Page 75 of The Trick of It

“Mysterious,” said Master Yuri. “I like it.”

“As do I,” Merlin agreed. “Father Wheeler can attend me this afternoon for our private showing, and tonight after dinner, Miss Bosw—err, Mrs. Caradoc will set us to activity. Pardon me, my dear. My memory wobbles these days.”

Seph was glowing pink at the address but gave a tight-lipped nod and then groped around on the table for a teacup to hold directly to her face.

Rhys watched this with delight.

And no longer regretted that they’d had to get out of bed this morning, after all.

*

Once again, Rhys found his well-laid plans interrupted by the whims of the universe.

Though he had intended, rather staunchly, to turn today’s outing into a romantic and whimsical escapade through the Twittens with Seph, instead, he found himself burdened with multiple hangers-on who had found their description of the imminent shopping so appealing that they had no choice but to provide them company.

“Of course, if we must look away from where you shop, that is no trouble,” Madame Ivanova said in her most patronizing faux accent, which had returned in force the instant they’d left the grange house lawn. “But I remind you that you are not here to fool us, only dear Merlin.”

“I’m afraid it’s nothing as exciting as all that,” Seph said sweetly. “We’ve a few practical necessities to see to. All the trickery was brought along in our luggage.”

“Ah,” said the other woman with a pout. “Pity.”

“I am eager to see this puzzlemaker,” the Breton fellow exclaimed. He had told Rhys his name, but it was far too French to remember. “I like a good challenge, myself!”

“Then why do you subdue your clients?” Master Yuri returned tartly.

Rhys sighed a few times but did not otherwise protest their presence.

“Do you think that’s how Father Wheeler does it?” the Breton pondered, scratching at his copper-red stubble. “Mesmerism does have its uses in healing.”

Rhys did not know. Nor did he feel particularly compelled to solve that admittedly intriguing mystery just now.

“We’re going this way!” he announced, grabbing Seph by the elbow and motioning down a random avenue. “Shall we meet you back here at luncheon? We know a place with excellent bread.”

“But you are to show us this puzzlemaster!” the Breton exclaimed. “How will we find him without you?”

Seph curled her lips inward and bit them with her teeth, trying to hide her amusement and failing.

Rhys cut his eyes to her in a little glare.

“I’m afraid Monsieur Charpentier is correct, my dear,” she said to him in a pouty, simpering voice that was absolutely meant to annoy him. “What if I take those interested to Graham’s workshop while you see to one of our more practical errands?”

“What if you did?” he returned through his teeth. “What a thought!”

In the end, he trudged off, muttering to himself, with one of Seph’s silk slippers in his pocket and vague directions to the nearest cobbler. He had half a mind to get her something ugly in revenge, but of course he wouldn’t.

He shouldn’t.

He might.

She’d also told him to go to the greengrocer and buy a bushel of fat, round maips, then have them sent directly to the house and bathed in ice water. He could buy tiny radishes instead, he pondered, loping around a large puddle from the endless autumn drizzle as he navigated the streets. Or some obnoxiously shaped gourds would be amusing.

But no, he would not tamper with the maips.

He knew what they were for.

And she’d called them maips when she’d asked, as well. Not neeps, not tornapa, and not even the Saes word, turnip. She’d used the Welsh.

She knew right where he lived, didn’t she? She always had, the wench.