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Nina drew a sharp breath.
“Come to London for your money, if nothing else.” He turned from her, a rapid motion, like ripping off a scab.
“My apologies.” He approached the table, summoning everyone’s attention. The two aunts wore identical expressions of concern. How had Nina explained his presence? And how much of their little show had they witnessed? Miss Lolly and Aunt Sylvia exchanged a look.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have the pleasure of a longer acquaintance,” he said.
“Or a proper introduction.” Aunt Sylvia raised a thin brow.
“Or that,” he acknowledged, and departed.
—
Sleep was impossible. Finally, Nina crept downstairs, careful not to wake her aunts as she passed by their bedroom doors. She sat in the parlor, cuddled under a blanket warmed and weighted with the fattest and fluffiest of the cats. Charlemagne vibrated against her. The clock ticked on the mantel. Last night, at this hour, she’d been wrapped in Alan’s arms.
He was back in Chelsea by now.
Her throat felt full. She hadn’t managed a bite of roast at dinner.
The seconds ticked by. She heard a thump and drumming paws and Billie joined Charlemagne on her lap. At some point, she dozed. When she opened her eyes, the candles had burned low, and Jack stood before her in the flickering shadows.
“You should get yourself to bed.”
She sat up straighter. “Where were you?”
“Here and there. The King’s Arms.” He dropped onto the sofa. Bits of straw stuck to his dirt-rimmed boots.
“Did you track that all through the house?” She realized she was speaking too loudly and scowled, lowering her voice to an emphatic whisper. “You smell like a cow.”
“Spent some time in a hayloft.” He shrugged, then squinted, trying to read her expression. “You’re sore with me.” He leaned forward. “Shabby play, taking your money without asking. But I swear on our mother, I’ll make it up to you.”
She glanced down, fingertips sifting through Charlemagne’s soft fur. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
Parting would be easier—simpler—if he were shabby to the last.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Keep your voice down.” She cast a meaningful look at the ceiling.
“I didn’t burn your ledger.” He matched her whisper. “Makes me stupid as a turnip, but I have to show you somehow I’m not diddling.” His voice rose. “You will get every penny, and tenfold.”
She returned her attention to Charlemagne, began to pick at his fur, like Fritz would do.
“And the trouble’s over with Whitechapel. No one’s going to crack my head. Laddie’s paying the protection.”
She stilled her fingers as the pause lengthened.
“For a share in the factory.”
She looked up with a snort. “Right.” She should have known. Laddie hadn’t squealed, because he stood to gain by his silence.
“And he can run it. Not my first choice, but as it turns out, I’m getting on a bleeding boat.”
“Trouble’s over,” she repeated, and frowned. “Why the gun, then?”
“Matches my cuff links,” he said evenly. “Did you notice the engravings on the brass?”
“I noticed the steel barrel.” She glared. “When you poked it into my face.”
