perfunctory offer of the cigarette case. He remained on the desk, tapping an unlit cigarette against the case. John slipped back into his work and forgot him until Dunning said, “I heard you’ve been on the piano some yourself lately. Preparing for Miss Gilbey’s soiree?”
John grunted. Noted the second reference to Lillian.
“I’d have helped you, you know.”
“Have I hurt your feelings, young Noel?”
“Bugger yourself.”
“Off my desk.”
Dunning went to one of the wall sconces to light his cigarette. He had been John’s first thought for a cram-course music teacher. Dunning might be oblivious to many of life’s realities, but in music, he was gifted. But then, at the tea, Lillian had invited him to the party as well, and John had immediately revised his strategy. Too much information in the hands of the competition.
Whether Noel Dunning intended to be competition, or even if Lillian’s intention went no further than to make him jealous, hardly rated. The cultured, educated son of a first baronet was competition for Iefan Rhys-Jones.
A knock sounded at the office door. The papers that would have been under the seashell, had Dunning returned it to its proper place, took flight in the crosscurrent created by the open window and opening door. John grabbed for as many as he could as he greeted Tobias Seiler, come to tell him that Rolly Brues wanted John to join the dinner party he was holding in the hotel’s dining room tonight.
“Rolly Brues,” Dunning said from where he was crouched on the floor, collecting papers. “Unlikely name for a millionaire.”
“Those damn Americans,” John agreed drily. “Let anyone who can make money, they will.” More than one of the volumes of The Building News and The Engineer stored in the bookcases opposite his desk referenced Brues’s work in the States. Being asked to show him around Idensea was one kind of honor; an invitation to eat with him and meet the hotel’s wealthiest guests was something else altogether.
He caught Tobias’s pleased expression as he removed his spectacles. Likely, the invitation was the result of some deft finagling on Tobias’s part, done in such a way that Brues thought it his own fine idea.
“Marta says I must order you to send her at least two of your neckties for the laundry to prepare,” Tobias said. “Brues has two daughters of marriageable age.”
The Seilers—much interested in seeing John marry well, and soon—kept him apprised of this sort of information, though this reminder of the Brues daughters was likely habit, as they had both spoken highly of Lillian after her visit. John started to tell Tobias to remind his wife he had but the one neck, but raised voices drew Tobias out into the corridor. John stood up to gain a better vantage point past Dunning, who had also moved in order to see what was happening.
“Bless God,” John murmured.
“Quite,” answered Dunning.
A thrill kicked through him. It was wrong. The sight of Betsey Dobson standing next to one of the pier company’s bookkeepers, her jaw set like a cornerstone and her brows pulled together more fiendishly than usual, could mean only trouble, but there it was anyway: a tug of anticipation, as though a stage curtain had begun to part.
And on the topic of parts—Miss Dobson’s. Hips, waist. A bosom that seemed like it should have been more thoroughly noticed before now. And where had all that neck come from?
“Nothing would do her but to sit over my arm and tell me how to go about my job,” the bookkeeper was saying to Tobias. His name was Arland Hamble. Married not long ago. Whenever John remembered that fact, he experienced a general sympathy for Mrs. Hamble and any future Hamble offspring, as well as anyone they happened to marry when they grew up.
“Mr. Seiler, I was not trying to meddle,” Miss Dobson said. “I only wanted—”
She hesitated, drawing her bottom lip into her mouth as she glanced into John’s office, obviously
John grunted. Noted the second reference to Lillian.
“I’d have helped you, you know.”
“Have I hurt your feelings, young Noel?”
“Bugger yourself.”
“Off my desk.”
Dunning went to one of the wall sconces to light his cigarette. He had been John’s first thought for a cram-course music teacher. Dunning might be oblivious to many of life’s realities, but in music, he was gifted. But then, at the tea, Lillian had invited him to the party as well, and John had immediately revised his strategy. Too much information in the hands of the competition.
Whether Noel Dunning intended to be competition, or even if Lillian’s intention went no further than to make him jealous, hardly rated. The cultured, educated son of a first baronet was competition for Iefan Rhys-Jones.
A knock sounded at the office door. The papers that would have been under the seashell, had Dunning returned it to its proper place, took flight in the crosscurrent created by the open window and opening door. John grabbed for as many as he could as he greeted Tobias Seiler, come to tell him that Rolly Brues wanted John to join the dinner party he was holding in the hotel’s dining room tonight.
“Rolly Brues,” Dunning said from where he was crouched on the floor, collecting papers. “Unlikely name for a millionaire.”
“Those damn Americans,” John agreed drily. “Let anyone who can make money, they will.” More than one of the volumes of The Building News and The Engineer stored in the bookcases opposite his desk referenced Brues’s work in the States. Being asked to show him around Idensea was one kind of honor; an invitation to eat with him and meet the hotel’s wealthiest guests was something else altogether.
He caught Tobias’s pleased expression as he removed his spectacles. Likely, the invitation was the result of some deft finagling on Tobias’s part, done in such a way that Brues thought it his own fine idea.
“Marta says I must order you to send her at least two of your neckties for the laundry to prepare,” Tobias said. “Brues has two daughters of marriageable age.”
The Seilers—much interested in seeing John marry well, and soon—kept him apprised of this sort of information, though this reminder of the Brues daughters was likely habit, as they had both spoken highly of Lillian after her visit. John started to tell Tobias to remind his wife he had but the one neck, but raised voices drew Tobias out into the corridor. John stood up to gain a better vantage point past Dunning, who had also moved in order to see what was happening.
“Bless God,” John murmured.
“Quite,” answered Dunning.
A thrill kicked through him. It was wrong. The sight of Betsey Dobson standing next to one of the pier company’s bookkeepers, her jaw set like a cornerstone and her brows pulled together more fiendishly than usual, could mean only trouble, but there it was anyway: a tug of anticipation, as though a stage curtain had begun to part.
And on the topic of parts—Miss Dobson’s. Hips, waist. A bosom that seemed like it should have been more thoroughly noticed before now. And where had all that neck come from?
“Nothing would do her but to sit over my arm and tell me how to go about my job,” the bookkeeper was saying to Tobias. His name was Arland Hamble. Married not long ago. Whenever John remembered that fact, he experienced a general sympathy for Mrs. Hamble and any future Hamble offspring, as well as anyone they happened to marry when they grew up.
“Mr. Seiler, I was not trying to meddle,” Miss Dobson said. “I only wanted—”
She hesitated, drawing her bottom lip into her mouth as she glanced into John’s office, obviously
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