The Water Nymph by Michele Jaffe Page A

He is ruthless you know. Very bad business, that Naples fellow. Sure you won’t have some almonds?”
    Crispin was relieved to see out of the corner of his eye that, despite exploding with the information that Naples was a place not a person, Sophie had her mouth clamped shut and appeared to be leaving the questions to him. “How did you find out about this patriotic service?” Crispin asked with interest.
    “How did I find out?” Kipper repeated, beginning now to arrange the almonds in a star shape on the table. “Why, I don’t remember. Must have been something the wife brought home.” He raised his eyes from his artwork to look uneasily at Crispin. “Why are you asking about all this anyway? What business of yours is it, Sandal, if I choose to educate myself a bit? Become a bit knowledgeable about the affairs of state?” Kipper, warming to his topic now, seized on Crispin’s earlier words. “It’s an Englishman’s duty, you know. It is patriotic, you said so yourself. What with this dangerous Naples fellow arrayed against us, we must all be ready to do our duty for England and for Bess, to take up arms, and shout together, ‘Death to Naples, the Ruthless Enemy of Our Queen.’”
    This was too much for Sophie. She had her mouth open to speak, unable to keep from bursting any longer, when Crispin’s hand on her thigh stopped her. The sheer surprise of feeling it there was enough to silence her even before Crispin leaned close to whisper, “The next time you open your mouth, I will give you the longest, deepest, most devastating kiss you have ever experienced.”
    Sophie swallowed hard and set her lips. She was sorely tempted to tell him exactly what she thought of his threats, particularly about the chances of him giving her the longest, deepest, and most devastating kiss she had ever experienced, but another part of her reminded her that Sophie Champion had a policy of avoiding men’s kisses with the same fervor with which she avoided death, and this was not the time to compromise.
    Kipper had moved his attention from the nuts to his companion and was wiping his brow, wet with the blessed perspiration of the patriot, on her fevered bosom during this exchange. He clearly felt confident that his speech had been successful in deflecting Crispin’s questions, and he smiled triumphantly as he raised his head from its cushion and faced Crispin again.
    But triumph turned to tragedy when Crispin remarked in a voice tinged with wonder, “You are an inspiration, Kipper. You must tell me how I can subscribe.”
    Kipper’s face darkened. “I tell you, I don’t know. And I wish you would stop hounding me, Sandal. I come here to get away from the teasing of Lady Norton and enjoy some pleasant company, for once”—here he gestured toward the painted blonde—“and you are getting in my way. Pleasant English company,” he added as an afterthought, leering at Sophie as if suspecting she was one of Naples’s generals.
    “You did not happen to see Dickie Tottle last night, did you?” Crispin asked, unimpeded by the leer.
    “I told you, I haven’t ever seen Dickie Tottle,” Kipper replied, gulping a handful of almonds. He went on with his mouth full. “Why would I spend an evening with a man when I could spend it with Angel? Last night I was sitting right here, just as I am now.”
    The blonde leaned toward him to whisper, “Not exactly as you are now.” She licked her lips slowly and moved her hand to the laces on his leggings. This potent reminder made Kipper’s eyes bulge even more, and he gulped the almonds down as he set himself anew to the task of charting the peaks and valleys on the fine specimen of English womanhood beside him. He was so absorbed in this patriotic work that he did not bother to look up as Crispin dragged Sophie from the table.
    Crispin could feel her seething next to him, but he ignored it as he guided her out of the building. Something that Kipper had said had given him an idea,