was now hanging loose and haphazard. And where was her walking stick? The last she remembered seeing it was when she was hit by a wall of male muscle and it flew out of her gloved hand. She hoped it had not caused any of the dancers serious injury…
She was brought back to the immediate present when Dair gently squeezed her upper arm and, with a wink and a finger to his lips, signaled for her to remain silent. No explanation was necessary. The loud regular clatter of boots on floorboards, accompanied by the squeals of alarm from the dancers, had her scrambling off him and kneeling at the edge of the raised platform to see what was happening.
Just inside the doorway was Mr. George Romney, arms folded, shoulders hunched, and looking troubled. Beside him was his brother Peter, grinning from ear to ear. They shuffled out of the way of a contingent of uniformed militia who were marched in by a ruddy-faced captain of the guard. The soldiers came to an abrupt halt halfway up the length of the studio, where stood a stout gentleman in an eggshell blue frock coat with metallic thread and spangles, legs splayed and thus displaying his strong calf muscles to great effect. What lessened the impact of his stance was that he had stridden into the middle of the spilled paint, and now had splatters all over his buckled shoes. He was holding aloft a sword before an audience of crying and panicked dancers and declaiming. He quickly terminated his rehearsed speech when he was interrupted by the captain of the guard barking out orders, but his arm holding the sword remained in midair. Rory suspected he had frozen in tongue and body upon hearing, and then seeing, the soldiers. She recognized the frozen swordsman. It was her brother’s best friend Mr. Cedric Pleasant. She surmised that he was the “pleasant friend” to whom Consulata Baccelli had referred.
She wondered at the whereabouts of her brother. She prayed he had managed to go into hiding somewhere in the room. Perhaps he was crouched behind the stack of canvases up against one wall, or under the table draped in cloth that had upon it all the paraphernalia needed by a painter of portraits? Better still if he had managed to dive back out the open window he had climbed in through. He was not amongst those now gathered in the studio, so when Dair tugged on the lace at her elbow to get her attention, she readily turned away from the melodrama. She was surprised he remained nonchalantly propped on an elbow out of sight.
“Report, fair scout! What’s happening out there?”
“You don’t want to see for yourself?”
“Let me guess,” he said, ignoring her question. “Twelve—maybe fifteen—militia, not including their captain…?”
Rory looked out into the studio, counted, then nodded, impressed.
“Couldn’t ask for better odds! I would be insulted if there were fewer than a dozen. Six, and the wagtails would mistake them for customers. Eight, and our canary birds think they’re for the round house for soliciting. Now with a dozen of our city’s finest invading the premises, they suspect something far more serious is on the boil.”
Rory frowned.
“Wagtails and canary birds? On the boil? I have no idea what you’re talking about but it’s nothing to do with aviaries. And, I would hazard a guess, contrived for your own amusement?”
Surprised, Dair stared hard at Rory for the first time since crashing into her. While he liked what he saw, she was a shapely little thing with big blue eyes and glowing hair, her self-possession and the intelligence in her expression unsettled him. He wasn’t sure if she was laughing at him or with him. Instinct said the latter, so he took a leap of faith and confided in her, saying at his most nonchalant,
“You aren’t particularly perturbed that Mr. Romney’s premises is overrun with uniformed ruffians?”
“Why should I be?” she said with a shrug, adding with a cheeky smile, “I have a war hero to protect me.”
“Ha!
She was brought back to the immediate present when Dair gently squeezed her upper arm and, with a wink and a finger to his lips, signaled for her to remain silent. No explanation was necessary. The loud regular clatter of boots on floorboards, accompanied by the squeals of alarm from the dancers, had her scrambling off him and kneeling at the edge of the raised platform to see what was happening.
Just inside the doorway was Mr. George Romney, arms folded, shoulders hunched, and looking troubled. Beside him was his brother Peter, grinning from ear to ear. They shuffled out of the way of a contingent of uniformed militia who were marched in by a ruddy-faced captain of the guard. The soldiers came to an abrupt halt halfway up the length of the studio, where stood a stout gentleman in an eggshell blue frock coat with metallic thread and spangles, legs splayed and thus displaying his strong calf muscles to great effect. What lessened the impact of his stance was that he had stridden into the middle of the spilled paint, and now had splatters all over his buckled shoes. He was holding aloft a sword before an audience of crying and panicked dancers and declaiming. He quickly terminated his rehearsed speech when he was interrupted by the captain of the guard barking out orders, but his arm holding the sword remained in midair. Rory suspected he had frozen in tongue and body upon hearing, and then seeing, the soldiers. She recognized the frozen swordsman. It was her brother’s best friend Mr. Cedric Pleasant. She surmised that he was the “pleasant friend” to whom Consulata Baccelli had referred.
She wondered at the whereabouts of her brother. She prayed he had managed to go into hiding somewhere in the room. Perhaps he was crouched behind the stack of canvases up against one wall, or under the table draped in cloth that had upon it all the paraphernalia needed by a painter of portraits? Better still if he had managed to dive back out the open window he had climbed in through. He was not amongst those now gathered in the studio, so when Dair tugged on the lace at her elbow to get her attention, she readily turned away from the melodrama. She was surprised he remained nonchalantly propped on an elbow out of sight.
“Report, fair scout! What’s happening out there?”
“You don’t want to see for yourself?”
“Let me guess,” he said, ignoring her question. “Twelve—maybe fifteen—militia, not including their captain…?”
Rory looked out into the studio, counted, then nodded, impressed.
“Couldn’t ask for better odds! I would be insulted if there were fewer than a dozen. Six, and the wagtails would mistake them for customers. Eight, and our canary birds think they’re for the round house for soliciting. Now with a dozen of our city’s finest invading the premises, they suspect something far more serious is on the boil.”
Rory frowned.
“Wagtails and canary birds? On the boil? I have no idea what you’re talking about but it’s nothing to do with aviaries. And, I would hazard a guess, contrived for your own amusement?”
Surprised, Dair stared hard at Rory for the first time since crashing into her. While he liked what he saw, she was a shapely little thing with big blue eyes and glowing hair, her self-possession and the intelligence in her expression unsettled him. He wasn’t sure if she was laughing at him or with him. Instinct said the latter, so he took a leap of faith and confided in her, saying at his most nonchalant,
“You aren’t particularly perturbed that Mr. Romney’s premises is overrun with uniformed ruffians?”
“Why should I be?” she said with a shrug, adding with a cheeky smile, “I have a war hero to protect me.”
“Ha!
Similar Books
