Part 7 (1/2)
But that look poured down through her like hot honey and fanned out through her veins and she knew she was flus.h.i.+ng.
”Thank you,” she said, finally, as surely as if he'd spoken.
He laughed again, sounding delighted.
It turned heads, that laugh.
He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ”The redoubtable Mrs. Sneath is watching. I just saw her turban twitch. I believe it's because her eyebrows went up.”
Olivia laughed, too, charmed to her toes, then stifled the sound, too conscious that the two of them ought not be enjoying themselves so instantly and thoroughly.
”She is redoubtable, isn't she? And fearsome. I spend a good deal of time with her on the Society for the Protection of the Suss.e.x Poor. My job is to take a basket of food for the Duffy family once a week. On Tuesdays.”
”The Duffys . . .” he frowned faintly. ”They live in the house at the south end of town, beyond that big double elm tree. The house that's all but falling down.”
”Yes!” She was peculiarly delighted that he knew this. The elm had been split by lightning and had gone on growing as if it hadn't noticed.
”Mrs. Sneath certainly accomplishes things. And has since I was a boy.”
She was suddenly sorry she'd seen him only from a distance when she was a little girl, or the back of him when she was in church, and that she hadn't h.o.a.rded every single glimpse to pore over in her mind later.
It occurred to her that they likely knew all the same people and all the same places, but had seen all of them from different perspectives. Their families included.
”I should like to be like her when I am older,” she said.
”You haven't a prayer of being her when you are older,” he said instantly.
She bristled. ”And why? I admire her immensely. She does so much good.”
He was unmoved by her little flare of ferocity, when she'd seen other men blink in the face of it.
”Oh, I think she's remarkably, admirably effective. Like a general, she identifies needs, rallies the troops, and goes after addressing them quite unsentimentally. But I think it's in part a redirection of her energies due to disappointment. Her boys are mostly grown and I think her husband bores her. I do not believe for an instant, Miss Eversea, that you are destined for that sort of boredom.”
She smiled slowly. The observation about Mrs. Sneath's marriage seemed faintly scandalous, but it reminded her that for all her intelligence, he was still older and more seasoned and he'd seen more of people and the world. She had never thought about it in such terms, and she suddenly wanted to think about every adult she knew in a new light.
Poor Mrs. Sneath.
Lucky her, to have a thrilling life ahead of her.
Lucky her, to be claimed by Lyon Redmond.
”A prophet, are you, Mr. Redmond?”
He smiled again, and his smile made her breath catch in her throat. ”Merely very observant.”
They were silent again for a time.
”Speaking of investing, Miss Eversea, I think I'll go to Tingle's Bookshop tomorrow at about two o'clock to see if he's got in any books about Spain. Tingle keeps them near the history section, which, as you may know, is the remotest, dustiest part of the store. In the very back. I suppose it's because many of his customers don't often venture toward those shelves.”
She understood at once.
”Spain is sunny,” she said inanely.
”Yes,” he said shortly. She sensed he'd unnerved even himself.
They were quiet a moment, and then: ”I hate waltzes,” he finally said, so darkly she gave a start.
He noticed her widened eyes and smiled faintly, tautly. ”It's just that they are far, far too short.”
She was suddenly too shy to answer.
The music ended.
But her heart was still waltzing.
He bowed, and she curtsied.
He led her off to the edge of the ballroom, returning her to her friends, as if restoring a figurine he'd stolen to its proper shelf.
Chapter 5.
The next day . . .
AT TWENTY MINUTES TO two o clock, Lyon all but flew from his bedroom.
He halted in his doorway, yanked open his desk, and s.n.a.t.c.hed a sheet of foolscap he kept under the rosewood box, the one with the false bottom, a delightful puzzle of a box. He scrawled two short sentences, sprinkled it with sand, willed it to dry immediately, which it mostly did, and then folded it and shoved it into his coat pocket.
He paused in a mirror to ensure his cravat was straightened, which proved to be a mistake. Just as he had one hand on the banister-he liked to use it to launch himself a few stairs at a time-a voice stopped him like a wall.
”Lyon . . . a word, if you please?”
Lyon glanced over his shoulder and saw just his father's hand and forearm. Both were thrust out the door of his study and making beckoning motions in the air.
b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. Summoned to the Throne Room, as he and his siblings liked to call it. He often had pleasant enough visits with his father, but an actual summons seldom boded anything good and was rarely comfortable, particularly for poor Jonathan, who could, rather amusingly, do no right, and not even for Lyon, who could generally do no wrong but was as conscious of the need for rightness as a horse is of its harness.
He inhaled deeply, exhaled gustily, resignedly pivoted, and strode into the room, aware he was usually a welcome presence and his father sometimes merely liked to beam proudly at him and discuss the latest work of the Mercury Club, which Lyon usually rather enjoyed.
But as he entered, his eyes avoided the clock.
It was his enemy right now, and perhaps time would slow if he pretended it did not exist.
”Good afternoon, Father,” he said cheerily.
”Have a seat.”
d.a.m.n. If sitting was required, then something serious was afoot.