Never Too Late

me.

Chapter One

London, June 1851

Evans Principle 1: Customers must, at all times, be treated with civility, no matter how uncivil they may be.

If she hadn’t been dusting the reading nook so beloved by customers, young and old, Mrs. Honoria Duchamp, owner and proprietress of Evans Books, would not have heard the cruel comments about her from some society mum shepherding her daughter to matrimonial slaughter. Now it echoed in her mind: Did you see that woman, Margaret? Did you? Take a close look at her and at this cramped, suffocating little shop. This is the best you can hope for if you don’t marry well. Do you think that shriveled-up mouse of a woman wanted this menial life? The mother’s sharp voice had grown shrill toward the end of this little speech. It just goes to show, she thought, nothing good can come of dusting.

If she hadn’t been feeling particularly content right then, the comments likely would have wafted through her mind with no more impact than a falling nettle in a forest, just one more lifeless wisp. This time, though, the cruel depiction of her as a cautionary tale sliced through her equilibrium. What she’d seen as enough was seen by others as cramped and suffocating. She felt small, her ambitions lacking. It felt almost true.

You see, Margaret—the mother’s voice cut through the bookshelf between them, interrupting her self-reflection—do you see why I harp on you about finding a good match?

Yes, Mother. Resigned flat tone. Honoria quirked her brow. Ah, yes, all too common a conversation in the advice section. She could almost picture the young lady; they always wore pale clothes, always wore their bonnets primly, always sported pristine white gloves that meant they couldn’t actually handle any of the books themselves, for fear of muss.

An older couple approached the register to purchase a stack of periodicals so she went to take care of them. The husband, all business, made pleasantries about the weather, but the wife, her plump figure swathed in gray worsted, looked with kind eyes at Honoria and reached out to pat her left hand while she wrote out the bill of sale with her right.

Don’t you take those careless words to heart, dearie. The wife’s touch was gentle, warm. My niece lost her man in a railway accident two years ago, and with two little mouths to feed yet. She’s remarried now to a kind older gentleman who wanted companionship. ’Course she’s only one-and-twenty yet.

Ethelyn, must you? At the husband’s low chiding, the woman withdrew her arm. No one needs to know your family business.

Oh, bother. Freddy, I’m sure the missus could do with a kind word or two. Now, dear, keep in mind you have a lovely face, regardless of your age. Don’t lose hope!

One couldn’t lose something one never had. Honoria was quite content with her single life; she’d never hoped for a husband, at least not since taking over the family business. She deflected the conversation adroitly and professionally as she recorded the sale in the ledger. May I interest either of you in this tract about abolition or perhaps this new commentary on art by Ruskin? Both are quite well written and informative. Here is a fascinating anonymous article on child labor. She fanned a selection of pamphlets on the counter.

Stressful as it could be, owning a bookstore had its advantages. Aside from the financial independence, meager as it was, she was constantly surrounded by the one thing she loved. Words. Knowledge. Countless worlds and lifetimes. The eternal truths and fantasies of humanity. All bound in paper and leather and stacked two stories high. The printing press was, she was sure, the most magnificent invention of the modern world. The customers she’d inherited from her father trusted her professionalism and helped to build her clientele and her economic stability. While she could avoid participating in the social world, she couldn’t prevent it from entering her Greek Street storefront.

The husband gruffly said, No, thank you, as he collected his change, then gave his wife his arm as she bid a good morning and glanced back one last time, sympathetic, as they walked out. Of course, the woman meant to be comforting, but even such well-intended condescension had long since grown tiresome. She watched the two stroll blithely out of view, so charmingly a couple even as they bickered, and started sorting the most recently received titles stacked behind the counter.

Now take these books, said the anxious mother from the back corner. "We’ll study them tonight. Tomorrow you’ll work on your vocal and piano lessons. We must prepare for the season. What was that book Mrs. Nesbeth suggested? Something about letters. Ladies with Letters? Letters for Ladies?"

The woman’s raised voice, nasal and piercing, suddenly filled the shop. Miss! Oh, miss, we need your help over here.

She stifled a groan as she made her way to them, anticipating which volume regarding letters they might possibly want. The daughter, Margaret, held a stack of five advice manuals to her chest, as if they could coalesce into a fairy godmother, complete with pumpkin carriage and princely suitor. A pretty girl, probably around age seventeen, with fine ash-blond hair and brown eyes—and, yes, fetchingly dressed in pristine white frock, bonnet, and gloves, the young miss looked hesitant and yet curious. She noticed the girl’s eyes roaming other corners of the store, perhaps for more interesting fare.

