“Draw?” I offered.
“Someday, I will prevail.”
“Perhaps.”
We bowed and stood there for a long moment, eyes locked. My braid had come loose during the match, and he reached over and gently touched the falling curls, carefully pushing back a stray bit. His thumb rested on my cheekbone, the warmth of his skin soaking into mine, the electricity between us practically a wall of crackling blue fire.
“Bluish green, I believe,” he said, his voice low and liquid. “But much more study is required.”
“Yes.” My reply sounded like I was agreeing to far, far more, and I probably was.
“Monsieur le Duc.” The comte coughed.
“What?” Gil didn’t move his hand or his eyes, and I didn’t want him to.
“You are not affianced to Mademoiselle Ella, are you?”
“Oh, quite right, Monsieur le Comte.” He pulled back, nodding to me. “Very sorry, Shane.”
“What is this Shane business?” asked the comte, glaring suspiciously up at Gil.
“Miss Shane and I are old friends and address each other as such. Mr. Hurley has given his permission.”
The comte nodded wisely. “Ah, well, if Monsieur Tommy approves, then it is all right. He is most careful of Mademoiselle’s honneur.”
“And quite right of him.” Gil turned away from the comte and studied me again. It was the sort of look that coming from the right man makes you feel like a work of art. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you with your hair down. It looks like honey . . .”
As he trailed off awkwardly, I blushed and quickly started pulling my hair back and rummaging in my pocket for a few pins. That was when I realized he was holding the ribbon, a somewhat fancy piece of lavender silk with a floral pattern. “You may keep it if you like.”
I’d never been the lady offering her swain a memento before. It was rather nice.
“I would.” He gave me a warm smile as he twined it between his fingers. “The scent of your hair, is it roses and . . . cinnamon?”
“My apothecary’s daughter says roses alone are too insipid for a lady of years and discretion, and I require a bit of spice.”
“Indeed you do.” Gil tucked the ribbon into his waistcoat pocket.
“I’m sure you know it’s one of our dark days.”
“Only after trying to buy a ticket for tonight’s performance, but yes.” He looked a bit sheepish. “I lost track of days on the voyage, and somehow thought today was Saturday.”
“It has happened to me before.” I smiled. “Well, we generally have a late tea with friends so we can enjoy a little social time while still getting a good night’s rest. Would you care to join us?”
“I would be delighted.”
We smiled foolishly at each other for a moment, until the comte cleared his throat.
“You are, of course, welcome, too, Monsieur,” I said quickly.
“Merci, but no. I have another engagement.” His wicked gargoyle grin left no doubt as to the type of assignation.
Gil gave him just a tinge of a dirty look for hinting at such matters around a lady and left it.
“Tommy is probably back from his errands by now and would no doubt entertain you while I neaten myself a bit,” I suggested.
“Did someone take my name in vain?” The man himself strode in smiling, only a faint shadow at his eyes suggesting that he’d just come back from consoling the family of a late friend.
“Winner and still champ-een!” Montezuma crowed.
“Well, who have we here? Good to see you again.”
“Likewise.”
They shook hands and exchanged smiles with the same easy friendship they’d had the last time. For a moment, Gil looked closely at Tommy, and it was clear that he’d picked up something. Tommy quickly brushed it off with a glance.
“He’s staying to tea. Can you let Mrs. G know and amuse each other while I change?”
“Glad to.” Tommy grinned. “Of course she’s got to pretty up so you’ll see her to full advantage.”
“She’s quite amazing as she is,” Gil said with a glance my way, “but a smart man never argues with a lady’s need to primp.”
“Too true. So, Barrister, can I interest you in a game of checkers?”
“Why not?”
Chapter 9
In Which the Barrister Offers a Lesson in Criminology
This dark Sunday, Marie and the Abramovitzes were enjoying their respective family nights, but most of our other close friends were about, as I discovered when I came downstairs after taking far too long to change into a lovely blue-violet cashmere afternoon dress with frothy lace trim, to twist my hair into a puffy Psyche knot, and to add a dab of rose-petal lip salve. If I’d been the sort of lady who used rouge, I would not have needed it. From the fencing, of course.
