Which wasn’t actually the case right now, was it?
Alan took a seat and finally lost the battle he’d been having with himself since he walked through the door. He allowed himself to glance again at Baron Hawthorn.
The man sat as still as a predator and twice as keen-eyed in one of the gorgeously carved wooden seats at the table. Alan had known Lord Hawthorn would be here. He’d prepared himself, he thought.
He’d been wrong. He’d forgotten the speed with which this hatred rose simmering within him. He’d forgotten that the edges of it crossed boundaries where it stopped feeling like hatred and became something wilder and more dangerous.
Miss Debenham introduced Alan to Sir Robert Blyth, Mr. Edwin Courcey, and the last unfamiliar face: a young Indian woman with humour around her mouth and eyes as dark as Alan’s own. None of these watercolour British looks for Miss Adelaide Morrissey, whom Miss Debenham introduced as Robin’s … awkward pause.
“Colleague,” said Sir Robert.
“Typist,” said Miss Morrissey cheerfully. She eyed Alan for a second longer and then pushed the toast rack across the table: the only foodstuff not miles of etiquette away under silver covers. “Do have something to eat, so I’m not the only one still working on my breakfast. Make yourself useful, Hawthorn, pour the man some tea. How do you take it, Mr. Ross?”
Alan was torn between choking on his breath and swearing eternal friendship. She’d shoved Lord Hawthorn into the role of tea lady through sheer aggressive good manners.
“Black, three sugars.”
Hawthorn wielded sugar tongs like he was thinking of using them to pull Alan’s fingernails. Alan helped himself to toast and butter, real butter, huge yellow pats of it just lying around on the table.
Courcey interrogated the others about the specific ways in which Alan was, apparently, an oddity. Alan demolished his toast and his tea. So far nobody had asked him why he’d come to breakfast and walked through some invisible set of Keep Out signs. As far as Courcey was concerned, Alan might as well be a gift from Saint Catherine.
Miss Morrissey caught whatever expression was on Alan’s face and laughed. “Don’t take it personally. Edwin does this with everyone. Magicians. Foreseer. Medium. Whatever you are.”
“And you?” Alan asked.
“I’m ever so dull. No magic at all.” Still cheerful. But she was sitting beside a baronet and stealing toast and mushrooms from his plate, and despite her dark skin she had an accent you could see your reflection in. Alan wanted to fight how much he liked her. He wanted to ask how many servants her family had.
“So he’s not completely resistant to magic—I’ve never heard of that being possible, anyhow—just sends it askew,” said Courcey, once he’d finished grilling Misses Blyth and Debenham. “And are you sure you haven’t seen him in any visions, Robin?”
“If so, it was one of the ones I don’t remember well.”
Courcey snapped his fingers. “Perturbator. That’s what Guignol called it. There are some case studies in one of his collections. But never in someone unmagical. It’s always arisen in a magician, or at least in a magical family.”
“We’re not magic,” said Alan. “We’re Catholic.”
“Sends it askew,” said Sir Robert. “Sounds like this house of yours, Violet.”
“It’s like foresight. Not much known and even less written down. If I could do some experiments…”
Alan was used to being looked at like he wasn’t there. Being looked at like a butterfly pinned to a board was a new one.
“Edwin,” said Miss Blyth, laughing. “Leave the poor man alone.”
The word experiments sounded moderately hideous. But it was a way to be useful to them, wasn’t it? Alan sat up straighter and returned Courcey’s look.
“I’d consider it. What’s the hourly rate?”
Lord Hawthorn laughed. The sound climbed Alan’s spine with thoughtful fingers. “Careful, Edwin. This one haggles like a Whitechapel fishmonger.”
Alan turned to glare at him. The cool amusement in Hawthorn’s eyes made him wish he hadn’t.
Alan was dressed in one of his two good work suits: trousers and waistcoat of tough brown material that he’d bought in the hope they’d look sober and smart for a long time and hide the dirt enough not to need washing too often, so the fabric would last. And it had lasted, for a while. Now he badly needed new ones. He needed a new pair of shoes, just like everyone else in his household. Like half of London. Needing new shoes might as well be a permanent state of being, like being Catholic, or having eyes so blue they made goose bumps appear on the arms.
He could always feel the wafting disapproval of his shabby appearance from the editors and senior writers at the Post. And that was nothing to the way he felt here, in this beautiful room in a huge Bayswater townhouse, with an earl’s son looking at Alan as though he were counting every shiny patch and every place where Bella’s neat darning showed.
Lord Hawthorn’s waistcoat had a subtle play of purple thread down the grey panels, and small silver buttons in the shape of knots. His shirtsleeves were blindingly white, his collar crisp. He probably had two pairs of shoes for every day of the week and employed a different bootblack for each pair.
Alan wanted to tear off every single one of those buttons and grind his worn-down heel into the top of his lordship’s foot until he felt the bones crunch. He exhaled.
Hawthorn said, “I’ll wager you’d never heard the word perturbator before any of the rest of us. So which of your many talents are you here to sell, Mr. Ross?”
Shame and anger tangled within Alan. Sainted Mary, he hated being here, having to do this. Guilt tried to send out a black squirming arm to join the fray. He squashed it. He didn’t have a choice.
“You never called on me for help with your silver-seeking quest, Miss B. Thought I’d drop by and make the offer again, if you needed it.”
“What,” said Hawthorn, “is there nothing left to steal in London?”
“Someone told me to stick to peddling pornography.” It was out before Alan could remember that this wasn’t the Lyric. Miss Morrissey was a gentlewoman who hadn’t been party to that heady, ludicrous evening where Alan’s stash of erotica-for-sale had been the entertainment. And Sir Robert—oh, Christ, Sir Robert was the older brother of the girl he’d sold the stuff to.
Miss Debenham gave a delighted cackle. “Going door-to-door with the business now, are you? That’s very enterprising. I hope you brought more samples.”
“Shut up, Violet,” said Miss Blyth amiably. She directed her dimples at Alan. “You’re right, we haven’t needed your services yet, but I’m sure we could find something. How did you know where to find me?”
“I know a bloke writing for Tatler. Got a nose for gossip like a bloodhound.” Alan managed a smile through his tension. “The young and unmarried Maud Blyth is staying practically unchaperoned in the same house as Lord Hawthorn, their debauchery encouraged by the wildly scandalous Violet Debenham. Nobody thinks much of her brother for letting it happen, sir,” he added to Sir Robert, fishing for anything below that affable smile.