“Not at all. Mr. Defoe has made me an offer, but I’ve declined to entertain it until speaking to you. You were the first to contact me, after all, so it’s only fair you are given the right to make the first bid. I expected to see you tomorrow, as planned, but since you are here, we can begin. Allow me to make the introductions. Mr. John J. Defoe and Miss Adele Wheeler, please meet Mr. Oscar Barratt and Professor Gavin Nash. Miss Wheeler is Mr. Defoe’s assistant.”
That cleared up one mystery.
Oscar hadn’t taken his gaze off her since shaking her hand. “Then it must be you, Miss Wheeler, who arranged for Mr. Kinloch’s coach to collect you from the station. Please forgive our attempt to borrow it.”
“It wasn’t me,” she said, voice silky smooth.
“I offered to collect Mr. Defoe and Miss Wheeler,” Mr. Kinloch said. “Given they’re new to our shores, I thought it the hospitable thing to do.”
Mr. Defoe lifted a hand from the sofa arm in dismissal, the motion little more than a twitch as if he could hardly be bothered. “I trust you won’t attempt to steal what’s mine again, Barratt.” The American drawl held a hint of steel that had my pulse leaping.
“How is your foot, Mr. Barratt?” Miss Wheeler indicated Oscar’s foot that had been stabbed by the end of her parasol at the station.
He waggled it. “Fortunately these shoes are my sturdier traveling pair.”
“That’s good to know.” The unspoken words ‘for next time’ hung in the air.
Oscar’s eyes brightened with amusement.
Miss Wheeler looked annoyed that her comment had done as little damage to his ego as her parasol had to his foot, which only made Oscar’s eyes brighten more.
Mr. Defoe reached into his inside jacket pocket and removed a cigar and gold vesta box embossed with his initials. “Mind if I smoke, Kinloch?”
“I… er…” Mr. Kinloch trailed off as Mr. Defoe plugged the cigar into his mouth and struck a match. “Not at all, if Miss Wheeler doesn’t mind.”
“She’s used to it.” Smoke billowed from Mr. Defoe’s mouth along with his words.
Miss Wheeler sat as calm as could be beside him, not looking at all perturbed. Not moving a muscle either.
Mr. Kinloch signaled to his butler. “Three whiskeys, Redmayne, and a cup of tea for Miss Wheeler. Or do you prefer sherry?”
“I prefer whiskey,” she shot back. “I hear your distillery makes a very fine single malt.”
Mr. Defoe’s chuckle erupted from the depths of his chest as if she’d said something amusing. We all glanced at him, but he didn’t share the joke with us. Miss Wheeler gave no reaction. It was as if he wasn’t even there.
Redmayne glanced at his employer who nodded. The butler bowed out of the drawing room.
Mr. Kinloch asked how our journey had been. Oscar answered politely while Mr. Defoe merely grunted and puffed on his cigar. He left it to Miss Wheeler to explain that it had taken them almost two weeks to reach Scotland from New York. As the cigar smoke drifted across to her, she suddenly stood.
“Don’t get up,” she said as Mr. Kinloch, Oscar and I went to stand out of politeness. “I’d like to take a turn about the room. I need to stretch my legs.”
“You must want to freshen up after the long journey,” our host said.
“And miss the negotiations? I’ll stay, but thank you for the offer.”
Mr. Kinloch asked me about my work at the university. He listened while I told him I’d resigned from my position some time ago to co-write a book with Oscar, and now we planned to travel together.
“Mr. Barratt’s first book created quite the stir on this side of the world,” Mr. Kinloch explained to Mr. Defoe and Miss Wheeler. “Indeed, it changed the course of history.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Oscar said. “It merely explained magic to the artless. History was changed by others.”
“Your letter said you’re a magician.”
Oscar nodded, but did not clarify that he was an ink magician. “Are you a magician, Miss Wheeler?”
She’d been standing beside a round table by the window where a newspaper was perched on the edge, but now looked up. She opened her mouth, but Mr. Defoe answered before she could speak.
“I am a magician—iron, of course.”
