Page 80

“It’s your eye, then, against Syme’s.”

“My eye is better.” He laughed. Oh, he was in a very fine mood now, his sweets and messages delivered, and his verdict, too.

That invisible bulwark was rising between them. She felt lonely, on the outside of his merriment.

“The director agrees,” he said. “But there’s more.”

She shuddered.

His face changed. “You’re cold.”

His quick concern flooded her eyes. She would feel safe with his arms wrapped around her, and she’d melt against the heat of his chest.

He glanced toward the window and sat up straighter.

“Ah,” he said. “Let’s continue someplace warmer and more celebratory.”

Minutes later, when he’d stopped the coach and they stood again on a wet street, Nina beheld the shop that had caught his eye. A pretty, blue-painted storefront, with big windows divided into leaded glass panes, patisserie français written out in gold letters above.

“One of the best French bakeries in London,” he said. “Has mademoiselle considered adding éclairs to her repertoire?”

He offered her his arm, playful, and she clutched it, her grip too tight.

The shop was warm, and just as pretty inside as the outside had promised. Round tables with white cloths were set with vases of spring flowers. A pianist played in a recessed corner. Ornately framed mirrors hung on the walls. The waiter’s expression didn’t betray what a glance at the elegant clientele confirmed: Nina was far shabbier than the usual customers, even on days when the hem of her skirt hadn’t dragged through the mud. He and De’Ath were speaking in French with the ease of old friends, and before she had time to feel too out of place, he settled them at their table and returned with a teapot and tiered tray of pastries.

Nina’s mind blanked as she took her first bite of éclair. Thank God. She needed a reprieve from time and space. She existed only, calm as cream.

“They pass muster, then?”

She opened her eyes, licking chocolate from her bottom lip. Alan was lounging in his chair across the table’s small span.

“I’ll order more,” he said.

She felt the familiar, painful tug, his proximity magnetizing every fiber of her being.

And she felt ice trickling down her spine. It wasn’t rainwater. She was nearly dry.

It was panic.

“Lord Alan.”

Alan turned his head. The man who hailed him had a protrusive stomach, saffron-colored teeth, and very friendly blue eyes. He moved nimbly between the tables. When he reached them, he nodded graciously—and incuriously—at Nina.

“Lord Kilderbee,” said Alan. “Allow me to present Miss Finch. Miss Finch, Lord Kilderbee.”

The introduction rolled off his tongue. No explanation of their relationship followed. He simply sipped his tea.

“Pleased to meet you. Wretched weather, what?” Lord Kilderbee spoke heartily. “But tell me,” he addressed Alan. “What did you make of the signorina’s performance last night?”

Nina’s gaze shot to Alan. He gave her a half smile and set down his tea.

“The signorina was divine. The performance revived my faith in the bel canto.”

“I thought the same!” Lord Kilderbee pressed closer to Alan’s chair.

“Great minds,” said Alan blandly, and then he inclined his head. “Lady Kilderbee.”

A lovely woman in a primrose silk walking dress came up behind her husband. Her thick, pale hair was swept back with jeweled combs, and her white smile seemed glazed on her face.