“John.” There was a caution in Wil’s voice. “Don’t get your feathers up. He didn’t mean it like that.”
Summerset sniffed. He slouched further in his chair. “It sure sounded that way.”
Charles straightened. “Sir, I wouldn’t question your decision.” At least, not to the man’s face. Summerset was one of his employers. It wasn’t his place to question him so directly. “I only meant that working with Miss Moore is proving more beneficial than I expected. She is competent and logical.”
“Competent. Logical. Learned.” Summerset narrowed his eyes, and his leg began swinging again, as regularly as a metronome. “This is a woman we’re talking about? Women are never logical. Nor so dull as you would portray.”
Charles remained silent. An answer didn’t seem required, nor could he give one. Miss Moore was Miss Moore. His protégé. She was a woman, yes, technically, but not to his mind.
“We work well together,” was all he said.
The earl eyed him speculatively. “It helps that she is plain, I presume. Much less of a distraction.”
Wil rested his head on his chair’s back. “John.” He sighed wearily.
“Miss Moore isn’t plain.” Charles scowled. “That is, her appearance is of no import. She’s my pupil.”
“A pupil?” Summerset chuckled. “How delightful. I had a pupil once.” He rose languidly to his feet. “In fact, I’d best be getting back to her. There’s always more to teach.”
Charles followed him to the door. “And I must get back to the investigation. I’ve learned that Mr. Rhodes is in town. Miss Moore and I just have time to call on him this afternoon to confirm that he wasn’t acquainted with Sir P. S. Freeley before his weekend house party.”
“P. S. Freeley.” Summerset chortled as he stepped into the main office.
Charles fought to keep his eyes from rolling heavenward. His job had him surrounded by men, men who delighted in acting like boys. At least Miss Moore….
His feet ground to a halt. He scanned the room, his eyes confirming what his mind already told him.
Miss Moore wasn’t there. She had disappeared on him. Again.
Chapter Fourteen
The Minerva Club was five large rooms bursting with color, frivolity, and enough oddities to keep Cassie permanently off balance. She’d thought she was peculiar, leaving the safety of her home for this masquerade of being an investigator, but the members of this women’s club forwent every convention. And every bit of tomfoolery, every act of mischief, was all conducted under the approving eye of the indomitable Lady Mary.
Cassie wove a path around the broken plates, lifted her skirts as she crossed over a sea of sawdust, and tracked down her quarry in the grand ballroom of the building the club rented. Lady Stockton stood in a line of women, each waiting her turn to release the arm of the catapult the club had built.
“Thunder an’ Turf!” a stout matron in a puce percale gown shouted as the arm of the contraption jerked up, hurling a large brick across the room into a table stacked with crockery. “A direct hit!”
Cassie clapped along with the rest of the women, and waited for Lady Stockton to make her shot. When all the women had their turn and were chattering excitedly about the medieval weapon, Cassie sidled up to Lady Stockton. “Impressive aim.”
The woman laughed, the lines around her eyes deepening. “I missed the target, but it was still quite diverting. Who would have thought to build a catapult from DaVinci’s own diagrams?”
“Lady Mary.” Cassie gave her a conspiratorial smile.
“Lady Mary,” the countess agreed. “I never could have imagined such a thing a year ago.”
Cassie casually turned them away from the crowd. “Lady Stockton, might I importune you for a moment to ask you some questions?” She had decided to approach the countess as herself, without the prevarications of her other interviews. She didn’t see the advantage of pretending to be someone other than Lydia’s sister in this situation.
“The Dowager Lady Stockton, now.” The woman twisted an emerald ring about her finger.
“I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard.”
The dowager countess sighed. She was a handsome woman, with thick auburn hair just beginning to show the signs of age. Her statuesque figure bordered on plump, and her gown fit her like a second skin. “Fifteen months now.” She pasted on a bright smile. “But within these walls we aren’t supposed to hold to such formalities like proper titles. You may call me Helen. And you are?”
“Miss Cassandra Moore,” she said, and held her breath.
Realization dawned slowly. The dowager countess blinked once, her forehead furrowing, before her mouth dropped open. “Moore?”
“Yes.” She cupped the woman’s elbow and drew the unresisting woman further away. “My sister was Lydia Moore.”
