till she left and put her in the hackney himself and stand on the front steps of Whitby’s, watching, till she was out of sight.
She drank another sip of tea. Her nib was drying up. She took more ink.
Lies, lies, and more lies. But it would get that list out of the Horse Guards. It might not be a bird in the hand yet, but at least it was a bird in the bush instead of a bird locked up safe with a squad of marines guarding it.
She signed the letter and sprinkled sand on it. She was displeasing men right and left today.
Nineteen
IT WAS EARLY YET, BUT VOICES BUBBLED UP from the salon downstairs like oatmeal boiling in a pot. Historians talked a lot, apparently. Every candle in the house was lit. The front hall smelled like baking and beeswax and perfume. She walked down the curving stairs, checking the fiddly clasp on her necklace one last time. The crystals in the chandelier sparkled like a waterfall in sunlight.
They’d stationed suits of armor around the walls in the black and white entry hall, eight of them, at neat intervals, like footmen, but armed with sharp points. She’d attended scientific meetings in Paris and Vienna—Papa loved that kind of thing—but she’d never ventured among historians who took an interest in pikes and poniards. There was Colonel Reams to lie to. Later on, she’d sneak out and visit his house. A busy night. She should probably be more nervous than she was.
The Captain was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He followed her with his eyes the whole way down.
Evening dress looked good on him. His breeches were the color of the desert in North Africa. His coat like night over that same desert, rich and black. He tied his cravat plain, the way they did in Paris. He’d put himself exactly where she’d have to walk right to him. A man who seized his opportunity, the Captain.
“Miss Whitby.” He was being polite. Of course, he would be polite in the open hall of his own house, with these scholarly nobs milling about. He had a different set of behavior at, say, four in the morning in the upstairs hall, or in her warehouse. Or on his ship, for that matter.
“Captain.” She stopped a step up from the bottom of the stairs to see if Sebastian Kennett looked less formidable when she met him level and eye-to-eye. Turned out it didn’t make any difference at all. “Eerie, all these blokes standing around in steel plate. I’ll be just as glad when they leave.”
“They’ll pack up and take off tomorrow morning. That dress is from Paris, isn’t it?”
“Madame Claudette, on the Rue de Rivoli.”
“I would have hated to go through life without seeing you in that particular dress. I don’t suppose there’s a stitch on you that isn’t smuggled.”
“The dress fabric’s from Lyon. Illegal as hell in England. I’m not going to talk about the rest of it, sparing your modesty and all.” Impossible to be distant and cool to the man. She never seemed to manage it past the first couple words. She touched the pearls. “You’ll be interested in this, since you trade in baubles.”
The Captain knew what he was looking at. She could tell from the way he slid his fingers under the pearls, reverent. But then, he’d seen them before. “
“They’re a lyrical people, down on the Gulf.”
“I’ve seen pearls like this, once, at a reception in the palace of the doge in Venice.” He drew his fingers down the line of pearls, touching them above and her skin below, caressing both. “Not this fine. I admired these when I searched your bedroom yesterday.”
There he was, at it again, rolling the conversational wagon off a cliff.
“I like the way you have your hair up in those braids, all swirled together like that. It looks simple. Then you study it, and it gets more and more complex. Like you. Every time I think I have you sorted out, I pick up another line of complication. ”
He was the devious one. She was a pat of plain butter compared to him. “I admire a man who knows what these beads are and still has something nice to say about my hair. I was expecting to get your trading instinct roused up with the bauble, you dealing in decorative rarities and all.”
“Not rarities like that. Beyond my touch.”
“Mine, too, if we’re being candid about it. Every time I fasten them on, I think about the unholy amount of capital tied up and shudder. Anyway, you make your money on loose stones more than decorative pieces. Thirty percent net profit. I admire that.” She’d pulled that out of the ledgers at Eaton’s. Not that she’d gone looking for his profits, but she couldn’t help seeing. “Lightning-fast turnover, too.”
“Thank you. Jess, has it crossed your mind it’s not tactful to remind me you’ve been going through my ledgers?” But he was laughing at her. He did it entirely in his eyes, not twitching his lips at all.
“Roight you are, guv’nor. A flapping gob’s been the downfall of many a foine prig and ruffler.”
“And you will refrain from shocking my aunt’s guests with your mastery of the vernacular. Lean a little closer. Yes. Just there.” He traced the course of a braid around her head, following the path of it with his index finger.
“Am I coming apart? I have about a million pins in. Will you just stop playing with my hair? Crikey, what if someone comes by?”
“They’ll be shocked witless. Let’s draw you in a mite closer and we’ll truly astound them.” He nudged her down the last step, and she was looking up at him again. Inevitable, wasn’t it? He said, “I’m trying to figure out how it all works.” She felt his breath on her forehead. His finger brushed her earlobe.
“It’s magic. You’re not supposed to look too close.”
She set her hand in the center of his chest, but she didn’t get to the pushing-him-away part. She just stood with her fingers mixed up in his cravat, acting like they were standing on the edge of some cliffs in a desert with nobody to see but the camels. The house was crawling with historians and Sebastian’s family and there was a maid—the woman with the murderous pimp, actually—holding a tray and peering at them from a corner. The Captain didn’t let go.
Well, to be fair about it, neither did she. She was being stupid. He was probably being clever. Life was odd like that.
She looked past Sebastian’s shoulder. Colonel Reams had arrived. She could see him reflected in the black glass of the parlor windows. His regimentals made a broad, blurry-red pillar in the middle of the dark coats and pale dresses. Pretty soon she’d go tell lies to him. “It’s time I went off to snag myself a couple pastries.” Eunice had cakes and tarts laid out on the table in the dining room, next to a display of iron cod-pieces. “If I leave it too late there’ll be nothing left but liver and turnip.”
“I recommend the apricot ones.” He ran his fingers along the shoals and reefs of her elbow, and there was nothing else in the world she could think about. Perverse on his part, and a revelation to her of why her governesses said to keep a goodly distance away from men.
Three men and a tiny, white-haired woman strolled out of the front parlor and across the hall, headed for the food, arguing about Greeks. And Claudia appeared out of nowhere.
“There you are, Sebastian.” Claudia must have been scouting along from column to column like a Mohawk slipping through the primeval forest. “You’re needed. They’ve mixed up the topknots on the suits and Coyning-Marsh is having fits. Eunice requires oil on the troubled waters.”
“I don’t know anything about plate armor.”
“You’re an expert on troubled waters. I want to talk to Jess. You’re in the way.”
