Grey wasn’t much inclined to flattery.
How daring was peacock? She’d just thought it pretty.
“With your lovely short hair and curls, you should wear earbobs. They will drive the gentlemen quite mad.” The shopkeeper produced dangling pearl clips that El couldn’t resist because they swung about if she tossed her head. She couldn’t toss her shorn hair, but earbobs. . . Was this what it took to become visible? She might enjoy learning, if so.
By the time Kate had the gown and other bits sorted, they heard the men clattering into the lobby, shouting for ale.
“I hope Fletch or Rafe has returned from the manor. Verity is a bit timid about serving rowdy gentlemen.” Kate folded up the gown. “It’s late enough. I’ll lock up and we can see what they’re celebrating.”
By the time they reached the pub, Grey, Arnaud, and the other artists were quaffing ale and merrily toasting each other, while Major Ferguson poured. Seeing Kate, the major emerged to kiss her proudly. “Next round is on me, boys! Tomorrow, I’ll be wed to the finest lady in existence.”
Kate blushed and pushed him back toward the bar. “Did the boys discover the clock’s treasure?”
Kate’s intended poured half pints for her and El. “I think Thea will have to talk to the earl’s ghost before that puzzle is solved. This celebration, our artistic friends will have to explain.”
Grey separated himself from his happy new friends and led El to a table. “He is wrong, you know,” he murmured in her ear. “You are far finer than Mrs. Morgan, but we will allow a besotted, almost newlywed to have his fancies.”
“How many pints have you had?” El asked, blushing despite her disbelief.
“None. I don’t like the stuff.” He lifted his full mug when the others at the bar did. “To fame!”
“And fortune,” Arnaud called. “We’ll help you hang your new purchases so your magazine friend can see how well they look outside of the gallery.”
“He’s likely to be here in a day or two. Work fast!” Grey lifted his mug again to their cheers.
“Your art critic is arriving so soon?” El sipped nervously at her own mug. This was a new side of Greybourne that she’d never seen. She was uncertain what to make of him.
“Our ladies of the Priory have been spreading gossip. Infamy attracts attention. I may be notorious for a day or two. You may wish to hide at the manor so as to not be part of the story once they learn I am to have my heir removed from my hair, so to speak.” He sloshed his ale swinging it about and added cynically, “The publicity should be good for book sales. My publisher will be pleased.”
“Gossip will bring journalists?” Her head was definitely fuzzy again. Libraries and books had never spun her about like this.
“And art critics.” Grey lifted his mug to the barkeep again. “Better have rooms made ready, Major. I am not prepared to put up the sots. And they are not exactly the sort to dine with the ladies.”
Even dour Mort lifted a mug to that. “Ply ’em with drink, I say. Make ’em happy.”
Kate had settled on a bench to pick at piano keys in the corner. Finding what she wanted, she began a joyful tune that brought children running in from the kitchen.
Grey brushed the new earbobs in El’s ears. “I like those. We may have to find a proper lady’s maid who can keep your curls trimmed so I can kiss your pretty ear.”
Which he proceeded to do, only to abandon her as the gentleman from the manor entered, along with the bailiff—leaving El with her dizzy head in the clouds.
She thought, just maybe, she wasn’t invisible anymore.
Forty-five
Grey
Upon the arrival of the manor gentlemen at the pub, his intelligent assistant perceptively abandoned Grey to join the piano player. He watched her walk away with regret. He wanted to start this wooing business sooner than later, but he’d rather not sully Ellie’s pretty ears with whatever the magistrate had to say about his interview with Stupid Stew.
Hunt accepted a mug and strode over to join Grey. “Walker is writing up the testimony. I have a couple of men who will see the lot to the court in the morning. All three will be behind proper bars by Monday,” he announced, before taking a quaff of the ale. He gave the contents of his mug a look of approval and called to the innkeeper, “By Jove, I think you’ve found the right grain with this one.”
Rafe grinned and lifted his own mug in salute.
“I don’t wish to be seen as celebrating what is actually a tragedy. . .” Grey refrained from lifting his mug.
“That such creatures exist is the travesty,” Hunt corrected. “Drink up!”
A travesty yes, and possibly no longer Grey’s problem. He was tired of believing he was the damaged one. He gave in and tasted the ale in his mug. “You’re right. This is palatable.”
