Page 50 of A Bluestocking’s Secret Courtship

She nodded, sniffling once before slipping into her bedchamber.

He took the servants’ staircase to avoid a possible encounter with Evangeline’s sister or brother-in-law. Hopefully, she would tell her sister what happened, but he would keep his word and not mention it. He could see grief had hit her differently today, now that she was no longer a child. Her sister would understand better than anyone and comfort her. Perhaps when she was ready…

After he changed his shirt, he rang for a servant to return to the market for the ingredients Evangeline wanted and asked for a tea tray to be delivered to her room. Retrieving his notebook, he moved to the sitting room to review his notes from earlier that day.

He had sat outside Mrs. Bellini’s boarding house watching for Mrs. Flibberquick, aka the Earl of Wedmore, but none of the ladies entering or leaving the boarding house were close to matching his height. After observing and making notes, Jonathan had approached the door only to receive the same message. Mrs. Flibberquick hadn’t returned.

Though he thought it unlikely, he had revisited the antiquities shop close to the market to ask after Wedmore, but there were still no sightings or rumors that he was in the area. Jonathan was beginning to suspect Evangeline’s uncle had met with foul play, which ought to be a relief. His mission would be complete. He could finally return home. But something inside him had cracked today looking into her anguished eyes.

If she lost her uncle, she might never be the same—and the world would be bleaker without her light.

A soft knock sounded at the sitting room door. Expecting Dom or one of the servants, he called, “Enter.”

Slowly, the door drifted open. Evangeline stood in the threshold, hugging a worn, red leather book. His eyes flared and his breath caught.

“I-I need your help,” she whispered.

Seventeen

Jonathan’s brow furrowed as he set aside a notebook and stood. “Please, come and sit.” His gaze landed on her uncle’s journal when she didn’t move. “Evangeline?”

She blinked, warmth flooding her cheeks as she looked around his private chambers.

He met her in the middle of the room and showed her to a plush chair, the most comfortable one upholstered in ivory silk. “Would you like tea? Coffee?”

She shook her head and hugged the journal tighter. It was highly inappropriate to be in his personal space, but she didn’t know where else to turn. Someone was hunting Uncle Charles—someone who sent a shiver down her spine.

Jonathan grabbed a ladder-back chair, pulling it close so he could sit near her. “You’re pale and still shaken. Should I send for Dr. Li?”

“N-no, I…” She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “I think my uncle is in trouble. I need to find him.”

His eyebrows twitched the slightest bit upward, but he didn’t interrupt.

“We— I wasn’t honest with you when we arrived, and I’m terribly sorry.” She dropped her gaze to the terracotta tiles. The lines between them were so orderly, much like her life had been a few hours ago.

“Fanny Flibberquick is not our aunt,” she said.

He didn’t make a sound. When she glanced up, his expression was unchanged. He appeared concerned, leaning toward her as if to offer comfort should she need it. Her stomach pitched at the thought of revealing the whole truth.

“Fanny was a fictitious character Uncle Charles created. I do not fully understand the circumstances, but he was pretending to be her when he took a room at Mrs. Bellini’s boarding house.”

“I trust he had a compelling reason,” Jonathan said, his gaze still fixed on hers.

Perhaps he was waiting for her to supply that reason, but she wasn’t ready to talk about the man at the market. She closed her eyes and smelled the man’s rancid breath sweeping across her cheek. His breadth and height crowding her, making her shake as he leered down at her. Then there was the crush of bodies⁠—

Jonathan called her name.

She jolted upright, back in the sitting room.

“You asked for help,” he said softly. “How may I be of assistance?”

“I want to ask you a question.” She gingerly placed her uncle’s journal on her lap, resting her hands on the cover. The prospect that she could be correct carried a whiff of embarrassment. He regarded her as a colleague, but perhaps he would see her as an outsider now.

“My uncle’s journal entries…” She opened to the first page. “They appear to be written in code, and I— I wondered if there is a secret society of antiquarians to which I’m not privy.”

He leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking with the shift of weight. “If there is, I know nothing about it either. Perhaps only the dullest ones are invited to join, excluding your uncle, of course. I imagine they had a quota to meet. One interesting fellow to seven bores?”

She chuckled, her posture softening. “That would explain why neither of us knows about it.”