“Oh dear,” she said. Her eyes were like pieces of glass, clear but without expression. “I hope you found ways to entertain yourself, Mr. Khoury.”
“He took matters into his own hands,” the professor said, only now closing the book on Byzantine mosaics he had been showing Elias. “He took a walk to explore the grounds. Apparently, he’s an avid birder.”
“Lovely,” Lady Catriona said in a bland tone.
Elias clasped his hands behind his back and said what he should have said three hours ago: “I had hoped to spot a white-tailed eagle, hunting over the lake.”
“Ah, unfortunately they’re all but extinct, even as far north as Applecross,” said Professor Campbell with a frown. In contrast to his daughter, the earl’s face was mobile and expressive. The lines fanning from the corners of his intelligent gray eyes said he had a habit of smiling and squinting. “I never asked whether you did spot anything interesting?”
The lady’s posture became tense like a bow ready to sling arrows.
“No,” said Elias. “Nothing, nothing remarkable anyway. Anything I might have seen I would have certainly forgotten by now.”
The earl blinked. “Uhm. Well. You had a long journey. Was it four days, five days?”
“Five, to Britain, sir. Another two to Applecross.”
“That’s a whole week. Scrambles the mind. Would you prefer to rest in the smoking room until dinner? My collections will be right here when you feel refreshed.” The earl nodded at the shelf, which was stuffed with yellowing tomes about bygone eras of the Levant.
A relaxing smoke would do him good right now, but a true scholar would probably prioritize looking at old books, and so Elias said: “I could never be too fatigued for a book about Roman empires.”
Wester Ross’s eyes promptly lit up. “I quite agree.” He surprised Elias by turning to the lady. “Would you care to join the discussion? Byzantine wall mosaics, sixth century.”
She immediately shook her head, but her lips moved soundlessly for a moment before the words came out: “I must work on my book.”
“Very well,” the professor said. “You do that.”
“I’ll have Cook send up refreshments,” she said, her gaze sliding warily to Elias. “Do you prefer tea or coffee, Mr. Khoury?”
Liquor, please, because this situation was ridiculous. Ironically, it could have all been avoided, had he not tried to be punctual to demonstrate his reliability and trustworthiness. Since the British thought that Eastern people had no grasp on time, he had told Professor Campbell an arrival hour that allowed for a few minor disasters during the journey. Everything had run perfectly on schedule, and he had made an early entrance like an overzealous Prussian. The housekeeper had jumped around on stiff legs like a startled goat. Then, the naked woman, who turned out to be the lady of the house.
“Tea, please,” he said, because that was what the earl would choose.
“Send up a pot, my dear,” said the earl.
The lady dipped her head. Elias found he was staring at her rather too intently, as if his eyes had severed the connection to his rational brain and tried to soak up her dreary appearance before she vanished. She flashed him an unexpectedly sharp look in return; it cut through his very English suit with surgical precision, as though she were about to study his inner anatomy including all his schemes and secrets. For a beat, he felt like the one in the nude. He smiled at her, pretty shamelessly. Her lashes promptly dropped, and a blush scorched her cheeks. She left quickly. Professor Campbell’s speech was an indistinct background noise. How the hell were they to sit through a week of dinners together? Without attracting suspicion from the earl? He could well control himself, only a boy or a fool would jeopardize a business deal over a woman, but the lady . . . she was a dark horse, unpredictable.
Later, on his way to dinner, Elias formed an opinion on Castle Applecross. The estate was a textbook example of mismanaged “old money,” a tableau of fading glory typical for some of the grander families in Britain these days. In his guest room, the wind blew straight through the closed windows. The bare stone walls of the corridors gave off a chill that would creep into one’s bones come winter. And while the décor and furniture were sturdy and costly, all was a little dusty, a little cracked, a little scuffed around the edges from being passed around for a century or two. On a low table in the main hall, a game of chess sat abandoned, two moves away from checkmate. In the dining room, a candle-studded wagon wheel hung above the long table instead of a chandelier. The place still had potential, but the inhabitants barely seemed to maintain themselves: the Earl of Wester Ross, one of Europe’s leading scholars on Mediterranean archaeology, needed a barber, and his olive tweed jacket had been mended in multiple places. His absent-minded air suggested he wouldn’t even notice it if moth holes were on full display. In his immaculately tailored dinner attire, Elias was glaringly overdressed next to his host, but then only the local gentry had the privilege of wearing patchy jackets with impunity—everyone else would be judged as lowly bred or poor.