Page 37 of Bloodlines and Birthright

“Fascinating, Professor. I do hope you find it, and that the seller suggests a price you can afford. If not, write to me. We can come to an arrangement whereby I pay for all the books you want and keep only the one with the tattoo spell.”

“No!”

Mr. Defoe’s smile didn’t waiver. “Think about it, Professor.” He rose. “Adele, if you prefer to stay then feel free to order a plate of local delicacies and charge it to my account.”

Once he was out of earshot, Miss Wheeler asked me if I needed more tea. “You look frayed by that encounter, Professor.”

“I’m quite all right,” I said, feeling anything but. I reached for my cup laced with brandy and sipped deeply.

“The thing to remember about Defoe is that he respects self-confidence. Even if you don’t possess it, don’t show that you don’t.”

“Fake it,” Oscar added, most unhelpfully. “That’s what I do.”

Miss Wheeler scoffed. “You don’t need to fake self-confidence, Mr. Barratt. You have too much of it.” She reached out and patted my hand. “Don’t let Mr. Defoe upset you or sway you. If you want to take up his offer, then do. If you don’t⁠—”

“He doesn’t,” Oscar said.

Miss Wheeler rolled her eyes. “You do what is right for you, Professor.”

“I do,” I assured her. “I am. The book with the tattoo spell isn’t important to me, but it is to Oscar, and I would never sell it if he didn’t want me to. Nor do I want a man like Defoe to get his hands on it.”

She patted my hand again before releasing it. “Do stop smiling so smugly, Mr. Barratt. It’s not at all becoming in a gentleman.”

Oscar’s lips turned down at the corners. “I wasn’t smiling,” he muttered.

“Now, tell me where you went this afternoon, Professor. I’ve been dying to know ever since I saw you return hours later, soaking wet. It must have been a good outing for you to have been gone so long.”

I told her about following the dandy to Villa Corzoni. Like Oscar, she was worried that I’d been seen, but once I reassured her, she fell into a thoughtful silence.

Oscar ordered a platter of local cheeses and cold meats from a waiter. Once the waiter left, he looked out of the window again. “It’s stopped raining.”

I was about to ask him what he had planned when Miss Wheeler leaned forward. Voice low, she said, “I propose we break into Villa Corzoni tonight.”

I silently groaned. I’d expected Oscar to suggest the mad plan and had hoped Miss Wheeler would help me talk him out of it. It would seem I was outnumbered. “To search for the bill of sale for the collection of abbey books?” I asked.

“You two do that. I want to solve the murder, and if Scala’s friend, or Scala himself, is involved, there may be evidence there.”

Oscar’s smile—which was definitely smug this time—implied that my hunch was right and that he’d already decided on the same course of action. But instead of telling her, he simply said, “What time shall we meet?”

Chapter 12

Miss Wheeler blithely skipped over the puddle in the gutter and joined us on the pavement opposite the hotel. “Good evening, gentlemen. Do stop staring and lets get on with it.” Dressed in the same clothes she’d worn the night before, she cut an alluring figure. While tall and slim, there was no mistaking her womanliness thanks to the trousers accentuating her curves.

I’d not been aware that I was staring at her until she pointed it out. I mumbled an apology and fell into step with her and Oscar.

Oscar apologized, too. “It’s not often I see a beautiful woman in man’s clothes. I quite forgot myself.”

“Not often?” she echoed. “So you have seen women other than me in trousers?”

“Oh yes. Usually she wears buckskin, but not always.”

I smiled at the image of Willie, so different to Miss Wheeler and yet with a similar energy. I’d wager Oscar had never been as captivated by Willie as he had by Miss Wheeler. I certainly hadn’t.

We took the promenade along the shore. The mist had lifted, the rain stopped, but clouds still blocked out the stars and moon. The lake on our right was a black void stretching into the distance. The darkness of the night made it difficult to make out obstacles. I stepped in a puddle which Miss Wheeler and Oscar somehow managed to see in time.

“Are you really leaving Monteoro the day after tomorrow?” Oscar asked. “Or was that Defoe’s attempt to force us to make a deal with him?”

“Tomorrow,” I corrected him. “It’s past midnight.”