Page 87 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

Roman had spent most of his life understanding his obligations according to a relatively simple principle: if something mattered, somebody must take responsibility for it. If the responsibility was his, preference had very little to do with the matter.

Salmond’s letter required an answer. Tamsin did not require anything.

“I will try not to be long.”

Something flickered across her expression. “I know.”

Roman hesitated. After a moment, he bent and pressed a kiss to her temple.

It was not their usual kiss. They had not shared one of those since the night she locked the connecting door between their chambers. But she did not draw away, and her eyes lifted to his when he straightened. Neither spoke a word to each other.

He bowed. “Good afternoon, Mayweather. Henry.”

Roman left. He carried Salmond’s letter with him to his study, unfolded it upon his desk, and set immediately to work on a response. The problem was interesting, and certainly important; and it was his to handle, even if he sought Holly’s advice on the matter.

But for the first time in longer than Roman could remember, he wondered why he was the one who had to solve it.

Chapter Twenty-Two

By the first week of November, Tamsin had learned her husband could be physically present at breakfast but mentally in an entirely different part of the city. At least they no longer had the bedroom door locked between them. She had come to that decision after Charles and Henry visited. She’d admitted that evening, too, as she curled up against his chest, that she had missed him. He’d admitted the same as he kissed her forehead and they drifted off to sleep.

But the approaching vote had taken most of his attention, as she had expected. Roman sat across from her at the end of the week, a cup of coffee cooling beside his elbow and three letters open before him. He had already answered two others. Tamsin knew this because she had watched him write them between haphazard bites of toast. He frowned and put his free hand down, searching for something without looking, his fingers questing across the white linen tablecloth.

“Roman.”

He did not look up.

“Roman.”

“Mm?” He still did not look up.

She forced down a smile. “Your coffee is to the right.”

He looked at the cup, surprised to find it there. “Yes? Oh. Thank you.”

Tamsin returned her attention to her own breakfast. It had been like this for more than a week. Mr. Salmond had called twice, Mr. Holly more often. Roman had gone to the offices of the York Herald three times that Tamsin knew of, and there had been meetings she knew nothing about save they had taken him away before dinner and returned him long after.

The pamphlets were printed and reprinted, sometimes with changes but often without, and the petitions were passed from one gentleman or merchant to the next. Micklegate Bar was going to be saved. Her husband had decided it would be. And Roman was forever almost finished with the work.

It ought not to have bothered her.

This was, after all, precisely the sort of marriage which would suit most women: a husband with interests and occupations of his own. She therefore had a household in which she was free to arrange her days as she pleased. No one demanded an accounting of where she had been, what she had done, or why she had spent an hour walking with Matilda instead of making calls.

It was remarkably inconvenient to discover…she missed him.

Roman folded the letter in his hand. “I must go.”

“Of course.”

He came around the table, bent, and kissed her. Tamsin turned her face up automatically, her lips meeting his own, and the kiss lingered long enough to make her think perhaps he was not entirely consumed by barbicans, petitions, and obstinate aldermen.

Then he straightened. “I do not yet know when I shall be back.”

“I understand,” she said, not for the first time.

His hand paused against the back of her chair. Tamsin looked up at him, hope rising in her that the hesitation meant something.

A frown creased his lips. “Have I forgotten anything?”