“Why have you grown quiet?” Henry asked. “Did I say something to upset you? I’m sorry if I did.”
“You haven’t upset me.” Ottilie took a breath and collected herself. “I was thinking”—she turned to face her cousin—“did you notice Mr. Bastin’s valet also bears a terrible scar? It runs from the tip of his jaw and curves around his neck.”
“Of course, one can hardly ignore a wound of such magnitude on a person’s face. Although, I hadn’t realized the extent of it until today. The man usually wears a cravat with his collared shirt, so the full scar isn’t entirely visible. I wonder how far down his back it goes.”
Ottilie frowned. “Don’t you find it odd they both carry similar marks on their bodies? These are not the childhood scars one gets from scraping one’s knee. They looked more like knife wounds or something even more sinister.”
Henry shrugged. “Bastin hardly talks about his life in America. But he lived there during the war, so I imagine life had its difficulties.”
“Do you suppose he took part in the American Civil War?”
“An Englishman like Bastin fight in an American war? Never!”
“You’re being territorial, cousin. He may have been born an Englishman, and he plays the part well, but he spent a significant portion of his life in America. Surely, he would have been expected to fight. Weren’t all able-bodied men forced to join?”
“I believe many paid their way out of service. Bastin must have done. He is too much of a free spirit to be a soldier. He wouldn’t do well following orders.”
“I think you’re right about that.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? He’s a born Englishman, so he is back where he belongs now.”
“Where was he born?”
“Kent, maybe? I’m not sure. I only met the man six months ago. And he doesn’t talk about himself much.”
“So, you hardly know him?”
“I know he’s a brilliant writer and an excellent friend. He has charmed society. Everyone wants him to attend their dinner parties and balls. Now, I am not saying society sees him as an eligible bachelor or would condone him marrying one of their daughters, but he does liven a party.”
Ottilie frowned, remembering the cuff to the neck she’d seen Mr. Bastin give Madame Baudelaire. But it happened so fast, she couldn’t be sure he’d actually touched the woman. And he’d treated her with such care after she’d fainted, laying her down and cradling her head until her family arrived to administer the smelling salts. Either way, Madame Baudelaire had been unharmed, so whatever he did—if anything—it only served to prevent her from injuring herself or others. Still, it was curious. “It does seem odd the gossips in high society aren’t more interested in his background.”
“They are, believe me. And I think he keeps his past a secret on purpose. It’s part of his mysterious persona. I get the impression he didn’t come from money and that his family moved to America for a better life. It must have worked because he has a fortune now. But it’s not why I value his friendship so dearly.” Henry stopped walking and Ottilie turned to give him her full attention. “Jack Bastin is the only person, aside from you, to encourage me in my poetic pursuits. He doesn’t think I am wasting my time, nor does he try to humor me as though I am a child who needs to outgrow a silly dream. He takes me seriously as a poet. And he has helped a great deal with my writing. He has been an inspiration to me.”
“Then he is indeed a worthy friend, cousin. And I am glad you found someone you can trust.”
“Oh, I do trust him, but no woman should.” He eyed Ottilie.
“You might be surprised to learn I agree with you there.” She had enjoyed Mr. Bastin’s company. He had flattered her with his attention and made her feel special. She could see how one could become lost, basking in the glow of his charm. It would be easy to lose sight of one’s purpose, priorities, and propriety while under his spell. And when he decided to withdraw his affections—breaking the spell—well, one only needed to look at Madame Baudelaire to understand what a crushing blow that could be.
*
“No, no, no!”Jack leaned his forehead against the closed door. What was happening to him? He was losing control and heading in the wrong direction. He’d sworn off women and vowed to make a clean start. So how had Miss Hamilton managed to crawl inside his head, nestle in his brain, and derail him in the space of a few hours?
She didn’t fit his code. He’d lived by a set of rules for years, and bedding Miss Hamilton would mean breaking all of them and spell disaster for him. She was young, unattached, and no doubt a virgin. But worst of all, she was his friend’s cousin. He groaned. He could have any woman he wanted, so why fixate on this one? Yet, he desired her. And even worse, he feared he could not write without her. He had been floundering for months, unable to write anything worthwhile, until last night.
Stop!Jack reprimanded himself.A pretty face has inspired many a poet. There is nothing unusual about it. I’m turning this gift into a problem and using it to doubt my talent. Let the memory of her face be my muse; I do not need to bed her. Whatever thoughts I may have are private and cannot hurt Hudsyn. I’ve done terrible things in my life, but I will not stoop so low as to betray a friend. Loyalty is everything. My survival has depended on it.
“What the heck are you doing?”
Jack lifted his head and spun around to see Brandt frowning down at him from his place on the stairs. “Nothing. I was just on my way up.”
“Have they left?”
Jack nodded. “On second thought, why don’t you come down? Let’s talk in the dining room. I haven’t eaten yet.”
Brandt trotted down the stairs. “Who’s the girl? Hudsyn getting married or something?”
“No, nothing like that. She is his cousin. Came to ask a favor of me. But never mind her, what was all the urgency about earlier? I hope it means you have good news for me.”
