Beyond the lovely scent, everything else in the house seemed a bit off-kilter. The manservant who had greeted him at the door seemed entirely too casual, as if he was master of this house instead of a servant. Moreover, Marek had the very uncomfortable impression that the bloke was eyeing him in a way that felt uncomfortably odd.
And then there was Mrs. Honeycutt. She was practically dishabille, what with her stocking feet and long, astonishingly thick dark hair hanging loose and uncombed down her front and back. Her dress was a deep ruby-red, cut low, and his eyes shamelessly strayed to the décolletage before he could rein them in. The color brought out the slight flush in her cheeks, and above them, her eyes shimmered like two deep pools.
She was frightfully appealing.
He glanced around at a richly appointed room with brocade draperies and fine carpets to remove his attention from her. It was sparsely furnished, but what furniture it did have was hand-carved and meticulously upholstered.
This space was a model of tidiness that he did not enjoy in his own home. His house looked more like a shop’s odd storage, crammed full with books and trinkets he’d picked up at markets, old cookware and boxes of knickknackery that he guessed had meant something to him at some point, but what, he’d quite forgotten. He had toys he’d made for the dogs, and curiously—at least to his neighbors—a collection of cowbells. They were sentimental objects—they’d hung around the necks of some of his best cows. How he’d collected so many, he didn’t know—they seemed to multiply on their own.
Two armchairs had been pulled in front of the hearth and placed side by side, separated only by a small table. On the table were two crystal glasses. One was empty, the other half-full. There were two matching footstools, arranged before the fire in the hearth. They’d been sitting there, these two. Were they lovers? What else would explain the easy manner of the manservant? And yet, something felt quite incongruent with that idea. Marek couldn’t think of why, exactly, because they were both watching him expectantly.
He cleared his throat, looked down at the hat he held in his hand, and said, “Again, my apologies for calling so late, Mrs. Honeycutt. I’ve clearly come at a bad time.”
One of her feet slid on top of the other. “It’s quite all right, no need to apologize. Whatever brought you here must be very important.” One eyebrow rose in silent question.
“It is...delicate,” he said. Much like her foot.
“The intrigue grows! Would you like something to drink, Mr. Brendan? We’ve...” She turned her head and looked at the sideboard as she spoke, and what she said was lost to him. She gestured to bottles on the sideboard and then turned back to him.
“Pardon?”
She smiled with bemusement, as if she believed he had willfully not listened to what she’d said. In ordinary circumstances, that might have been the case. There were situations when he didn’t know if he simply hadn’t heard something or was so lost in his thoughts and questions that he missed what was said.
“I said we have wine and whiskey to offer you, or Donovan will fetch an ale if you prefer.”
“No, thank you.”
“A glass of water?”
He shook his head.
She seemed almost disappointed.
“I don’t wish to impose,” he added mildly.
“Oof,”Mrs. Honeycutt said cheerfully, and propped her hands on her waist. “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?”
He opened his mouth to disagree. But then closed it. He couldn’t disagree.
“It was a jest, Mr. Brendan!” she said cheerfully. “Do you see? Because you called so late, and then said...” Her voice trailed off, and she waved her hand. “Goodness, pay me no heed. I realize that my wit has an audience of one,” she said, and pointed to herself. “And I’m not a terribly discerning audience. One should always remember that it is ‘better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.’”
Marek cocked an eyebrow in mild surprise. “Shakespeare.”
Her eyes widened. “Yes!How did you...?” She stopped. She smiled sheepishly and shook her head. “Never mind.”
“I do apologize for the late hour. I’ve been occupied with the peace talks and they went well past the supper hour this evening.”
“You’vebeen at the peace talks?” she asked, clearly surprised.
“Je,”he said. “Contrary to your suspicions, I am here to aid our ministers.”
“Oh. That’s...wonderful.” She looked mildly disappointed and sank onto one of the chairs before the hearth, eyeing him with renewed interest. “Is there progress?”
Very little, but there had beensomeprogress, he supposed. Today they’d agreed to include the Astasian mountain region between their two countries in the array of issues to be discussed. One of the few paths of trade ran between the two countries through the Astasian Range, and there had been a long-held dispute about who had rights to it. Now that deep stores of coal had been discovered there, the dispute had gotten more vehement. The ability to extract and sell coal would be a boon to both countries. “Some,” he said.
Mrs. Honeycutt inched forward on her seat. “Isthatwhy you have come this evening, Mr. Brendan? I would be delighted to publish—”
“No,”he said quickly, horrified by the thought. He’d done a little digging intoHoneycutt’s Gazette. He knew the history of it, how it had once been a paper focused primarily on financial news, and now was a gazette that recommended creams and unguents for ladies, offered marital advice, and kept track of the latest fashions. What that gazette had to do with any rumors of treason, he could not fathom.
