To compound her sense of mortification, she trod on something soft, something that gave an angry yowl in response. A streak of black shot across the room, its flight checked only by the closed door. The cat looked at Evie over its shoulder and delivered what she could only describe as a withering stare. She could see why there had been so much hair on the sofa.
The creature was all fur and angry yellow eyes. It would have been adorable had not its flat face exuded such blatant contempt.
“What did you do to my cat?” Harcastle’s voice was croaky with sleep. Of course he’d choose this moment to awaken. The dryness of his tone as he asked the question was the absolute cap to her morning.
“I trod on its tail and now it seems to hate me.”
“Don’t take it to heart,” Helen said, removing her glasses. “That cat hates everyone but Alex. And Alex it barely tolerates.”
Harcastle straightened, groaning loudly. His hand went to the back of his neck. “Bastard and I understand each other. We respect one another’s privacy and we are not demonstrative by nature.”
“When you die,” Helen said, “if that thing gets to you before we do, it’ll happily feast on your corpse. I hope you realize that.”
“The moment I hit the ground,” he agreed. “And I’d expect nothing less.”
“You named your cat Bastard?” Evie asked.
“Bas-tet, not bas-tard. After the Egyptian goddess of war.” He sighed, presumably at her ignorance. “She had the head of a cat.”
Evie sighed back at him. “A less godlike beast I never saw.” Bastet licked her paws, eyes still judging Evie and clearly finding her wanting. She was a beautiful cat, obviously well fed, nothing like the skinny wretches of the slums. “I shall call her Tubs.”
Alex smiled. “She won’t thank you.”
Helen, who had watched their exchange with a rueful smile, rose from her seat. “Well, I’ve finished writing my letter. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you two to your…discussion.”
“Don’t go on my account,” Evie said. “I’m about to leave.” She addressed the next to Harcastle. “I must see Captain.”
“Wait,” he said and drew her aside. “I think I should see him first. He needs to be at the séance, yes? Otherwise he’ll suspect you of losing our wager on purpose.”
“So I’ll tell him you’re suspicious of him and that you want him where you can keep an eye on him.”
“I can sell it better. Your time would be better spent recruiting Miss Carmichael.”
It wouldn’t be the first time Mags had helped at a séance but Evie hated to ask when she knew her friend was preparing for the opening of Twelfth Night. Since there was no one else she trusted, she didn’t have much choice. The sooner she spoke with Mags, the more time they’d have to prepare, but she didn’t like the idea of Harcastle speaking to Captain without her. Though she certainly had no desire to face him, she wanted to maintain control of the situation. She didn’t like surprises and she couldn’t predict how Harcastle would manage the encounter.
Her reluctance wasn’t lost on him if the appraising look he gave her was any indication. “You trust me, don’t you?” His eyes weren’t all hooded and cynical for once. He was in earnest and she remembered that this man cared about what happened to her. His concern was genuine. Not only that, but she was starting to suspect, was almost certain in fact, that he wouldn’t ask for anything in return for his help. That was more than could be said for most people.
So unexpected was this revelation that she almost took his hand in hers, but that would have revealed far too much about her own tender feelings. She didn’t believe in telling people more than they needed to know, particularly when it came to her emotions. Especially when it was pointless. For dozens of reasons, they had no future. Not even in the short-term. Now that her partnership with Captain had become untenable, she wouldn’t stay in London. Sense dictated that she go somewhere far away from Captain’s influence.
“Evie, do you trust me?”
Since she had no wish to give away more than she already had, she gave him an answer designed to make him laugh and shatter the moment. “Not entirely, no.”
But he didn’t laugh. His eyes held hers. “Then allow me to prove myself.”
…
Alex had never needed to use physical threats to inspire fear. It would be a clumsy way to accomplish something his rank and title achieved so effortlessly. All he need do was be Harcastle as his father had been.
As much as he’d despised his sire, he never found it difficult to slip into the role. It was the ease with which he accomplished it that terrified him. Any suspicion that he might resemble his father disturbed him deeply.
Nightingale hadn’t been sufficiently awed at their last meeting with Evie there as a buffer. Alex cursed his earlier self who’d been so obsessed with her that he’d barely looked at the man aiding her. He’d dismissed him with uncharacteristic carelessness.
But today’s meeting began well.
Alex sent no word of his intention to call at the studio and had the satisfaction of catching the man off guard. Nightingale hadn’t troubled to don his jacket before he answered the door and was obliged to receive his ducal visitor in rolled-up shirtsleeves. His green and blue checkered trousers and waistcoat were good quality but decidedly garish. Alex allowed his gaze to dip to the man’s meaty forearms with their smattering of graying hair, then regarded their owner with gently raised brows as though he himself were far too exalted a being to sprout hair in such uncouth places.
“I do hope I haven’t called at an inconvenient time. I seem to have caught you…unprepared.” Though he doubted it would take the man long to recover.
“Not at all, sir. That is…” Nightingale was at a loss, or so it seemed. “Do come in.”
The next few minutes were taken up with the pleasantries. Alex waited on the dilapidated sofa while his host disappeared into the adjoining room, returning some minutes later, jacket restored, bearing a tray with tea and a small plate of biscuits.
Nightingale avoided Alex’s gaze until he too was seated on a hard-backed chair he dragged in from the other room. The expression on his face then was self-conscious, like a man who gathers his courage before he makes eye contact. All very gratifying for Alex to behold.
Or it would have been if he believed any of it. To say that he distrusted Nightingale’s meek demeanor was an understatement. Was it belated instinct or merely the things Evie had told him? He trusted her with no more rationale than he’d dismissed Nightingale. After a lifetime of skepticism, it would seem he’d chosen to place his faith in a woman he knew to be a liar. How typically perverse of him.