"Miss, do you have Letters for Ladies? This from an extravagantly coiffed older woman, clearly young Margaret’s high-strung mother, dressed in the newest fashions but somewhat awry. Like a painting ever so slightly askew, the woman’s clothing seemed . . . off. Perhaps it was the garish yellow or the excess of blonde lace, trying too hard to appear refined. My neighbor highly recommends it for all young ladies of good breeding. I would assume any smart bookseller would have a copy, but I can’t seem to find one."

She swallowed hard. The customer must always be treated with civility, even if said customer is a pill, a massive, chalky pill to be choked down with gall!

"I believe you may mean Letters to Young Ladies by a Mrs. Lydia Sigourney, It was a very popular volume for several years, but so many other more recent books have taken over the shelves. We should have a copy, though, along this wall," Honoria explained as she examined the shelves methodically. She’d grown accustomed to relaxing her eyes ever so slightly, not reading specific titles but seeking appropriate patterns of lettering and coloring. By the time she got to the bottom shelf, the mother behind her was audibly exasperated.

There is one more shelf, madam. See, up there, recessed just so. I believe some of our older ladies’ guides are up there. I’ll just be a moment. She fetched the wooden ladder from the back of the store and climbed up, forcibly reminded that she’d never been quite tall enough to reach that shelf, even with the ladder. It had been where her father shelved texts not suitable for her as a young woman. Still, she stretched her body as far as she could reach, from the tips of her toes to the tips of her fingers and found she could just barely hook the top binding of some items, some laced with fine spider webbing. In this position, though, she could not see what she was feeling, couldn’t read the titles and reach them at the same time.

The door chime announced a new customer. She parroted the usual greeting without looking. Good afternoon. If you seek something in particular, I will be with you shortly, as soon as I have finished helping these gentlewomen. In the meantime, please feel free to explore. Her eyes were intent on counting the number of books on the shelf up to her prey. She then followed the count with her fingers.

There it is! I’ll have your book for you in just a moment, madam.

Stretch just a bit more. Every inch of her strained to reach, inching closer to the spot where she could hook the top of the book and yank it out.

Would service in this establishment be quicker if I assisted? A male voice, deep and smooth, disrupted her focus. She heard the ladies gasp behind her.

Without ceasing her efforts, she replied, No, no, sir. Please don’t trouble yourself. I will be right with you. This will take but a moment more.

One tiny hop ought to do it. Stretch and hop. Yes! She felt the book slip easily away from its neighbors.

That final exertion, however, put her off balance. As the book gave way, the momentum of her pull made her lose her footing. She grabbed for the ladder but found only air. Her hands slipped down shelves without purchase. As she fell headlong toward the ground, she heard a tiny scream and was so startled, all she could do was flail her arms and legs, her eyes shut tight. She’d be lucky if she didn’t crack her skull open on the floor. Wouldn’t that be good for business?

Her breath slammed out of her upon impact. Except she felt not the hard, unyielding wood. Unyielding, yes, but . . . warm . . . and enveloping. She opened her eyes to find herself looking at disheveled but otherwise finely clipped black hair atop a man’s head. She’d landed, it seemed, in a pair of strong hands, and her . . . bloody hell . . . her bosom had landed square on the man’s face. If he wears spectacles, I’ve surely blinded him! She could feel the warmth of his breath, even through several layers of cotton and wool.

Margaret, avert your eyes! Poor Margaret’s mother lunged to block her daughter’s view.

Honoria pushed against the man’s shoulders, very firm and broad shoulders, to disentangle herself but couldn’t find purchase on the ground until he lifted her away and set her down firmly. For a moment, flushed with mortification, she couldn’t speak, although a string of unutterable curses ran through her head.

My stars! she said, grasping at the first acceptable epithet that came to mind and trying to recover gracefully. I . . . thank you, sir. I’m deeply sorry. How clumsy of me. She focused on brushing dust off of her skirt and found she couldn’t bring herself to look at the man’s face. Her chest tingled from the impact. She caught the mother’s horrified expression and felt an inexplicable bubble of laughter she had to tamp down. Really, the fall was ridiculous but hardly cause for the woman’s scandalized alarm.

I am always pleased to be of service to a lady in need. The man’s deep voice dripped with sarcasm. He bent to pick up the Letters to Young Ladies, which had fallen out of Honoria’s grasp, and held it out to Margaret’s mother. I believe this is for you?

Thank you, sir. Hmm, it’s rather slight. The woman was curt but then looked at the man more carefully, her eyes seeking something. My lord, I believe we have some friends in common.

Is that so? The coldness in his voice could not be mistaken. Apparently, he was not here for random conversation and barely tolerated the distraction. But he was clearly too well-bred to give a cut direct.

