Clarissa nodded. "I'm starting to, yes."
"Good." He paused, but then added. "I am too."
The moment grew a little too serious a little too quickly, and it left her feeling oddly dizzy. So she said, "Turnip."
Kit snickered. "Stop."
She took a step closer. "Artichoke."
"You're a menace." But his eyes were dancing with genuine laughter.
She smiled. "Parsnip."
10
Gage's gaming hell was not the sort of establishment frequented by an heir to a dukedom.
Which was precisely why Kit liked it.
The place had no formal name. Gage refused to give it one, on the grounds that naming something implied permanence and permanence implied respectability, and he wanted no part of either. It occupied the upper floors of a building on a street that was not quite fashionable but not quite disreputable, which Gage said was the ideal location for a business that catered to a man's vices.
Kit climbed the narrow stairs and pushed through the door into the familiar fog of cigar smoke and candlelight. It was too early for the real crowd, which suited him. He wasn't here for cards.
Gage was behind his desk in the back room, a ledger open before him and a glass of something dark at his elbow. "You look terrible."
"I look spectacular," Kit said, dropping into the chair opposite. "I always look magnificent. It's a curse, really."
Gage grinned. "Perhaps you've forgotten how long I've known you." He stood, coming around to lean against the desk, closer to Kit. "You look like you haven't slept in a month."
Kit frowned. He hadn't had a good night sleep in far too long. But the mirror certainly hadn't reflected that.
Then again, there was a reason Gage had gone into the world of gambling with his inheritance. He could have opened any sort of business, but he'd always been frighteningly good at reading people.
Kit decided it wasn't worth arguing the point. "I've been busy."
"You need sleep," Gage said.
"I need a drink," Kit shot back. He looked pointedly toward Gage's glass, and his friend took the hint. He moved to an end table and poured a glass without comment.
This was one of the many things Kit valued about their friendship. Gage didn't require explanations. Nor did he require charm, which meant Kit could stop performing, a luxury so rare it felt almost indecent.
Kit took the glass and let the silence settle around him.
"How is she?" Kit asked.
Gage's gaze sharpened. "Comfortable. Mrs. Briggs is attending to her. The physician came yesterday. Everything is progressing as it should."
Kit exhaled. "Good. And the bills?"
"Covered through the end of the month." A pause. "After that?—"
"I know." Kit took a drink. "I'm handling it."
Gage exhaled loudly and leaned back in his seat. "You know I'd help you if I could. But all my funds are tied up in this place or other investments, and?—"
"I know," Kit interrupted. "And I appreciate the thought. But this isn't your problem to handle."
"It's not yours either," Gage said. His tone was even, but there was a dark flicker of anger in his eyes on Kit's behalf.
