportioned, with the kind of understated presence that commanded attention without demanding it. He appeared to be in his late thirties, with dark hair just beginning to show distinguished touches of silver at the temples. His clothes were well-tailored but not ostentatious—a deep green coat that spoke of quality without shouting it, buff-colored breeches, and boots polished to a respectable but not mirror-like shine.
But it was his face that caught her attention. Behind wire-rimmed spectacles, intelligent hazel eyes regarded her with an expression of polite interest mixed with something that might have been concern. His features were pleasant rather than handsome; a thoughtful face, she decided, one that suggested depth rather than surface charm.
"Miss Whitcombe," he said, executing a bow that was perfectly correct without being overly formal. "I hope you'll forgive the intrusion. I realise we haven't been formally introduced, but I felt the circumstances warranted a breach of strict propriety."
His voice was cultured but warm, lacking the affected drawl so many gentlemen cultivated. There was something reassuring about it, like well-worn leather or aged wine; comfortable and unpretentious.
"Mr. Browne," she replied, offering a curtsey that felt awkward after days of hiding in her chambers. "I confess myself surprised by your visit. To what do I owe the honour?"
"May I sit? I promise not to take up too much of your time, but what I have to say might be better discussed with some degree of comfort."
She gestured to the small sitting area by the window, acutely aware of how shabby her lodgings must appear to someone accustomed to better surroundings. The furniture was clean but worn, the carpet showed signs of age, and the entire room spoke of genteel poverty maintained with stubborn pride.
"Might I offer you tea?" she asked, settling into her chair with what dignity she could muster.
"That would be most welcome, thank you."
She rang for Mary, grateful for the ritual of hospitality that provided a few moments to gather her scattered thoughts. Theodore Browne sat with perfect ease, neither stiff with formality nor lounging with inappropriate familiarity. He had the gift, she realized, of making himself at home without taking liberties and that was a rare quality in her experience.
"I should explain my presence," he said once Mary had deposited the tea tray and then had moved to the corner of the room to act as chaperone. "We have, in a sense, a mutual acquaintance. Professor Blackwood at Oxford speaks very highly of your scholarship."
"You know Professor Blackwood?" Eveline's hand paused in the act of pouring, genuine pleasure warming her voice. "How is he? I haven't had a letter from him in months."
"Thriving and as irascible as ever. He still insists that half the faculty can't properly translate a simple Latin inscription, and he's probably right." Theodore accepted his teacup with a smile that transformed his thoughtful face into something approaching handsome. "He mentioned you often in our correspondence. His star pupil, he called you. The one who should have been at Oxford if only the world were sensible about such things."
"The world is rarely sensible about women with intellectual pretensions," Eveline said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice entirely. "As recent events have rather spectacularly proven."
"Ah." Theodore set down his cup carefully. "That brings me to the purpose of my visit, actually. You see, I had the privilege of viewing your work at Everleigh Manor."
Eveline stiffened. "Indeed?"
"I was researching a monograph on Byzantine influence on medieval manuscripts," he explained, apparently oblivious to her discomfort. "His Grace was kind enough to grant me access to his collection,... before..." He paused delicately. "Before recent events. I spent the better part of three days in that library, and I must say, your cataloguing system was nothing short of brilliant."
"You saw my work?" The words came out smaller than she'd intended, touched with a vulnerability she hadn't meant to show.
"Saw it? My dear Miss Whitcombe, I was astounded by it. The cross-referencing system alone was masterful. I've never seen anything quite like it. And your notes!" His eyes lit with genuine enthusiasm behind his spectacles. "Your marginal comments on the Byzantine texts showed a depth of understanding that would put most Oxford dons to shame. That observation about the stylistic variations in the illuminated manuscripts suggesting multiple scriptoriums—brilliant, absolutely brilliant."
Eveline felt heat rise to her cheeks, though this time from pleasure rather than shame. It had been so long since anyone had spoken of her work with genuine appreciation rather than condescension or scandal-tinged curiosity.
"You're very kind to say so," she managed.
"I'm not kind at all, merely honest. Which brings me to why I'm here." He leaned forward slightly, his expression growing more serious. "I'm not a man given to dancing around difficult subjects, Miss Whitcombe, so I'll speak plainly. I'm aware of the current... talk... surrounding your situation."
The warmth in her cheeks faded, replaced by the familiar cold of mortification. "I see."