Yes, indeed, sir. Are you Lord Devin? Who was at the Wenthrope dinner last Thursday?

I am indeed Lord Alexander Devin, at your service, madam. He made a polite bow to the mother and then to the daughter. Reputed to be a recluse, the Viscount Alexander Devin’s presence at a society dinner and now at her shop was unusual, to say the least. While Honoria didn’t give much credence or attention to scandal sheets, she tried to keep abreast of a wide range of timely subjects and potential clients of the ton. I apologize, he continued, but my memory fails me. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?

Oh, I don’t think we were formally introduced, your lordship. I am the wife of Mr. Arthur Hayman, and this is my daughter, Margaret. The Hayman family obviously needed all the etiquette advice they could find; Honoria was embarrassed for them, especially since they didn’t seem to perceive their egregious faux pas. Instead, there was a smooth curtsy from Margaret. The girl’s demeanor had transformed. Like a once-listless puppet set dancing by its master, she came to life, with a delicacy to every motion and a faint gleam in her downturned eye. She’s ever so talented. She can sing nicely and her needlework is quite fine. Surely, next, the mother would be showing off her daughter’s teeth. Margaret’s face remained politely impassive, but Honoria noticed the undisguised interest in her coy glances at his lordship, in the tilt of her head and the flutter of her lashes.

And why wouldn’t the girl be interested? Such matches between an older gentleman and a young girl were ordinary, if not expected. Of course, most girls like Margaret wouldn’t want a septuagenarian, but even if Lord Devin were, as she estimated, ten years the girl’s senior, he was a fine specimen of manhood in its prime. He was the definition of a strapping young man—notably tall, broad-shouldered, lean, his face appropriately pleasant and inoffensive. And, of course, he was a viscount, highly prized on the marriage mart. Upon quick assessment, she guessed Margaret’s obvious response to him was not unusual. Here was yet another girl building a Cinderella fantasy in her head. It would be sweet if the story weren’t so unlikely. Many a girl wove such fairy tales for themselves only to find the pumpkin carriage was moldy and the prince was a toad. Or worse, they learned the only reality was the ash heap—no prince, no godmother, just a castle fashioned from dust.

To his credit, Lord Devin didn’t seem to respond in any way to the girl’s feminine wiles. He maintained a consistently superior, mildly sardonic tone and demeanor. Normally, she denigrated such lordly behavior, yet she could swear she glimpsed humor in his eyes when he glanced her way. Yet the mother and daughter either didn’t notice or steadfastly remained undaunted. Then he looked at her directly with a glint of combined mischief and entreaty. She repressed a shiver as she recalled the warmth of his body against hers and responded to his tacit request, though not as he might expect.

Pardon my interruption. She had to get back to the business at hand. But, madam, would you like me to bring your books up to the register for you? So you can continue your conversation unencumbered. Receiving an affirmative response, she turned to Margaret. "These are all lovely, but perhaps you might also be interested in more entertaining reading. I have here a few titles that are currently popular, including the newer edition of Wuthering Heights, the one revealing the identity of the Bell authors." The girl’s eyes finally tore away from the strapping gentleman and glinted with genuine interest at the reference to Wuthering Heights but her mother intervened.

No, my Margaret doesn’t have time for frivolous reading, I assure you. Ours is a Bible-reading home, the mother said. As it is, these prices are steep for honest, upstanding families who have serious financial responsibilities. More snideness. Honoria prided herself on being a reasonable businesswoman, striving to meet every customer’s needs, whether enlightening or entertaining, and at a reasonable cost; she would endure personal affront but would not let insults to her business go unchallenged.

I agree, madam. I do strive to keep prices as low as possible and yet still make some kind of living. It is my policy to charge no more than one percent above the publisher prices. It’s a terribly difficult business. Honoria hoped she kept the venom out of her tone as Margaret’s mother turned her attention back to Lord Devin. She raised a brow fleetingly at him and received an amused tilt of his head as he squared his shoulders to defend himself against the maternal onslaught. As she wrote out the sale back at the register, the little group’s voices ranged and flowed, the mother’s voice always the loudest.

Well, said the mother, finally sputtering to an end of her verbal dysentery, Margaret, come bid Lord Devin a good day. Sir, I do hope you find the ideal gift for your mother. That shee-hair-a-zod, is that German? It sounds quite interesting. As soon as they’d taken their leave of him, the mother ushered her daughter to the register to collect their purchase. The mother gave what seemed like an inappropriately casual wave of her fingers at the gentleman as they pushed out the door.

