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Chapter Sixteen

“Keep humoring him.” Narayan Mukherjee shoved a bundle of documents into a cubbyhole in the towering cabinet that dominated his small, book-lined office.

“I wasn’t humoring him. I praised the violinist because the violinist played like the dickens.” Alan jammed his shoulder blades into the leather cushion of the high-backed chair and grimaced.

“Start humoring him, then.” Mukherjee turned back with a shrug. He wore a natty brown suit and a dark blue turban. His look was acerbic.

“Truly.” Alan frowned. “I gave you the full story of the current contretemps, sparing no detail . . .”

“None.” Mukherjee murmured his agreement, assuming a long-suffering expression.

Alan’s gaze narrowed. “And so you must agree,” he continued, “that my brother’s attempts to control me have no legal basis. Yet this is your counsel? Humor him?”

Mukherjee crossed behind his cluttered desk, dropping into his chair. He pressed his fingers together and peered at Alan over the steeple.

“Forgive me for stating the obvious, but the Duke of Umfreville is a duke. Also, a prominent member of the Lords.” He tilted his head to the side, as though considering.

“Yes,” he said dryly. “Humor him is my counsel, as your friend, not your solicitor. As your solicitor, I should demand from you an enormous sum and thank my stars for the business.”

Alan rubbed his temple, where a headache was consolidating itself. He was out of sorts. Last evening, Nina had reappeared, a vision in his garden, better than a vision. He’d filled his arms with her. Her presence had filled the hours with meaning, aligning his body and his mind, hinting at a future that didn’t flounder under the burden of the past.

And then he’d tried to shag her in the Serpentine.

Of course she’d declined.

His blood was still smoking with remorse, and thwarted desire, and the white-hot urge to crowd her into some corner of his house and try the whole thing again.

He’d said he wouldn’t speak of it. He’d make no reference to her hair, or her mouth, or her deep eyes, which seemed to hold worlds. He’d make no reference to his soul-shaking longing to know her and be known by her.

He wouldn’t pressure her either, like some boor in a tavern, deluding himself that his passion was permission.

He respected her, and yes, he wanted to sink inside her, to feel her softness all around him, to hear her heated sighs, but . . .

“De’Ath.” Mukherjee was scrutinizing his face.

“Yes?” Alan cleared his throat.

“Don’t involve the law,” said Mukherjee. “You’ll waste time and money.” A faint smile tipped his lips. “Forget the courts. Rely on your widely celebrated wits.”

Alan grunted and stood.

“Fine, then,” he murmured, and took his cane from the umbrella stand, his hat from the peg. He paused at the door. “Humor him. Bloody hell.”

He lunched at Cassanova’s, where waiters poured out wine and dished pork ribbons day and night for revolving parties of musicians, artists, and poets, in smoky subterranean rooms. He didn’t eat alone—the painters Redcliffe Davis and Thomas Ponsonby descended on his corner table—but his mind whirred as they gossiped.

Humor him. Cancel the sale of the portraits. Evince an utter change of heart. Claim he was ready to purchase a house in Mayfair and ask for the funds. Invest them instead. Create a new portfolio to generate income. Then he could go back to doing exactly what he pleased.

Except . . . his ability to see Claud, Arabella, and Mary would still depend on his brother’s whim. To solve that problem, he needed leverage.

A half-formed idea flashed up and vanished as its contours became too clear and too dark.

Davis and Ponsonby erupted in laughter. Alan sipped his wine and gave them his attention. Their talk had turned to the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition and its attendant controversies.

“Did you hear about the scandal at the Schools?” Davis caught Alan’s eye and grinned in anticipation, blowing smoke at the low ceiling. “The sets of life drawings submitted for this year’s prize were stolen.”

“We think a workman nicked them to sell round the pubs.” Davis laughed. “As dirty pictures.”

“Hmm,” said Alan, drawing out his watch.