Hawkes smiled faintly. He mulled for a moment how to say what he wanted to say, and whether he should. He finally decided the opportunity presented was pure serendipity. And perhaps yet another example of destiny.
“I should be obliged if you could ask your friend from Lloyd’s a question, and I fear it’s of a rather urgent nature. And it’s whether a charity called the Society for the Relief of English Prisoners of War ever turned over the funds it collected to Lloyd’s Patriotic Fund for the prisoner of war relief fund.”
Both men looked at him sharply.
“That’s quite a specific question, Hawkes,” Bolt said, carefully.
“It is, indeed.”
“Where did you see this charity?” This was Bolt asking.
Hawkes studied him.
“You can trust him,” Hardy said simply, finally.
“It was in Brundage’s budget before the war.”
A taut, wordless interlude.
“It strikes me as unusual,” Bolt proceeded carefully, “for an ambassador to sponsor such a charity. White’s collected funds for war prisoners, which were transferred to Lloyd’s. Twining’s took up a collection.”
“You don’t think it’s a real charity.” This was Hardy, who’d sussed out the run of things.
“I shall just say that the time frame during which it appeared in the books gave me pause. As did the way its balance grew and shrank.”
The two other men, who were intelligent and also, in their way, probably crafty, were silently drawing conclusions about what this meant.
“And who oversaw Brundage’s budget?”
“Brundage,” Hawkes said shortly.
“Do you think Brundage...” Bolt stopped.
No one wanted to ask that question aloud.
“If you could ask the question of your associate at Lloyd’s, I would be appreciative,” was all Hawkes said. “Perhaps I’ll join the singing now. I find myself lured like a sailor to a siren at the sound of Mrs. Gallagher’s pianoforte playing.”
Back in his room, Hawkes lit the lamp and kept it low, then moved to the window to inspect the view,beyond which thin black spires of ships pierced a pewter sky layered in mist.
He slid open the window briefly and hung out his head so the wind could give him a good bracing slap.
Tomorrow morning, he intended to pay a visit to a certain antiquities dealer by the name of Guthrie. Unless he discovered Mrs. Gallagher had simultaneous other plans, in which case, wherever she went, he would follow.
Pain and weariness were beginning to assert themselves through the pleasant haze of brandy and the evening’s bonhomie. He ought to lay his wounded self back on the bed and rest, decide upon a course of action. Have a proper night’s sleep, if he could.
But the thought of Mrs. Gallagher sent restlessness rippling across his nerves.
And as though it was a pleasant drug of the sort Mr. Delacorte might carry about in his case, his thoughts returned to the moment earlier in the evening when Mrs. Hardy was playing pianoforte and everyone had gathered around her to sing, and he’d found himself standing and signing alongside Mrs. Gallagher. Somewhere mid-song their eyes met, then held perhaps longer than was proper. Her singing faltered, and a flush spilled into her cheeks. But before she dropped her eyes, her lips had curved in a little smile that was as sensual as a hand brushed across his cock.
He relived that moment second by second now for the fresh surge of pure, primal masculine satisfaction.
Because he’d done that to her—caused that flush, that smile, that head-duck. As if his presence was simply too potent to bear.
But the truth was more humbling: in the moment, her smile had all but clubbed him senseless for a beat or two. Rendered incapable of speech or thought,never mind singing. He’d watched, mesmerized, balanced on the razor-fine line between fascination and something almost like anger, the quickening rise and fall of her bodice. Because in that moment it had irrationally seemed a crime against nature, worse than treason, not to touch her when mere inches separated them.
He imagined how her expression would change if she knew why he was really here.
And he closed his eyes and swore softly aloud.
