Page 12 of The Scent of Snow
Maxwell blushed, his fair skin no protection against the telltale sign.
Pedro served a glass of port for himself. “You bicker like two old aunts. You will leave now, as the meeting I’m about to have will upset your matronly stomachs.”
Maxwell straightened on the wing chair. “If you are cheating on my sister—”
“I’m waiting for Faial.” Pedro complemented the revelation with a stare. He was not interested in other women, but wouldn't tolerate Maxwell’s interference.
Henrique pursed his lips. “Wouldn’t guess you would want to look at the rascal tonight. Not after he flirted with sweet Anne during dinner. See Maxwell? We, Peninsular fellows, aren’t jealous hotheads who—”
“I called him here to address that slight.” Pedro swirled the wine in his glass.
Henrique groaned. “Don’t maim him for life. The lad is a nitwit who fancies himself a new Don Juan.”
Pedro eyed Henrique, assessing his reactions. Henrique and Faial were close friends, and he might object to Pedro’s unorthodox negotiation. “That will depend on his answer.”
Henrique shook his head. “I don’t particularly like where this is heading.”
“You may leave now, or you might stay and watch, but when Faial walks through that door, I will convince him to accept a mission requiring him to leave on the morrow for France.”
Henrique rose, his brow furrowed. “How convenient. I hope he gets a return ticket. What is it this time? Are the Moors staging a second invasion of the peninsula?”
“Fernando might be alive.”
Henrique choked on his port.
They had all served together in Mozambique. Pedro, Cris, Henrique, Gabriel, Fernando. A few, a brave few, but a band of brothers, nonetheless. And Fernando had been the best of them. The only one who left the war with his soul intact.
“I would investigate it myself, but the French republicans didn’t forget how I tried to upturn the commune in 1871. I wouldn’t expect you to go since Isabel is near her time. Diomedes is the right choice. He is just the type of aristocratic wastrel that will fly off the attention of the Sûreté Nationale police, but with enough wit to see this through.” Not to mention that it will make the young stud sniff other pastures.
Henrique snorted. “By all means, let’s coerce Diomedes into going. If you don’t mind, I will stay and watch. I have a fondness for the lad—”
“I don’t plan on injuring him more than necessary.”
When Diomedes opened the door, Henrique and Maxwell were seated at the card table while Pedro awaited in the shadows. It said something about his character that he enjoyed the play of emotion on Faial’s face, surprised at not seeing Anne inside. He was quick, though, and the shock was covered up by a nonchalant facade. Diomedes might be the renegade of the Palmela family, but he had learned a few tricks of the trade growing up with the famous diplomat. He would do very well on the mission Pedro envisioned for him.
Hiding his feral grin under a blank expression, Pedro emerged from the shadows and offered him a glass of port. When Diomedes lifted his hand to take it, Pedro looped the watch chain around his wrist and twisted it behind his back. With his other hand, he held Faial’s arm.
“You touched my wife’s hair today. No one touches her hair and keeps all his fingers. I will let you choose which one has to go.”
Faial laughed nervously. “You are not serious.”
Pedro enjoyed the fear settling in the other man’s eyes.
Faial turned to Henrique, a sheen of sweat coating his brow. “He is not serious.”
Henrique closed his eyes. “He is. You don’t accept an assignation from Almoster’s wife and expect to remain unscathed.”
“You seemed stranded from her, and I thought she could use a cicerone.”
Pedro’s sharp intake of breath resounded in the study. His wife had all the male company she needed.
Henrique groaned. “Don’t go there, Dio, really. Trust me, you are not improving things. Plus, a cicerone is a wretched position. I once met a beautiful Venetian girl and moved in with her at her palazzo. Turns out her husband was a splendid chap. And one cannot cuckold a friend.”
Faial turned to Maxwell. “You are an Englishman. Won’t you intervene?”
“Be a bloody man about it, and don’t scream. Clara just fell asleep, and Julia needs her rest.”
Pedro pressed the paper knife to Faial’s knuckle.
