Meanwhile, at Buxton House
Amidst falling snow,the Kingston town coach rumbled to a stop in front of Buxton House in Mayfair. Although the property wasn’t particularly large, it was well-kept, its front separated from the pavement by the usual, green-painted wrought iron fence.
Once the driver opened the door for him, Cornelius stepped down and glanced around, sure one of the neighbors was probably watching from an upstairs window. Although the gossip wouldn’t make its way to him—the goings-on in Mayfair didn’t matter to those who had their homes in his part of Westminster—he was worried Eliza Buxton’s reputation might suffer.
This would be his second night paying a call after dark.
His second night of not emerging from the house until morning.
He could have invited Eliza to come to Kingston House, but he wasn’t sure how Catherine would react if she discovered them together.
Whenshe discovered them.
He rather doubted he would be able to keep Eliza hidden from his daughter come morning.
“Return at ten o’clock in the morning,” he instructed his driver.
“Very good, sir,” the coachman replied.
“Oh, and don’t forget about Miss Kingston. I believe she’s still at the bookshop,” Cornelius added, attempting to brush away snowflakes before they could melt on his black greatcoat.
“Miss Kingston sent word she had made other arrangements for this evening.”
Cornelius gave a start. “Oh, must be one of those literary meetings,” he commented. “Very well. See you in the morning.”
He hurried over the fresh snow, through the gate and to the front door, relieved when it opened before he had a chance to use the brass knocker. The fact that it was a mermaid amused him, given Eliza’s late husband had been an army man rather than a sailor.
“I was growing worried,” Eliza said, stepping back to allow him into the small hall that fronted the townhouse.
“Apologies, my love, but this weather is wreaking havoc on traffic. I do hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.”
“Not at all. Dinner will be served at eight,” she said, helping with his greatcoat. “We can have drinks in the parlor if you’d like. Coffee or… something warmer?” she suggested, her face displaying a teasing expression.
“How about a bit of both?” he countered before landing a kiss on her forehead. “It’s terribly cold out there, and I fear I’ve brought in some snow with me.” He grimaced at the puddle forming near his feet.
“It will melt as it always does,” she assured him, placing her hand on his proffered arm before they climbed the stairs to the second-floor parlor. “How was your day?”
“Better than that day you came to the office with Catherine.” They entered the parlor, and he was happy to see a fire was ablaze in the nearby fireplace, its heat necessary on such a snowy day. He motioned her to the settee, and the two took seats next one another. A tea tray had already been delivered, andhe grinned when he detected the strong odor of coffee. His grin widened to a smile when he noticed a crystal decanter on the tray. “All is well now. Those books came back from the bindery and have now been shipped off to all the bookstores in England.” He took the chair adjacent to hers.
“I am glad it was repairable,” she said, pouring him a cup of coffee from a silver pot. “Sugar or…”
“Brandy,” he said with a chuckle.
She grinned as she added a dollop of the amber liquid from the crystal carafe. “Have you spoken with Cathy?”
Cornelius took the cup and saucer from Eliza and furrowed a graying brow. “Not today. She was already gone when I awoke this morning.”
“Do you think she’s still angry with me?”
He shook his head. “She is your best friend, and you are hers. I rather doubt she was ever truly angry with you,” he added before taking a sip of the coffee. He made a sound of appreciation. “This hits the spot.”
“Nevertheless, I feel awful about how things have happened. I just don’t understand how she can be so against marriage for herself.”
“She isn’t against marriage, exactly,” he replied. “She has always been very independent. She knows if she marries, it will have to be to a gentleman—and it willbea gentleman, if I have anything to say about it—who will allow her to continue attending her literarysoiréesand such.”
“An author, you think?” Eliza guessed.
Cornelius grimaced so hard, his face hurt. “Absolutely not.”
