“Then I will see you at six, Miss Neven,” he said, and I hated how confident he sounded.
“We’ll see,” I countered.
I didn’t slow my pace until I was back in the bustle of the streets and out of sight of the museum. I stopped by a fountain brimming with wishful pennies and sat down on its stone ledge, pressing my palm to my chest, where my heart beat its new, strange rhythm.
My plan was simple. Deceive Phelan. Take advantage of his resources while I positioned myself to uncover dirt on his family, because all noble families had secrets to hide. Set that secret free. Watch the Vespers fall, one by one, into disgrace, including Lennox in Hereswith.
I wasn’t sure if I would ever reveal my true self to Phelan after it was all said and done, but one thing I knew for certain: things were going exactly as I hoped.
13
By five fifty-eight that evening, I was walking Auberon Street, rapidly approaching town house eleven. I hadn’t gone home that afternoon but wandered the southern quadrant of the city until I worked blisters on my heels, waiting for the sun to set.
I had imagined Phelan’s home to be drab and a touch eldritch, with an unpainted door and narrow windows and weeds in the garden. Town house eleven turned out to be unfortunately charming. It was three stories of gray brick with ivy growing up a trellis. The windows shone as if they had just been washed, framed by dark red shutters, and there was a gate off to the sinister side of the house, which led to a back garden.
The shadows were growing hungry on the street, and the lamps were being lit when I made my way to the door and knocked at six sharp.
It opened instantly, like someone had been waiting just behind the indigo-painted wood.
To my shock, it was an older woman. Her thistledown hair curled beneath a lacy cap, and she was dressed in a starched black dress and lace-trimmed apron. “You must be Anna Neven! Welcome, welcome!” She smiled and beckoned me to come inside, as if she had known me all my life. “We’re so pleased you are going to be joining us!”
“Ah, yes,” I said, and felt a brief flash of annoyance, because Phelan must have assumed that I would accept his partnership and told his housekeeper. But I swallowed the objection and stepped into the brightly lit foyer.
“By the look in your eyes, I don’t suppose he told you about me,” the woman said with a chuckle, and shut the door behind me. “I’m Mrs. Stirling. I cook and clean for him, and my grandson, Deacon, runs errands.”
“How lovely,” I said, thinking that Phelan didn’t deserve such a cheerful woman to do his chores. Although if I was honest . . . I did have Imonie all my life to wash my clothes and ensure I was fed. So perhaps I shouldn’t judge, although I was looking for something—anything—to give me reason to add another mark against Phelan. “And I suppose he didn’t tell you that I’m still undecided in my decision of partnership?”
“He told me you were in the midst of deliberation, Miss Neven,” said Mrs. Stirling, and her smile deepened, revealing a slight gap between her front teeth. “But after I beheld what you did to his clothes today . . . I do hope you will accept.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, true and heartfelt, even if there was only half a heart beating within me. “Then I am one step closer in accepting the offer, Mrs. Stirling.”
“Good, my dear. He needs a magician such as you beside him.”
A creak on the steps caught my attention. Phelan was descending the stairwell, drawn by the sound of my laughter. But he stopped when I looked up at him, and he seemed hung by uncertainty, to see me standing in his foyer. He had changed since our meeting earlier. His clothes were, once again, finely tailored and cut from the latest fashion, and his hair was damp, tamed by a ribbon. I could smell his aftershave from where I stood—a medley of pine and meadow grass, a fragrance that instantly stirred my homesickness—and I had to distract myself with my own raiment. I had chosen to wear the same clothes from before and had ensured they were wrinkled, and that my hair was unbrushed and loose, tangled down my back. I was quite disheveled in comparison to him, but it was deliberate.
I cast a bet as to how long it would take him to begin purchasing new garments for me. It was my intention to steal from his coffer, bit by bit, without him even realizing it. Just as he had stolen my home and livelihood. Just as he had made me pack up everything in a whirlwind with hardly a day to grieve over what I had lost.
“Miss Neven,” Phelan said, and continued his descent. “Welcome. I do hope you’re hungry. Mrs. Stirling has cooked all afternoon to impress you.”
“Then she is in luck,” I said, glancing at her. “I don’t remember the last meal I ate.”
“Oh, dear child! I have plenty for you, then, but I need to return to the kitchen. Phelan? Why don’t you give her a tour, and then bring our guest into the dining room.”
“Of course, Mrs. Stirling,” he said.
We watched as she hurried down the hallway, and then I glanced sidelong at Phelan.
“Is this your house, or hers?”
That coaxed a slight grin from him. “It’s mine by law, but it answers to her, I think.” He noticed my clothes, wrinkled and gilded in dust, and the long snarls in my hair. I waited for him to say something about it—add another mark against him in my ledger—but he managed to quell his objection and said in a pleasant tone, “Come, Miss Neven. Let me show you around.”
I followed him into the drawing room, a wide chamber with wainscoting and striped wallpaper, a plush rug that swallowed footsteps, a marble hearth, and an assortment of furniture. The tang of lemon haunted the air, as if Mrs. Stirling had just polished all the wood.
“This room is for visitors, and most evenings Mrs. Stirling and her grandson, Deacon, and I like to play a round of cards after dessert. You should join us tonight.” He indicated the card table that sat between two couches, and I nodded, thinking I should definitely not play cards with them. My competitive nature would emerge, and who knew what I might do to win.
Phelan glanced at me, as if he read my thoughts. “I take it you like cards?”
“A little. I don’t play very often.”
He nodded but seemed unconvinced. I followed him through the drawing room until I saw the great mirror hanging on the wall, positioned above the game cupboard. I froze, staring at the hungry glass. Why did he need such a large, obtrusive mirror in his drawing room?
Thanks to the thick rug, he didn’t hear me come to a frantic halt, and his eyes were set directly ahead, where he was leading me to an open archway. I hurried past the mirror, praying he wouldn’t turn. And I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass. A reflection of wild auburn hair and large brown eyes and pressed lips, as if I were holding a song in my chest.
“This leads to the library, where I do most of my work,” he said, guiding me through the archway into a back corridor, which wound to a set of double doors with panels of stained glass.
I exhaled, following him into a spacious library. The shelves rose from floor to ceiling, carved from mahogany wood. There was a hearth, swept clean of ashes, and a desk in the center of the room, where a tome sat beside a vase of swan quills and an herbarium. His book of nightmares, I presumed, and I approached it, measuring its thickness, the tattered edge of its pages, the weight it gave to the room.