Gil, who had ceded his place at the checkerboard to Yardley and was leaning on the mantel with a teacup, looked up and smiled when I appeared in the doorway.
“You are lovely indeed when you trouble to wear clothes.”
That earned him a laugh from Tommy, who knew it was a reference to what he’d said the first time he’d seen me in female attire, a nervous chuckle from Yardley, and a growl from Preston. Father Michael just shrugged.
The friends of the company filled the parlor, ranging around the chairs and settees. I took a space on a settee by Hetty as everyone moved into place around the coffee table and Mrs. G’s feast of dainties, which seemed to be rather more elaborately decorated than those at the usual Sunday tea. I suspected she was expressing approval of Gil’s return and smiled to myself.
Hetty handed me a cup of tea, which turned out to be Earl Grey. Definitely a comment on our visitor.
Tommy took a couple of his favorite snickerdoodles and settled into his usual big chair as Yardley picked up the entire plate of jam tarts and took the arm of the settee by Hetty.
“So how goes the trial, Hetty?” Preston asked, moving a copy of the morning’s Beacon off his settee to make room for Gil. “You’re doing some really good work.”
Hetty colored a little but took the compliment with a graceful nod. “Good for me, not so much for Mrs. Amelie Van Vleet.”
“Do you really think she did it?” Tommy asked.
“Stabbed her husband in the drawing room, really?” Yardley added.
She glared at them. “I do, and I think she’ll hang for it.”
“Perhaps,” Gil said, with a small troubled scowl. “I don’t think you Americans have hanged a woman since Mrs. Surratt, and she gave you rather a lot of provocation.”
He may or may not have known that New York disposed of the occasional lady murderess by electricity these days, but that was not the point for our duke. Tommy, Father Michael, and I knew, but the rest of the company probably didn’t, that he held quite progressive views on capital punishment—absolutely opposed. Not to mention as a fellow Lincoln admirer, he had quite a negative opinion of the only female conspirator in the sixteenth president’s assassination, Mrs. Surratt.
“Well, her lawyer’s brought in some kind of criminologist, who claims she couldn’t have done it. It’s a lot of bosh.”
Gil focused sharply on her. “Really? Tell me more.”
Hetty gave him a funny look and a shrug.
I cut in. “He trained as a barrister, Hets. What we call a trial lawyer.”
“It’s rather more than that, Miss Shane.” He smiled. “I’ve kept up a bit. My old friend Joshua is a barrister and is known as an excellent defender these days. If one is charged with murder in England, one wants Joshua.”
“Really?” Hetty said. “So is there anything to this criminology stuff?”
“Quite possibly. Tell me what he’s arguing.”
“Well, the criminologist says Mrs. Van Vleet is too short to have killed Mr. Van Vleet. Something to do with the stab wounds.”
“Not to mention getting him to just let her stab him,” Yardley added.
“I imagine he never s
aw it coming,” Preston offered.
“Or she distracted him,” Yardley suggested, drawing a glare from the other gentlemen, as he had ventured perilously close to some imaginary line. He blushed a little and nodded into the jam tarts. “Never saw her.”
Gil, Tommy, and Preston all returned the nod. Father Michael just smiled faintly, amused at their overprotectiveness.
“Right then,” Gil said, standing up. “If it’s height, there is something to the theory. Join me for a little experiment, Miss Shane?”
“All right.” I stood, too, as he picked up a pen from my lap desk.
“Here. This will do nicely for a knife.” He handed me the pen. “You’ll note that even though our diva is quite tall for a woman, she’s still noticeably shorter than I am.”
We all nodded.
“Now, let’s suppose I’ve made one comment too many about why woman suffrage may improve the world but not the ladies who wish to run it, and you’ve decided to end the debate in blood.” He cut his eyes to me with an impish smile.
“Unlikely, but not impossible,” I teased.
