Or more, what sort of game was she playing?
Oy. Rebecca hated games. Even if it was just devised to make one participant feel superior at the other’s expense. Something she was quite used to.
Not that she couldn’t hold her own.
“Complexity is in the eye of the beholder,” Rebecca returned. “I often find the illusion of it is created by those who aren’t clever enough to fill their time with something more productive.”
Miss Teres’s smile widened but did not reach her large eyes, which had turned cold.
“Regardless, I’m sure you cannot wait to return to your own space,” the girl remarked. “When will that occur again?”
“In a few weeks, depending on how well I’m healing,” Rebecca told her.And not a moment too soon if being here means I have to deal with the likes of you.
Not that she could say that out loud.
“You should definitely get some rest then,” Miss Teres advised. “You wouldn’t want to overtax your appendages. The older you become, the longer it takes to heal. Or so I’ve been told.” A rather triumphant smile settled over her dark pink lips. As if she’d won something. What, it was hard to say, given that she probably believed she was already so far above Rebecca they would never be in competition.
What was she, eighteen, nineteen? Probably testing her own power.
Rebecca had experienced plenty of her type over the years. Usually ending with her opponent in tears and her being forced to insincerely apologize. A bit of a bother. Though it would be amusing here, given how annoying this girl had been so far.
“Is that what you find, as a woman of science?” Miss Teres asked, interrupting her thoughts, not a small amount of sarcasm in her tone.
“At times.” Rebecca shrugged. “Though occasionally, with certain maladies, a more experienced body fights illness more fruitfully than a younger one, which wastes resources with ineffective and unnecessary exertion,” she added, with a triumphant smile of her own.
And, for the first time, Miss Teres’s lips twisted into a pout, a cloud washing over her not-quite-as-pretty-as-they’d-seemed features, reminding Rebecca a touch of Fannie. So much so that she braced herself not for tears but for a tantrum.
However, unlike the resident of the home, Miss Teres managed to take hold of herself after a moment, a blank calm edging out the temper in her visage.
“Good to know,” she said before pausing, her dark eyes wide. “Oh,” she exclaimed.
“What is it?” Rebecca asked, gazing at the girl again.
“I believe I dropped my muff,” Miss Teres stated. “Would you be so kind to fetch Marguarite so she might find it for me?” she asked, her tone smooth, dismissive, and impressively imperious.
“I think these old legs can still handle that,” Rebecca returned. “Though you might have to wait a little, given how slow someone like me walks.”
“Patience is one of my greatest virtues.” Miss Teres’s lip curled wryly. “But thank you so much for all your assistance. Perhaps we’ll see each other again,” she called after Rebecca, as Rebecca hurried to grab Marguarite and be done with the matter and Miss Teres. Hopefully for good.
Roger exited the bottom level of the library after a rather nice evening with a treatise on soil. It was not the evening he’d expected—cancelling his appearance at a dinner held by the Viscount Bradford had been painful—thus far less productive, but admittedly also far less tedious.
Besides, if one endeavored to be king, one must make certain sacrifices. Jewels locked in a box had no value. He should—no, needed to—be out and about.
Soon. Just a few weeks and he’d finally succeed. Even David would be pleased with him.
Nodding to himself, he padded toward the staircase, ready to retire to his bedchamber. Glancing down toward the entry to his home, he started, as there, standing by the large marble-topped table, was a woman.
A rather well-dressed one, in a fur-lined cloak, her hair neatly coiffed, her flawlessly white-gloved hands folded in front of her as she stood waiting for something.
“Hello,” he said, hurrying down to greet her, and more importantly, inquire about her presence, before calling Lopez to ask why he was not informed of the same when she arrived.
At the sound of his voice, she lifted her gaze toward him, her large, doe-like eyes widening.
Young. The woman was quite young. Really more of a girl. Which made her solo presence even more curious. Who was she?
“Hello, Mr. Berab,” she greeted him, bending into a deep, formal, perfectly executed curtsy. Well, whoever she was, at least she was properly-mannered. And likely, important. Or at least the child of someone important.
Best to turn on his full charm.
