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McAdams banged another chord and laughed, spinning around on the piano stool. He had a freckled, mirthful face, with bright eyes that he fixed on Nina.
“You’re not a desperate chanteuse, showing up empty-handed,” he observed. “Or do you mean to give De’Ath the marmoset?”
“No!” Nina almost tugged Fritz away from Kuznetsov. But he looked contented. Kuznetsov, too, looked contented. He was rubbing Fritz’s head with his thumb as he continued to peel his orange using one hand and his teeth.
Kessler and McAdams—they looked rather contented as well. Did they spend their days lounging in this parlor, picking out songs on the piano, chasing after rhymes, unpacking and repacking crates, sampling the delicacies?
Footmen in Casa De’Ath led far merrier lives than their equivalents in Umfreville House.
“Mr. De’Ath offered me a position,” she said. “As his amanuensis.”
She stiffened, prepared for ridicule, skepticism, even an impromptu interview, during which she’d try, and fail, to prove her credentials. She could imagine the men shaking their heads.
Doesn’t speak French.
Doesn’t know any words that rhyme with marmoset.
Kessler nodded mildly. “Finch, was it?”
“Welcome,” said McAdams.
The pieces clicked into place. The men weren’t incredulous, because De’Ath relied on serendipity to fill every position. Agencies didn’t deliver the likes of Kuznetsov, Kessler, or McAdams to lords in search of dependable domestics.
She’d wager De’Ath’s entire staff was serendipitous, a collection of down-at-heel bohemians he’d encountered in coffeehouses and literary salons.
He’d collected her as well. He hadn’t broken the mold. He’d acted true to form. His offer—it didn’t signify suspicion, or any inordinate interest, either.
Good. Better that she didn’t seem special in any way. To him, to anyone.
Still, a bit lowering, wasn’t it?
She was squeezing her orange. The sharp, sweet scent tingled her nose.
Kessler took a breath.
“Charming pet, the marmoset,” he intoned. “Compared to the kangaroo. The koala bear’s not half so fair, when you see him at the zoo. The platypi, I won’t deny, are—”
“Enough monkey business,” interrupted Kuznetsov, and looked at Nina. “I take you to De’Ath.”
—
She didn’t see De’Ath when they entered the drawing room. Her first impression was of the room itself, long and bright, bay windows looking onto the garden. A molded frieze topped the walls, pale owls in flight against a background of midnight blue. The room wasn’t cluttered, but neither was it sparse in its furnishings. It combined perfect comfort with perfect taste.
She couldn’t see him, but the room revealed his sensibility.
“And he might be the next surveyor of the queen’s pictures! Did you hear that? The wretch.”
Nina’s eyes moved to the speaker, an agitated young woman in aesthetic dress, the pleated apricot silk a striking complement to the deep blue tones of the room. Wispy curls had escaped her loose chignon and stuck every which way, adding to her look of bristled indignation. She broke off as Nina and Kuznetsov approached, swiveling in the upholstered armchair.
De’Ath was sprawled on a love seat, his cane propped beside him. He turned his head.
“Miss Finch.” He smiled with more satisfaction than surprise. “You’ve reconsidered. How fortunate.” He raised his left hand, wrapped in a neat bandage. “Not broken, but not functional either. Did you bring your things? It’s best if you live in. Mrs. Dormody will prepare your room.”
“I didn’t want to presume,” Nina murmured. She’d purposely left her packed valise at the Knack. An excuse to disappear for the evening, so she could report to Jack. “You might have filled the position.”
De’Ath looked as contented as his footmen, with that languid posture. His hair kicked up in waves, full and black. She balled her fist against the urge to comb its thickness with her fingers.
Dear Lord. She blamed Fritz for his bad influence. She wasn’t a marmoset, to groom De’Ath as though for nits! But his hair—it beckoned, wildly strokable, tauntingly soft in contrast with his hawkish features. She itched, as well, to feel his jaw beneath the side-whiskers, to map its obscured dimensions.
