“I’m famished,” she said brightly, hoping to derail this topic of conversation. “Let’s consider an early supper before the theater … something Italian?”
Reluctantly, Morley let the subject lie and agreed. “I know a place right next to the Adelphi.”
“Excellent!” She beamed.
They avoided both the heavy topics of the Blackheart of Ben More and her future during their light Italian supper, instead allowing themselves to be serenaded by a roving violinist and gorging on a scrumptious Pasta Pomodoro with an excellent red table wine. They discussed inconsequential things like the construction of new underground railways and the increasing popularity of detective fiction. The play at the Adelphi was diverting and well written, and both of their spirits had vastly improved as they strolled down Fleet Street toward her apartments above Mr. de Gaule’s coffee shop. As the night wore on, and the farther east they traveled, the streets of London became more dangerous, and Farah was glad that Morley always wore a weapon.
“I wager they’ll write ha’penny novels about you next, Sir Morley,” she teased. “Perhaps even include your chase of he whom we shall not be naming for the rest of the evening. How grand would that be?”
“Ridiculous,” Morley muttered, but his blush could be seen even in the lamplight, and his eyes were pleased as they glanced down at her.
Another one of de Gaule’s poetry readings had dissolved into absinthe-soaked debauchery. The sound of Gypsy music and overloud laughter spilled onto the street and mingled with the calls of prostitutes and gin peddlers.
“I never understood why you chose to stay here, after all these years.” Morley gripped her elbow more protectively as he escorted her up the dark back stairs to her rooms. “These—these so-called Bohemians are not the sort for a woman of your gentility to be trifling with.”
Farah laughed merrily and turned to him, one stair above so she could meet his gaze straight on. “Can you imagine me trifling with anyone, Carlton? Though I’ll admit to a certain fond fascination with Bohemians. They’re all so creative and free-spirited.”
Instead of charmed, Morley appeared concerned. “You don’t ever … attend these soirees, do you?”
“And what if I did?” she playfully challenged. “What if I mingled with the brightest and most progressive minds of our time?”
“It’s not your mingling that worries me, but something else altogether,” he muttered.
“Dear Carlton.” Her gaze softening, she reached out and rested her hand on his shoulder, letting her thumb graze the neat hair at his nape. “I’m too old to mingle or trifle or whatever other euphemism for scandalous behavior worries you.” She glanced down the stairs toward the cobblestones painted in crossed golden squares by the windows of the café. “But I love this part of the city. It’s so alive, so full of youth and art and poetry.”
“And cutpurses and rakes and prostitutes.”
That drew another warm laugh from her throat. “Most of whom know me from the Yard. I am careful and I feel quite safe here. Besides,” she added lightly. “We can’t all afford a terrace near Mayfair, now can we?”
She’d meant the jibe about his new home acquisition as a light tease, but her words seemed to sober him, and he regarded her there in the shadows with a new intensity. “Did you … enjoy yourself tonight, Mrs.—er—Farah? With me?”
“I find I hardly enjoy anyone’s company more than yours,” she answered honestly.
“Good.” His breath seemed to be coming faster now, his eyes darting with indecision. “Excellent. That is—I had a very particular subject I wanted to discuss with you tonight.”
A small tingle thrilled through her as Farah deduced just where this conversation might be headed. How on earth would she respond? “Of course.” She sounded equally breathless. “Would you … like to come in for some tea?”
He stared at her door for a long moment. “I fear it would not be prudent to invite me into your home right now. Not with how much I—Christ. I think I’m going to bungle this.”
Her fingers drifted from his shoulder to his cheek, as she tried to look as encouraging as possible, even though her heart raced away with her thoughts. “Just tell me what you’re thinking.”
His hand covered hers on his cheek. “I want to court you properly, Farah,” he said in a rush. “We run such a successful enterprise together, just imagine how well we would run a society home. We enjoy each other’s companionship. And, I think, we have developed feelings stronger than friendship over the years.” His hand curled around hers and brought it to his chest, right above his heart. “Neither of us has to be lonely anymore, and I could think of no one else’s company I’d rather have every night for the rest of my days.”
That pleasant warmth returned to her stomach, though Farah found herself somewhat underwhelmed by his declaration. So he was no Rossetti or Keats. Should she hold that against him?
“Consider what you are offering,” she said evenly. “I’m a widow well past the marrying age. A man of your position and deserving needs a young wife who will be content to make him a comfortable place to come home to. Someone to provide him with fat babies and respectable society. Everyone I know is either a criminal or a Bohemian.” She smirked before adding wryly, “Sometimes both.”