It was, for all the good it did him when so few of his memories were ones he wanted to revisit. “So I’ve been told,” he said instead. “Apparently as a small child, I could sing entire songs for my mother after hearing them once.”
Jade smiled. “How sweet. Can you still?”
“No,” he said crisply, because he didn’t want to sayshe’s dead now and I don’t sing anymore. “Are you going to tell me why you’re asking about Blanshard? Has something happened?”
“I don’t know,” Jade said, rueful and honest. “But I think Lord Blanshard may be more dangerous than he appears. At the very least, the clock you described from his collection was stolen from a friend of mine.”
Wesley’s eyes widened. “What, really? The earl is a thief?”
“At a minimum.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully, then said, “My friend he stole from is here in London now and might recognize more of the items you described. Do you mind if I tell him of our conversation?”
“I don’t see why not,” said Wesley. “What’s your friend like? An angry antiquarian prodigy, like Rory Brodigan, or an unlikeable pillock like Blanshard?”
“I don’t think he’s either.” Jade looked thoughtful. “He’s a tough one to read. He’s quiet. A bit mysterious. Has a terribly complicated past and is one of the more dangerous men I’ve met, and yet I’m starting to suspect he might actually be soft as a marshmallow.”
Wesley raised one eyebrow. Exactly howdangerousdid a man have to be to reach Jade the ex-spy’s standards? That was almost intriguing.
Except softness in men was a foolish character flaw, a liability in a hard world of scoundrels and knaves. Wesley had no patience for it.
Still.
Not the kind of man one heard about every day.
Wesley pursed his lips. “Anything else to say about yourdangerous marshmallow?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
Jade grinned. “He’s got a charming accent,” she said. “And—” She hesitated.
“And what?” he prodded.
“Well.” Her grin turned mischievous. “Arthur thinks he’s handsome.”
Wesley narrowed his eyes. “I’m sorry, but in that case, you can’t tell him one whit of what I’ve said. Handsome men are trouble.”
“They’re the worst,” Jade said, her eyes darting almost playfully to the air at Wesley’s side. “And this particular fellow doesn’t even seem to realize he’s foxy.”
“Bullshit,” Wesley said flatly. “Pardon my language, but they always know.”
“I really don’t think he does,” said Jade. “Maddening, isn’t it?”
“Hmph.” That was rubbish, of course. Handsome men always knew just how handsome they were. They weren’t worth it. Wesley, luckily, knew better than to get anywhere near one. “And when were you going to see thisfoxyfellow of yours?”
“Tonight, if I can,” Jade said. “He’s living in London, for the time being, right here by Liverpool Station. I thought I might pop round after our dinner to tell him what you’ve told me.”
A friend of Jade’s. She was interesting; this friend of hers was likely interesting too. Mysterious, she’d said. Apparently adangerous marshmallow.
And ahandsomeone.
Wesley would later blame it on his second whiskey, because he heard himself say, “Do you think, perhaps, he’d like to hear my account in person?”
After the excellent dinner followed by a port wine paired with vanilla custard, Wesley and Jade got their coats and walked from Liverpool Street to Bishopsgate. A light rain fell on his hat and Jade’s flowered umbrella, the droplets speckling the puddles that dotted their path.
“It’s just up here,” she said, after they’d gone only blocks. She glanced down a narrow side street near the Liverpool Street tube station. The street was lined with multistory buildings with businesses at the bottom, a jeweler, a fish and chips shop, a pub at the corner.
Jade’s gaze seemed to be on a shop with darkened windows across from a chemist. “Lights are out,” she said. “Let’s try the alley door.”
Wesley followed her farther down Bishopsgate. “They’ve certainly papered that over, haven’t they?” he observed, glancing at the many flyers in the pub’s window as they passed.
“Have they?” Jade seemed to be looking very fixedly forward. “What are they of?”