“Indeed. So you stab me, going, like any smart murderer, for the surest and fastest kill, the big veins in the neck.”
For a moment, I thought of poor Florian Lutz. But I knew Gil would never deliberately remind us that we’d been there when a man died that way not long ago, and I shook off the memory as I mimed a move toward him, which forced me to reach up.
“Note how the stabbing moves in an upward direction?”
The others nodded, fascinated.
“That’s going to show in the wound, and any decently observant coroner would be able to see it.” Gil explained. “All right, my turn.”
I handed him the pen and gave him a small wicked smile. “Let’s say you are quite sick and tired of my defeating you on the field of honor and try for something more direct.”
Gil chuckled and nodded to me as he held the pen like a knife but did not come even remotely close. “You see, this time the knife and the wounds would point down.”
He handed the pen back, and our fingers touched, with another of those weird electrical disturbances. We both marked it but quickly moved past and returned to our spots.
As I did, I thought again of Florian Lutz and Albert. Could the wounds give a definitive answer in that case? I resolved to ask Gil later.
“And so, Miss MacNaughten, however much you don’t like this Mrs. Van Vleet, you may not get to watch her hang,” Gil finished in an apologetic tone.
“It makes sense,” she admitted with a frown. But since she didn’t also point out that Mrs. Van Vleet was more likely destined for the electric chair, not the hangman, despite the common usage, I assumed we’d closed the topic.
“Anyway, the method is wrong,” Yardley said. “Women don’t stab people to death like that.”
“What?” Hetty wheeled on him. “A woman can’t kill?”
“Not at all.” Preston smiled wryly. “They do every day. But women like poison. Knives are messy. Especially stabbing fourteen times.”
“Fourteen times?” Gil asked. “I lean toward the gentlemen’s views on this. Very rare for a woman to kill in such a grisly fashion.”
“See?” Yardley crowed. “You tell ’em, Barrister.”
It was clear by now that the nickname Tommy had started was going to stick, since it was, after all, appropriate, respectful, and a good deal easier in company than “Your Grace.” If we’re going to have a duke in the house, we have to call him something.
“Well, no insult intended to present company,” Gil began with a chuckle, “but women aren’t really made for killing.”
“What?” I asked. Speaking of bosh.
“You are the mothers of the race, after all, whether or not you ever actually raise children.” His eyes met mine with a terrifying intensity. “You are made for caring for others, protecting them. Made for love, if you will.”
For a measure or more, it was no longer a discussion of crime and politics in company. It had become a private moment between the two of us, each watching the other’s reaction, barely breathing.
“What absolute old-fashioned hogwash!” Hetty snapped.
The spell broke almost audibly, and I managed a little laugh. “Not entirely. What he’s saying is the same argument women make at the suffrage rallies, if much more elegantly.”
Gil’s eyes hadn’t moved from my face.
Hetty snorted quite inelegantly herself. “Certainly not.”
“It surely is,” Tommy cut in. “Women deserve the vote because the hand that rocks the cradle civilizes the world.” He smiled. “I’m not saying it isn’t hogwash, but you’re all talking the same hogwash.”
“God made men and women differently,” Father Michael observed. “Not that one is better, but each has gifts that complement the other.” He shook his head with a sheepish smile. “That probably doesn’t help.”
Yardley laughed. “I’m with the barrister on this one. I don’t think Mrs. Van Vleet did it.”
“I did not say she didn’t do it,” Gil corrected him, briskly moving on. “I said only that it’s highly unlikely that she stabbed him fourteen times. There is always the one case where the apparently impossible actually happens.”
“Well, I agree with Yards,” Preston said. “Maybe I’m just an old stick, but I don’t believe a woman stabbing a man fourteen times. Even our Ella, who’s comfortable with swords, probably couldn’t do it, never mind a society matron like that.”
“I bet I could, if I was mad enough,” I said rather defensively.
Preston shook his head. “Kid, you couldn’t kill a fly unless someone’s life was on the line. You’re just too kind, and we love you for it.”
