are you wearing?”
Fulbert made accompanying sounds of horror. Connor had to agree, but he refrained from comment.
Hugh doffed a purple velvet cap and made the other two a low bow. “Theater gear.” He drew his sword with a flourish, but it became caught in his cape, flipped into the air with a bit of aid from its hapless wielder, then dove point-down against the floor, where it collapsed into itself. “’Tis meant to do that, that sword,” he said quickly. “You know, it isn’t as if those players can go about stabbing each other truly, can they now—”
“And how would you know any of that?” Ambrose asked suspiciously.
“Well, I had a day or two of leisure and though I was first for France, I soon felt the pull of the apple.”
“The apple?” Fulbert echoed.
“The Big Apple,” Hugh said, staring off into the distance with a dreamy expression on his face. “Broadway. Central Park. Those loudly braying cabbies in their swift-moving yellow automobiles . . .”
Connor wondered if Hugh had lost his mind. Apples? Cabbies?
“Do you mean to tell me that you actually ventured into New York City?” Ambrose demanded.
Hugh stuck his chin out. “I thought it best to do a bit of investigating before the troupe arrives.” He dragged up a chair of his own and struggled to get himself, his cape, his sword, and sundry other props including wigs, rather authentic looking Elizabethan scientific instruments, and a lute, into his seat. He failed. His gear clattered in a heap about him.
Ambrose hissed him to silence. “Will you wake the entire household?”
Hugh scowled. “I came prepared. I see nothing in your hands to further our plan.”
Ambrose tapped his head meaningfully. “It all resides in here, my good man. I’ve spent hours ferreting out secrets, learning important details, discovering—”
“The play being done?” Hugh asked archly.
Connor almost blurted out the name, but stopped himself just in time. It wouldn’t do to let on to his eavesdropping self.
“Hamlet,” Fulbert supplied.
“And how do you know that?” Ambrose demanded.
“I eavesdropped.”
Connor shrugged to himself. He wasn’t above it; he couldn’t fault Fulbert for the same thing.
“Where?” Ambrose asked. “Where did you go to eavesdrop?”
“In London,” Fulbert said. “Went to make certain that young Megan MacLeod McKinnon—”
“De Piaget,” Hugh added.
Fulbert cursed at him, then continued. “I took meself to London to see that that McKinnon gel who wed with me nevvy wasn’t keepin’ him from doing a proper day’s labor. For as ye know, me nevvy Gideon de Piaget is the powerful and quite capable head of a vast international conglomerate.”
“And I take it you left my sweet granddaughter Megan—several generations removed, of course—untroubled?” Ambrose demanded.
Fulbert shrugged. “Untroubled enough, I suppose. She only screeched once, but that wasn’t my fault.”
Connor reached a hand inside the door to stroke his chin thoughtfully. Unrepentantly causing mortal screeching? Perhaps he had judged Fulbert too harshly. ’Twas possible he might have overlooked a lad with his own sentiments on the living—
Hugh glared at Fulbert. “She screeched? You forced such a sound from Thomas’s sweet sister?”
“Only once.”
“Did you show yourself to her?” Ambrose asked sharply.
Fulbert scowled. “She’s seen me ’afore and knows me well. But as I was sayin’, she was about some new beauty treatment and when I saw her with her face all a’slathered with green goo, well, can ye blame me for a screech of my own?”
Connor frowned. ’Twas one thing to wrest a scream from a mortal; ’twas another thing entirely to give vent to one oneself. Perhaps he hadn’t judged Fulbert too quickly. Obviously, those de Piaget lads possessed the weak spines he’d always suspected they did.
“Anyhow,” Fulbert continued, “I heard her sayin’ that Hamlet was the play being done up the way
Fulbert made accompanying sounds of horror. Connor had to agree, but he refrained from comment.
Hugh doffed a purple velvet cap and made the other two a low bow. “Theater gear.” He drew his sword with a flourish, but it became caught in his cape, flipped into the air with a bit of aid from its hapless wielder, then dove point-down against the floor, where it collapsed into itself. “’Tis meant to do that, that sword,” he said quickly. “You know, it isn’t as if those players can go about stabbing each other truly, can they now—”
“And how would you know any of that?” Ambrose asked suspiciously.
“Well, I had a day or two of leisure and though I was first for France, I soon felt the pull of the apple.”
“The apple?” Fulbert echoed.
“The Big Apple,” Hugh said, staring off into the distance with a dreamy expression on his face. “Broadway. Central Park. Those loudly braying cabbies in their swift-moving yellow automobiles . . .”
Connor wondered if Hugh had lost his mind. Apples? Cabbies?
“Do you mean to tell me that you actually ventured into New York City?” Ambrose demanded.
Hugh stuck his chin out. “I thought it best to do a bit of investigating before the troupe arrives.” He dragged up a chair of his own and struggled to get himself, his cape, his sword, and sundry other props including wigs, rather authentic looking Elizabethan scientific instruments, and a lute, into his seat. He failed. His gear clattered in a heap about him.
Ambrose hissed him to silence. “Will you wake the entire household?”
Hugh scowled. “I came prepared. I see nothing in your hands to further our plan.”
Ambrose tapped his head meaningfully. “It all resides in here, my good man. I’ve spent hours ferreting out secrets, learning important details, discovering—”
“The play being done?” Hugh asked archly.
Connor almost blurted out the name, but stopped himself just in time. It wouldn’t do to let on to his eavesdropping self.
“Hamlet,” Fulbert supplied.
“And how do you know that?” Ambrose demanded.
“I eavesdropped.”
Connor shrugged to himself. He wasn’t above it; he couldn’t fault Fulbert for the same thing.
“Where?” Ambrose asked. “Where did you go to eavesdrop?”
“In London,” Fulbert said. “Went to make certain that young Megan MacLeod McKinnon—”
“De Piaget,” Hugh added.
Fulbert cursed at him, then continued. “I took meself to London to see that that McKinnon gel who wed with me nevvy wasn’t keepin’ him from doing a proper day’s labor. For as ye know, me nevvy Gideon de Piaget is the powerful and quite capable head of a vast international conglomerate.”
“And I take it you left my sweet granddaughter Megan—several generations removed, of course—untroubled?” Ambrose demanded.
Fulbert shrugged. “Untroubled enough, I suppose. She only screeched once, but that wasn’t my fault.”
Connor reached a hand inside the door to stroke his chin thoughtfully. Unrepentantly causing mortal screeching? Perhaps he had judged Fulbert too harshly. ’Twas possible he might have overlooked a lad with his own sentiments on the living—
Hugh glared at Fulbert. “She screeched? You forced such a sound from Thomas’s sweet sister?”
“Only once.”
“Did you show yourself to her?” Ambrose asked sharply.
Fulbert scowled. “She’s seen me ’afore and knows me well. But as I was sayin’, she was about some new beauty treatment and when I saw her with her face all a’slathered with green goo, well, can ye blame me for a screech of my own?”
Connor frowned. ’Twas one thing to wrest a scream from a mortal; ’twas another thing entirely to give vent to one oneself. Perhaps he hadn’t judged Fulbert too quickly. Obviously, those de Piaget lads possessed the weak spines he’d always suspected they did.
“Anyhow,” Fulbert continued, “I heard her sayin’ that Hamlet was the play being done up the way
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