“You’ve had Ammon for twelve years? But you’ve never mentioned him once.”
“Why would I? He’s the son of a guide I once used, a marvelous fellow in his own right. I’ve never had a more meticulous or capable servant—well-read, too.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “Well-read?”
“Yes, in several languages. He’s going through some French Restoration plays right now. I lent him the books myself.”
“So he’s harmless, then.”
“I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”
“No?”
“I wouldn’t slip up behind him with a knife, for he might retaliate.” Michael shrugged. “But that’s to be expected. He kills only when necessary.”
Mary covered her face with her hands and moaned.
Michael frowned down at her bent head, her blond curls falling about her covered face. It was a pity, but sometime during the last few years while he’d been abroad, his youngest sister had become annoyingly missish. He wasn’t used to such theatrics, and they made him appreciate Jane’s calm practicality all the more.
Jane had been his assistant for four years now, and he couldn’t remember his life before she’d swept in and begun arranging things. Since her arrival, his clothes were where they should be, his pen nibs sharpened just so, his scientific equipment always ready, his travel arrangements flawless and comfortable. In a word, she was efficient, unassuming, and for a woman, relatively undemanding. He rarely, if ever, had to think of her.
Better yet, she spoke several languages fluently and was a crack cryptographer. While he supposed that, if forced, he could replace her, he suspected he would have to add three or four additional people to his retinue to do so, and the last thing he wanted about him was more people.
It was fortunate he’d taken a chance on hiring her as his assistant; there weren’t many women who were qualified to do such a complex job, and even fewer who did it so well.
He looked over the crowd and saw Jane standing on her tiptoes in the center of the room, looking for him, no doubt. At her shoulder stood Ammon, looking dark and impassive, ignoring the faint panic spreading across the sea of pasty-faced Englishmen who surrounded him.
Michael lifted his arm and let out a shrill whistle.
Everyone looked startled except Jane, whose eyes, framed by her spectacles, crinkled with a sudden smile. She waved back, slapped a hand upon her hat, and dove into the crowd, pushing a direct line in his direction. Her large hat marked her way so that she looked like a yellow lily pad swimming across a pond filled with reeds, Ammon doggedly paddling behind her.
“It’s about blasted time she arrived. She said she’d be here at—” Michael frowned as he saw that his sister was holding her hand over her eyes. “What’s wrong? Do you have a headache?”
She dropped her hand. “Michael, you cannot whistle for the poor girl as if she were a dog.”
“I didn’t. When I whistle for a dog, I do it like this.” He whistled two short whistles. “When I whistle for Jane, I do it like—”
“Don’t! I already heard it and once was enough.” Mary scowled at him. “I can’t believe Miss Smythe-Haughton allows you to whistle for her like that.”
“Why should she care? It was an efficient way to let her know where we were. Besides, Jane is in my employ. If I wish to whistle for her, I shall do so.”
“And if she protests?”
Michael frowned. “I don’t know. She’s never protested before, so I assume that she doesn’t care, either.”
Mary threw up her hands. “Perhaps the two of you deserve one another, then. I must admit that I’ve quite misjudged your relationship with Miss Smythe-Haughton. We all have.”
“What does that mean? You didn’t—” He narrowed his gaze. “Surely you didn’t think I was romantically involved with Jane?”
“You write about her in almost every letter,” Mary answered in a defensive tone, her face pink.
“Probably to complain. Jane is my assistant and nothing more. When you meet her, you’ll understand.”
“Oh. Is she very plain?”
“I don’t know. She’s just . . . Jane.” If he’d been asked to describe her, he probably would have said that she was small, quick, brown, and rather wrenlike. But it was one thing to describe Jane’s physicality and yet another to explain her presence. She always seemed bigger than her size, more visible than other women, and infinitely more capable. “I can’t describe her, but you’ll see how she is when you meet her.”
Michael wished his sister would leave well enough alone. He and Jane had a very comfortable, established relationship, one he had no wish to change.
