gone."
The door closed behind him and silence reigned. Verity studied her half-empty glass. Jonas didn't move. "So," he said at last, "you came over here tonight to apologize?"
"I don't know what got into me," she mumbled, feeling put upon and therefore sarcastic. "I must have been crazy."
Jonas got soundlessly to his feet and crossed the room to stand in front of her. He took her glass from her hand and set it down beside his on the small table near her chair. Then his hands closed around her shoulders and he lifted her to her feet.
"So gracious. But I'll take what I can get. Apology accepted, little tyrant," he said softly and brushed the lightest of kisses across the tip of her nose. With his mouth very close to hers he asked, "What have you got on under this coat?" He ran a finger down the row of large buttons to the sash. "It looks like a nightgown."
"Never mind about my clothes. I think you owe me an apology, too," she announced, looking up at him warily.
"I agree," he said, golden eyes suddenly cryptic. "But my sin is greater than yours and I haven't even finished committing it yet. Give me a little time, Verity."
She thought he was about to kiss her again, this time on the mouth, but the door opened, letting in a blast of cool air. Her father came into the room, bearing an old, flat wooden case. He watched with interest as Jonas casually took his hands off Verity's shoulders. "Here, now, don't let me interrupt anything. You two got something going on between you?"
"Don't get excited, Dad; the man works for me."
"Looks to me like you're giving out some interesting employee benefits, Red."
"Forget it, Dad. What's in the case?"
Emerson chuckled. "Take a look. If your old man hasn't been had, if these are genuine, they're worth a small fortune. Enough to pay off the hound who's baying at my heels." He opened the old case and revealed two oddly shaped guns nesting in faded, aging felt.
Verity stared at the long-barreled weapons. They were both fascinating and ominous-looking. The grips were curved and the metal was blued. There was no hint of ornamentation on the guns. Unlike most handcrafted items from the past, they were stark, functional, and terrifyingly plain in design. The very lack of decorative details seemed to emphasize the purpose for which the weapons had been made.
"Dueling pistols," Jonas said calmly. He peered into the case but made no move to touch the guns. "British flints. Probably late seventeen hundreds. If they're real, you're in luck, Emerson. They're worth a bundle. How did you say you got hold of them?"
Emerson eyed his prize. "I did a favor for someone once a long time ago. I looked him up in Rio a few weeks back to see if he would be willing to loan me a few bucks to help me get out of my present predicament. He gave me these instead and said they should take care of my problem. I trust my friend, naturally, but you never know. The first thing I have to do is verify that these are originals and not reproductions. Then I'll have to figure out how to find a buyer."
"The first part of your problem should be easy to solve," Verity said briskly. "Jonas has the kind of knowledge and experience it takes to authenticate old things, don't you, Jonas?" She looked up at him, challenging him to prove that what Caitlin Evanger had said about him earlier was true. "Go ahead. Tell us whether my father has come into possession of a pair of valuable dueling pistols or if he's just been taken to the cleaners."
"I'm kind of curious myself," Emerson said easily. "The condition of my face may depend on it, not to mention my kneecaps. Do you know something about old guns?"
Jonas said nothing. He just stared down into the mahogany case as if he were looking through a window into another world.
"His former area of expertise is the Renaissance," Verity told her father quietly as she watched Jonas. "But apparently he has a broad range of knowledge on the subject of
The door closed behind him and silence reigned. Verity studied her half-empty glass. Jonas didn't move. "So," he said at last, "you came over here tonight to apologize?"
"I don't know what got into me," she mumbled, feeling put upon and therefore sarcastic. "I must have been crazy."
Jonas got soundlessly to his feet and crossed the room to stand in front of her. He took her glass from her hand and set it down beside his on the small table near her chair. Then his hands closed around her shoulders and he lifted her to her feet.
"So gracious. But I'll take what I can get. Apology accepted, little tyrant," he said softly and brushed the lightest of kisses across the tip of her nose. With his mouth very close to hers he asked, "What have you got on under this coat?" He ran a finger down the row of large buttons to the sash. "It looks like a nightgown."
"Never mind about my clothes. I think you owe me an apology, too," she announced, looking up at him warily.
"I agree," he said, golden eyes suddenly cryptic. "But my sin is greater than yours and I haven't even finished committing it yet. Give me a little time, Verity."
She thought he was about to kiss her again, this time on the mouth, but the door opened, letting in a blast of cool air. Her father came into the room, bearing an old, flat wooden case. He watched with interest as Jonas casually took his hands off Verity's shoulders. "Here, now, don't let me interrupt anything. You two got something going on between you?"
"Don't get excited, Dad; the man works for me."
"Looks to me like you're giving out some interesting employee benefits, Red."
"Forget it, Dad. What's in the case?"
Emerson chuckled. "Take a look. If your old man hasn't been had, if these are genuine, they're worth a small fortune. Enough to pay off the hound who's baying at my heels." He opened the old case and revealed two oddly shaped guns nesting in faded, aging felt.
Verity stared at the long-barreled weapons. They were both fascinating and ominous-looking. The grips were curved and the metal was blued. There was no hint of ornamentation on the guns. Unlike most handcrafted items from the past, they were stark, functional, and terrifyingly plain in design. The very lack of decorative details seemed to emphasize the purpose for which the weapons had been made.
"Dueling pistols," Jonas said calmly. He peered into the case but made no move to touch the guns. "British flints. Probably late seventeen hundreds. If they're real, you're in luck, Emerson. They're worth a bundle. How did you say you got hold of them?"
Emerson eyed his prize. "I did a favor for someone once a long time ago. I looked him up in Rio a few weeks back to see if he would be willing to loan me a few bucks to help me get out of my present predicament. He gave me these instead and said they should take care of my problem. I trust my friend, naturally, but you never know. The first thing I have to do is verify that these are originals and not reproductions. Then I'll have to figure out how to find a buyer."
"The first part of your problem should be easy to solve," Verity said briskly. "Jonas has the kind of knowledge and experience it takes to authenticate old things, don't you, Jonas?" She looked up at him, challenging him to prove that what Caitlin Evanger had said about him earlier was true. "Go ahead. Tell us whether my father has come into possession of a pair of valuable dueling pistols or if he's just been taken to the cleaners."
"I'm kind of curious myself," Emerson said easily. "The condition of my face may depend on it, not to mention my kneecaps. Do you know something about old guns?"
Jonas said nothing. He just stared down into the mahogany case as if he were looking through a window into another world.
"His former area of expertise is the Renaissance," Verity told her father quietly as she watched Jonas. "But apparently he has a broad range of knowledge on the subject of
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