One brow rose. “What sort of deal?”
“My deal.”
A flicker of something crossed Emil’s face, but it was gone before she could name it. “Do tell.”
“First, you must stop questioning the guests.”
“Why?”
“I was listening from inside the ladies’ parlor.” She hadn’t been. “It’s as if you don’t know the first thing about music. Or suffrage.” She doubted he did. “So you should let me work while you simply take in the performances.” Beginning with her own.
“And what if I prefer to do things my way?”
“I do understand your hesitance,” she assured him. “It must be exhausting, always running full-steam ahead, always trying to escape your father’s long shadow.”
He considered her long enough to make her wonder if she’d miscalculated. If she’d played her hand too forcefully. Oh, it was so difficult to wield someone’s insecurities against them when she didn’t know the details! Nothing in his cocky, unwavering body language hinted that her barb had landed.
“At last, the lamb learns how to fight.”
There. The faintest edge beneath his mockery, like a note just lightly out of tune. She’d done it. She’d hurt him, even if it was the tiniest amount. She wanted to laugh. To weep. To apologize. But she wasn’t yet done.
“You want to find the suffrage anthem writer, don’t you? Well, you can waste more time, or you can let someone who understands this world show you the way.”
“That someone being you.”
“Yes.” She blew out a breath. “Obviously.”
“Strange turn of events, what with you doing your utmost to avoid me these last couple of weeks.”
She didn’t flinch. “I changed my mind.”
“Because you feel sorry for me, my bumbling skills, and my long shadow.”
“Sometime like that, yes.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. If I help you,” she paused and gave him the sternest look she could muster. “You must promise to stop following me. I don’t like it. It’s invasive. And…and it makes you a liar. You said you’d stop.”
He rocked back on his heels, his lips tugging up on one side. “All right, Miss Becket. I accept your terms.”
Relief poured through her, making her limbs feel light and airy. She held out her hand, which trembled only slightly. His hand clasped hers and shook it gently, firmly. For several seconds too long.
“Oh, and Miss Becket?” He waited for her to meet his eyes once more. “Well done.”
She gave her best approximation of a regal nod, tugged her hand free, and swept down the hallway toward the strains of music. Her heart pounded, her stomach leapt, and her skin itched. But she’d gotten what she wanted.
She could do this.
She could outsmart him.
She could have fun doing it.
And, by God, she could make him dance to her tune.
Chapter 9
Emil propped an elbow on the top of the chest-high stack in the Central Library, patiently waiting for the elusive lamb to show her face and order him around. A hushed but constant murmur of voices blended with the pleasant scent of varnished oak and fresh ink. He thumbed through a dense volume of classical philology he’d plucked from the shelf at random. He squinted at the article before him, an indecipherable exploration on the syllabification of Latin inscriptions. Terminology swam before his eyes; the more he read, the less he understood.
