Page 10 of Unmasking the Silver Heiress
"She did not know that I am your wife," Nell said, softly enough that the footmen standing at the doorway to the dining room could not overhear. "I hardly knew how to introduce myself."
"Ah." His cheeks pinkened a little and he cleared his throat. "My apologies for that. I thought it best we recover fully before deciding together how to forge ahead. I hope you have not taken offense. I was admittedly a little too focused on my own recovery to think the situation through."
"Only a little offense," she told him, raising her eyebrows. "I suppose you are right, though. We should plan how we are to handle our situation before we set out for Bond Street. Shall we discuss such matters here, or somewhere more private?"
Nathaniel's eyes glittered, like polished amber flecked with gold. Without taking them off her, he dismissed the two servants and asked them to shut the doors behind them.
She held her breath, her heart speeding most unexpectedly at this development. When he leaned forward, she thought she might be faint.
"Yes," he said softly. "Let us speak plainly, wife."
Chapter 6
Nathaniel had spent a great deal of time that morning debating upon how to dress for this appearance with Lady Silver. Often, before undertaking a delicate negotiation or a new acquaintance, he would have time to gather gossip about the target or otherwise observe them from a distance before such a time as he made himself known.
That was not an option with Zelda Smith. He knew her name, of course, as any member of Society ought to, but he had never patronized her shop, nor made an introduction. He might have seen this woman a number of times without her veil and not realized it. From the beginning, he'd had no idea what to expect, and after a bit of conversation with her niece, he was even less sure of himself.
"She's not a bad sort," Nell had assured him, those big gray eyes of hers blinking at him with guileless sincerity across the breakfast table. "It's just difficult to tell sometimes whether or not she is angry."
"I can't imagine what that's like," he'd replied somberly, hoping it would make her laugh.
Instead she tilted her head at him, resting her chin upon her hand, her plate of fruit and toast forgotten, and said, "Perhaps you will be able to read her better than I. After all, you are also a bit of an enigma."
"Only because the truth is so very boring," he'd replied with a wink, though his joviality sounded much more at ease than he felt. That joke did not make her laugh either. Why did he care so much whether or not the strange little duckling laughed, anyhow?
She did look much improved without those spectacles perched on her nose and her hair slicked back in a severe little knot. Her dress was still less than fashionable, but it was at least clean, and the pale blue color did suit her, bringing out the stormy color of her eyes. Perhaps he could fashion her into something presentable, should he need a wife on his arm for any future dealings. She certainly had the constitution for it, if not the presentation.
He shifted uncomfortably in the seat of the carriage, stealing another look at her across from him. She was still fascinated with the view from the windows, watching London come alive without the gentry present to interfere. She had wrapped herself in a woolen pelisse in a faded olive color that had the appearance of something well-loved and often worn, which was to say, a little worse for the wear. He frowned, taking in the simple weave of her knitted gloves and the scuffs on her boots.
She had said her parents were not wealthy, but her aunt certainly was. Surely hosting one's niece for her education and financing a London debut at the cost of turning a child into an agent of deceit should merit a few trips to a respected seamstress. It was too late in the year for the shops he would have chosen in the Season, but surely he could find someone in the city to outfit his wife in a way that befitted her.
He had a sneaking suspicion that she would never have complained, or even noticed at all that the quality of her clothing was so inferior to his own. The fact that he took affront to this realization, rather than relief, was a bit discomfiting. She would learn to value herself on par with the more privileged of theton, he thought. Just as he had, against the odds.
Yes, a clothier would be his first priority, once this business with the Silver Leaf was sorted.
"Is it always so gray here?" she mused, glancing over her shoulder at him. "I wonder if I simply do not notice when it is warm outside with so much distraction about."
"I don't mind it," he replied with a shrug. "It makes a fire inside all the more luxurious when it's wretched without, after all, and the sunny days all the more treasured."
She smiled at that, seemingly genuinely charmed by this bit of cynicism in a way that his jests had not accomplished.
"You are exactly right," she agreed, clasping her hands together. "There is a kind of beauty in every setting. What a timely reminder, Mr. Atlas."
"Nathaniel," he corrected with a quirk of his lips, pleased at the way she blushed and bit her lip. "Or Nate, if you like."
"Nate," she said, testing the sound on her tongue. "That is a nice nickname. I shall venture to remember to use it."
"You must," he said seriously, "else our matching first initials will go unnoticed by passersby."
She finally giggled, raising her fingers to her lips and shaking her head. She turned back to the window, releasing another little titter, to resume her observation of the passing scenery.
Nate was so pleased that he'd finally gotten a laugh out of her that he was damn near giddy. He checked himself, a bit puzzled by his elation over such a simple, meaningless exchange. Perhaps the girl's oddness simply made her a more enjoyable opponent in games of social chess. Yes, that was likely it, combined with the fact that he'd had no company other than hers for well over a week.
They arrived at Bond Street to an almost eerie quiet, with most of the shops and boutiques lining the area already shuttered for the winter. Mrs. Smith's Fine Prints, however, was still open for business, its beveled windows glistening with early-morning frost. The signage swinging over the door appeared to have a fresh coat of red paint declaring itself to the world.
His little wife gave a shiver that he suspected had little to do with the chill in the air. She gave a meaningful little glance to him over her shoulder, her mouth drawn into a flat line of acceptance, just as the door was pulled open by their driver, allowing the pale morning light to flood in.
They were greeted at the door by a slender woman of middling age, with a friendly round face and a mop of brassy hair. He braced himself for the recognition in her face when she saw him, but she only spared him a glance while embracing Nell. From the doorway he could make out a great selection of satirical cartoons, stationery booklets, pamphlets, and more organized throughout the modest little space.
