first gentleman began to walk away, then turned to look back over one broad shoulder. “How generous of you to state the obvious.”
The second gentleman shook his head. “Supercilious aristocrat,” he muttered under his breath.
“And you’re a chimney sweep with delusions of standing.” The first gentleman did not turn again. “Go home, Simon. This is my club now. My men. My cards. My game.”
“Dalton, this girl may not be a playing piece in the game. Sometimes a girl is just a girl.”
“Perhaps. And perhaps not.”
“What will you do, then?”
Dalton’s jaw tightened. “You of all people ask me that? You know perfectly well that we exist outside the boundaries of law. We exist so that the dear people of Britannia need not sully their hands with the dirty business of national security. You cannot tell me that you never ordered an assassination when you held my post.”
Simon looked down at his hands.
Dalton sighed. “I hardly ride about England ordering the deaths of young women, Simon. But we do all this so no one else has to.”
Simon nodded. “I know. Right now I’m ever so glad that it is you and not I.”
Dalton gave a resigned snort. “Thank you.”
Simon turned, draping an elbow over the back of the chair. “Oh, by the way, Dalton, Milady wanted me to tell you to tell your lady that she will take another kitten in any case.”
Dalton, his dignified exit now in ruins, shrugged and nodded. “I’ll let her know. I suppose we’re all dining together again tonight?”
Simon waved a surrendering hand. “I go where I’m told, most happily.”
Dalton pursed his lips. “Hmm.” However, he didn’t argue the statement. He, also, tended toward the slavish adoration of his bride. “Tonight, then.”
Simon nodded crisply. “Try not to murder any little girls before then.”
* * *
On the other side of the city, in a rambling, shabby house whose last shred of elegance hailed from another era—rather, several eras ago—a great deal of clamor and upset rang through the extensive network of halls.
Atalanta Worthington, last and smallest of the Worthington offspring, crawled beneath the easel that held her mother’s latest rendering of Shakespeare with Piglet and tried to inspire her physical body into invisibility while the argument raged above her head.
It wasn’t that she was banned from such “open forums” as her father called them. In fact, she’d been included since she was old enough to perform the thumbs-up or-down gesture of the Roman audience, which Lycurgus, or some such fellow, declared the original form of democracy. Archie Worthington was a great proponent of democracy. Even infancy had not excused little Attie from performing her family duty by voting.
It was only that family discussions seemed to be so much more intriguingly fervent when Attie wasn’t present. So she sat with her bent knees tucked up beneath her skirts and willed herself to look like a potted plant.
With ears.
“I should never have allowed it! You should never have allowed it!”
That was Dade. He looked very fine, striding back and forth over the paint-spattered sitting room carpet with a scowl on his face. In Attie’s opinion, Dade was the best-looking of her many brothers, although Castor and Pollux claimed that they, being identical twins, were twice as handsome as the rest.
“I can’t believe she married without me there! I am her sister!”
Attie scowled at lovely Elektra. Ellie made it sound as if she were Callie’s only sister! Ellie was just jealous that Callie wed before her. Everyone in the family had assumed that Ellie would be the first, because she was the prettiest and because she was so hell-bent on the notion.
Attie liked the term “hell-bent.” She was allowed to use all sorts of words that made other people—people not Worthingtons—gaze at her with startled alarm. She knew all the proper Latin terms for the human body, at least the female one. Mama—who
The second gentleman shook his head. “Supercilious aristocrat,” he muttered under his breath.
“And you’re a chimney sweep with delusions of standing.” The first gentleman did not turn again. “Go home, Simon. This is my club now. My men. My cards. My game.”
“Dalton, this girl may not be a playing piece in the game. Sometimes a girl is just a girl.”
“Perhaps. And perhaps not.”
“What will you do, then?”
Dalton’s jaw tightened. “You of all people ask me that? You know perfectly well that we exist outside the boundaries of law. We exist so that the dear people of Britannia need not sully their hands with the dirty business of national security. You cannot tell me that you never ordered an assassination when you held my post.”
Simon looked down at his hands.
Dalton sighed. “I hardly ride about England ordering the deaths of young women, Simon. But we do all this so no one else has to.”
Simon nodded. “I know. Right now I’m ever so glad that it is you and not I.”
Dalton gave a resigned snort. “Thank you.”
Simon turned, draping an elbow over the back of the chair. “Oh, by the way, Dalton, Milady wanted me to tell you to tell your lady that she will take another kitten in any case.”
Dalton, his dignified exit now in ruins, shrugged and nodded. “I’ll let her know. I suppose we’re all dining together again tonight?”
Simon waved a surrendering hand. “I go where I’m told, most happily.”
Dalton pursed his lips. “Hmm.” However, he didn’t argue the statement. He, also, tended toward the slavish adoration of his bride. “Tonight, then.”
Simon nodded crisply. “Try not to murder any little girls before then.”
* * *
On the other side of the city, in a rambling, shabby house whose last shred of elegance hailed from another era—rather, several eras ago—a great deal of clamor and upset rang through the extensive network of halls.
Atalanta Worthington, last and smallest of the Worthington offspring, crawled beneath the easel that held her mother’s latest rendering of Shakespeare with Piglet and tried to inspire her physical body into invisibility while the argument raged above her head.
It wasn’t that she was banned from such “open forums” as her father called them. In fact, she’d been included since she was old enough to perform the thumbs-up or-down gesture of the Roman audience, which Lycurgus, or some such fellow, declared the original form of democracy. Archie Worthington was a great proponent of democracy. Even infancy had not excused little Attie from performing her family duty by voting.
It was only that family discussions seemed to be so much more intriguingly fervent when Attie wasn’t present. So she sat with her bent knees tucked up beneath her skirts and willed herself to look like a potted plant.
With ears.
“I should never have allowed it! You should never have allowed it!”
That was Dade. He looked very fine, striding back and forth over the paint-spattered sitting room carpet with a scowl on his face. In Attie’s opinion, Dade was the best-looking of her many brothers, although Castor and Pollux claimed that they, being identical twins, were twice as handsome as the rest.
“I can’t believe she married without me there! I am her sister!”
Attie scowled at lovely Elektra. Ellie made it sound as if she were Callie’s only sister! Ellie was just jealous that Callie wed before her. Everyone in the family had assumed that Ellie would be the first, because she was the prettiest and because she was so hell-bent on the notion.
Attie liked the term “hell-bent.” She was allowed to use all sorts of words that made other people—people not Worthingtons—gaze at her with startled alarm. She knew all the proper Latin terms for the human body, at least the female one. Mama—who
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