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She’d baked the Bastille.
He wanted to see—and taste—subsequent creations.
“Is it?” he asked. “To your liking?”
She nodded, hands linked at her waist, very much as though she awaited dismissal. Her high-necked dress was plaid, blue and white, and fit her poorly. He knew that because he’d felt her breasts, and her hips, and her thighs, their perfect proportions.
He looked away, through the French doors, at the leaves of the chestnut tree.
“I hope Signorina Bonaccorso is splendid tonight,” Nina murmured.
He glanced at her. “Is the soiree tonight? I’d forgotten.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You forgot on purpose.”
“Maybe.” He leaned back in his chair, relieved that her pall had lifted. “Maybe I have good reason. This soiree—it’s hosted by Count Davanzo.”
She gave a small shrug. “Another Italian bloke?”
“Ambassador. Tied up with my brother’s political ambitions. I’ve insulted his taste before. This is my chance to redeem myself, by rhapsodizing about the signorina’s voice. Do you see the problem?”
She responded instantly. “You don’t want to anger the duke. But you won’t praise the signorina if you don’t admire her performance. So you’d rather not go at all.”
“Well. It seems you do know me.” He cleared his throat. “Elegantly put.”
“But what about the signorina?” Nina’s eyes were rounded now with earnestness. “It’s her chance too.”
He sighed and gave her a dark look. “I believe you’ve collected the signorina like one of your strays.”
“My strays?”
He pointed to Max, curled in his chair.
“Oh,” she said, and laughed. “He’s Mr. Kuznetsov’s stray, really. His full name is Maksim.” She paused. “You collect strays too. You met everyone who works here at a rally or a music hall.”
He laughed too. “Not everyone.”
Their gazes caught and held.
“I suppose I’ll go to the kitchen, then,” she said.
A dozen alternate suggestions rose to his lips.
He gave a nod and lifted his pen.
When the door shut behind her, he wrote a letter to Sir Cunliffe-Owen, the director of the South Kensington Museum.
It was high time he took a close look at the pictures Syme had acquired from Chips Sleaford.
He found that his eyes kept drifting to the French doors, to the chestnut tree.
What if he risked the soiree and gave the signorina her chance? If she did perform splendidly, sang like a nightingale, he’d have the opportunity to mollify Geoffrey while sacrificing none of his integrity.
He rested his chin on his fist.
Would Nina ever get her chance?
She was talented, intelligent, and winning, but as she’d pointed out, she was a woman in service, and what was more, entangled with her brother, who sounded like the type to drink her wages.
