and make everything proper, etcetera."
"But—" she began. She gave up. "What is your name?" she asked suddenly, instead. "Your full name?"
"Christopher Whitelaw, Viscount Grantham. Kit, to you , Miss Makepeace."
And then he smiled a smile that made Susannah remember that he'd made a fortune in smuggling, and was wanted for piracy. Perhaps he'd also had an affair with the queen. For it was just that sort of smile: crooked, slow, unnervingly inclusive and intimate. It knew things, that smile. She felt shy suddenly; she was acutely aware of how substantial he was, how hard the muscles under his shirt and trousers were. Douglas seemed unfinished in comparison, a sapling.
Though she of course had never seen beneath Douglas's clothes.
"My aunt—" she faltered suddenly.
"Is not anywhere near as shocked as she seemed, I assure you. She's known me since I was in short pants, and I doubt I've truly surprised her. She's sturdier than you might think."
Susannah couldn't help but smile at that, thinking o: him in short pants. "Did… did you know my father then? He hailed from this region as well."
"He was older than I, so we didn't spend much time together when I was growing up in Barnstable," he said easily. "But I knew him in London. We were both soldiers a one time, and we shared a common acquaintance, a Mr. Morley. Perhaps you've met him?"
"No, sir, I am afraid I haven't. Are you involved in imports and exports, too?"
"We did have some business together, your father and I. Which is how I came to know him."
She almost said, "I wish I'd known him." She was quiet instead, and focused on the row of buttons climbing up.. the viscount's dazzlingly white shirt, thinking about the quiet enigma that had been James Makepeace. His kindness, his detached bemusement. His violent end, which had, in a way, violently ended a way of life for her, too.
And suddenly her feet were heavier, and the waltz was an effort.
Susannah looked up again to find the viscount watching her, those vivid eyes softer. "He was a good man, Miss Makepeace. I'm sorry for your loss." Almost excruciatingly gentle, his voice.
"Thank you." And she felt tears burning the backs of her eyes for her father. "Am I horrible to dance?"
"A little," the viscount said lightly, which instead of making hex feel horrible, comforted her somehow.
"I intend to get roaring drunk in his honor at first opportunity," he added after a moment.
She wasn't at all sure what to say about this, although it did sound like something of a tribute.
The dance ended then, and she was certain the orchestra all but mopped their brows in relief. The viscount released her hand.
"It's settled then? As of this moment, you are in my employ?"
But she said the word to his retreating back, because his question had only been rhetorical, after all. It was clear he'd been certain all along of getting precisely what he wanted.
----
Chapter Six
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"It… did what?" Morley fixed Bob with a pleasant gaze.
Bob flinched. He knew from experience that Morley was at his least pleasant when he… seemed pleasant. "Tipped over, sir."
"Tipped… over…" Morley repeated musingly. He knelt to waggle his fingers at Fluff, who trotted over urgently, as if it had been far too long since he'd been petted. It had been about five minutes.
He scooped the cat up.
"In the yard of the coaching inn," Bob explained hurriedly. "I replaced the linchpin with a short 'un, ye see, which works a treat nearly every time. When the coach came to the turn on the road just past West Crumley, it should have made a right nice accident—arms, legs, trunks, everywhere." Bob's mouth twisted wistfully. "Why, just last year a mail coach on the way to… on the way to…"
He trailed off at the look of frozen politeness on Morley's face.
"I'm a professional , Mr. Morley," Bob muttered defensively. "Deuced timing, is all."
"You also aren't the only professional in your… field, Bob."
Bob said nothing. He shifted his
"But—" she began. She gave up. "What is your name?" she asked suddenly, instead. "Your full name?"
"Christopher Whitelaw, Viscount Grantham. Kit, to you , Miss Makepeace."
And then he smiled a smile that made Susannah remember that he'd made a fortune in smuggling, and was wanted for piracy. Perhaps he'd also had an affair with the queen. For it was just that sort of smile: crooked, slow, unnervingly inclusive and intimate. It knew things, that smile. She felt shy suddenly; she was acutely aware of how substantial he was, how hard the muscles under his shirt and trousers were. Douglas seemed unfinished in comparison, a sapling.
Though she of course had never seen beneath Douglas's clothes.
"My aunt—" she faltered suddenly.
"Is not anywhere near as shocked as she seemed, I assure you. She's known me since I was in short pants, and I doubt I've truly surprised her. She's sturdier than you might think."
Susannah couldn't help but smile at that, thinking o: him in short pants. "Did… did you know my father then? He hailed from this region as well."
"He was older than I, so we didn't spend much time together when I was growing up in Barnstable," he said easily. "But I knew him in London. We were both soldiers a one time, and we shared a common acquaintance, a Mr. Morley. Perhaps you've met him?"
"No, sir, I am afraid I haven't. Are you involved in imports and exports, too?"
"We did have some business together, your father and I. Which is how I came to know him."
She almost said, "I wish I'd known him." She was quiet instead, and focused on the row of buttons climbing up.. the viscount's dazzlingly white shirt, thinking about the quiet enigma that had been James Makepeace. His kindness, his detached bemusement. His violent end, which had, in a way, violently ended a way of life for her, too.
And suddenly her feet were heavier, and the waltz was an effort.
Susannah looked up again to find the viscount watching her, those vivid eyes softer. "He was a good man, Miss Makepeace. I'm sorry for your loss." Almost excruciatingly gentle, his voice.
"Thank you." And she felt tears burning the backs of her eyes for her father. "Am I horrible to dance?"
"A little," the viscount said lightly, which instead of making hex feel horrible, comforted her somehow.
"I intend to get roaring drunk in his honor at first opportunity," he added after a moment.
She wasn't at all sure what to say about this, although it did sound like something of a tribute.
The dance ended then, and she was certain the orchestra all but mopped their brows in relief. The viscount released her hand.
"It's settled then? As of this moment, you are in my employ?"
But she said the word to his retreating back, because his question had only been rhetorical, after all. It was clear he'd been certain all along of getting precisely what he wanted.
----
Chapter Six
Previous Top Next
"It… did what?" Morley fixed Bob with a pleasant gaze.
Bob flinched. He knew from experience that Morley was at his least pleasant when he… seemed pleasant. "Tipped over, sir."
"Tipped… over…" Morley repeated musingly. He knelt to waggle his fingers at Fluff, who trotted over urgently, as if it had been far too long since he'd been petted. It had been about five minutes.
He scooped the cat up.
"In the yard of the coaching inn," Bob explained hurriedly. "I replaced the linchpin with a short 'un, ye see, which works a treat nearly every time. When the coach came to the turn on the road just past West Crumley, it should have made a right nice accident—arms, legs, trunks, everywhere." Bob's mouth twisted wistfully. "Why, just last year a mail coach on the way to… on the way to…"
He trailed off at the look of frozen politeness on Morley's face.
"I'm a professional , Mr. Morley," Bob muttered defensively. "Deuced timing, is all."
"You also aren't the only professional in your… field, Bob."
Bob said nothing. He shifted his
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