Page 118 of The Lyon Returns
“Thank you, I shall be out in a moment. Kindly inform the driver.”
“Of course, madam.”
Gideon unfolded his lean body from the couch. “Enjoy your time with your friends, Gwen. I look forward to seeing you later.”
Gideon listened tothe sound of the front door opening and closing as he prowled his den, searching his desktop. As expected, the mysterious missive was not in evidence. Upstairs then.
He went directly to Gwen’s atelier, closing the door behind him. It was his house, for God’s sake, and he had every right to peruse any of the rooms within its walls. Still, he would rather not have some hapless maid report back to the mistress of the house about having witnessed Gideon riffling through Gwen’s domain.
Hands clasped behind his back, he started left. He surveyed the mounds of journals and stacks of newspapers. A bookcase had magically appeared, which held atlases, encyclopedias, a dictionary, and an assortment of novels by various authors. One name in particular he thought he recognized from hearing Gwen refer to it.Arlington.The surname rang a bell. He tabled the thought for further reflection another time.
Approaching the desk, he saw a pile of opened correspondence.
A stack of several familiar-looking leather-bound notebooks also caught his eye. His journals. They were closed, and neatly bound together with a leather strap, along with numerous pieces of parchment, all seemingly covered in Gwen’s elegant script.
Momentarily distracted from his mission, he loosened the tie and took up the stack of parchment.
As his eyes scanned the notes, he blindly pulled out the chair and sat.
Page after page, he found small sections of Gideon’s writings copied down, followed by, or sometimes introduced by, Gwen’s comments.Here we find the author’s depiction of children at play in a river in India. One can practically hear their joyous laughter, even as the author paints an all-too-vivid scene of the poverty in which they live, leading one to question what exactly fuels man’s desire for more when the simple things can satisfy so effortlessly.
He found parts of an essay he’d written about aristocrats, gentry, and the working classes and how each looked askance at the other, a vivid description of the first time he’d been in his cups—and the dismal aftermath, his first impression of Portsmouth and Bath, Paris and Florence.
He knew he should get on with his search for the stakeholders’ correspondence and cease this pointless endeavor, but he found himself reluctantly fascinated by what struck Gwen as noteworthy, especially when he read in one of the margins—not for the compilation.
It was odd to read his words penned in another’s hand, he realized.Upon my first tour of the warehouse I purchased, I had no sooner stepped inside than a burly, seasoned sailor with an arrogant set to his scarred jaw and a contemptuous curl to his lip entered behind me. He advised me, without my having asked, that my venture was sure to fail. Unimpressed, I ordered him to vacate the premises at once.
Seemingly deaf, he stalked the building, all the while issuing directives about the locals, their customs, who could be trusted, who should be avoided,and who needed to be put in his place before he got the notion to put me in mine. Then he ordered me to the docks the following morning at five and left.
I ignored his advice, and refused his ‘invitation.’ Only after I found myself swindled by those he’d warned me against, including several so-called upstanding members of the community, and had my life threatened if I did not desist my enterprise, did I make my way to our five am appointment.
“You’re late,” was all he said. And my education began.
Gideon scrubbed a hand over his cheek and dimly realized his palm came away wet. He read on, where Gwen had transcribed his description of the treatment he’d received when he’d first entered society, of how diametrically opposed his reception was depending on whether people knew his identity—who his father was—or they did not and judged him by his appearance. On the one hand, he was fawned over as an exotic. On the other, he was treated with suspicion and, at times, an outcast.
Gwen wrote,He says here the duchess told him it would always be this way thanks to his mother, that he must accept social justice and not make a scene. Detestable woman.
Enough. He neatened the papers, replaced them atop the stack of his journals, and retied the cord. His hands felt clumsy, and his chest, tight. No woman had ever made him feel like this. Like he—the person he was—mattered beyond what he could do for them and to them.
Maybe he was reading something from her treatment and transcriptions that wasn’t there. God help him, he didn’t know. He only knew with Gwen, everything felt different.
He picked up the stack of read correspondence and riffled through it. There, on the bottom, he found it, read it, and cursed.
Let Brice find Mr. Rory’s whereabouts. He was going to uncover the identities of these stakeholders and, if need be, pay each of them a call to educate them on their actions going forward.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Gwen blinked rapidlyas she digested the questions her friends fired at her in rapid succession—all having to do with her recent wedding, which everyone in attendance save Charlotte had witnessed.
When did you all decide to make your fake marriage official?
When did Mr. Devereux propose?
Does this mean you informed the duke of your pretense?
And Gwen’s favorite, coming from Amelia, and more a statement than a question:I think we can safely assume this is a love match.
Evidently taking pity on her, Lady Harriet rose and patted the air to shush the circle. “Ladies, it seems to me several among us”—she gave Margaret a stern look—“have jumped to conclusions based upon assumption. We do not yet know if Gwen and Mr. Devereux’s recent wedding ceremony was, in fact, a continuation of their ruse, meant to solidify their claim, or if, as you all seem wont to think”—this time she sent Amelia a chiding look—“they chose to legitimize their marriage. We should let Gwen share what she wishes, in her good time.”
