“You’ve stayed safe?” I said quietly.
“I have.” I saw her swallow, saw the goosebumps along the side of her neck.
“Good,” I said. Stepped back but stayed close. “Shall we inform him that our disagreement is finished?”
“Is it though?” she asked—and I heard the genuine meaning behind her words. The way she’d walked away two nights ago after I refused to admit to the real reason behind my trip to London betrayed all I needed to know about her frustration with me.
Humphrey was already walking back with a whiskey in hand, and I contemplated an escape plan. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have invaded what was clearly Sloane’s work, especially if she was holding a grudge.
“That depends,” I replied. “Does it bother you that I’m here?”
Her eyes searched mine as she bit her bottom lip. Finally, she echoed, “That depends.”
I smirked. “A stalemate, I see.”
She took a drink from her martini. “Humphrey said the only way for two people to have a healthy romantic relationship is if we, and this is a quote, join together to become an unstoppable force of valiant passion. End quote.”
A smile spread across my face. I didn’t even attempt to suppress it. “Sounds like love advice for Viking warriors.”
Sloane returned my smile, and hers was free of any barriers. No silky teasing, no sultry flirting—it was wide, toothy, quick, and bright. “You do have the look of a Norse god about you. A very dapper Norse god.”
Up high, in the walls around my heart, a brick loosened. Tumbled. Emotion flashed across her face so sincere I wondered if she too had a wall around her heart. Which only made me want to test my ability to knock it down.
“So Humphrey believes we are…” I trailed off.
She finally broke eye contact, following Humphrey’s movements through the bar and back toward us. “A romantic item.”
“Being a romantic item with someone is not my expertise, I’m afraid,” I admitted.
“I’m also in the fucking dark when it comes to romance.” Another smile, this one even more alluring. Inviting, even. When Humphrey reached us a second later, I was glad for the whiskey. At least I could place my hand there and hold the glass tightly, instead of cupping Sloane’s face and kissing her.
“Good lad,” Humphrey said. “I could see your valiant passion all the way from the bar. It helps not to fight. Life is too gorgeous and much too short. For example, have you met my handsome husband, Reginald?”
Humphrey finally stepped aside to reveal a short black man with wire-rimmed glasses who seemed besotted with the giant, red-haired lumberjack hugging him around the shoulders. He too appeared to be in his seventies, like Humphrey, and was dressed in an academic-looking tweed jacket and a bowtie.
“It’s Reggie,” the man said, shaking my hand and Sloane’s. “I apologize, my husband is ridiculous.”
Sloane, for her part, appeared genuinely delighted at the pair. “How long have you been together?”
“Forty years,” Reggie said. “And every one of them spent with Humphrey has been a miracle. Even though he is a bit of a loudmouth. A loudmouth I love.”
It was said without teasing, and the brief look they exchanged reminded me of my mother’s wedding to Jeanette, the adoration there went deeper than attraction or affection. It was real partnership, in all its forms. Which seemed to be more than the sum of bringing two lives together in equal fashion but agreeing to shoulder the burdens, share the pain, hold more of the weight when your partner couldn’t.
“We met at a meeting of the Sherlock Society, and the rest was history,” Humphrey said, giving Reggie another squeeze. Now drink,” Humphrey raised his pint glass. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
Glancing at Sloane, I prepared to make my exit. “This has been lovely to meet you, Reggie, but my hotel room awaits.”
I thought Sloane looked disappointed before schooling her expression into one of charming nonchalance.
“Nonsense,” Humphrey said. “If you’re both here, I know you’ll want to hear stories of Bernard when he was a boy.”
Sloane and I both went rigid. I chanced a look her way; she subtly arched her brow.
“Stay,” he continued. “You know Ms. Atwood wants you to.”
Ms. Atwood blushed slightly yet remained silent. Staying, engaging with Humphrey who, while charming, was technically her source, meant helping her. Even though it was obvious her views on asking for help mirrored my own.
Staying, engaging with Humphrey, meant admitting I wasn’t, technically, entirely on vacation. I turned fully toward Sloane, hiding my face from Humphrey and Reggie as much as I could. Since we weren’t actually work partners, we had no built-in code-words or facial expressions to communicate with each other in short-hand.
“Perhaps we’ve reached a… stalemate in our quarrel,” I said slowly, watching her closely for signs of distrust.
She tapped her fingers on her glass, bit her lip. “I guess… a night of leisure, alone, doesn’t really suit you.”
The ends of my mouth quirked up. “I guess a night of being on your own doesn’t suit you?”
Fifty—fifty. Or, at least, our best attempt at it. Turning, I raised my glass in appreciation of the tiny victory. “Bring on the stories about Bernard.”
16
Abe
With a jubilant cheer, Humphrey dragged another barstool over for me. I leaned against it, one leg outstretched, and tried not to notice when Sloane’s knee pressed against my thigh.
“That was nice of Eudora to give you my phone number,” I said.
“Eudora can be nice occasionally,” Humphrey said.
“Be civil,” Reggie chided.
“I am civil,” Humphrey said. He leaned in close. “I’m sure you’ve heard the stories about our current president’s temper.”
“A few members have shared their less-than-kind memories,” Sloane said with a secret smile. “Although she has been sweet to me.”
“She is sweet,” Reggie said. “If she likes you and you don’t get in the way of her perfect vision. If you do…”
“They’ll find your body under her floorboards,” Humphrey said.
“Has she always wanted to be president of the Sherlock Society?” I asked.
Humphrey shrugged his massive shoulders. “She made it known to us all that she was gunning for Bernie’s position long before his sabbatical. We had a president, before Bernie, named Nicholas.”
“Markham?” I said, remembering what Eudora had told me about their former president and his bookstore, Adler’s. Which was directly across the street from where we sat.
“The one and only, god rest his soul,” Humphrey said. “He’s since passed, ten years now, but Eudora and Bernie revered the man. Back in his early days of leadership, the Society was more secretive, more exclusive. It should be a club open to anyone who loves the genius of our country’s greatest writer, not a secret society.”
Eudora had insinuated something similar, right before I’d said the code words inscribed above the fireplace across the room. Which was interesting as hell given that Bernard was responsible for The Empty House—the secret society that Freya and Sam had infiltrated just eight weeks ago. Bernard was, of course, conspicuously absent during the festivities. My agents had discovered a group of eleven individuals that met every year at the Antiquarian Book Festival in Philadelphia, where they conducted an underground, black-market auction filled with stolen antiques valued at millions of dollars. It was a massive case, and the Bureau was still putting all the pieces together, but Bernard Allerton appeared to be at the center of it all. He provided the stolen books to auction off, he provided the guests that could keep a secret and had an abundance of wealth, he received the money paid for his stolen items. He was the buyer, the seller, the one who ultimately profited while others went to prison.