The click of the door latching suddenly, inexplicably, made Honoria uncomfortable. She was preternaturally aware of the Viscount Devin, the only remaining customer, striding to the register. He was surprisingly young, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six, but then she caught herself—why should that be a surprise? What, from their limited interaction thus far, would give the impression he was older? His barely restrained disdain for everyone around him, perhaps? Not that such behavior suggested true maturity, just a level of assumption she associated with older men. His black hair still slightly disarrayed from their collision, she felt the impulse to smooth it down. But as she glanced down at her hands, wondering where the devil that thought came from, she noticed the not-so-fine lines on her knuckles, the bagginess of her skin, and she balled up her fists and slid them beneath the counter. Immediately, she berated herself for such vanity and forced her hands to grasp a ledger and place it softly on top of the counter. Really, Nora! What can you be thinking?

She looked up at his face as he arrived, standing before her with an air of ownership and expectation, as if all the world bowed to his will. As if anything he wanted were his for the taking. Her breasts tingled anew, her skin remembering the contours of his face. She was shocked at her response, unfamiliar and unwelcome. A chit like Margaret could behave fancifully, but that a woman of forty should react in such a way! The human body could be so wayward and pathetic. Get a grip, Nora!

It was nearly dinnertime. She hoped the young gentleman wouldn’t take long. She still had plenty to do in the back. Obligatory curtsy, professional smile, placid tone. Onward.

"My lord, if you don’t mind my overhearing, if you are interested in the Scheherazade stories, I do happen to have a copy of Edward Lane’s One Thousand and One Nights. As you might imagine, I couldn’t stock the twelve-volume French version."

The Lane version will be fine. Thank you, Mrs.—?

By this time, he’d reached the counter, and she had to tilt her head back to look up at his face. Yet her eyes didn’t focus on him, not when her instincts warned her to quell the silly emotions fluttering through her.

Mrs. Malcolm Duchamp, my lord, she said, addressing the light fixture beyond his head. I am the proprietress here. It is my pleasure to serve you. I’ll be right back with your book.

Before she could step from behind the counter, he said, If it truly were your pleasure to serve me, you would have come to my aid back there.

He glanced behind him to follow her gaze, making her self-conscious about her avoidance of him. How rude of her. When she finally looked directly at him, her cheeks warmed at his eyes and his words, yet another unfamiliar sensation. All the air seemed to be sucked from the room. It would be a relief to leave his presence for a brief reprieve.

Such services are not in my purview. I would happily recommend books to enlighten and entertain; I could perhaps see if there are any specifically regarding how to avoid matchmaking mothers.

I could think of other, more entertaining fare.

Despite his lack of inflection, she read innuendo in his statement but quickly dismissed it as her own oversensitivity based on unfortunate experience. His behavior was really beyond reproach.

I’ll get that Scheherazade. She made a hasty retreat to the back room.

When she returned with the sumptuously bound volume, he asked, Duchamp? How did you come to be attached to Evans Books?

His query surprised her, adverse as he supposedly was to idle chatter. She couldn’t imagine he would be interested in the lineage of a common bookshop.

Duchamp is my married name. My father, Sir Samuel Evans, was the owner and operator of Evans Books until he died twenty-two years ago. I served as his assistant for many, many years before taking over the business myself.

I see. How unusual for a baronet to go into commerce. The distaste in his voice was clear. No titled gentleman in his right mind would stoop to the level of a common merchant. And you run the shop yourself? Independently?

Hairs at the back of her neck bristled. She nodded, concentrating on writing up his purchase, trying to mask her reluctance to delve into her family history. If he openly denigrated her father, their business acquaintance would be short indeed.

You don’t employ any help? What of your husband? Does he take an active role? Does he approve of your activities?

She shook her head at the rush of questions, at the audacity of his inquiry, having difficulty focusing on the numbers in front of her and adding them for the third time in a row. When she managed to separate his questions into individual pieces, she said, I fail to see how my shop could be of such interest to you, my lord. I can assure you that I run it impeccably. I have a delivery boy in the afternoons. That is my only help, but it is quite manageable for me. As for my husband and his approval . . . Here she worked very hard to temper her annoyance at his impertinence and presumption. After all, it wasn’t unusual, given her circumstances. My husband passed many years ago.

My condolences. He did not, however, apologize for his forwardness. How interesting, he continued, as he picked up his purchase and turned the volume in his hands. This is a handsome edition of Lane. Have you read it?

Yes, she said, I read a copy when they first arrived. One of the unparalleled pleasures of this business, I suppose.

What did you think of it?

Surprised by the question, simple as it was, Honoria looked up at him and noticed for the first time how strikingly green his eyes were, like new oak leaves in spring. She forgot his question. When he repeated it, his demeanor indicated it wasn’t