“Michael, I could kill you.” Mary stood and smoothed her skirts. “You didn’t bother to tell me Miss Smythe-Haughton was coming, and then, when she does appear, she’s dressed like—I don’t know what! Plus, she has a dangerous-looking character with her and—”
“Ammon’s not dangerous unless you—”
“Yes, yes. Unless I sneak up on him with a knife. That’s not very reassuring.”
“You don’t even own a knife—not the kind you don’t butter bread with, anyway—so you’re perfectly safe around him.”
Mary ignored him. “And then you whistled for Miss Smythe-Haughton in a most undignified way. If she should decide to snub you for that, I am sure no one in this room would blame her.”
“Nonsense. If I hadn’t whistled, she’d have spent an hour wandering through this crowd of overjeweled fools looking for us.”
“It was rude.”
“Not to Jane,” he replied comfortably. He watched as she made her way past the final few dancers, looking about her with her usual bright interest.
Jane’s hat was a wide yellow confection and not any larger than the hats he’d seen parading about Hyde Park this afternoon. It also seemed to have quite a few big feathers. Very large feathers. Feathers so large that when Jane turned her head, the feathers slapped some silly bumpkin in a ridiculous orange waistcoat.
Michael smiled. “I like that hat.”
“You would,” his sister sniffed.
Michael noted that no one else seemed to be wearing a hat. “Perhaps Jane should have left her hat with a footman in the vestibule.”
“If only she had,” Mary replied fervently. “I should have known that Miss Smythe-Haughton was unconventional, since she’s been shepherding you through the wilds of Africa for the last three years; but I thought she might understand society’s rules a little better.”
“It’s been four years, and I don’t need a shepherd. She’s my assistant, nothing more and nothing less. She organizes our travel arrangements and makes certain we are all fed, and writes up our schedules and catalogues the finds and all of that sort of thing.” He waved a hand to indicate that he couldn’t remember all of her numerous duties.
“Whatever she does, someone needs to take her to a good modiste. That gown is painfully out of fashion.”
Michael eyed Jane’s gown, which was like all of her gowns. It was gray and didn’t have all of the silly furbelows that other women seemed determined to plaster all over themselves. It was also high cut at the neck and long at the wrists, which provided her with excellent cover while they were on expedition. “I don’t see anything objectionable about that gown.”
“How can you say that? It looks like a sack!”
“Which is why I like it.” Ignoring Mary’s startled look, Michael noted that Jane had paused by the silly bumpkin who had received the face-slap from her feathered hat. She spoke to him for a moment, laughing at something he replied in return.
The man no longer appeared upset, either. In fact, he was regarding Jane with sudden interest.
Michael frowned. When he and Jane had been abroad, naturally she’d attracted attention because she was often the only white woman present. As such, she was an oddity.
Here there was no such excuse, and yet . . . he looked about the room and noted with vague surprise that several men were watching her, som
e with very pronounced interest, even with Ammon scowling over her shoulder.
That’s certainly odd. His explorer’s soul stirred a bit, and in an attempt to understand this mystery better, he decided to list the evidence at hand. For the first time since he’d hired her, Michael looked at Jane critically, trying to see her with unknown eyes. With a man’s eyes.
She wasn’t a beauty, though he had to admit that she wasn’t ugly, either. She was a small woman, with a slender figure. She had plain brown hair, brown eyes, and because of her years in hotter climes, brown skin. Though she looked a bit of a hoyden because of her coloring, she was still unmistakably feminine. Her face was piquant and delicately cast, with high cheekbones, a straight nose that barely held up her spectacles, and a stubborn little chin. In fact, everything about her was small—her feet, her hands, everything except her thickly fringed brown eyes and her wide, mobile mouth.
Those two items seemed overlarge for her slender face yet oddly balanced one another.
He rubbed his chin, finding this mystery—like all mysteries—intriguing.
Perhaps it is her mouth that attracts such attention . . . He narrowed his gaze. Something about her mouth made her appear sensual. He’d never noticed that before, though now that he thought about it, the sulfi who’d held him prisoner had been most vocal in his admiration for the no-nonsense Miss Smythe-Haughton and her lush mouth.
