all, Lady Morley. Not at all.” He paused a moment, collecting his wits, and then edged out from beneath his machine, inch by resigned inch.
There she stood, framed by the sun, her features shadowed and the light casting an electric glow about the outline of her hair and the hourglass curve of her waist. “I’m so terribly sorry,” she said. “That was a dreadful clang. Was it your head?”
He sat up. The downward flow of blood made his brow throb with a distinct and excruciating pain. “No. That was the axle. My head rather absorbed the sound, I believe, than originated it.”
Her mouth, what he could see of it, made a little round O. “I’m so terribly sorry.”
“A trifle, Lady Morley. Think nothing of it.” Finn rose to his feet and brushed at his trousers. “I presume Giacomo sent you to me?”
She shook her head. “No, no. I . . . I came on my own initiative. I hope”—she offered a smile—“I hope it doesn’t violate any oaths and wagers and so on. It’s a purely businesslike errand.”
Finn felt a twinge of something like disappointment. “Of course. May I . . .” He cleared his throat. “May I offer you a seat?”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.” She seemed to lose herself for an instant or two, staring curiously at his face, her fingers clutching at a small rectangular bundle she held next to her abdomen. She’d moved slightly, tilted her head, so that the sunlight struck her face at an angle, curving around the line of her cheekbone and illuminating her brown eyes into gold.
Finn crossed his arms. “Lady Morley, I should hate to be impolite, but I’m rather engaged at the moment. If you’ll come to the point?”
“I beg your pardon. I’ve not the slightest wish of intruding on your work. I only wished to deliver your post.” She thrust the bundle forward.
“My post?” he repeated, staring at her hands.
“Your post. A letter and the
Times
. Which properly belongs to Wallingford, I believe, but I thought I’d bring it along and let you have the first go.” She paused and smiled. “Aren’t you going to take it?”
“Yes, of course.” He took the papers from her, with care to avoid the brush of her fingers, and scanned them mechanically.
“There’s an item on the front page that might interest you,” she offered, after a second or two. “About a public automobile trial in Paris.”
He looked back at her, feeling rather stupid. “Really? I shall have to take a look. Thank you.”
She nodded at the paper. “A chap named De Dion. Have you heard of him?”
“Yes, yes. I daresay he’ll be in Rome in July, with the others.”
“His ideas seem most revolutionary. What do you think of them?”
He blinked in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”
“With the boiler mounted on the front. I believe he was clocked at nearly sixty kilometers an hour. Does your vehicle have a steam engine?”
Finn felt his mouth drop open.
“I think steam power holds a great deal of promise, don’t you? Though I should think it more useful for speed trials than for general use. So unreliable, and the danger of explosion, of course.” Her voice went on, perfectly smooth and melodious, as if they were discussing the weather instead of the vanguard of automotive progress. She raised her hand to dismiss the danger of catastrophic boiler explosion with an elegant flick of her fingers.
“Yes, of course,” Finn found himself mumbling. “I prefer an electric motor, myself.”
“An electric motor!” A bright glow came to life in her eyes, which looked past him to rest longingly, almost lovingly, on his automobile. “How perfectly clever of you! I’m an advocate of electric engines, myself. Such a great deal cleaner and more quiet. The trouble’s the power, of course. How fast is yours able to manage?”
“I haven’t . . . quite . . . that is . . .” Finn took in a long steadying breath. “Lady Morley, this is all rather unexpected. I’d no idea you were a
There she stood, framed by the sun, her features shadowed and the light casting an electric glow about the outline of her hair and the hourglass curve of her waist. “I’m so terribly sorry,” she said. “That was a dreadful clang. Was it your head?”
He sat up. The downward flow of blood made his brow throb with a distinct and excruciating pain. “No. That was the axle. My head rather absorbed the sound, I believe, than originated it.”
Her mouth, what he could see of it, made a little round O. “I’m so terribly sorry.”
“A trifle, Lady Morley. Think nothing of it.” Finn rose to his feet and brushed at his trousers. “I presume Giacomo sent you to me?”
She shook her head. “No, no. I . . . I came on my own initiative. I hope”—she offered a smile—“I hope it doesn’t violate any oaths and wagers and so on. It’s a purely businesslike errand.”
Finn felt a twinge of something like disappointment. “Of course. May I . . .” He cleared his throat. “May I offer you a seat?”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.” She seemed to lose herself for an instant or two, staring curiously at his face, her fingers clutching at a small rectangular bundle she held next to her abdomen. She’d moved slightly, tilted her head, so that the sunlight struck her face at an angle, curving around the line of her cheekbone and illuminating her brown eyes into gold.
Finn crossed his arms. “Lady Morley, I should hate to be impolite, but I’m rather engaged at the moment. If you’ll come to the point?”
“I beg your pardon. I’ve not the slightest wish of intruding on your work. I only wished to deliver your post.” She thrust the bundle forward.
“My post?” he repeated, staring at her hands.
“Your post. A letter and the
Times
. Which properly belongs to Wallingford, I believe, but I thought I’d bring it along and let you have the first go.” She paused and smiled. “Aren’t you going to take it?”
“Yes, of course.” He took the papers from her, with care to avoid the brush of her fingers, and scanned them mechanically.
“There’s an item on the front page that might interest you,” she offered, after a second or two. “About a public automobile trial in Paris.”
He looked back at her, feeling rather stupid. “Really? I shall have to take a look. Thank you.”
She nodded at the paper. “A chap named De Dion. Have you heard of him?”
“Yes, yes. I daresay he’ll be in Rome in July, with the others.”
“His ideas seem most revolutionary. What do you think of them?”
He blinked in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”
“With the boiler mounted on the front. I believe he was clocked at nearly sixty kilometers an hour. Does your vehicle have a steam engine?”
Finn felt his mouth drop open.
“I think steam power holds a great deal of promise, don’t you? Though I should think it more useful for speed trials than for general use. So unreliable, and the danger of explosion, of course.” Her voice went on, perfectly smooth and melodious, as if they were discussing the weather instead of the vanguard of automotive progress. She raised her hand to dismiss the danger of catastrophic boiler explosion with an elegant flick of her fingers.
“Yes, of course,” Finn found himself mumbling. “I prefer an electric motor, myself.”
“An electric motor!” A bright glow came to life in her eyes, which looked past him to rest longingly, almost lovingly, on his automobile. “How perfectly clever of you! I’m an advocate of electric engines, myself. Such a great deal cleaner and more quiet. The trouble’s the power, of course. How fast is yours able to manage?”
“I haven’t . . . quite . . . that is . . .” Finn took in a long steadying breath. “Lady Morley, this is all rather unexpected. I’d no idea you were a
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