“Anyway, you can’t talk,” he went on. “You’re wearing the most appallingly sensible shoes I’ve ever seen. You probably could have walked here from Oxford without developing a single blister. But these are Crockett and Jones calf leather Derbys, Amelia. The worst they should encounter is a threadbare rug.”
Amelia did not even glance at the beautifully shod foot he angled out from beneath the table. Vanity, however, muttered under her breath about what she’d like to do with a calf leather Derby in relation to his head. But before violence could be committed, an elderly woman who had been dining with another at a neighboring table approached them.
“Excuse me,” she said, her voice pitched low, her expression nervous. “May I ask, are you poets?”
“No, ma’am,” Amelia told her politely. “We’re antiquarians.”
The woman’s anxiety deepened to wariness. “Is that some kind of religion?”
Caleb laughed. “In a manner of speaking.”
“It’s a branch of history study,” Amelia explained. “We’re university professors.”
“Oh dear, really?” The woman gave them a pitying once-over. “I overheard that you were planning to visit Ravenscroft Manor and just assumed…” She paused, glancing around as if anticipating danger. Suddenly a flash of lightning illuminated her face with stark brightness against the shadows of the pub’s interior. But her eyes were impenetrably dark as she reached out to grasp Amelia’s shoulder. “I beg you, don’t do it. Don’t go out to that manor.”
Caleb’s interest immediately perked up at this dire advice. “How intriguing,” he said, and winked at Amelia, who had gone rigid at the woman’s touch. “Let me guess, strange and dreadful things happen there?”
Thunder crashed overhead, and the pub’s lights briefly flickered, scattering shards of darkness through the room. The old woman cackled.
“No, the roads are in a poor state from recent bad weather. Mavis and I”—she indicated a fellow octogenarian at her table—“went for a ramble out that way yesterday but had to turn back after only five miles.”
Amelia gave Caleb an eloquent look, but the woman had not finished. “It would be a terrible shame if a fine gentleman such as yourself ruined his elegant shoes.”
“Aha!” Caleb declared, pointing triumphantly at Amelia. “I told you so. A discerning lady recognizes elegance when she sees it.”
Amelia smiled placidly, as if she knew a secret she was not telling him. Caleb found himself thinking, not for the first time in their long acquaintance, just how lovely her eyes were, soft and dark, with lashes so long they rightfully belonged on a morally gray hero. Really, it was altogether fortunate he’d settled years ago for being no more than friends with her, otherwise he’d fall in love every time he gazed into those beautiful, deep—
“Professor!” Vanity exclaimed. “You’re coming undone!”
Caleb’s pulse jolted him out of his reverie into a wild, confused moment before he realized that Vanity was referring to his sandwich. It had begun drooping in his hand; already he’d lost a slice of tomato and was at immediate risk of losing the ham too. But they did not have far to fall: Amelia had lifted his plate while he’d beenmooningcasually looking at her eyes, and she held it in position to catch the sandwich bits.
“Oops,” he said, and let the rest of the sandwich drop. “How far is—” he began to ask the elderly woman, but lookingaround did not see her. “Where did she go?” he asked, surprised. Had she been a ghost? Supernatural encounters were common in his line of work, but rarely did they seem so realistic. “She just vanished!”
“Actually she said goodbye, then walked away while you were staring at Miss Tarrant,” Vanity told him rather sourly.
Caleb was saved from blushing by the timely arrival of Sergeant Sheffield. The man approached their table then stopped, hands behind his back, gaze fixed upon the middle distance.
“You procured a carriage?” Vanity asked, perking up at the hopeful possibility.
Sheffield nodded, once.
“Marvelous!” Immediately the girl was on her feet. “Shall we go?” She clapped her hands and rubbed them together as if that might accelerate time.
Caleb rose, gathering his coat from the back of his chair and putting it on. Amelia followed more slowly, tidying her used dishes as she did so. “Sergeant,” she said, “would you be kind enough to help us with our luggage?”
Sheffield sprang into action, gathering up both Amelia’s and Caleb’s suitcases, Caleb’s extra bag, and two pieces of Vanity’s luggage, in a feat of strength that Caleb could only describe asshowing off like a bloody wanker, especially considering the impressed look on Amelia’s face. He attempted to offer some help, but Sheffield was already moving for the exit, leaving Caleb with only a few remnants of chivalry.
But upon extending his arm to Amelia, he got a confused frown in return. True, the last time he’d done so was some three years ago, when she wanted to get an antique brass bird down from where it had flown to an upper shelf in the BritishMuseum. Nevertheless, he felt inexplicably annoyed. Pivoting on his heel, he smiled at Vanity instead.
“Miss Tunnicliffe,” he said, “may I offer you my assistance?”
Vanity giggled and lifted her hand to place it on his forearm—but at that moment Caleb saw Amelia roll her eyes, and he turned back to her, causing Vanity’s hand to drop awkwardly through empty space.
“What was that look for?” he demanded.
Amelia’s expression, however, was now entirely genteel. “Nothing,” she said, so calm and so obviously meaningsomethingthat Caleb wanted to take her in hisembracegrip and shake her—although why, exactly, he could not say. They stared at each other, unspoken words spiking the air between them. Vanity took a nervous step away.
“We should be going,” Amelia said.
