Page 53

His voice faded. The house was silent.

The gaslit vestibule in which Nina stood with De’Ath felt overly warm.

De’Ath laughed. “He’s staging the conflict between faith and doubt. It’s bound to be his greatest novel yet.”

“About Mr. Broughton.” Nina linked her hands. “Were you just out with him?”

De’Ath glanced at her, the smile still playing on his lips. “We had a drink at the club.”

“And he hasn’t changed his mind?” She didn’t dare to hope. “He still believes those pictures are by James Berney?”

She reddened under De’Ath’s narrowing gaze. She shouldn’t have inquired, and certainly not with such eagerness.

“He must be dreadfully stubborn,” she added, with a reproving shake of her head. “After you laid out all your reasoning too. Shame.”

She offered De’Ath a frown of commiseration.

His brows pulled together. He was only a foot away and looking at her with far too much scrutiny.

“You smell like absinthe,” he said.

“Oh.” She licked the corner of her lips, tasted anise and something elusively botanical. “I had a drink too, in the kitchen.”

“I wish I’d drunk with you, then. Broughton was rather tiresome.”

“Oh,” she said again, and tried to imagine De’Ath in the kitchen, tipping the bottle. Did he go so far as to socialize with Kessler and the rest? Good Lord, did he sing “La Marseillaise”?

“Absinthe has an unusual flavor,” she said. “I had the idea of using it in a glaze to drizzle on little cakes. Orange and almond cakes.”

“Absinthe-glazed cakes.” He sounded amused but not derisive. “They’d be popular at poetry salons. Why not persimmon?”

“Absinthe and persimmon.” Instead of orange. Intriguing. Nina nodded slowly. “Perhaps I’ll try that too.”

Her frown was reversing itself. Mr. Broughton had dug in his heels! That alone was reason to rejoice. And De’Ath had joined easily in her favorite activity, the invention of new recipes, experimental combinations.

The light in his eyes made her giddier than alcohol.

“Do you know,” she said, “that you don’t own a rolling pin, or a jelly mold, or a pastry jigger? Or modeling tools or brass crimpers? Or a dough docker? Or even a pinch of bicarbonate of soda?”

“No,” he said dryly. “How have I lived without a dough docker?” He leaned his shoulder against the wall. “What’s a dough docker?”

“A device for putting holes in dough, to let out the steam.”

“Essential,” he murmured. “Letting out the steam. I’ll purchase two.”

“I wrote a list of what I’ll need to bake Chelsea buns.” She hesitated. “As well as a few other things.”

“Other things?” His voice was drier still, but his lips twitched with a suppressed smile.

“Things to make Victoria sponge.” For some reason, she wanted to hug herself, as though she could trap the little bubble of happiness rising inside her. “Queen cakes. Cheesecake. Tartlets. Wine biscuits. Petits fours.”

De’Ath’s eyebrows traveled higher and higher. “Let me see your list.”

She extracted the notebook from her chatelaine.

“Perhaps I’ll invite Broughton over for tea and tartlets.” He said it musingly. “Or cheesecake. He seems the sort to take consolation in cheesecake.”

“Consolation?” Nina blinked. “But why does he need consolation?”