“Mine too.” Beatrice grinned. “This is luxury indeed.” She took two. “Of course, Henry would scold me for indulging, but since he’s not here...”
Verity couldn’t help laughing as she poured the coffee, breathing in the scent of cinnamon, cloves, with a dash of nutmeg and cardamom. But it was so delicious, and she’d worked hard this morning, so that merited a treat.
“Orange peel,” muttered Beatrice. “You know, I can definitely taste orange peel.”
“I love all the spices,” agreed Verity. “And in this combination, the flavour blend is unsurpassed.”
For a few moments the two women relished their aromatic delicacies, happily content in each other’s company. Then Verity recalled something.
“Beatrice, I completely forgot to mention that the winner of the de Montclair painting was Archibald Finn. I expect he will be dropping by soon to collect it.”
“Ahhh, good. Thank you for telling me. That question was one of the reasons that brought me here this morning. I will see that he receives it as soon as he arrives.”
Verity finished a clock-roll. “Honestly, Beatrice. Why all the fuss about de Montclair? I like art well enough, but I simply can’t see anything out of the ordinary in his work. You’re far more familiar with it than I am...so tell me?”
Beatrice pondered the question. “Well, you know what they say about the eye of the beholder? I believe this is a perfect example. Some see magical fluidity in his brushwork. Others see daubs.” She paused, thinking. “I suppose you could parallel that with your financial skills, for example. You see sense in things like compounding interest rates, and so forth, where others just see a frightening mass of numbers. And to top it off, you understand the PBIC system.”
“That makes sense,” nodded Verity. “I’ve always enjoyed numbers, and financial matters, I suppose. There’s a fluidity there that I don’t find in Montclair’s paintings.” She paused. “Although recently...I have noticed one or two...” She stopped herself and shook her head. “No. I’m not boring you with all that.” She grinned. “I’m having another clock-cake. You’d better have one as well, to assuage my guilt.”
“Well, I’m sure your ‘one or two’ whatevers will turn out to be a hiccup in someone’s abacus...”
“Not mine,” replied Verity, thinking of the elegant brass and wood device hidden within the confines of a large ledger. “It doesn’t make mistakes. Or hiccup, for that matter.” Her fingers tingled as she spoke, some residual memory of the hours spent with her fingers moving calmly over beads worn smooth by years of use.
“Don’t frown, so, dear girl,” chuckled Beatrice. “You’ll get wrinkles. And that won’t do, since I’m expecting you to make a magnificent match. Can’t trap a man like that with frown lines, now, can you?”
Verity laughed, as she was meant to. But she did stop frowning.
“Speaking of magnificent matches, who was that deliciously tall, dark, and handsome man I saw last night?” Beatrice cocked an eyebrow at her.
“My dear lady, there must have been at least a dozen of them, surely.”
“If there were, I knew eleven of them. I didn’t know this one.”
Verity had to laugh. “Well, that is a definite lapse in Arcvale society, then. He should have been immediately introduced to you.”
“I’m almost certain I saw you speak with him, though, Verity. And my goodness, he certainly was good looking. In that brooding sort of way, you know the type.”
“Ah,” said Verity calmly. “I believe you’re speaking of Sir Lucas Ashcombe.”
Beatrice’s eyebrows flew up. “TheLucas Ashcombe?”
“There’s more than one?”
“No, silly girl. The Lucas Ashcombe of the Ashcombe banking systems. You know the one. His brother is Lord Silas Ashcombe, the Forge Master.”
Verity nodded, keeping her voice level. “Yes. That Ashcombe. He lives in Sectorvale. One would assume he’s here to visit his brother.”
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. “Quite possible. Also quite possible he’s come to find himself a wife.”
*~~*~~*
Beatrice’s observation about Lucas’s plans couldn’t have been further from the truth.
He’d risen that morning, enjoyed the omelette he’d guilted Edgar into making, and prepared himself for the day. Physically, anyway.
Mentally, he was as unprepared as a person could be.
Meeting his brother again after nearly a decade of silence? Dear God, could there be anything more difficult? He stared at himself in the mirror as he carefully folded his cravat, a modest green with the tiniest of black checks woven through it. All his clothes were dark, so it wasn’t a chore to grab a length of silk, and with a few quick twists, be done with it.
