Laura Kinsale by The Hidden Heart

uneasy with Eliot’s quick assumption of intimacy, and a chilly, unreasonable suspicion that Eliot knew who Gryf was tugged annoyingly at his consciousness. When the mask was tied, Eliot smiled and gave Gryf’s hair a patronizing stroke, curling one lock around his forefinger. “Lovely,” he said. “I wonder how you come by it.”
    “I was born with it,” Gryf said, on a barely veiled note of irritation.
    Eliot laughed in his short, cold bark. “Of course. You’d never stoop to bleach, I’m sure. God knows, no bleach would ever result in that superb golden color.”
    “Where are we going?” Gryf asked, to change the topic.
    “To see the abbess, my colonial innocent.”
    Gryf, who was as innocent as any boy who had grown to manhood on docks from Shanghai to San Francisco, only hoped that “the abbess” kept girls who were free from the pox.
    The streets that the cab rattled along began to narrow, and the spring smell of horses and foliage changed. The odor of horses remained, but the waft of spring became the smell of sewage. Ahead, through the opening of the cab, Gryf could see women standing about under the lamps; they called to the hansom as it hurried past. Eliot appeared unaware of the bawdy invitations. He lounged back in the seat, his mouth and jaw a pale contrast to the black mask. He seemed to be watching Gryf, although it was impossible through the mask and the dimness to tell for certain. Gryf turned deliberately away and raised the window shade, which brought renewed calls from the street nymphs.
    The scene began to change again as they jolted through a cleaner section. The simple, well-swept front of the house where the hansom stopped was a relief to Gryf; his concerns about Eliot’s tastes eased a little. Two men, young and strong-looking, stepped forward as thecab pulled up, and one moved to peer inside without speaking.
    “We’re come to see Madame Birchini,” Eliot said. “She’s at home?”
    This statement seemed to satisfy the suspicious doorman, and he stepped back, nodding. “She is. Come in, sirs, and welcome.”
    Gryf disembarked, feeling a little silly in the black mask. But he had drunk deeply at the ball, in preparation to face Lady Collier, and that blunted the edge of self-consciousness. The two fancy men appeared to think nothing of his appearance, merely leading the way up the steps. Inside, he and Eliot were greeted by a surprisingly motherly figure in purple silk, not at all the kind of abbess Gryf had expected, and taken to a well-appointed parlor.
    They were left alone there. Waiting for the girls to appear, Gryf assumed. He would have liked to take off his mask; it was unsettling to have his vision narrowed down to a third its normal field. But Eliot retained his, and so Gryf did likewise, sipping sherry from a glass he could not see.
    “Do you come here often?” Gryf asked, breaking the quiet.
    “On occasion.” Eliot downed his sherry and poured himself another glass. At that rate, Gryf thought, he would have the man’s life story out of him within an hour. Eliot topped off Gryf’s glass before sitting again. “Drink up, man,” Eliot urged. “You’re far too sober for this night’s work.”
    Gryf took an obliging swig of his drink. The sherry burned a little going down. He turned his head to look for the door. “Are we expecting someone?”
    “Later,” Eliot said. “I thought we might relax a bit—acquaint ourselves better. Have you been in a house like this before?”
    Gryf thought that was carrying the joke of provincial naiveté a little too far. “On occasion,” he said shortly.
    Eliot chuckled. “What a prickly fellow.” He stood up, and came to sit on the couch where Gryf had settled. “I had hoped we could be friends, but you seem disinclined.”
    Gryf turned to look at his cousin in surprise. He thought he had been conducting himself amiably enough. “I imagine we can be friends,” he said, choosing his words. “Maybe you mistake my