Page 24 of West End Earl
Work. They could work. That was why she was here, after all.
“Frankie hasn’t sent a message about theWilhelmina, if that’s what you’re asking. But I could pay her a visit today and check in.”
Cal stared out the window and ran a hand through his hair. Kingston hadn’t tied it back yet, and Phee watched with a familiar ache in her chest as he dug in a pocket for a scrap of ribbon, then secured the long strands in a queue at his nape. She’d observed this same action hundreds of times. Once she’d asked why he didn’t cut it, and he confessed that he’d initially kept it long to annoy his father, but now it was sheer vanity. The one way he refused to comply with fashion.
“We need to find that boat, Puppy. Investors are getting twitchy and looking to me for answers because I’m the one who set up this voyage and rallied everyone together. My coffers will be fine with this loss, but some…some will be devastated.”
The coffee arrived, so she poured them each a cup. When she set his on the desk, the delicate clatter of cup and saucer against wood made him turn. He looked tired, with purpled skin under his chocolaty eyes. He obviously hadn’t been sleeping well.
That made two of them.
Silence wasn’t normal for them, but this morning they drank their coffee without further conversation. She kept her hands busy with the correspondence she’d found earlier. Piddly details, really. A note from the game warden in Northumberland regarding a poacher they’d caught. Two messages from contacts outside the city who vouched for the character of the Duke of Gaffney, who had asked for help with a financial project on his estate.
“Word is getting around about your partnership with Lord Amesbury. First working with Ethan, now Gaffney wants to begin a similar project. I wonder who’s next?” Viscount Amesbury was crafting ale from his estate’s hops and turning it into a retail business. The duke wanted to focus on cider. Not the rough scrumpy of some counties, but a reliable product to bottle and sell in Town.
“All we need is an Italian count with a vineyard, and we could be happily drunk for the rest of our days,” he said.
“Know any Italian counts?”
“Can’t think of any off the top of my head, but I’ll be on the lookout.”
It was a silly joke, and nothing of real consequence. Still, it felt like a piece of normal life to tease with him. A knot in her chest loosened. Maybe they’d find their way through it. Figure it out, like he’d said.
“It’s not really me, anyway. They have the idea and the product. I just organize the finances and help with the paperwork side of things,” Cal said. He stared at her for a moment with his arms crossed as he leaned on his desk. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll try to track down Frankie. See if there are any other leads we can pull. I don’t think I’m any good for desk work today.”
“You mean you’d rather not sit in the library avoiding looking at each other all afternoon?”
His hint of a smile was a mere quirk of lips instead of his usual grin, but for the moment they were in accord. “I don’t want to say the wrong thing or pepper you with questions you don’t feel like answering. But it’s good to have you back, Puppy.”
That smile, seeing Lord Calvin Carlyle, of all people, unsure of himself, unsettled her. She rose, then ran a hand down the front of her waistcoat. Violet jacquard silk today, with silver buttons she hadn’t yet sold and replaced with wooden ones. “Let’s get to work, then.”
***
Once upon a time, Calvin had been a rather scrawny young man trying to determine if a barmaid named Linette fancied him. He’d stuttered into his glass of ale and counted under his breath to make sure he looked at her for more than a count of three but less than a count of seven—Thomas, the slightly older friend showing him the ropes, insisted that anything over a count of seven unsettled a girl, and they’d get their drinks thrown in their faces.
Sitting in a hack across from Puppy, their knees occasionally brushing as the carriage clattered over the uneven roads, Cal realized he was once again in unknown territory, like when he’d attempted to flirt with Linette—who hadn’t thrown a drink at him. She’d cheerfully taught him how to kiss that night, and at the time he’d thought her lips were magical.
And now he was staring at Puppy’s mouth. Again. For a much longer count than seven. Thank God she was facing the window instead of him. Her studied avoidance of looking in his direction allowed the summer sun coming in through the dirty glass to illuminate her face.
It was a face he’d seen nearly every day for two years, but somehow there were new details he’d noticed only this past week.
And God help him, but it was getting harder and harder to look away. There were the same familiar blue eyes with gold flecks, framed by ridiculously long eyelashes. The coppery lashes tended to disappear amid the freckles and Puppy’s distracting grin. But with light on her face like this, it made those lash tips look like sunrays, in the way a child draws squiggly lines and random spikes when sketching sunlight in the corner of the paper.
“You’re staring,” she said, still looking out the window.
Cal cleared his throat. And here he’d thought she wouldn’t notice. “Sorry. It’s hard not to look for all the things I hadn’t noticed before.”
Finally, she faced him, arching a brow. “Such as?”
“You’ve never had to shave. You don’t have an Adam’s apple—which is ironic when you think about it.”
When she bit her bottom lip to contain a smile, he had to close his eyes against the image. Her mouth was wrecking his equilibrium, and she didn’t even know it. He shifted on the seat. “Which isn’t definitive proof of anything, obviously. I’m just surprised I never noticed.”
“People see what you tell them to see.”
“How long have you lived as Adam?”
“Eleven years.”
