words, so oddly emphasized, so overstated, held not the slightest trace of insincerity.
“I will be as direct as you, Mr. Cameron.” She took a deep breath before plunging on. “I believe I may need you, as much as I suspect you may need me.”
“Then Mrs. Hoodless,” he said in an odd voice, “I am yours.”
L ady Merritt sailed into the room, followed closely by Wheatcroft and a tall, loose-limbed man dressed entirely in silk maroon, from knee breeches to frock coat to the elaborate bow obscuring his lantern jaw.
He saw Addie and, without a glance in Jack’s direction, hurried to her side. “Addie! My dear, dear lady.”
The phrasing was unmistakably Gerald Norton’s.
“Do hurry up, Teddy,” Lady Merritt said as a second man strolled onto the terrace, the tap of his silver-tipped walking stick timing his unhurried progress across the flagstones.
There was no need for anyone to tell Jack that this was Addie’s brother. The resemblance was remarkable. The same curling auburn hair, the same straight dark brows, and clear, pale skin. But while on Addie the exotic features and singular coloring produced a vivid and flagrantly female countenance, the very same characteristics made this man, some five years Addie’s senior, almost too handsome, like a statue come to life, the quality heightened by a singular lack of expression on his smooth face.
“Mr. Phyfe, Mr. Norton? Mr. John Cameron.” Having finally herded the gentlemen onto the terrace, Lady Merritt was apparently determined to do her spot as hostess. “Mr. Cameron, Mr. Gerald Norton and Mr. Theodore Phyfe.”
Norton thrust out his lower lip, eyeing Jack suspiciously.
“Mr. Cameron is one of Mr. Morris’s Glasgow lads,” Lady Merritt said.
“Morris, eh?” This bit of information somewhat allayed Norton’s initial hostility. His lip shrunk to a normal size and he stuck out his hand. “One of the Aesthetics then. Good lot. Not a craftsman myself, struggle with the sable. Impressionism.”
“Impressions” of what? Jack wondered, shaking the man’s outsized paw.
“What medium do you work in, Mr. Cameron?” Ted asked politely.
The only medium Jack knew was old Peg MacGilly, a table-rapper who enjoyed a certain notoriety in the Highlands, but before he could try to frame an answer, Wheatcroft’s voice cut across the room. “Should I have your woodworking tools sent on to London or would you prefer them to remain here with you, Mr. Cameron?”
Every eye in the room turned in shock. Wheatcroft had interrupted a conversation and, judging by the open-mouthed expression of wonderment on Lady Merritt’s face, Jack was willing to bet Wheatcroft had never before committed so grave a transgression.
“Did you say something, Wheatcroft?” Lady Merritt intoned incredulously.
“Ah-hm.” Wheatcroft cleared his throat. “Pardon me, milady, Mrs. Hoodless, sirs, but there are several crates of woodworking tools that have just been delivered that are awaiting Mr. Cameron’s attention.”
“Woodworking tools?” Addie left Norton and came to Jack’s side. She smelled of cloves and exotic flowers.
A man could forget his native language looking into her brilliant topaz eyes. He found himself nodding unthinkingly. Without a doubt he’d have nodded to anything she said just to keep her face tilted toward his, alive with interest and approval—
“Are you moving permanently to London? Away from Mr. Morris’s commune . . . er, guild . . . whatever he calls his community?” Lady Merritt’s query broke the spell.
Jack fought his impatience with the intrusion by doing what he had always done when confronted with imperious authority vested by breeding rather than capability: he stood at attention.
“No, indeed, ma’am,” he managed politely before turning to Wheatcroft. “You may have my things sent on to London, Wheatcroft.”
“You haul your tools about with you wherever you go?” Ted asked laconically, lowering himself into a
“I will be as direct as you, Mr. Cameron.” She took a deep breath before plunging on. “I believe I may need you, as much as I suspect you may need me.”
“Then Mrs. Hoodless,” he said in an odd voice, “I am yours.”
L ady Merritt sailed into the room, followed closely by Wheatcroft and a tall, loose-limbed man dressed entirely in silk maroon, from knee breeches to frock coat to the elaborate bow obscuring his lantern jaw.
He saw Addie and, without a glance in Jack’s direction, hurried to her side. “Addie! My dear, dear lady.”
The phrasing was unmistakably Gerald Norton’s.
“Do hurry up, Teddy,” Lady Merritt said as a second man strolled onto the terrace, the tap of his silver-tipped walking stick timing his unhurried progress across the flagstones.
There was no need for anyone to tell Jack that this was Addie’s brother. The resemblance was remarkable. The same curling auburn hair, the same straight dark brows, and clear, pale skin. But while on Addie the exotic features and singular coloring produced a vivid and flagrantly female countenance, the very same characteristics made this man, some five years Addie’s senior, almost too handsome, like a statue come to life, the quality heightened by a singular lack of expression on his smooth face.
“Mr. Phyfe, Mr. Norton? Mr. John Cameron.” Having finally herded the gentlemen onto the terrace, Lady Merritt was apparently determined to do her spot as hostess. “Mr. Cameron, Mr. Gerald Norton and Mr. Theodore Phyfe.”
Norton thrust out his lower lip, eyeing Jack suspiciously.
“Mr. Cameron is one of Mr. Morris’s Glasgow lads,” Lady Merritt said.
“Morris, eh?” This bit of information somewhat allayed Norton’s initial hostility. His lip shrunk to a normal size and he stuck out his hand. “One of the Aesthetics then. Good lot. Not a craftsman myself, struggle with the sable. Impressionism.”
“Impressions” of what? Jack wondered, shaking the man’s outsized paw.
“What medium do you work in, Mr. Cameron?” Ted asked politely.
The only medium Jack knew was old Peg MacGilly, a table-rapper who enjoyed a certain notoriety in the Highlands, but before he could try to frame an answer, Wheatcroft’s voice cut across the room. “Should I have your woodworking tools sent on to London or would you prefer them to remain here with you, Mr. Cameron?”
Every eye in the room turned in shock. Wheatcroft had interrupted a conversation and, judging by the open-mouthed expression of wonderment on Lady Merritt’s face, Jack was willing to bet Wheatcroft had never before committed so grave a transgression.
“Did you say something, Wheatcroft?” Lady Merritt intoned incredulously.
“Ah-hm.” Wheatcroft cleared his throat. “Pardon me, milady, Mrs. Hoodless, sirs, but there are several crates of woodworking tools that have just been delivered that are awaiting Mr. Cameron’s attention.”
“Woodworking tools?” Addie left Norton and came to Jack’s side. She smelled of cloves and exotic flowers.
A man could forget his native language looking into her brilliant topaz eyes. He found himself nodding unthinkingly. Without a doubt he’d have nodded to anything she said just to keep her face tilted toward his, alive with interest and approval—
“Are you moving permanently to London? Away from Mr. Morris’s commune . . . er, guild . . . whatever he calls his community?” Lady Merritt’s query broke the spell.
Jack fought his impatience with the intrusion by doing what he had always done when confronted with imperious authority vested by breeding rather than capability: he stood at attention.
“No, indeed, ma’am,” he managed politely before turning to Wheatcroft. “You may have my things sent on to London, Wheatcroft.”
“You haul your tools about with you wherever you go?” Ted asked laconically, lowering himself into a
Similar Books
