“My father is well acquainted with scholars in China,” Jamie said quietly to Hayden. “They know all about each bowl he has purchased, and its history. They exchange correspondence regularly. Those men know where the bowls are, and my father would be happy to return any to China if they ask.”
“Scholars?” Hayden guffawed. “You mean he’s not chums with the emperor?”
He was joking, but Jamie did not smile. “The emperor at the moment is a prisoner in his own palace. I have a feeling their dynasty won’t last much longer.”
Hayden opened his mouth to continue the debate, but Evie interposed herself between the two men. Her skin tingled when she intercepted Jamie’s gaze.
“You do not have to answer his questions, Mr. Mackenzie,” she said. “Mr. Atherton is being rude, though I cannot fathom why.”
Jamie’s dangerous expression softened. “Peacocks will strut when ladies are nearby, Miss McKnight.”
Iris laughed, liking his answer, but Evie exhaled in exasperation. “Peacocks,” she said. “That is a very apt comparison. May we get on with looking at the exhibitions?”
She swung away, striding purposefully onward.
Yesterday, Hayden had defended Jamie when Evie’s father had disparaged Scotsmen in general and the Mackenzies in particular. But today Hayden had decided to poke fun at Jamie and his Scottishness, which for some reason Jamie was playing up.
Perhaps Hayden simply liked to take the opposing side in any argument he found himself in. He seemed to enjoy watching the other party scramble to justify themselves. Some of his conversations with Evie had followed that pattern. Why hadn’t she noticed this before?
She caught Iris’s arm and led her friend along the gallery, the gentlemen falling behind.
“It isn’t here,” Iris whispered.
“I see that,” Evie whispered in return. “Or rather, I don’t see.” At least nothing that resembled the drawing Iris had sent her.
“It must be in the basement Mr. Mackenzie mentioned,” Iris continued worriedly. “Trapped there.”
Evie squeezed Iris’s wrist. “No, that is a good thing. If it’s tucked in a box in the cellar, it won’t be missed. Maybe not for decades.”
“Yes, but how are we to find it? If it is even in this building. The museum has other storage facilities, don’t they?”
“Let us worry about one thing at a time. First, a way to get into the cellar.”
“Could Mr. Mackenzie help?”
Evie paused in mid-step. “Jamie? I mean, Mr. Mackenzie? How could he?”
“He seems to know about ancient pottery—he’d be able to understand what is what. And he said he’d been coming to this museum all his life.”
“Yes, but …” Evie glanced behind them at Jamie and Hayden who were now conversing affably, blast them.
Iris had a point that Jamie could be a help, if they could trust him to keep his silence. He might have resources that they did not. Evie recalled how the employees of the Langham had fallen all over themselves to assist him and guessed he might have the same rapport with the staff here.
But if Jamie agreed to assist, that meant he’d spend much time with them, and Evie did not like how she was too aware of his nearness. With unnerving frequency, her mind flashed back to his tall body curving over hers, his wet but hot lips on her mouth …
No, she should not be near him at all.
When she had spied Jamie today, lounging against a bookcase, a tome in his large hands, the rest of the world had abruptly vanished. The museum, the echo of its visitors, Iris, her predicament. Hayden.
Nothing had existed in that moment but Jamie Mackenzie. And it had seemed quite natural.
Evie could not afford to let that happen again.
“I will ask him,” Iris was saying.
Evie snapped her attention back to her. “Good heavens. No.”
Iris, the beauty of the rowing team, could be quite stubborn, Evie remembered. Stubborn, headstrong, and fearless. All the reasons Evie had liked her.
“It is my father at risk,” Iris said resolutely. “His reputation, his post—this could ruin his life. I will take any help I can find. I rather doubt Mr. Mackenzie will dash to the Greek government and tell them all that has happened.”
“The less who know, the better,” Evie tried.
“Please, Evie.” Iris said please, but Evie knew she would talk to whomever she liked about this problem, which was, after all, hers. Evie had no reason to stand in the way of whatever Iris wished to do.
Except she needed to avoid Jamie and the strange feelings he was invoking in her. It had been so long since she’d had any feelings at all, and she wasn’t certain she could manage this change in her heart.
Iris did not wait for her answer. “I will speak to him.” She turned away in a swish of skirts.
Evie leapt after her. “Here? Now?”
“Of course not here,” Iris hissed. “But yes, now. Let us adjourn to a teashop or some such. Sit in a corner where we won’t be overheard.”
Iris sped toward the gentlemen, and Evie could only follow.
“What do you think, Evie?” Hayden said as she neared. “Mackenzie is a member of one of my clubs. Isn’t that jolly? We’ve agreed to dine and be friends.”
“Oh, yes, very jolly,” Evie snapped.
Gracious, would Jamie and Hayden decide to become best mates at this dinner? Would Hayden perhaps invite Jamie to the wedding?
She envisioned a future when Jamie would come around for supper once she and Hayden were settled. The two men would talk and joke as they drank whisky Jamie brought from his family’s distillery, and Evie would sit mutely, trying to decide how to behave.
Hayden’s smile widened. “Evie is a crosspatch today. Tired from her travels, no doubt.”
Jamie’s gaze went to Evie, understanding in his eyes. “No doubt. But worry not about walking home or bouncing in a tedious hansom today. I brought the motorcar.”
Damnation. That would put the final blow to Evie’s equilibrium, riding beside Jamie in his motorcar or sitting behind him where she could observe the curve of his jaw, the thick wave of his red-brown hair.
“No need,” Evie said sharply. “Iris wishes to retire to a teashop. There is one around the corner. Shall we go?”
She swept past both men before they could speak, her heart unsteady as she pattered toward the relative refuge of the museum’s front doors.
Jamie watched Evie stride ahead of him along Great Russell Street, determinedly making for Bedford Square, home of the aforementioned teashop. Her skirts fluttered in the brisk wind, revealing her firm calves. She wore low Oxfords, practical shoes that encased her feet and trim ankles most enticingly.
She marched with head up, tendrils of dark hair escaping from under her plain hat, hands balled into fists. She had a straight back that curved into a nice waist, then a flare of hips that the skirt hugged. Strong legs carried her forward so purposefully that Atherton, escorting her, had to jog to catch up.
Jamie noted his quickened steps with satisfaction. The twit would never be able to keep up with Evie.
Atherton reminded him of any other upper-class idiot that proliferated London. They styled themselves as dashing men-about-town and pretended to be dangerous, but most were naive and harmless.