But every time she told herself she was a fool, she also remembered what he’d said. You do not dream timid dreams.
The address he had given her was not so far from the Royal Observatory; it stood on that same high ground. She wondered, idly, if one of Dr. Barnstable’s acquaintances would be present at this viewing party.
He’d promised people wouldn’t talk, but how could he know? How could he stop them?
There was a part of her, scarcely buried, that dreamed that he was in love with her. Who thought that no matter how different they might seem in comparison with each other, they would get on well together. She could see them fitting into each other’s lives so comfortably. He lived near the Royal Observatory; she could continue going in the mornings. In the afternoons, they might walk together, and he could tell her about his work for a change. And at nights…
That was where it all broke down. She could imagine their nights alone all too well. But whenever she tried to make herself imagine going out in company with him, she remembered who she was and how she’d be received.
You do not dream timid dreams.
She didn’t want to dream timid dreams. She just knew the truth: She didn’t belong in his sphere, and women like her were not invited to join men like him in matrimony. The only way she would have a man like him was if he did seduce her. They could deal with each other very well alone. It was only when she imagined…oh, anyone else at all around them that it all fell to pieces.
The address he had given her was situated on Crooms Hill. When she was almost there, she realized that he was not directing her to a rooftop viewing at a stately, private home; there was only one place high enough for viewing the transit of Venus.
That place was a church. Not just any church, but a Roman Catholic church—a place she had often passed but never entered. If he’d been invited to view the transit of Venus there, he must attend regularly—regularly enough that they’d know him.
Somehow, that thought seemed entirely incompatible with the Mr. Shaughnessy that she knew. The Mr. Shaughnessy she knew was outrageous. He took part in all sorts of immoral acts. He wrote columns that hinted at things that Patricia had refused to explain, and that she’d had to figure out as best as she could on her own. And that was nothing to the gossip that linked him to woman after woman.
It was impossible to think of him as a regular churchgoer.
And yet he’d invited her here. She came up to the graceful building roofed in slate and dressed in Caen stone. A tall spire wound its way up to the heavens, terminating in a cross.
Even Mr. Shaughnessy would not seduce her in a church.
Would he?
She was staring at the church in something like dismay when he came out the front doors and strode to her side. “There you are,” he said.
“Here I am,” she heard herself repeating. “You did promise not to importune me, didn’t you?”
“Ah, but I’m sure you’ve already determined the loophole in that.” He winked at her. “I never said anything about what you could do to me. Come along.”
He did not take her into the chancel. She caught a glimpse of a marble statue of a lady, a gold-plated ship beside her, before he conducted her into a back way.
“Mr. Shaughnessy,” she said, balking a little. “Where are we going?”
“Up the turret, of course,” he said. “We’re ascending the spire.”
He stopped in front of a wooden door and took out a key ring.
“Where did you get that?”
The door swung open onto a dark, stone staircase.
“Father Wineheart,” he said. “He likes me.”
She had nothing to say to that. There was something odd about this, something dreadfully strange about that darkened staircase…
“Mr. Shaughnessy,” she said, “do you mean to tell me that there is nobody else watching the transit of Venus with us? Nobody at all?”
He stopped, raising an eyebrow at her. “I did tell you it was very exclusive, and that nobody would talk.”
She had thought he meant that the party was discreet. Maybe she hadn’t let herself dwell on it over much. Maybe that had been purposeful. She was a fool. If she had thought more clearly, she would have known. And if she had known—even as foolish as she was being now—she wouldn’t have come.
“Mr. Shaughnessy.” She put her hands on her hips. “I had assumed there would be mixed company, that I wasn’t going to be alone with you as the sun set. It would be horribly improper for me to follow you into…this.”
He paused and looked at her. For a moment, his nose wrinkled. She wished she knew what he was thinking. She almost wanted him to charm her into compliance, to convince her to go up with him. She could imagine the whole thing unfolding. How did rakes make women lose their minds? Champagne? Madeira?