“John Alston, Baron Hawthorn,” said Courcey. “Son of the Earl of Cheetham.” His eyes cut sideways. “I . . . would not characterise us as friends.”
Robin’s first impression of John Alston, Baron Hawthorn, was that he looked like one of the knights in a book of illustrated tales that Robin had read as a boy. He was even taller than Makepeace, with dark hair and a brutally handsome profile, an uneven nose, and an unforgiving mouth. He gave off the distinct air that he needed only an illustrious steed and a lance to be ready to pose for a bronze statue.
Robin’s second impression was that Lord Hawthorn had also been visited by disruptive thieves during the night, because the room into which they were led was a morass of belongings strewn over every surface.
The butler cleared his throat. Once the pause had been elongated enough to make a point about the rudeness afforded to the peerage, Hawthorn turned fully to look at them. He had a boot in one hand and a silver flask in the other.
Another pause. This one was even longer, and even ruder.
“You’re a damned traitor, Makepeace,” Hawthorn said finally. His voice was deep and bored. “I’m dismissing you from my service. Begone from this house.”
“I’ll pack my belongings immediately, my lord,” said Makepeace.
“Hawthorn,” said Courcey, as soon as the door closed behind the butler’s unconcerned exit. “Are you going someplace?”
“Yes, I am.” Hawthorn dropped the boot onto the floor and the flask into the nearest open trunk. “A sterling observation, Courcey. Quite up to your usual rigorous standard.”
“I’d hoped you might have learned to carry on a civil conversation by now.”
“How long has it been?” An expression too lupine to be a smile stalked across Hawthorn’s face.
“Not long enough,” said Courcey. He was as flat and cold as he’d ever been. Perhaps it was the fact that Robin had been thinking of knights that now gave that coldness a feeling of armour: a metal plate beaten smooth and held out for protection. “I wouldn’t have come here if it wasn’t important.”
“I presume you didn’t come to oversee my packing.” Hawthorn leaned back against the dresser. “If I wanted a fretful pigeon to snap at me about the fact that folding socks is beneath my station, I’d have let Lovett pack my trunks instead of sending him off to pick up my new shirts.”
“I need,” said Courcey, each word arranged like a grudging chess piece, “your help.”
“We need your help,” said Robin, tired of playing invisible. He began to work on his cuff and sleeve again. At this rate he was going to have to invent a detachable sleeve that was held with buttons at the shoulder. Or perhaps Courcey had a spell that could unravel seams, and re-sew them in an instant.
Hawthorn ignored Robin. His eyes were still on Courcey. “Is that so.”
“I know you’re not—”
“I sincerely hope you mean you’re looking for a tip in regards to the Derby races. Or perhaps you’d like the name of my tailor?”
Colour stained Courcey’s cheeks. “If you’d just let me—”
“Because I really can’t think how I’m done with all of that could leave any room for misunderstanding,” said Hawthorn. The weight of authoritative dismissal in his tone was astounding. “Especially from you, Courcey, with your oh-so-clever mind.”
“Lord Hawthorn,” said Robin loudly. He took a step forward and raised his arm. Now, finally, Hawthorn’s gaze fell onto the curse marks there.
Courcey said quickly, “Blyth here has been cursed. As you can see. It seems to be causing pain attacks, brutal ones. And Reggie Gatling’s disappeared.”
“I can’t think why I should care.”
“Just look at it,” said Courcey. “Ten damned seconds of your precious time. Your family’s always been strong with runes.”
“Strong,” said Hawthorn. “Is that what I am? Jealousy’s an ugly emotion, Courcey.”
“Jealous?” Courcey hissed. “I may not have much magic, but I’ve more than you.”
“And I’ve lost more of it than you’ll ever have, and doesn’t that burn you up?”
“Lord Hawthorn.” Robin was clear out of patience. “I don’t know you, you don’t know me, and we’re clearly intruding on your time. But Courcey seems to think you can help me. And I’m . . . asking for your help. Please.”