Chapter 7
He was late. Twenty minutes, to be exact.
The tea cool, the biscuits untouched, the library hushed, the conversations complete. Julian, Finn’s brother of love-but-not-blood glanced at the mantel clock for the fifth time and tapped a paintbrush Victoria hoped was dry against the bookshelf he leaned against. Tap, tap, tap. She brought her puzzle book close to her face, hoping to appear engrossed in wordplay when all she wanted to do was study the fascinating interaction between Lord and Lady Beauchamp. She’d not been given many opportunities to witness genuine affection, a living, breathing example of a love match. It was almost unheard of in the aristocracy. Nudging her spectacles high, she watched the lady cross the room, settle her hand over the lord’s paintbrush while flashing an adoring smile that would melt butter.
Or melt viscounts, as it were.
“I’m not planning to kill the boy, Yank,” Julian whispered with a glowing look thrown his wife’s way, a lingering sweep of his thumb across her wrist emphasizing the unusual sobriquet. “Just bash his head in a bit. Humphrey will track him down. That’s worse than any piddling punishment I would dole out.”
“He’s not sleeping well,” Victoria offered, the need to defend him making her want, in turn, to howl with laughter and hurl a book across the room. Maybe she’d start with the hulking chronology lying open on the desk, though she wasn’t sure she could lift the volume, must less heave it.
Julian settled his long body against the window frame, tucking his very pregnant wife by his side, muted morning sunlight flowing around them in dust-specked streaks. The viscount presented an intimidating portrait, broad shoulders and fierce glower, a titled thug manipulating his paintbrush like a weapon, his spouse curled against him like a protective kitten. “I’m curious how you came to this deduction, Lady Hamilton.”
Victoria repositioned herself on the tufted sofa, her gaze meeting Lord Beauchamp’s with calm ease even if her knees shook the tiniest fraction beneath her skirt. Her relationship with her father had prepared her to handle sullen men with the steadiest of regard. “Not in an untoward manner, I assure you. I suspect I’m the only female in London who can claim lack of that dubious honor.” She sighed and folded the edge of her puzzle book back, realizing only hoydens and lightskirts discussed bed partners in mixed company. Mercy, who cared at this point? The entire situation was beyond the pale in a disastrous way, and her reputation was likely to crumble and blow away in the wind after this summer. One floor above, she imagined poor Aggie was sniffling her head off. “The dreams he’s having about me. Disruptive is all I’m suggesting,” she muttered and slapped her book to the floor. “But what do I know,” she murmured, hopefully for her ears alone.
Julian popped the paintbrush against his thigh, the first smile she’d noted twisting his lips. She could see what his wife found attractive in the strong jaw, the patrician nose, the eyes as gray as smoke. A solid, handsome face. A strong body. A commanding presence. “What a surprise. Every woman in this library, nay, the entire estate, begs me to go easy on my appealingly beddable little brother. The darling boy. Can’t extinguish the brightest light in London, now can we?”
Before she could retract any protective gesture she’d made because, truthfully, she felt Finn’s light should be dimmed slightly if not extinguished, he was there, being jostled through the library’s doorway by the largest man Victoria had ever seen.
Finn sidestepped, wrestling his sleeve from the brute’s grip. “You sent Humphrey to find me because I was five minutes late? Really, Jule? What am I, thirteen?”
Julian pointed the paintbrush at Finn, his smile growing. “Going on twenty-five minutes. And I don’t know, are you?”
Humphrey sighed and threw himself into the only chair in the room that would hold him, a monstrous leather affair that could house a small family. “Found him in the kitchens surrounded by a pack of squawking geese, and I don’t mean the bird kind. Lounging like he had all the time in the world, waiting for one of the flock to brush crumbs off his lip or offer him another morsel, and of what, I'm not going to say. Delaying the inevitable, he was. Again. Like I don’t dread this research project myself.”
Piper rapped Humphrey on the shoulder, and he started. “Begging pardon, ma’am,” he said with a nod in Victoria’s direction, “because I can’t wait to see what magic you’re about to pull out of your lacy sleeve. I’m sorry to say, after years of miraculous arrivals, I don’t know if I have anything left in me to be impressed. Unless your talent is procuring the finest Irish whiskey known to man with a wrinkle of your nose. That I’d be impressed by.”
Finn expelled a breath through his teeth and circled behind the sofa, seating himself at the opposite end, as far from her as he could get. “I simply went to get another crumpet. Crucify me, but Cook makes the best in England. I was trying to escape the kitchen when the big heavy here found me.”
Victoria swiveled her head and pierced him with a droll look. “Crumpet?” she mouthed. She’d tasted one this morning, and they were stale. She could whip up a pastry in ten paltry minutes that would have him crying in his soup.
Wordlessly, he crossed his long legs at the ankle and balanced his chin on his knuckle, the very picture of impudent negligence. But she could see his jaw muscle ticking in time to Julian’s paintbrush taps. So much more going on beneath the surface than he liked to admit. Exhausting, she imagined, the daily battles he fought to allow the caricature to rule the man.
Victoria moistened her lips and swallowed, the click of her throat cracking the silence. “I don’t make magic. It’s a parlor trick, sleight of hand. Nothing more. Nothing monumental. From the little Mr. Alexander has told me, you invite people here who have true gifts. Sight and touch and sense. This, mine, is largely”—she flipped her gloved hand over and back—“an annoyance.”
“I’ll go first, Lady Hamilton,” Julian said, “as we provide insight into your annoyance.” He motioned to his brother. “Finn, something from your pocket, please. A coin, anything. Although I fear what I may witness during this test, I fear it much less than I normally would.”
Finn tunneled his hand in his waistcoat pocket, coming up with a silver penknife, which he tossed to Julian. The teasing hint of cardamom drifted to her like a caress, and she wondered how he managed to smell edible and entirely masculine at the same time.
Julian traced the engraving on the front of the knife. “You still have this? Must be going on ten years since I gave it to you.”
Finn stacked one glossy boot atop the other. “My thirteenth birthday, so going on twelve.”
Victoria was unable to contain her surprised murmur as she did a quick calculation. Finn was her age, maybe even a few months younger. For some reason, this fact made her crosser than anything had since receiving his bloody invitation. With his innumerable extravagances and the beguiling bit of gray in his hair, she’d imagined him to be thirty at least.
She sank back against the cushions, seething.
The cheeky smile Finn shot her was filled with such genuine delight she wanted to pinch him—like she had her brother when he vexed her.