But Kilairne irritated him. For instance, right now, the fellow ought to be saying, “What are your intentions towards my sister?”
Even better—he ought to say, “You’ve been hanging about my sister all winter, you frig pig—now make good on it.” Kilairne must know the way that Celia looked at Peter.
Hell. Kilairne ought to be taking Peter out in the alley about now, instead of flickering a smile and offering to stand him a drink.
But since he was Hughes tonight, Peter couldn’t say any of that. He accepted the drink for another night and took his own self out in the street, walking too fast, thumping the doorways with a fist as he passed. He’d beat himself up for the way he treated Celia—ha!
No time. He had to go back to his own life, and making room for his sister in it. He’d failed her eleven years ago, but now he was a grown man with a job and a bank account and the confidence to stand up to their father. This time, he was going to do it right.
Chapter Four
In Which Our Heroine Strays from the Path of Moral Excellence
“Idon’t thinkthis is a good idea,” muttered Rose, for at least the dozenth time.
“Just open the door,” Celia whispered, cupping her hand to protect the candle from a draft. “I can’t stand on my toes much longer.” She hadn’t realized that her shoes made a sound on the bare hallway.
“It’s just—”
“Why don’t we goinsideand argue,” Celia hissed. She didn’t like it either, but they couldn’t just flit through the parties, waiting for the sword of Damocles to slice off their choices.
Rose’s shoulders registered affront under her quilted pink house robe, but she fitted the key into the lock and opened her father’s office. The two women tumbled inside, twitching their robes out of the way and then sagging back against the door.
“It’s not like you’re actually sneaking,” Celia said in her regular voice. “Your desk is right over there. You’re allowed to come in here whenever you want.”
“Oh, that’sfinethen.” Rose crossed over to the banked fire, slippers dragging with a shush-shush against the rug. “We won’t look through Papa’s drawers. We won’t touch any of his papers, because we’re not sneaking.”
Celia sighed. “You can get your father to talk to you, then.” She set the candle on Mr. Thompson’s broad desk.
“I told you, he doesn’t want to tell me about practical things. Cleisthenes—yes. Huguenot Rebellion—by all means. Anything about investments or expenses or dowries or my own potentialmarriage—no.”
Celia began opening drawers. There were times to have a crisis of conscience, and there were times your family needed you.
“That’s just sealing wax,” Rose said, as Celia opened a drawer full of sealing wax.
Celia pressed her lips together and opened the next one.
“It’s my mother.” Rose crossed her arms across her fluffy chest. “I told you already. I’m sure of it. Papa adores her, he’s just being… helpful. For whatever is wrong. With my mother.”
“Maybe there will be papers.” Celia slid a row of folders aside, one by one. “From the doctor, or whatever you think is wrong.” These were all from years ago, decades. She had to take a deep breath, remind herself that they had time. As long as her uncle was settled for the night, they had hours and hours in the office before the maids awoke.
“Fine.” Rose flounced across the room, making the candle flicker violently.
Rose froze. Outside, heavy fog blocked out the moon, and their actions felt more ominous without a cheerful flame.
“We could light the whole candelabra…?” Celia waited until the flame wobbled itself upright, pulling her robe close. “Since you’re allowed in here…?”
Rose darted nervous glances at the door, then the desk.
Distracted, Celia bumped the open drawer with her hip. It slammed shut, they both jumped, and Rose knocked over a jar of spills.
“You’re looking in the wrong place,” Rose grumbled, abandoning her mess to riffle through a secretary in the corner.
Obviously. That was why Rose was along, because she knew where her father kept everything. Celia held the candle for her, one hand cupped to protect the flame.
“These are the recent ones.” Rose plopped a stack onto the main desk, thin ledgers and bundles of letters. She pointed to a scrawled label. “I recognize that he’s mentioned these investments to his friends.”
“What about this?” Celia touched a worn leather book, pencil jammed under the closure loop.
