Despite his excitement, Wei managed to keep his tone neutral. “Did the Don give similar tattoos to any other inmates?”
“I can think o’ a few blokes ’e inked, but no design like mine. Most coves only wanted a small symbol, and most couldn’t stand the pain. Me, I liked the feeling, so I kept going back for more.” Jacob pursed his lips. “Come to think o’ it, the Don did mention that there was one other fellow like me. One who’d liked the prick o’ the needle so much that he asked the Don to tattoo ’is entire forearm with flowers and vines.”
Wei’s chest thudded. “What was this fellow’s name?”
“Damned if I know. The Don just mentioned it once in passing.” Jacob rose, sweeping his winnings into a sack. “That’s all I know.”
Sensing that he’d extracted as much information as he was likely to get, Wei did not try to stop the other man from striding off. Yao took the vacated chair.
“Learn anything important, shihing?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact,” Wei said with surging anticipation, “I think I’ve picked up the trail to my family’s killer.”
Fourteen
“Thank you for the dance, my lord,” Glory said. “And for the escort back to my chaperone.”
“The…the pleasure…” Beneath the blazing light of the ballroom chandeliers, Viscount Lyttle’s face was florid, and he was gasping like a landed fish. “Was all…all mine.”
“Are you unwell, my lord?” Aunt Hypatia turned from her intellectual debate with a fellow duenna to peer at him. “The polka was rather strenuous. Perhaps you ought to sit down?”
“I am fine,” he wheezed.
Shrugging, Aunt Patty returned to her discussion.
Seizing the opportunity, the viscount edged closer to Glory.
“I’m fit…fit as a fiddle,” he said with a wink. “A red-blooded male in the prime of life, don’t you know.”
Privately, Glory thought that the thrice-widowed viscount might be a bit past his prime. He was shaped like a teapot and possessed a waddling gait. A conspicuous raven shade, his hair was combed in thin strands over his balding pate. He was still huffing from their polka.
“Perhaps I could claim the honor of another dance later this eve, my lady.” Viscount Lyttle discreetly mopped his forehead. “If you happen to be free, that is.”
At his smirk, her cheeks warmed. Having signed the dance card attached to her wrist, he could not have missed its barren state. Eccentric hoydens weren’t in fashion this or any Season, and as her friends were not in attendance this eve, she didn’t have their husbands to fill in the blank spaces. She had no excuse to avoid another dance.
And even if she did, what else would she do? She’d tried chatting with other debutantes but had nothing to contribute when it came to fashion and gossip. When she’d tried to shift the conversation to politics, the ladies had made excuses one by one until she was left standing alone. As always.
“Your card, Lady Glory?”
She looked at Lord Lyttle, who was leering at her, ready to pencil in his claim. That was when she noticed the dark streaks starting to run from his sideburns. It took her a second to grasp the cause: he’d dyed his hair, and his perspiration was leaching the color. Rivulets of inky sweat wended their way toward his snow-white collar.
Zounds, he looks a frightful mess! And it is my fault for overtaxing him.
Twisting her fan in her gloved hands, she tried to think of a discreet way to warn him.
“Perhaps you would, um, care to refresh yourself, sir?” she suggested.
“I’m perfectly well.”
Botheration. A black bead traversed his large jowl and reached his jaw.
“A visit to the necessary is never a bad idea,” she said desperately.
“Delicacy, my dear gel.” Lord Lyttle gave her a reproving look. “Delicacy.”
The droplet clung to his jaw, trembling as it resisted gravity’s force.
Glory could stand it no longer. Opening her fan, she ducked behind it. “Your sweat has washed off your hair dye, my lord,” she whispered. “It is about to stain your shirt.”
