oath.”
Giacomo’s eyes rounded in respect. “An oath! Signore! An oath . . . against the ladies?”
“Of a sort.” Finn cleared his throat. “Well, not precisely. But we’ve sworn to have nothing to do with them, a brother-to-brother sort of understanding, if you will. Except at meals, which necessitate . . . a sort of what the French call
détente . . .”
He swallowed. “Well, it’s bloody awkward, that’s all.”
Giacomo’s hands swept upward before him, palms out. “Is understand. Is understand perfectly. The ladies, no speak. Wise, very wise, signore. Is only trouble, you speak to the ladies.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Finn said, smiling with relief. “So you see, it’s quite impossible . . .”
“A note,” interrupted Giacomo, “a note, she is enough.” He ducked his head in a little bow. “I go now.”
“Look here!” protested Finn, but Giacomo had already crossed the floor with miraculous speed, had flung open the door and disappeared into the explosion of sunlight.
Finn blinked after him. “Bloody hell,” he said aloud, fingering the cool metal of his wrench. Light now tumbled through the doorway, the full throb of the midmorning sun, shining directly on the rear half of his machine. He set down the wrench and reached out one long hand to the now-redundant lamp and put it out.
What on earth was wrong with these people? Couldn’t Giacomo simply talk to the damned housekeeper himself? Finn picked up his wrench again and swung himself under the axle. Protocol, probably. Or separation of the sexes, or some other obscure custom, hardly to be unexpected among a people living in the same remote mountainous valley as their great-grandfathers before them. He’d traveled extensively. He knew what sort of taboos might grow up around isolated communities. He knew how necessary and how indestructible they could be.
Which left Finn the task of informing the ladies of the Great Cheese Insurrection.
He didn’t have to speak to Lady Morley, he reminded himself. A word in the ear of Lady Somerton would do just as well, or else the sister, what the devil was her name, nice enough girl. He hadn’t addressed a word to Lady Morley since that first evening—an impressive feat, considering they’d sat down to dinner opposite each other every night for the past three weeks—because every time the most perfunctory of mealtime greetings began to form in his brain, the image of Lady Morley’s right breast appeared next to it, large and round and succulent, nearly bursting from its corsetry like an overripe fig might burst from . . .
He was doing it again.
Focus. Focus on the task at hand. He needed his wits just now, clear and sharp and undistorted by lust. He had forsworn the company of women for that very reason. He was already behind in his rigorous schedule, with several unforeseen problems in the development of his electric engine and that damned nuisance Delmonico down in Rome announcing success after success, rot him. Lady Morley’s breasts, however enticing, had nothing to do with engines. Except, perhaps, in a metaphorical sense, which . . .
Focus.
He slid with resolution back underneath the gleaming metal of his prototype and concentrated his thought on the axle before his eyes. The crankshaft still hadn’t been connected properly, and there was no point returning to the engine until . . .
“Mr. Burke? Is that you?”
Ignore it. Focus.
The voice broke in again, so very much like Lady Morley’s it seemed almost as though it were real, rather than a hallucination: “Mr. Burke? Am I intruding?”
It’s all in your head, Burke old man. Axle rods. Crankshaft.
Something touched his hair. “Mr. Burke? Are you quite all right?”
Bloody hell.
Finn jerked in shock, slamming his forehead against the axle with a metallic clang. “Damn it all!” he groaned.
“Mr. Burke! Are you hurt?”
Finn placed one hand on his brow and rubbed ferociously. “Not at
Giacomo’s eyes rounded in respect. “An oath! Signore! An oath . . . against the ladies?”
“Of a sort.” Finn cleared his throat. “Well, not precisely. But we’ve sworn to have nothing to do with them, a brother-to-brother sort of understanding, if you will. Except at meals, which necessitate . . . a sort of what the French call
détente . . .”
He swallowed. “Well, it’s bloody awkward, that’s all.”
Giacomo’s hands swept upward before him, palms out. “Is understand. Is understand perfectly. The ladies, no speak. Wise, very wise, signore. Is only trouble, you speak to the ladies.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Finn said, smiling with relief. “So you see, it’s quite impossible . . .”
“A note,” interrupted Giacomo, “a note, she is enough.” He ducked his head in a little bow. “I go now.”
“Look here!” protested Finn, but Giacomo had already crossed the floor with miraculous speed, had flung open the door and disappeared into the explosion of sunlight.
Finn blinked after him. “Bloody hell,” he said aloud, fingering the cool metal of his wrench. Light now tumbled through the doorway, the full throb of the midmorning sun, shining directly on the rear half of his machine. He set down the wrench and reached out one long hand to the now-redundant lamp and put it out.
What on earth was wrong with these people? Couldn’t Giacomo simply talk to the damned housekeeper himself? Finn picked up his wrench again and swung himself under the axle. Protocol, probably. Or separation of the sexes, or some other obscure custom, hardly to be unexpected among a people living in the same remote mountainous valley as their great-grandfathers before them. He’d traveled extensively. He knew what sort of taboos might grow up around isolated communities. He knew how necessary and how indestructible they could be.
Which left Finn the task of informing the ladies of the Great Cheese Insurrection.
He didn’t have to speak to Lady Morley, he reminded himself. A word in the ear of Lady Somerton would do just as well, or else the sister, what the devil was her name, nice enough girl. He hadn’t addressed a word to Lady Morley since that first evening—an impressive feat, considering they’d sat down to dinner opposite each other every night for the past three weeks—because every time the most perfunctory of mealtime greetings began to form in his brain, the image of Lady Morley’s right breast appeared next to it, large and round and succulent, nearly bursting from its corsetry like an overripe fig might burst from . . .
He was doing it again.
Focus. Focus on the task at hand. He needed his wits just now, clear and sharp and undistorted by lust. He had forsworn the company of women for that very reason. He was already behind in his rigorous schedule, with several unforeseen problems in the development of his electric engine and that damned nuisance Delmonico down in Rome announcing success after success, rot him. Lady Morley’s breasts, however enticing, had nothing to do with engines. Except, perhaps, in a metaphorical sense, which . . .
Focus.
He slid with resolution back underneath the gleaming metal of his prototype and concentrated his thought on the axle before his eyes. The crankshaft still hadn’t been connected properly, and there was no point returning to the engine until . . .
“Mr. Burke? Is that you?”
Ignore it. Focus.
The voice broke in again, so very much like Lady Morley’s it seemed almost as though it were real, rather than a hallucination: “Mr. Burke? Am I intruding?”
It’s all in your head, Burke old man. Axle rods. Crankshaft.
Something touched his hair. “Mr. Burke? Are you quite all right?”
Bloody hell.
Finn jerked in shock, slamming his forehead against the axle with a metallic clang. “Damn it all!” he groaned.
“Mr. Burke! Are you hurt?”
Finn placed one hand on his brow and rubbed ferociously. “Not at
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