In fact, the man had been a positive idiot about the matter, even writing a poem. “A poem,” Michael muttered.
“Pardon?” Mary asked.
“Nothing.”
“Michael . . . is she wearing boots?” Mary’s voice sounded strangled.
“It’s what she wears when we’re on expedition.”
“But you’re not on expedition here. She’s in town.”
“What does it matter how she dresses? No one is funding her.” He was a little envious of Jane’s freedom, truth be told.
Mary gave a puff of indignation. “Because she will be laughed at, of course. Surely you don’t want that!”
His jaw tightened. “I dare anyone to laugh at her.”
Mary’s eyes widened.
Michael ignored her. He hadn’t meant to become angry, but—blast it—Jane wasn’t like other women, who had to don silly finery to prove their worth. She already had worth in making his life go as smoothly as possible. Damn it, I wish I hadn’t invited Jane to this blasted ball. But it was too late. She had finally broken free from the bumpkin who’d tried to monopolize her, though the idiot was gazing after her as if longing for something more. As he passed, Ammon sent the man a withering gaze, which dealt with the situation well enough.
Michael muttered “Fool!” under his breath. Jane would never be interested in such a man. Thank Ra she’s not a ninny like so many other women who—
Jane finally broke from the crowd and was now standing before him, Ammon behind her. Michael looked at his pocket watch. “You’re late and Mary says your hat—”
“Michael,” Mary interrupted hastily. “Please introduce us.”
“Oh, no,” Jane said, “there’s no need to bother Mr. Hurst with an introduction; he’s spoken of you so often that I feel as if I know you.” She dipped a curtsy that even the biggest stickler of society couldn’t fault. As she rose, she held out her hand to Mary and smiled warmly. “Lady Erroll, it’s delightful to finally meet you! I’ve enjoyed the newspaper serial so much, though I’m several issues behind.”
Mary looked pleased. “Thank you. Not many people know I write it.”
“Which is a great pity and means you’re denied the glory that is your due.” Jane leaned forward and said in an undertone that carried quite clearly, “I’ve been telling Hurst he should come clean about that and announce you the authoress, but he’s far too lazy to do it.”
Mary sent a startled glance at Michael, who scowled at them.
Jane merely laughed. “Oh, never mind Hurst. He is always in a mood when he’s forced to wear society clothing. But have no fear; those who work for him never take his dark moods to heart, do we, Ammon?”
The servant inclined his head from his incredible height.
Mary looked at him with interest.
Jane introduced the servant. “Lady Erroll, I have been remiss! This is Ammon, Hurst’s valet and aide-de-camp.”
“Speaking of which,” Michael broke in, “Ammon, why are you here? I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I met Ammon on the stoop outside,” Jane said. “The butler wouldn’t allow him to enter, so I took matters into my own hands and, well, here we are.”
Ammon reached into the folds of his tunic and produced a small, tightly folded missive. “The missive you were waiting on arrived, sir. As you instructed, I brought it directly here.”
“Excellent!” Michael withdrew his spectacles from an inner pocket and slipped them on. Then he opened the letter and scanned it. “Interesting.”
Jane tried to peep around the letter to see it, but he swiftly folded it and tucked the letter and his spectacles into his pocket.
She frowned. “Being secretive, Hurst?”
He didn’t usually bother with such silliness, but he was irritated with Jane, though he couldn’t exactly say why. “I’ll explain it to you tomorrow.”
For a moment, it looked as if she might argue, but after a second, she shrugged. “Fine. I’ll wait.”
“I won’t!” Mary pinned her stern gaze on Michael. “What’s in that missive that you couldn’t have waited to read it after the ball?”
“Nothing that concerns you,” he retorted instantly.
“Lady Erroll, I’m sure Ammon didn’t mind the trip here,” Jane said in a soothing tone. “He’s from a nomadic tribe, you know. I’ve often wondered how he can stand to remain in one place for so long as it is.”
