Chapter Three

Reading Room

British Museum

Montague House

Michael tried to bury himself in the newspaper he was reading, but even in this bastion of male privilege and privacy, there was entirely too much noise.

Newspaper pages crinkled, the slight crackle of book pages turning, the low murmur of footmen either asking after drink orders or bringing books and manuscripts to various eager readers filled the silence. When he cleared his throat and a man five feet away from him at another chair glared, he stifled a sigh.

It was impossible to relax here tonight. Which was odd, for he adored the Reading Room. The trouble was he felt entirely too restless to settle. Perhaps the conversation with Christopher had discomfited him, and the thought of needing to look for a second wife left him nearly in a cold panic .

How could he offer up his heart again only to know inevitable heartbreak would be waiting for either him or her? Not to mention as each year passed, the mental exhaustion from being in the war, surviving his wife's death, and needing to raise a son alone was taking a toll on him. The responsibilities added to the anxiety and uncertainty he already fought with on a daily basis, and how could he ask a woman to share her life with that? Especially since there were times when his own son had to prod him out of those frozen states.

It was an unsolvable puzzle.

Once more, he decided to give the newspaper a chance, and no sooner had he read a new article than two other men came into the Reading Room. The older one was dressed in the manner of a gentleman but seemed a bit haggard about the eyes, while the younger of the two was a bit hesitant to be there to begin with. A slouch-style cap was pulled over his eyes, but there was no mistaking a bruise forming on the slope of one cheek.

Though it was none of his business what the older man chose to do to or with the younger one, it didn't sit well with him that there might be some abuse there. He watched covertly behind the newspaper as the pair made their way about the room until they both settled on a leather sofa at the far side of the space. Shortly afterward, two books were delivered to the older man, and he handed one to the younger one, who gripped it with hands that were far more slender than any male's appendages had any right to be.

What the devil? Perhaps the younger man was ill or had been ill at some point in his life.

Their relationship was difficult to puzzle out, so Michael didn't even try. He wished no one ill for their sexual choices, but he did wonder why the two were here to begin with.

Eventually, the younger man shook his head and handed the book back to his companion. Whereupon, he was given the second book, and his hand shook as he took it.

Michael once more abandoned his attempt to read the newspaper in favor of monitoring the odd pair. The breeches on the smaller man were a bit loose and so were the boots if he were being honest, for he kept wriggling his feet or tugging at the top of the boots, no doubt to keep them on his feet. The longer he watched their interaction, the more confused as well as engrossed he grew.

Something wasn't quite right there; he'd wager heavy coin on it.

When the young man finished skimming the second book and shook his head, the older man grew more agitated. He jumped to his feet with a hissed word, and as Michael peered from behind his newspaper, he frowned. Was that a pistol tucked into his breeches, half-hidden by his jacket?

A cold foreboding slipped through his gut. Absolutely, there was something off there. As the second man stood to follow the first one out, his gaze collided with Michael's, the fringe of long, dark lashes were definitely not those of a male. What was more, unadulterated fear reflected in the sapphire depths of what he suspected was a woman's eyes. In that very brief connection, something was exchanged between them, and that solidified his belief that person wasn't a man.

Then she left the Reading Room quickly when the man she was with looked back with a fierce frown on his face.

Fuck me. She must be in trouble. Why else was she dressed like that and being led about by a man with a pistol?

Those required answers, and he had never been one to leave a mystery unsolved. As unobtrusively as he could, Michael folded his newspaper, laid it on the small round table at his elbow, and then stood. Had they exited the museum or gone on to another level?

As he left the Reading Room, he contemplated where the pair had scurried off too. Initially, the collections housed within the British Museum were split into three sections: printed books and prints of various things which were all housed on the lower floor inside the Reading Room. On the upper floor, medals, modern works of art, different sorts of manuscripts, minerals, shells, fossils his father would have been proud of this decision.

After exchanging a glance with his driver, who had just lowered the steps, he assisted the woman into the carriage then followed her, nodding at the driver as he put the steps back into place. "Where do you live, miss?"

She shook her head, removed her cap, and tossed the apparently offensive piece of head gear to the bench beside her. "I can't go back there in the event he is waiting." With tears welling in her dark blue eyes, she removed pins from her raven black hair. "I can't return to my father's shop either." A half-stifled sob escaped her. "I have no one else in the world." There was such an expression of dejection on her face that compassion tugged at Michael's heart.

And yet another decision was made that would further entwine their paths. To the driver, he said, "Take us to my townhouse."

"Of course, my lord." With confusion in his eyes, the driver closed the door. Seconds later, the carriage dipped as he mounted the box.

Truly, this was the best thing. He would need to keep her away from his son in the event she was a light skirt. If she was, he couldn't risk his son befriending her, but it was clear she needed help and protection. As he trained his gaze on her face, those deep blue pools of her eyes seemed acres deep in the light of the setting sun. "I am taking you to my townhouse. You can stay the night there and you will be safe. I give you my word as a gentleman. "

As she shook out her waterfall of black hair that held a bit of curl, she winced. "I can't let you do that." Her remaining boot slipped off her foot to land on the floor with a dull thud.

"I don't recall asking you to let me do anything. I am a viscount, my dear." He snorted, for that was rather arrogant.

"Titles don't impress me, my lord."

Ah, so she wasn't of the beau monde , but she held herself in a character higher than the lower classes. "I am not surprised." Also, he ignored how well the unrelieved black of her hair framed her pale face. "You will do this because I suspect you are hurt," he said and hoped she heard the compassion and support in his voice. "I spied blood on your clothing inside the museum." That kiss they shared aside, she needed attention. "Explain, please."

She blew out a breath. "When that man came to my father's shop and demanded I go with him, I fought him, but he quickly overpowered me after he discharged his pistol." Her expression suggested she might cast up her accounts. "The ball grazed my ribcage; I don't think it's embedded."

"Damn it all to hell." At least she hadn't gone to hysterics and had managed to convey the events with sufficient accuracy that indicated a decent education, as did the cultured way she spoke, yet he still had so many questions. Another wave of protection welled, even more fiercely this time, especially because she'd said she was alone in the world. "All the more reason for you to come home with me."

"But—"

"No arguments. We shall puzzle out the whys together once you have been patched up."

"I don't know what to say." Seconds later, she burst into tears she'd no doubt been holding back during the whole ordeal.

Fuck me.

Not knowing what to do, for she was nearly incoherent, he did what he always had to do with his wife when she was overwrought. "Hush, now." Moving over to her bench, he wrapped his arms around her and simply held her. It didn't matter that he didn't know her name and hadn't introduced himself to her, but sharing such a connection with another human was oddly… therapeutic. "All will be well. You'll see." And he was no slouch in helping people.

Even odder still, she had breathed new life into him, for the unraveling of this mystery was a challenge he was more than ready to take on.

What will the chaps at the club think of this? Knowing them, they would make jest of him, for that's what they all did to each other, but he didn't care. He wanted to do this, perhaps needed to do this, and in the process, he would find his own way through life.