“I’d be most grateful, and so would my lack of patience.”
Rowles chuckled. “I’ll see you there then.” He stood and shook Morgan’s hand when he did the same. “It was good to see you.”
“You as well, old friend.”
Morgan left, leaving Rowles once again alone with his thoughts.
Tonight.
He would see Joan tonight.
And it might be the last time for a while, which was bittersweet.
He’d drink in the sight of her and hold it close, and then he would remind himself that she was worthy of a far better man.
One that wasn’t chased by shadows.
Rowles considered the clock, his mind doing some quick calculations. He had more than enough time to go to the Burlington Arcade and stop by Hoby’s for another pair of boots. His hadn’t been replaced since he’d fallen in the Serpentine. He had his Hessians for this evening, but suddenly getting out of the house held great appeal.
He called for his carriage, and shortly went on his way to the arcade. The traffic grew more congested as they approached the new top-lit walkway. Boasting more than seventy small shops, the arcade was the new place to promenade and find whatever necessary—and unnecessary—items anyone might need. As he alighted from his carriage, he nodded to Lord and Lady Berkram, who were stepping out of Rundell and Bridge’s jewelry shop. The air was crisp with freshly washed air from the light rain earlier, and Rowles could feel his spirits lifting, much like the vapor rising from the earth to the sky. The bell rang as he stepped through the door into Hoby’s. Boots lined the pedestals and along the walls, and the scent of leather permeated the air. A younger man asked to assist him, and soon he was placing an order for a new pair of boots to replace the ones that had shrunk. They were to be delivered the following week.
Next, Rowles strolled under the glass ceiling of the arcade, studying the displays of the various shops lining the walkway. The door to Mrs. Bean’s, the modiste, opened, and several young ladies stepped out from within. Rowles quickly looked away, lest they consider him interested, and moved along rapidly. The combination of acrid and sweet scents wafted on the air from a tobacco shop before the establishment came into view. Lock’s shop for hats was next, and Rowles went in, a tall hat on display catching his eye. He ordered one to be delivered the next day and continued on to the next few shops. The window displays were impressive, should he ever wish to redecorate. His mother had always loved the shops that specialized in decor, along with the silver shops or Chappell’s musical instruments.
If she wasn’t so volatile, he’d consider bringing her down to shop. She would love it, if she were in the right mood or frame of mind. But the problem was that he could never be certain, and if he chose the wrong day or the wrong mood, she could easily destroy both merchandise and more of her reputation.
It wasn’t worth it.
As much as he wished he could bring her here, the dangers outweighed the benefits.
Rowles gave one last look down the walkway and turned to stroll back to his carriage. The newly married Lord and Lady Winters walked by, a love match from last season. Rowles watched their animated expressions, deeply engaged in conversation and smiling—beaming—at each other. It pinched his heart to make the hard decision of choosing to reject such a life.
They passed him by, and he mused over his future as he stepped into his waiting carriage. On a whim, he had half an inclination to visit his mother, but she had been decisive in not wishing to see him. To go against her wishes never proved to be a good idea, so he directed the coachman to take him home.
He’d take tea and then prepare for Almack’s. Dressing would be the simple part.
The difficult part? Preparing his heart.
To say one final goodbye to Joan.
Eighteen
I will not tell you all; I have not leave.
—Joan of Arc
It wasn’t until her brother’s hand covered hers that Joan realized she’d been incessantly tapping her fingers for who knew how long. Morgan squeezed her hand and released it.
“It will be well. You needn’t worry,” he offered kindly.
Joan gave an apologetic wince. “Pardon me. I’m a little nervous.”
“A little?”
“A lot,” she corrected.
Morgan nodded. “You’ll do well, and it’s not as though you’re being presented to the queen.”
“I dare say the Ladies Jersey, Cowper, and Sefton and Countess Lieven carry far more sway.”