Mary blinked up at Ammon. “You . . . you’re from a tribe?”
He bowed his head. “Yes, my lady.”
She eyed his turban with interest. Seeing her expression, Jane launched into a humorous story about how she’d attempted to wear a turban but it had come unwound at an unpropitious time and had gotten caught in the wheels of a passing cart and sent her spinning.
Within moments Mary was laughing heartily, and though he didn’t smile, even Ammon’s stern visage had relaxed.
Michael regarded them all with a growing sense of satisfaction. His sister was in the hands of a master. That was one of Jane’s gifts; no matter where they were, in the wilds of Africa or a sulfi’s palace or even the treacherous ballrooms of London, she knew just what to say and how to say it.
It was that particular ability to understand others and to blend into whatever society she was in that made his many expeditions so profitable. Where another explorer might be greeted with distrust, after a few deft words from Jane, Michael and his party were almost always welcomed and charged far less for services than others.
Jane continued to draw out Mary. Soon, Jane’s clothing and hat were forgotten, and the two women were talking quite animatedly about marriages and children and other frivolous topics that Michael knew Jane cared nothing for.
She must have read his thoughts, for though she continued to chat with his sister, Jane sent him a laughing look beneath her lashes, which he answered with faintly raised brows and a mocking smile.
After several more moments of listening to female chatter, Michael yawned.
Ammon immediately stated, “It is time to retire.”
“He can’t leave,” Mary exclaimed. “He hasn’t spoken to a single potential sponsor yet.”
“I’m not going to, either,” he said. “This damned cravat is too tight and I wish to go home.”
“Then we shall go home,” Ammon announced.
Jane tsked. “Ammon, Mr. Hurst cannot leave yet. He has a chore he must complete first.”
Michael scowled. “Not this evening.”
“Hurst, think about it. You must speak to at least one potential sponsor before you retire from this evening, because i
f you don’t, you will have wasted the time you’ve already spent wearing that atrocious cravat.”
He’d been tugging on the damned thing when she said that, which made him stop. “Atrocious?”
“Oh, yes. Quite atrocious. Made all the more so, since you’ve been tugging on it. If you don’t find a sponsor tonight, you’ll just have to wear it again and again and again—”
He made a disgusted noise.
Jane continued as if she hadn’t heard it, still speaking in an annoyingly perky tone: “—and again and again until you do. If I were you, I’d refuse to leave this ball until I’d found a sponsor.”
He scowled. “I hate it when you speak of something that I dislike in such a bloody happy tone.”
Her eyes twinkled. “I know. Which is why I do it as often as I can.”
“Oh, look!” Mary nodded toward the refreshment table. “There’s Devonshire! His grace expressly asked to meet you.”
“Who?”
“The Duke of Devonshire,” Mary said impatiently. “I told you in the carriage on the way over that we were to speak to him here. Weren’t you lis— No. Of course you weren’t.”
“Devonshire might support more than one expedition,” Jane said, looking as pleased as if she’d discovered a reference to a new tomb. “He’s dreadfully wealthy.”
Michael sighed. “Stop your blathering, you nagging wench!” He ignored both Jane’s grin and Mary’s scowl. “I’ll do it. I just wish I’d brought a bigger flask.” He squinted at the refreshment table. “Which asinine fop is Devonshire? Please tell me it’s not the man in puce who looks like a fool. I can’t— Bloody hell, are those diamonds upon the lace at his wrists?”
“He may be a fop, but he’s a very well-heeled fop,” Mary said. “And he’s already stated to several people that he’s interested in sponsoring the great Michael Hurst; Devonshire’s an avid follower of the newspaper serial.”
Michael sighed again. “Which means he thinks I wrestle crocodiles by the dozen.”
Jane choked, and even Ammon looked as if he might break into a sudden grin. “I beg your pardon,” Jane said, “but . . . crocodiles? Oh, dear. I do need to catch up with the newspaper serial.”