Though six names from his, not her, side of the community. And suddenly, his presence in her scheme made a touch of sense.
“These are the men with whom you need to engage at the festivals, and if possible, leading up to them, given your proximity to them and their families.” She tapped the edge of the page. “You need to find out any possible weaknesses—or better, secrets—especially ones that suit my purposes.”
“I recognize that your family doesn’t have the strongest personal connections to my side of the community, but you are clearly overestimating my relationship with these men. Cleaning the mud from their boots when they come to synagogue does not constitute ‘proximity.’” His lip twitched despite the stone growing in his stomach, telling him this task was as impossible and foolish as separating seeds from lentils. And it would get neither of them what they wanted. He poked at the bundle of fabric. “And what is . . .”
“A juggler’s costume. That way you’ll be wearing enough powders and paint, so you won’t be recognized. And don’t worry—you don’t actually need to perform. You can pretend to tend to your equipment or what have you. Your only real job is to get me what I need.” She waved a hand. “Talk to them or find a magic wand, but get me information that I can use and balance against all the rest.”
“The rest?” He blinked at her. Did she mean all the qualities that would actually bring her happiness? The qualities she should actually be investigating, like a man looking for love, instead of the nonsense she’d hired him for? One could only hope. Not because it would necessarily benefit him, as taking her money served him better.
But even if they were strangers, he could not help but dread the day when she would wake up bound to someone who didn’t care for her or appreciate her—when that was exactly what she needed, more than all the money and power she was fighting to hold on to.
“You know, their personal qualities—their social status and familial connections, as well as their manners and appearance.” She waved another dismissive hand.
“Appearance?” He couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. Perhaps Miss Lira was not so dispassionate about her marriage as she’d claimed.
“Naturally. How he carries himself and the image he projects are critical to our future success as a family,” she said with a slight roll of her eyes. “Obviously, I can tutor him in those areas if necessary. Though doing that with the right balance of tact is never easy, so having those set beforehand would be quite strategic.” She blinked at him. “What?”
Aaron closed his gaping mouth. Because what could he say to that? He glanced at his boot, staring at the frayed leather. He certainly did not have a suitable “appearance”—that was for certain.
“Oh.” And this time her eye roll was followed by a raised brow. “You thought I meant ‘handsome.’”
“I mean . . . one would presume that you . . . Don’t you . . .” He coughed a little, unable to find suitable words.Schlemiel, schlemiel, schlemiel.
“Well . . .” She tugged at the ends of her hair. “As you suggested, I suppose that I would like to enjoy living with my husband, like every wife would.” Her swallow was visible. Most certainly she was blushing, and for the first time she didn’t meet his eye. “And if we are to engage in certain . . . acts . . . I’d like to be attracted to him. At least a little. So those acts would be . . . pleasing and—you understand what I mean.” She licked her lips, and his foolish body reacted with dizzying speed.
That hadn’t quite been what he’d meant when he’d advised her to find a husband she could love. But he did understand. Very much so. And because he remained a schlemiel, he was most certainly now picturing her on a bed, wearing exactly what she wore now, a sly smile on her gorgeous mouth as she crooked a finger and—
“However,” she said, raising her actual finger pertly and interrupting his thoughts. “I do not want to consider that part of the equation unless or until I know if he’s suitable.”
“Ah. So you can guarantee you aren’t attracted to the wrong person.”Someone like me.The reminder was like a dash of cold water on his senses. This was no story, after all. Here, paupers were never princes.
And yet there in the moonlight, the ground between them still felt different—charged, even. Aaron threaded his fingers through the lattice in the arch, stroking the soft new leaves. “So knowing if someone lacks the status and power to give you what you want—as well as if he has the right vulnerabilities for you to exploit—will prevent that?” he asked, unable to let the topic lie just yet.
She rubbed her elbows, closing off her body. “Yes.”
“Even if he’s very handsome?” He gripped the wood and lifted himself up, swinging his legs, before jumping back down at her feet. “Even if he’s in love with you?”
“I can control myself, Mr. Ellenberg,” she snapped, jutting out her chin, which, before he could consider his actions, before his mind and body remembered who he was and what he was permitted, he caught in his palm.
“I’m sure you can. You seem very in control, Miss Lira.” He stroked her cheek as she stared up at him.
“I—” She shivered in his grip—or perhaps that was him. But regardless, she didn’t pull loose, only gazed back, as if she was challenging him once more.
Which was not what was supposed to be happening. He released her, shoving himself back into the darkness.
“All right, I will do your bidding,” he said, his body still shaking. “Though I can’t promise you success.” He infused the words with as much formality as he could muster, forcing himself into the role of accomplice—no, henchman.
“And I will give you what you want in return,” she called as he turned his back, sprinting away.
“I’ll believe you when the coins are in my hands,” he returned as he slipped over the wall and onto the empty street. Because making his dreams come true,thatwas what this was about, he told himself as he broke into a run, not stopping until he reached Aldgate and his own bed.
Everything else was none of his business.
There was nothing quite so relaxing as lying in a large tub filled with hot water, perfumed with oils from her favorite shop on Jermyn Street. Isabelle closed her eyes and inhaled, orange and ginger and amber enveloping her. The first festival was to begin in a mere three hours, and her nerves wouldn’t calm. Especially not after the note she’d received from David Berab demanding figures for various accounts her father had led, with the distinct implication that failure would further prove how unfit she was to work in the company.
Culling the information from her father’s files ate the entire morning. The man had been fanatical about keeping a tight rein on the business, which unfortunately meant he’d kept so much of its vital information to himself.
Not even Pena knew his organizational system. And while she’d spent most of her childhood at his side—first playing on the floor in his office, then listening to him expound on the ins and outs of contracts and formulas and charts, as he ensured she understood how best to serve their clients—he’d kept the more mundane tasks locked in his mind. For her to decipher now.
