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“Bring her to the kitchen,” she sang out, inclining her head toward the door she’d left open. “Sylvia saved her a bone.”
The woman in pink jammed her hat on her head and bent to tie a length of pink ribbon to the ring on the dog’s collar.
“Hello, Nina dear,” she said, as Nina stood, smoothing her skirt. She raised her voice accusingly. “No one told me Nina was here. Or that she was bringing a guest.” She fixed Alan with her small sky blue eyes. “I’m Millicent Swales. Oh, botheration. Lolly, the hens!”
She gave the nearest a vigorous swat. She and the dog were off, beelining for the kitchen door. Alan reached Nina at the same moment Father Time clapped her in a grandfatherly embrace. He stepped back with smiling eyes—his mouth was invisible within the extraordinary expanse of beard—and nodded at Alan before continuing on through the chickens.
After the sudden commotion, the garden seemed eerily quiet.
Nina resumed smoothing her skirt. It took her a moment to lift her gaze.
“You told Jack to hide,” she said, with a hitch in her voice.
So he had. He scratched his brow. “That’s the long and short of it.”
“What about the detectives?”
He shrugged. “They should have come quicker. Reeve was here, like I said.” He glanced about, as did Nina. No trace of Jack remained. He might have climbed into the henhouse or escaped through the back gate. “Now he’s gone.”
“Because you let him go.” The clouds shifted and the light painted her hair gold.
“You can stop reminding me.” He leaned more heavily on his cane. “I’ll make my case about the forgeries regardless.”
His success—sensational success—would be guaranteed if the forger confessed, hell, if both forgers confessed. Syme’s career would be over.
He sighed. “It will be more of a challenge this way, that’s all.” He paused.
“Do you want to go with him?” he asked, and realized he was holding his breath.
She shook her head.
“Will he make you?”
She shook her head again, more defensively.
“He pointed a gun at you.”
“He’d fire it at himself first.” She lifted her chin, daring him to contradict her. He said nothing, and she took a deep breath. “Jack will go. I’ll stay. Here.” She shifted her gaze. Alan followed it.
Millicent Swales, Miss Lolly, and Mr. Middleton had gathered under the fruit tree, at the table, which was now stacked with crockery. Another woman stood with them, tall and slender, with a high silver bun. She was staring back at him with pursed lips.
Aunt Sylvia.
He tipped his head to her, trying to communicate all his most noble intentions with that slight bow, then angled his body, screening Nina from prying eyes.
“Make your offer to Mr. Craddock,” he said to her. “Make your offer, and then, while he deliberates, come back to London.” His voice dropped. “Come back to me.”
Her eyes rounded.
“The talk in town will be awkward for you.” He cleared his throat. “Word about Reeve will spread in artistic circles, about the investigation. But barring an arrest, a trial—interest will wane quickly. In the meantime, we can dine in.”
“You hardly ever dine in.” Her mouth flattened. “You won’t like missing the excitement.”
At that, he let a smile drift across his mouth. “I won’t be lacking for excitement.”
For a moment, she twinkled, a little burst of gratified surprise, then she frowned. “You find art and politics exciting.” Her brows came together. “You find poetry exciting.”
“I find you exciting.” He watched the crests of her cheeks flush. “I’d rather hear your recipes than sonnets. In fact, your recipes are more poetic than most poetry. All the dissolving sugar and butter washed in rosewater. Wonderful imagery.” He shook his head.
