trunk.
Roger eyed with favor her ugly dress, the bedraggled hat that dangled from her neck. “You begin to look the part.”
With such pride were the words delivered, that when he lifted the offensive headpiece and asked sweetly, “Shall I demonstrate the recommended tilt?” she shrugged, completely taken with how close he stood.
“If you please.”
Bathed in the blue of him, pulse racing, Dulcie watched by way of the mirror. With concentrated expression he adjusted the ribbon--fastened securely at the nape of her neck. A thrilling sensation, his fingers, wafting tendrils of azure blue, lifted straying strands of hair, smoothing them out of the way of the knot, a sensation provocative beyond measure.
Closing her eyes Dulcie saw his touch reflected in the darkness, an explosion of rose pink, into which bled brilliant lapis lazuli blue. The connection of color and feeling, leached into her, tingling the length of her spine, spreading heat all the way to her fingertips. Like the day they had met. Like the day in Hatchard’s bookstore. She wondered if such a feeling, such vibrant color, might last a lifetime.
Hat settled, Dulcie lifted her chin and dared to look deep into eyes that met hers with such understanding and camaraderie it awoke within the depths of her, the same golden heat.
She shivered, not with fear or anxiety, but with anticipation.
“Nervous?” he asked.
I nodded.
“You’ll grow accustomed.” He made it sound as if this jaunt were the first of many on which they would embark.
“How long have you led this double life?”
He shrugged. “Longer than I care to remember.”
“Have many women helped you?”
His gaze shifted, blue eyes elusive. “Why do you ask?”
Dulcie pointed to the warren of hatboxes, costumes, and wigs. “There are any number of women’s things.”
Quinn emerged from his search bearing the requested hat and coat, a red belcher and a much used, ill-washed apron.
“For you, Miss.” He handed her the apron, his tone conspiratorial. “On occasion, you will understand, Mr. Ramsay disguises himself as a crone, or charwoman. Even a slattern.”
“A very ugly slattern,” Roger agreed with a laugh.
She pursed her lips--skeptical of his explanation. She had seen too great a change in Ramsay’s light to accept it.
Roger’s gaze locked with hers--as if they spoke by way of shared glances. His voice changed. “In addition . . .”
“Sir.” Quinn interrupted, the word a warning.
Roger’s eyes remained fixed on hers. “Miss Selwyn deserves to be told the truth.”
Dulcie tensed, expecting the worst.
“On occasion,” Roger explained without trace of embarrassment or apology, the stony gaze of a Gargoyle looked out at her. “I work with women I trust, women who need the money, who will, without question, do anything I ask of them.”
“I see.” The flashes, hot and bothersome, stirred in touching the clothes in the wardrobe, made more sense, the rumors, too, in connection with Roger and his reputed predilections.
“Does it disturb you?” the Gargoyle asked stone-faced.
Feigning sophistication beyond her ken, she shrugged. “It is not for me to judge, either your life, or the company you keep. A dangerous business, is it not?”
“A desperate business,” he said calmly, ice in his words. It glittered coldly in his eyes. This time her shiver was undeniably fear.
He led her from the house by way of the mews, his high-collared Garrick coat swirling flamboyantly in the breeze. The sky was gray, the horizon thick with clouds threatening rain. The spindly ash tree that had sprung up volunteer, in the mews, was losing the last of its browned foliage. The fingerless mittens Quinn had insisted she must wear warmed her, as did the wool stockings and the drab wool cape with mud-smutted hem.
“The colors you see--” he no longer questioned that she did, indeed, see. “What do they tell you?”
She said, “I am not always clear about it.”
Quinn pulled
Roger eyed with favor her ugly dress, the bedraggled hat that dangled from her neck. “You begin to look the part.”
With such pride were the words delivered, that when he lifted the offensive headpiece and asked sweetly, “Shall I demonstrate the recommended tilt?” she shrugged, completely taken with how close he stood.
“If you please.”
Bathed in the blue of him, pulse racing, Dulcie watched by way of the mirror. With concentrated expression he adjusted the ribbon--fastened securely at the nape of her neck. A thrilling sensation, his fingers, wafting tendrils of azure blue, lifted straying strands of hair, smoothing them out of the way of the knot, a sensation provocative beyond measure.
Closing her eyes Dulcie saw his touch reflected in the darkness, an explosion of rose pink, into which bled brilliant lapis lazuli blue. The connection of color and feeling, leached into her, tingling the length of her spine, spreading heat all the way to her fingertips. Like the day they had met. Like the day in Hatchard’s bookstore. She wondered if such a feeling, such vibrant color, might last a lifetime.
Hat settled, Dulcie lifted her chin and dared to look deep into eyes that met hers with such understanding and camaraderie it awoke within the depths of her, the same golden heat.
She shivered, not with fear or anxiety, but with anticipation.
“Nervous?” he asked.
I nodded.
“You’ll grow accustomed.” He made it sound as if this jaunt were the first of many on which they would embark.
“How long have you led this double life?”
He shrugged. “Longer than I care to remember.”
“Have many women helped you?”
His gaze shifted, blue eyes elusive. “Why do you ask?”
Dulcie pointed to the warren of hatboxes, costumes, and wigs. “There are any number of women’s things.”
Quinn emerged from his search bearing the requested hat and coat, a red belcher and a much used, ill-washed apron.
“For you, Miss.” He handed her the apron, his tone conspiratorial. “On occasion, you will understand, Mr. Ramsay disguises himself as a crone, or charwoman. Even a slattern.”
“A very ugly slattern,” Roger agreed with a laugh.
She pursed her lips--skeptical of his explanation. She had seen too great a change in Ramsay’s light to accept it.
Roger’s gaze locked with hers--as if they spoke by way of shared glances. His voice changed. “In addition . . .”
“Sir.” Quinn interrupted, the word a warning.
Roger’s eyes remained fixed on hers. “Miss Selwyn deserves to be told the truth.”
Dulcie tensed, expecting the worst.
“On occasion,” Roger explained without trace of embarrassment or apology, the stony gaze of a Gargoyle looked out at her. “I work with women I trust, women who need the money, who will, without question, do anything I ask of them.”
“I see.” The flashes, hot and bothersome, stirred in touching the clothes in the wardrobe, made more sense, the rumors, too, in connection with Roger and his reputed predilections.
“Does it disturb you?” the Gargoyle asked stone-faced.
Feigning sophistication beyond her ken, she shrugged. “It is not for me to judge, either your life, or the company you keep. A dangerous business, is it not?”
“A desperate business,” he said calmly, ice in his words. It glittered coldly in his eyes. This time her shiver was undeniably fear.
He led her from the house by way of the mews, his high-collared Garrick coat swirling flamboyantly in the breeze. The sky was gray, the horizon thick with clouds threatening rain. The spindly ash tree that had sprung up volunteer, in the mews, was losing the last of its browned foliage. The fingerless mittens Quinn had insisted she must wear warmed her, as did the wool stockings and the drab wool cape with mud-smutted hem.
“The colors you see--” he no longer questioned that she did, indeed, see. “What do they tell you?”
She said, “I am not always clear about it.”
Quinn pulled
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