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“Petroleum—rock oil.”
“Rock oil?” She laughed.
“It comes out of the ground.”
She refused to break eye contact with him despite his smoldering stare. “Obviously.”
“It will be the new fuel that will not only burn our lamps cleaner, but run machines more efficiently. Rock oil will transport us more efficiently across the sea, the land—who knows, perhaps even the sky.”
She laughed again and covered her mouth with her hand. “Oil from rock? Machines that fly in the sky? Really, Mr. Thixton, I know that I am naive, raised on a remote island, but surely you do not also think me addle-witted.”
He looked away, running his hand across his mouth. Sapphire found herself strangely drawn to the gesture. Her gaze settled on his mouth and she remembered when it had touched hers, what she had felt. How he had made her feel.
He plucked a leaf from the pecan tree. “I’d like to make you an offer,” he said, staring into the garden behind them.
“An offer?”
His mouth twitched and he suddenly seemed angry with her. “Twice what the boy has offered. Anyone has offered.”
Against her will, she felt her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment and something else she couldn’t identify. “I do not accept.”
“And why the hell not?” he asked, turning to her. “It makes perfect sense. You’re in need of a protector and I—”
“You what, sir?” she demanded, barely able to contain her rising anger.
“It’s simple enough.” His voice was without emotion, as if he were making a business deal or purchasing a cigar. “I desire you. And someone needs to teach you a lesson. You come to London spreading your lies—”
“They are not lies!”
“Parading your attributes before all these young men. You’re nothing but a tease, Miss Fabergine, and it’s time you learned where teasing will get you.”
She shot off the bench. “I’m feeling much better now, sir,” she declared coolly, reaching for her mask. “And this conversation is over. Thank you for your assistance.”
As she stepped away from him, she saw a group of men and women gathering on the garden path. They were all staring up at the second or third story of the house, murmuring.
Blake turned toward the house first. Something registered on his face, and as Sapphire turned to see what everyone was looking at, he attempted to step in front of her to block her view. She dodged him, grabbing her white satin skirt in both hands to keep from stumbling. She gazed upward, looking from one window to the next. Nothing seemed extraordinary on the first two floors: people dancing, men smoking, women gossiping. She was about to turn back to Blake to ask him what he saw when movement on the third floor caught her attention.
For moment she wasn’t certain what she was looking at. She saw a man and a woman. The woman’s gown and underclothing were pushed down around her waist, her bare back pressed against the glass casement. The man faced her and the onlookers below. He moved toward the woman, then back, then toward her again, thrusting his body, pushing her again and again against the glass.
Sapphire felt the blood drain from her face as she realized not only what they were doing, but who they were. She knew that bare back. She knew the green silk gown. “I have to go,” she whispered, stepping back.
“Not like this.” Blake caught her arm. “Let me take you—”
“Excuse me, sir.” Charles appeared out of nowhere, a glass of punch in his hand. Obviously he had no idea of the spectacle taking place in plain view of the guests. “Miss Fabergine, is there a problem?”
“No, no problem,” she heard herself say as she took another step back, wishing she could fade into the garden or become stone like the statue beside the bench. How could Angel do such a thing? Make such a public display of herself?
“You should take her home,” Blake said.
“Sir, I’m perfectly capable of knowing what’s to be done for Miss Fabergine.”
“Charles, please,” Sapphire managed to say, reaching for his arm to steady herself. “Might we just walk around front and call for your carriage?”
Charles set the glass on the bench and, covering her hand with his, turned her around and headed for the gate. Sapphire didn’t look back. Blake Thixton was sailing on the morning tide the next day. She would never see him again, and even that would be too soon.
In the carriage, Sapphire slid to the center of the bench and Charles climbed in behind her. As the groom closed the door, she glanced at Charles, unsure why he had sat down beside her rather than across from her as he usually did, but she was so upset about Angelique that she didn’t give it another thought.
“I’m sorry I took so long to find you, dearest,” Charles said. “I hope the American wasn’t behaving too crudely. I—”
