Sophie just stared at him. She could think of no words. He was a Shadowhunter and a gentleman, and yet he seemed to be unburdening his soul to her. Even Jem, for all his gentle kindness, had never done that.
“When I heard about these lessons, I thought they would be a dreadful waste of my time. I pictured two very silly girls uninterested in any sort of instruction. But that describes neither Miss Gray nor yourself. I should tell you, I used to train younger Shadowhunters in Madrid. And there were quite a few of them who didn’t have the same native ability that you do. You’re a talented student, and it’s a pleasure to teach you.”
Sophie felt herself flush scarlet. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. I was pleasantly surprised the first time I came here, and again so the next time and the next. I found that I was looking forward to it. In fact, it would be fair to say that since my return home, I have hated everything in London except these hours here, with you.”
“But you said ‘ay Dios mio’ every time I dropped my dagger—”
He grinned. It lit up his face, changed it. Sophie stared at him. He was not beautiful like Jem was, but he was very handsome, especially when he smiled. The smile seemed to reach out and touch her heart, speeding its pace. He is a Shadowhunter, she thought. And a gentleman. This is not the way to think about him. Stop it. But she could not stop, any more than she had been able to put Jem out of her mind. Though, where with Jem she had felt safe, with Gideon she felt an excitement like lightning that coursed up and down her veins, shocking her. And yet she did not want to let it go.
“I speak Spanish when I’m in a good mood,” he said. “You might as well know that about me.”
“So it wasn’t that you were so weary of my ineptitude that you were wishing to hurl yourself off the roof?”
“Just the opposite.” He leaned closer to her. His eyes were the green-gray of a stormy sea. “Sophie? Might I ask you something?”
She knew she should correct him, ask him to call her Miss Collins, but she didn’t. “I—yes?”
“Whatever happens with the lessons—might I see you again?”
Will had risen to his feet, but Woolsey Scott was still examining Tessa, his hand under his chin, studying her as if she were something under glass in a natural history exhibit. He was not at all what she would have thought the leader of a pack of werewolves would look like. He was probably in his early twenties, tall but slender to the point of slightness, with blond hair nearly to his shoulders, dressed in a velvet jacket, knee breeches, and a trailing scarf with a paisley print. A tinted monocle obscured one pale green eye. He looked like drawings she’d seen in Punch of those who called themselves “aesthetes.”
“Adorable,” he pronounced finally. “Charlotte, I insist they stay while we talk. What a charming couple they make. See how his dark hair sets off her pale skin—”
“Thank you,” said Tessa, her voice shooting several octaves higher than usual, “Mr. Scott, that’s very gracious, but there is no attachment between Will and myself. I don’t know what you’ve heard—”
“Nothing!” he declared, throwing himself into a chair and arranging his scarf around him. “Nothing at all, I assure you, though your blushing belies your words. Come along now, everyone, sit down. There’s no need to be intimidated by me. Charlotte, ring for some tea. I’m parched.”
Tessa looked to Charlotte, who shrugged as if to say there was nothing to be done about it. Slowly Tessa sat back down. Will sat as well. She didn’t look at him; she couldn’t, with Woolsey Scott grinning at them both as if he knew something she didn’t know.
“And where’s young Mr. Carstairs?” he inquired. “Adorable boy. Such interesting coloring. And so talented on the violin. Of course, I’ve heard Garcin himself play at the Paris Opera, and after that, well, everything simply sounds like coal dust scraping the eardrums. Pity about his illness.”
Charlotte, who had gone across the room to ring for Bridget, returned and sat down, smoothing her skirts. “In a way, that’s what I wanted to speak to you about—”
“Oh, no, no, no.” From nowhere Scott had produced a majolica box, which he waved in Charlotte’s direction. “No serious discussion, please, until I’ve had my tea and a smoke. Egyptian cigar?” He offered her the box. “They’re the finest available.”
“No, thank you.” Charlotte looked mildly horrified at the idea of smoking a cigar; indeed, it was hard to picture, and Tessa felt Will, beside her, laugh silently. Scott shrugged and went back to his smoking preparations. The majolica box was a clever little thing with compartments for the cigars, tied in a bundle with a silk ribbon, new matches and old, and a place to tap one’s ashes. They watched as the werewolf lit his cigar with evident relish, and the sweet scent of tobacco filled the room.
“Now,” he said. “Tell me how you’ve been, Charlotte, darling. And that abstracted husband of yours. Still wandering around the crypt inventing things that blow up?”
“Sometimes,” said Will, “they’re even supposed to blow up.”
There was a rattle, and Bridget arrived with a tea tray, sparing Charlotte the need to answer. She set the tea things down on the inlaid table between the chairs, glancing back and forth anxiously. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Branwell. I thought there was only going to be two for tea—”
“It’s quite all right, Bridget,” said Charlotte, her tone firmly dismissive. “I will ring for you if we need anything else.”
Bridget dropped a curtsy and left, casting a curious eye over her shoulder at Woolsey Scott as she went. He took no notice of her. He had already poured milk into his teacup and was looking reproachfully at his hostess. “Oh, Charlotte.”
She looked at him in bewilderment. “Yes?”
“The tongs—the sugar tongs,” Scott said sadly, in the voice of someone remarking on the tragic death of an acquaintance. “They’re silver.”
“Oh!” Charlotte looked startled. Silver, Tessa remembered, was dangerous for werewolves. “I’m so sorry—”
Scott sighed. “It’s quite all right. Fortunately, I travel with my own.” From another pocket in his velvet jacket—which was buttoned over a silk waistcoat with a print of water lilies that would have put one of Henry’s to shame—he produced a rolled-up bit of silk; unrolling it revealed a set of gold tongs and a teaspoon. He set them on the table, took the lid off the teapot, and looked pleased. “Gunpowder tea! From Ceylon, I presume? Have you ever had the tea in Marrakech? They drench it in sugar or honey—”
“Gunpowder?” said Tessa, who had never been able to stop herself from asking questions even when she knew perfectly well it was a bad idea. “There isn’t gunpowder in the tea, is there?”
Scott laughed and set the lid back down. He sat back while Charlotte, her mouth set in a thin line, poured tea into his cup. “How charming! No, they call it that because the leaves of the tea are rolled into small pellets that resemble gunpowder.”
Charlotte said, “Mr. Scott, we really must discuss the situation at hand.”
“Yes, yes, I read your letter.” He sighed. “Downworlder politics. So dull. I don’t suppose you’d let me tell you about having my portrait painted by Alma-Tadema? I was dressed as a Roman soldier—”