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She met his eyes.
“What?” His voice sharpened.
The coach took a wide turn, swaying gently. A foul odor wafted through the compartment. The air was humid and close, redolent of Fritz and whatever horrible thing he’d been eating. She dumped him onto the seat and wrapped her arms around herself.
“I don’t know that he’s well. He’s skin and bones.”
Something dark flicked in Alan’s gaze. “You said yourself his parents’ faces curdle milk. Is it surprising he lacks appetite?”
“He coughed.” She persisted now that she’d begun. Alan deserved as full a picture as she could give. “He coughed violently.”
Alan put his fist to his mouth and regarded her over it. She remembered that look from the garden at Umfreville House, when he’d interrogated her about Claud’s doctor and nurse. He’d claimed, then, to seek information about his nephew’s welfare. He’d claimed, too, that he and the duke inhabited different realities.
In Alan’s reality, Claud didn’t suffer from a wasting disease.
He sought information, but he resisted it when it contradicted what he wanted to believe.
Sad. Sad and human. Alan De’Ath was human, however much lauded for the infallibility of his judgment.
She wanted to touch him, but she was the one who’d told him never again. She slid her boot forward, not quite far enough to bump his. He saw the motion. He didn’t slide his own boot forward, only clenched his hand at his side.
After a beat, he raised his eyes. “There wasn’t blood?”
“No.”
He nodded slightly, a bit of the warmth returning to his face.
Fritz had crept onto his seat and was nosing around his hat.
“In that case, it could have been anything. Smuts and pollens in the air can produce a cough.” He stiffened, brows shooting up his forehead. “So can a stench. My Lord.” He looked at Fritz. “He’s pungent.”
“At present.” Nina watched as Fritz rolled over and kicked the hat, which tipped. She sighed and leaned forward to collect him, but he sprang onto Alan’s chest.
“Hello.” Alan scratched between Fritz’s ear tufts.
“When I’m home,” said Nina, righting the hat, then returning to her seat, “I lather him regularly with almond shaving soap and give him rosewater soaks. And clean his teeth. And sprinkle him with jasmine oil.”
“Do you? What a glamorous toilette.”
“He hates it. I have to chase him all about. Fritz, come here.”
Fritz bumped his head against Alan’s hand and curled up into a ball.
“Your turn.” Nina drew back her boot. For a week, she’d been telling herself that if they didn’t touch, didn’t kiss, it would all hurt less in the end.
But this hurt.
“What do you have to tell me?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “About the South Kensington Museum.”
“I examined the pictures, the ones Syme acquired from Sleaford.” He was grinning now, like a cat that got the cream, pleased with himself, and pleased to share his triumph with her.
She couldn’t share it. There was nothing they could share, not truly. Even when he whipped eggs or teased her for suggesting ambrosia was Aunt Lolly’s hedgehog cake—the camaraderie was tainted. Amazing it didn’t come out in the biscuits.
“The museum director has been relying on Syme to grow the collection, allowing him to authenticate his own selections, and to hell with the art referees, the staff, the board.” He brushed back a lock of hair. “Those pictures hadn’t been properly inspected.”
She braced herself. “And?”
“Fakes. Less persuasive than the Berneys. Same pattern of pin-drawn cracks on the surfaces.”
