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Miss Finch was turning pink under his prolonged regard.
“A woman balanced on a branch.” She folded her arms under her breasts, creating an unwitting frame. His lingering attention accused him.
Cad.
He adjusted his legs, and the pain used his left femur as a trumpet, blaring a loud, agonized note. It effectively chilled his ardor. The pain had more power over him than a choir of his better angels.
“She’s high in the air,” marveled Miss Finch. “And she’s singing.”
“Singing?” He sighed. “I’d say wailing.”
“Who?” Miss Finch looked back toward the window.
“Signorina Bonaccorso.” He rolled his neck on his shoulders. The problem with keeping still during a cramp—everything else began to stiffen up. “Shut the windows. And draw the curtains.”
“That is Signorina Bonaccorso.” Miss Finch sounded impressed. “I can’t imagine how she climbed that tree. If you could see what she’s wearing. Plumes, and a train that pours right over the branch like a waterfall. She has so many beads on her gown it must weigh more than chain mail, and—”
He interrupted. “Lock the windows. Barricade them with that cabinet. Prepare for siege.”
With a sigh, Miss Finch turned to pull the windows shut, pausing between them to give Signorina Bonaccorso an apologetic wave. She stepped back and leveled Alan with an admonishing glance.
He lifted his brows. “What?”
The notes were flurrying as Signorina Bonaccorso launched on a delirious cadenza, so dizzying it seemed impossible she wouldn’t tumble from her perch.
He grimaced. When the aria ended, he listened for the thud. Nothing, thank the Lord.
“I’ve never heard anything like it.” Miss Finch drew her hands together, a spontaneous clap. Her brown eyes were shiny. “Why won’t you give her a chance?”
The excitement in her voice made it seem, suddenly, a grand idea. Forget the day’s business, fling open the windows, while away the time flirting with Miss Finch as Signorina Bonaccorso intoxicated them with her song.
A cozy notion, it made him laugh at himself, or rather, at the new version of himself Miss Finch called into being. A romantic idler.
“Why won’t I?” He smiled, brushed away that other Alan. “Because she’s cheating.”
He sat up, swinging his legs off the footstool, and pushed down through his left heel experimentally. Good. The worst of the cramp had passed.
“I don’t invite prima donnas to sing in my chestnut tree. She can wait her turn to be heard.” He caught the shadow as it flitted across Miss Finch’s face. “What now?”
“Nothing. But . . .” She bit her bottom lip. “Certain people have to wait much longer than others for their turn. And for some, it doesn’t ever come. Not unless they take matters into their own hands.”
Curiosity pinged. He studied her.
“Are we speaking of Signorina Bonaccorso?” He took up his cognac.
“We shouldn’t be.” She turned her head as she lowered it, light sliding over her hair, sleek as mink. “You were dictating your letter, to the duke.”
“That I was.” He looked into his glass, swallowed the last golden drops of liquor. His curiosity didn’t ping, no. It was ringing carillon bells. So many contradictions. Miss Finch disarmed him with her whimsy, a dreaminess that encouraged his own honeyed fantasies. But there was something feral about her as well.
He’d take infinitely more pleasure in charting her mysteries than he would in writing to his bloody brother.
“We’ll continue, then.” He set down the glass, too forcefully. It made a sharp rap against the table. As if on cue, Signorina Bonaccorso began to sing.
“Bring the lap desk and pull up a chair.” The signorina’s singing was growing louder. He raised his voice. “I don’t intend to shout myself hoarse.”
As soon as Miss Finch had settled herself, he tipped back his head. “Once more from the beginning. Brevity is the soul of wit.” He resumed dictation. “Geoff comma. Enclosed you will find a list of the pictures consigned to Broughton’s Auction House period. There is one way to stop the sale period. Open my account forthwith period. Until then comma, I remain comma, the vendor of your patrician pride period.”
He put out his right hand. Miss Finch passed the letter over.
