“Oscar, you will find someone to love. You have a good heart, and I know in my bones you’ll find someone worthy to give it to.
“What if I already have?”
I wanted to put a comforting arm around him, but wasn’t sure how he’d react, so I tilted my head to the side and gave him a sympathetic look. “I mean someone who is available. Miss Wheeler has made it clear she is not.”
He picked up his hat and twirled it. “That’s not the message I got.”
“She told you not to write to her.”
“But her eyes said something quite different.”
“If you can read eyes so well then read these.” I lifted my glasses and rolled my eyes in such an exaggerated manner that it hurt my eyeballs. “Ow.”
Oscar chuckled and placed his arm around my shoulders. “Come on. I need a drink.”
“A cup of tea would do nicely.”
“I was thinking of something stronger. Let’s see if we can find a place that stocks Kinloch’s whiskey.”
The swaying motion of the train didn’t affect me as much on the journey back to London as it had on the way up to Edinburgh. I suspected it was because I felt less anxious. Our first expedition had come to an end, and I’d proved to myself that I was capable. Being away from the familiar comforts of home wasn’t as terrifying as I’d thought it would be.
That was most likely because of the capable and fearless man sitting opposite me. Oscar finally closed A Treatise on the Laws of Witchcraft and Maleficium in Scotland as we pulled into King’s Cross Station. After his disappointment over the parting with Miss Wheeler, I let him read the book first to cheer him up. It seemed to have the desired effect, going by the secretive little smile he sported.
“Well?” I prompted.
“It’s an interesting book, once you get past the archaic spelling and terminology. Mackenzie’s thoughts on witchcraft are remarkably modern by the standards of his time.” Oscar’s lips flattened. “Mr. Gordon’s secret sect notwithstanding.”
The similarities of the circumstances surrounding the abductions of Juliette and Mary to the persecution of witches in the seventeenth century, when the book was written, had given me much to think about on the journey. While a great deal had changed over the centuries, there were pockets of society that hadn’t. Thankfully, nowadays it was the witchfinders who were imprisoned, not the so-called witches they hunted.
Oscar’s small smile returned, so he mustn’t be thinking about the topic of witchcraft. Only two things could produce that smile and Miss Wheeler was one of them. Since she and Mr. Defoe had left Edinburgh last night for parts unknown, I guessed it was the other matter that made him happy.
“You found the reference to the tattoo.” I indicated the book, opened to a page near the end on his lap.
He turned it around to show me and pointed at a paragraph. “Mackenzie heard a story about a tattoo that makes a person fly when they speak a spell. He uses the term witch, but we can assume it’s an ink magician.”
I read the paragraph then glanced up at Oscar. His eyes were feverishly bright, his smile barely contained. “We’re going to Italy next, aren’t we?”
His smile finally broke free. “We are. But first, we need to deliver this to India and Matt.”
Chapter 17
“I’m coming with you next time.” The declaration was made by Willie’s friend, Lord Farnsworth. The lackadaisical dandy lounged on Lord and Lady Rycroft’s sofa, much like Mr. Defoe had done on Mr. Kinloch’s. Whereas Defoe’s pose had been arrogant, Farnsworth’s was more refined, as befitted the cultured accent and expensive education. When I’d first met him, I’d thought he was putting on the foppish air to make people think he was harmlessly eccentric, but the more I got to know him, the less certain my opinion of him became. He was definitely more intelligent than he let on, but the lurid waistcoats, diamond cufflinks, and pompous languor were as much a part of him as Willie’s loud unruliness was a part of her.
“No, you ain’t,” she said. “I’m going next time.”
“You can’t,” Lord Farnsworth said. “You’re married.”
“So?”
“Your husband’ll want you home, making babies and playing hostess.”
Everyone burst out laughing, including Detective Inspector Brockwell, the husband in question. We sat in the drawing room of number sixteen Park Street, the London residence of Lord and Lady Rycroft, where Willie and Brockwell currently resided. Aside from Matt and India, Willie, Brockwell and Farnsworth, we were joined by their friend, Duke, and Matt’s elderly aunt, Miss Letitia Glass. She sat in a chair by the window, her head bowed forward as she napped. She wasn’t the only one asleep. Young Gabriel, the Rycrofts’ son, was having an afternoon nap in his room, allowing the adults to have an uninterrupted conversation.
I used the term adult loosely when it came to Willie and Lord Farnsworth. They could each be as disruptive as a toddler sometimes, especially when they were together.
“You won’t go,” Duke said to Willie. His thick fingers looked unnaturally large as he gripped the teacup like it was the handle of a hammer. He waved it in Willie’s general direction. “You won’t leave Matt.”
“Or little Gabe,” D.I. Brockwell added, not in the least upset that his wife placed her cousins above him in her affections.
