Page 60

“How would you characterize the sensation that follows?” she asked.

“Something … rises within one.” That was a poor description but the best Simon could do.

“Yes,” she agreed. “One grows warm from the inside out, which ought to be illogical given that one is, objectively, quite cold.”

“Yes. A sensation swirls beneath the surface of one’s skin. It amasses. Grows.”

“Indeed. It is akin to … falling off a cliff.”

She had the measure of things. “Miss Brown, I look forward to reading your article.”

“I confess to being rather nervous about it. I have no qualifications whatsoever.”

“I know this feeling. I think I mentioned that I once wrote an article for Lady Stonely’s magazine—well, for its predecessor. I felt that I was out of my depth.”

“This was the account of the Royal Pavilion. How did you manage, in the end?”

“I suppose I just forged ahead and did it. I acted like a person who could write a magazine article, and lo, I became one.”

“You pretended so convincingly you persuaded even your greatest skeptic—yourself.”

He smiled. “Exactly. And, of course, it did spark a crisis of faith.”

It was a curious thing, to be conversing with Miss Brown but not looking at her. They were speaking quite intimately, and though he could not see her, he could picture the scene they made. Her skin would be lit by the flames, and her dark hair would disappear into the inky night. It would be too dark to distinguish between the gray bits of her irises and the blue bits, but in his mind’s eye he could do so.

Silence settled for a few minutes. It was exceedingly companionable. How could it not be, given that they’d just shared a great deal of fellow feeling, agreeing on everything from pool-entering methodology to article-writing fakery?

He decided to bank on all that fellow feeling, to take a risk. “Miss Brown, I know you said the matter was settled, and I am glad to hear it, but will you tell me who was attempting to force you to marry him? I am aware that it is none of my affair, but I am asking all the same.”

“Well, I made it your business, at least a little bit, did I not?” She paused. “Perhaps we do need a code word, so that we may talk about the thing we’re not supposed to.”

He chuckled. “All right. How about … obelisk?”

“Obelisk!” she exclaimed. “As in the Egyptian monuments?”

“Yes. I was trying to think of a word that is pleasing to say yet suitably weighty, and it popped to mind.”

“All right. Obelisk.” She went silent again for several moments. “My sister’s late husband was the man in question. He wanted me to marry him.”

“And you have no interest.”

“I would rather be impaled on an obelisk.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle again. Miss Brown truly did say the wittiest things sometimes. “Understood. And you conveyed that to him, if not in precisely those terms?”

“I did. He was not prepared to take no for an answer.”

Simon was about to suggest that she confide in Archie. Archie would tell this blackguard where to go. In addition to being a natural protector, Archie was aware—or ought to be—that he owed a great debt to Miss Brown.

She kept talking, though, and he wasn’t inclined to interrupt her.

“In some ways, it feels as if I’ve only just gotten away from him, though of course I’ve been with Lady Harcourt for years.”

“What is he like, apart from his suitability, or lack thereof, as a prospective husband?”

“Quite simply, he is a brute.”

“Why did your sister marry him, then?”