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he caught Cecelia selling her father's books in
December, books he knew were precious to her, he hadn't even given
her any pin money. He had thought telling her to have her bills
sent to him would be enough. But, he realized now, it was less than
adequate.
    "How old was she when her mother died?"
    "Thirteen, almost fourteen."
    "Bad time for a gel to lose her mother."
    Devin studied his nails. Aunt Marsh obviously
saw a connection he didn't see. Did losing her mother on the eve of
becoming a woman make it harder for Cecelia to behave as one?
    Truth was he should have assisted Cecelia
more, but he hadn't been prepared to suddenly become responsible
for a young woman of marriageable age. He didn't like Almack's much
either. He felt like a delectable morsel sacrificed on the altars
of ambitious mamas with marriageable daughters. He always felt
lucky if he made it out of there without being swallowed whole or
shredded to tatters.
    He had never taken Cecelia to the literary
salons and soirées he enjoyed. Partly because he wanted to escape
the way her unassuming, but hopeful, gaze made him feel, and partly
because he hadn't seen many young unmarried misses at those types
of gatherings. Usually older women, married women, political
hostesses attended. Miss blue-stocking Clemmons would probably have
adored those types of events. He hadn't know enough about her then
to realize. A mother would have known.
    "Is there ever a good time to lose a
mother?"
    Aunt Marsh's reply was a soft snore, which
was absolutely of no help at all. For the first time in his life,
he could have used some advice, instead of being the one handing it
out.
    * * *
    For the second time in a year and this week,
Devin climbed the attic stairs. Cecelia had just finished binding
up her packets of freshly made cards and was getting ready to start
on a new card, when his rap on the door startled her.
    "Cecelia, we need to talk."
    There were slips of foolscap on her workbench
with the ink and pens arranged nearby. Watercolor paints rested
near the cut pieces of pasteboard. Her poetry books were propped
open to various verses she thought would work well on her cards.
Lace and ribbons flowed out of baskets under the table. While it
seemed obvious to her, there was really nothing that would give her
business away.
    She tugged off her bleached muslin smock and
stuffed it under the table and opened the door. She re-turned to
her stool and sat down as if it were normal to let him into her
private sanctuary.
    He hesitated in the doorway. "Do you want to
go downstairs?"
    She stood up. "If you do."
    "No, I just didn't think you wanted me up
here." He crossed the threshold.
    "I don't when I'm working, but I suppose you
must see for yourself there aren't any wax effigies of you."
    "I haven't experienced any unusual pains
lately."
    Devin looked around, his gaze skimming over
the workbench. He seemed more interested in the baskets of lace and
her sewing supplies underneath. His interest landed on her smock
and stayed there an inordinately long time.
    "Just a lady's craft room," she said
nervously. Just because she had let him into her private sanctuary
didn't mean she wanted him to go over every inch with a fine-tooth
comb.
    His gaze jerked to her face, and Cecelia
wished she'd thought to put on her spectacles. There was just
something so penetrating about his look, as if he was seeing her in
her drawers. She looked for her eyeglasses, and he beat her to
them. "You don't need these, do you?"
    "Did you come up here to talk about my
vision?"
    "No." He folded the spectacles and held them
by the nosepiece.
    At least he wasn't smearing the lenses with
fingerprints.
    "I think you should attend some—"
    "No. No more balls, dances, champagne
breakfasts."
    "How about some soirées, some salons. I think
you would enjoy that sort of thing, talking about politics and
literature with other people as widely read as you."
    Cecelia had felt so outcast by the ton that so embraced Devin. She didn't