“N-no. Please continue,” Rory said. The girl resumed her work, trying to be gentle, but Rory’s hair was considerably tangled from her nap.
It was all the fault of that wretched nightmare, Rory thought. If not for that dream, she would never have done anything so brazen as cling to Zeke. She had been foolish to allow herself to be so upset, but it had all been so close to one of her banshee dreams, only even stranger. The fear it had aroused still clung to her. She retained such a clear image of the moment she had lifted the phantom’s hood, only to encounter that woman’s cold eyes glittering back at her, their expression hard and empty—like the banshee’s eyes, utterly without mercy. Irrational it mightbe, but Rory could not help believing a little in omens. She was just as glad she would never see Mrs. Van Hallsburg again.
As for Zeke Morrison, perhaps it would be far better if it were likewise with him. She could go below and tell Zeke she had changed her mind, that she had a headache. Except that she would wonder forever if she had thrown aside her best chance to save her company and despise herself for a coward.
Surely she had been in far greater danger when she had been alone with the man in his bedchamber, practically undressed. She had survived that—except for a few disturbing moments. What could happen to her in a crowded restaurant?
The most Morrison could do was train his magnetic dark eyes upon her and devour her with his gaze. And in that case she would make it plain to him he had best satisfy his appetite on the roast turkey.
She wasn’t going to be dessert.
Long before Rory finished dressing, Zeke was already on his way downstairs, straightening the cuffs of his white cambric shirt, picking a speck of lint off the lapel of his black evening jacket. He actually caught himself whistling as he took the stairs two at a time, a strange excitement quickening through his veins, an excitement such as he had not experienced for a long time.
Wellington awaited him in the hall below, holding a silver tray.
“Has Miss Kavanaugh come down yet?” Zeke demanded.
“No, sir, but another caller has arrived.”
“Really? Who the hell would come bothering me at this hour?” Zeke glanced impatiently back up the stairs for any sign of Rory.
“It is a gentleman, sir. I took the liberty of showing him into your study.” The butler persisted until Zeke accepted the small white calling card laid out upon the tray.
Zeke gave the gilt-edged card a cursory glance. Then he took a closer look at the name and stiffened.
Charles Decker, Esq.
“That’s no gentleman, Wellington,” he snarled. “That’s a complete bastard. Throw him out on his goddamned ear.”
Wellington rarely displayed any reaction to his master’s profanity. But this time his brows raised a fraction. “I beg your pardon, sir, if I erred. But I did think that Mr. Decker’s name was on the list of people that Mrs. Van Hallsburg said should always be received.”
“This isn’t Mrs. Van Hallsburg’s house. It’s mine.”
Even as he snapped at his butler, Zeke knew he wasn’t being fair. For the past few months, he had allowed Mrs. Van H. practicallycarte blanchein ordering his social life.
Of course, she would say Decker should be admitted. Charles Decker was a prominent banker and an old family friend of the Van Hallsburgs. But like most women, Mrs. Van H. had no real understanding of the world of politics. Thus she was completely unaware of the more unsavory aspect of Decker’s character.
Zeke crushed the calling card in his fist, annoyed that he should be plagued with the man tonight, but he said to his butler, “Don’t worry about it, Wellington. You look after Miss Kavanaugh when she comes down. Send her to me in the study. I’ll see to Mr. Decker myself and it won’t take long.”
“Very good, sir.” At his most wooden, Wellington bowed and stepped aside.
Zeke strode toward the study, trying to remind himself that he was supposed to be a gentleman these days. Gentlemen had more subtle ways of expressing their disapproval than using their fists. The only problem was that hurting some bastard’s feelings wasn’t nearly as satisfactory as giving him a good punch in the nose.
Zeke shoved the study door open and found Decker in the far corner. The man had taken down one of the books and was thumbing through it. Decker was a middle-aged man of medium height, his thinning hair parted down the middle and slicked with oil of Macassar. His pin-check suit hung well upon him in that dapper fashion Zeke’s own tailor had tried so hard for without success. Decker’s clothes suited him to perfection, but a snake always fit his own skin quite well.
Decker didn’t look up until Zeke slammed the door closed. With a deliberate casualness, Decker shut the book and returned it to the shelf. He ambled forward to greet Zeke, a pleasant smile creasing his features.
“Ah, good evening, Mr. Morrison.” Decker extended his hand.
Zeke ignored it. “Good evening, Decker. What the hell do you want?”
Decker looked a little taken aback and then emitted a laugh. “You don’t waste time on the social amenities, do you? Mind if I sit down?”
Without waiting for a reply, he settled himself into an armchair in one graceful, fluid motion. For all Decker’s suave manner, Zeke could tell the fellow was ill at ease. One foot, elegantly shod in black-and-white patten, tapped against the Oriental carpet.
Zeke perched himself on the edge of the desk. “Well?”
The single barked syllable caused Decker to start. He recovered, his lips twitching as he struggled to maintain his pleasant demeanor. “I know we have our differences, Mr. Morrison. But I had hoped we could sit down like a pair of reasonable men and discuss?—”
