The maid gave Jack the copper jug and fished a bar of soap from her apron pocket that she handed to him before continuing up the stairs unencumbered.
Henry cleared his throat. “Shall we wait for you in the parlor, Bastin?”
“Yes, do. Make yourselves comfortable while I rid myself of this ink and put on a fresh shirt.”
As he turned and made for the stairs, Ottilie caught sight of a raised scar, running from his right shoulder to his left flank, marring his otherwise perfectly sculpted, muscular back.
“How did he get such an awful scar?” she whispered to Henry as they made their way down the hallway toward the parlor.
“I don’t know. He never talks about his past. Whenever I ask, he changes the subject. All I know is he spent several years in America.”
“Yes, I read as much in the newspapers. Although, he doesn’t have much of an American accent.”
“No, he speaks like an English gentleman. He was born and raised here, and I think he puts a great deal of effort into retaining his Englishness because I have heard him utter the odd Americanism here and there.”
“Do you think he involved himself in dangerous activities over there?”
Henry showed Ottilie into the parlor. “I doubt it. He is more of a romantic than a rabble-rouser. If you ask me, the wound came from a jealous husband.”
Ottilie raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean? Are you saying Mr. Bastin makes a habit of chasing married women?”
“Of course not,” Henry said quickly. “But women have a tendency to become obsessed with him—married or not—and those who are married have husbands who don’t take kindly to their wives’ admiration for another man, even if it is through no fault of his own.”
“I imagine so,” Ottilie said dryly, thinking that her cousin protested too much to be telling the whole truth. She scanned the masculine room, admiring its tall mahogany bookshelves, well-stocked bar cabinet, and whiskey-colored leather seating.
Henry flopped onto one of the buttoned-leather chairs, and Ottilie strolled to the bookshelves lining the rear wall.
“Is that what happened last night?” She kept her eyes on the books. “Did Madame Baudelaire attack Lady Enwick because she’d become obsessed with Mr. Bastin?”
“Precisely. Madame Baudelaire has been stalking Bastin for months.”
“And he never encouraged her?” She glanced at her cousin.
Henry shrugged. “Who knows what Madam Baudelaire views as encouragement? The French have a different way of conducting themselves, as you well know.”
“Maybe,” Ottilie said. “Although, I suppose I can see how any woman might easily become obsessed with Mr. Bastin. He is devilishly handsome and rather charming.”
“Hello again.” A smooth, deep voice sounded behind Ottilie, causing goosebumps to rise on her flesh. “I’m pleased to see you’ve made yourselves comfortable.”
She turned to see Mr. Bastin standing in the doorway of the parlor, wearing a clean white shirt, open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves. He met Ottilie’s gaze and flashed her a smile. Her cheeks burned. Had he heard what she’d said?
“Say, Bastin, when you mentioned you had a bit of a run-in with a bottle of ink last night, did you mean you’ve started writing again?” Henry asked.
Ottilie forgot her embarrassment and rejoined the conversation. “What do you mean by started again? Had you stopped writing?”
“I’ve been navigating a bit of a dark patch recently, but I had a sudden burst of inspiration last night. And this morning, I awoke at my desk to find the beginnings of a poem written out and a bottle of ink soaking my shirt.”
Henry leaned forward in his chair. “Did you say a poem?”
“Not merely a poem, the start of an epic work.”
“What came over you last night to bring that on?”
“I can’t say exactly.” Mr. Bastin glanced at Ottilie, and his eyes twinkled as though they held a delightful secret. “But I think I found a new muse.”
A smile tugged at Ottilie’s lips, and she turned casually to the bookshelf. Mr. Bastin’s charm made it impossible for a person not to feel flattered by his attention. But she didn’t want to give the impression of a gushing female admirer. She’d come to secure his services for the ladies’ college and needed him to take her seriously.
“Where are these magical pages you composed last night?” Henry asked. “May I see them?”