I was never sure how it happened, but just then Gil caught my eye and smiled. It felt like some kind of declaration.
Having quite exhaustively explored crime for the day, we moved on to other topics, with Yardley and Preston amiably play fighting over the Giants’ latest off-season trade, and the rest of the ensemble weighing in with various thoughts on baseball’s place in the sports pantheon. Gil even managed to hold his own; he’d clearly been reading up.
As teatime wound toward evening, Yardley offered to squire Hetty to the news office, and they took off, bickering cheerfully about what might make the front page. Preston simply disappeared; we knew, but didn’t dare acknowledge, that he’d gone downstairs to see Mrs. G before he also had to go to work. Tommy and Father Michael made for the checkerboard, leaving me to walk Gil to the door.
“A lovely tea, Shane.”
“Our pleasure to host you.”
We bowed.
“Would you care to come to the show Tuesday night?” I asked. “It’s a benefit for an old friend from the neighborhood, but you will still get to see the same performance.”
“I should enjoy that.”
“Of course, as a friend of the company, you’re welcome to join us backstage after.”
“I’ll look forward to it. Will the other friends of the company be along, as well?”
“Tommy and Father Michael likely will, and Preston may, to cover the benefit. But not Hetty and Yards. They do have actual jobs to attend to.”
“I’m quite certain they do.” Gil smiled a bit. “Do Mr. Stern and Miss MacNaughten have some kind of understanding?”
I chuckled at that. Understanding to be at each other’s throats most of the time, perhaps. “Understanding?”
“Well, somewhat like we do.”
“We have an understanding?”
“I rather thought we did.” He shrugged, suddenly looking almost shy. “That we are courting, with honorable intent, as we navigate matters of careers and geography and whatnot.”
“Oh.” I found myself smiling like a silly little girl with a crush. “Yes. That understanding. Hetty and Yardley most certainly do not have the kind of understanding we do.”
Fortunately, he was giving me almost the same smile back. “Good.”
I waited. It was far from his first awkward comment.
“I mean for us, of course.”
“Of course.”
We exchanged another smile and then stood there for a moment, just looking at one another, with the attraction between us once again striking sparks. Neither of us seemed to have the vaguest idea what to do about it, and really, there weren’t many appropriate options available. Even, perhaps especially, with an “understanding,” a courting couple must, of course, strictly observe the proprieties.
“Good day, Your Grace,” Tommy called from the parlor door as he just happened to walk past with the box of checkers.
“Right, then. Good day, Thomas, Shane.”
He took my hand and kissed it, finally settling on that perfectly proper gesture, which didn’t feel remotely proper at all. Neither did the way we held hands after, unwilling to break the contact.
“Good day,” I managed finally.
“A very good day, indeed.”
Chapter 10
In Which We Consider Vexing Questions
Soon after His Grace took his leave, I took to my bed with an improving book. I do not remember what it was or how much of it I read, and what or whom I dreamt of that night are no one’s business but my own. Suffice to say that I was awake and dressed at what Mrs. G considers civilized breakfast time and walked into the dining room with a smile and a spring in my step. Because I was tagging along with Hetty for the closing arguments at the Van Vleet trial, of course.
Tommy looked up from his bacon and eggs and shook his head. “What was all that talk about not wanting to upend your happy life?”
“Nothing has changed.”
“Except that he’s here. Do we know why?”
To my utter shame and horror, I realized I hadn’t asked. “Well . . .”
“So we are going on the assumption that he came just to see you?” The smile he was carefully smothering told me that he wasn’t operating on that idea at all, and that he’d gotten there long before I did.
“I’m quite sure he has other things to do here.” I poured myself a cup of black coffee and buried my face in the rich steam for a moment, hoping to hide my embarrassment. How could I have neglected to ask why he had come? It wasn’t, after all, as if he’d just taken the train down from the Bronx. He’d crossed the Atlantic, for heaven’s sake, which generally takes more than a week. What could possibly be worth leaving his world behind for the better part of a month or more?
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