Bacchus clasped his hands behind his back. “And what would those future excursions be?”
Miss Camden blushed; the extra color in her cheeks had a lovely effect, though her forehead wrinkled with annoyance. “Nothing that concerns you.”
“Then you should not have concerned me in the first place.”
She stomped her foot. Like a child. Bacchus was tempted to laugh.
“You are impossible, Mr. Kelsey.” Lowering her voice, she added, “Were I a registered spellbreaker, I would have charged you a good sum for the work I’ve done. Certainly ample enough to cover any fine for trespassing.”
“But not enough for bail, if I understand correctly.”
She blanched again, but the effect wasn’t as stark this time. Drawing herself up, she said, “It would be easier for me to return tomorrow than to stay much later today. I ask that you be considerate of my predicament. Please.”
The crack in her stubbornness softened him, and he nodded. “Just a brief consultation, then.”
“And how will I work with the tenants without them noticing what I am?”
“It is not their homes that concern me, but their fields.” Few landowners paid to have physical or temporal aspectors bespell their tenants’ homes. If they were built well enough, they didn’t technically need it, although Bacchus had volunteered his time to place fortifications for most of the duke’s tenants. “Perhaps you can pose as a steward.”
She pressed her lips together, considering.
“Ah, Bacchus, there you are!”
Bacchus turned at the sound of the duke’s voice; he came striding down the steps from the ballroom. If his appearance made Miss Camden uncomfortable, she didn’t show it.
The duke’s eyes slid to the spellbreaker for a brief moment before returning to Bacchus. “It looks marvelous, if I may give my uneducated opinion. I’m sure the duchess will approve; thank you for giving in to her whims.”
Bacchus nodded. “It’s the least I could do.”
The duke smiled and turned to Miss Camden. “Surely you will introduce me to this young woman?” He had a glint in his eye that Bacchus didn’t like.
Bacchus cleared his throat. “Of course. Miss Camden, this is Isaiah Scott, the Duke of Kent. Your Grace, this is Miss Elsie Camden.”
Miss Camden executed a well-practiced curtsy.
“My pleasure, Miss Camden.” The duke was grinning now. And of course he would be. Bacchus had made no calls in England save for his ill-fated visit to the Physical Atheneum, and now he had been caught strolling in the gardens with a well-dressed young woman. He could have kicked himself.
“My dear,” the duke continued, “we are at a loss for dinner guests as of late—”
No.
“—and it would be lovely to see a new face at the table.”
Bacchus narrowed his eyes at the duke, but it was clear the man would not be dissuaded. The duchess had threatened matchmaking in her last letters before Bacchus had boarded the ship for Europe, but he hadn’t thought she was serious about it, let alone that she would recruit her husband to the cause. He’d always intended to marry someone from the island, when he found the right one.
“Perhaps tomorrow, if you do not have other plans?” the duke finished.
Miss Camden blushed again. “I-I . . . that is, th-thank you for the offer, but I’m no one of importance—”
“Nonsense. A friend of Bacchus’s is a friend of mine.”
Miss Camden looked arthritic. After a moment almost long enough to be awkward, she nodded with a stiff neck. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Bacchus remained silent.
The duke was jovial. “Excellent! But I will not interrupt you further.” He nodded to both of them before returning to the house.
A sigh escaped Bacchus’s lips. “I may be able to make your excuses.”
Miss Camden nodded dumbly, but once she came to herself, she said, “Bacchus.”
He eyed her.
She grinned. “The god of the harvest and eternal consumption. Hmm, yes, I think it’s very fitting.”
His expression darkened. “It is not an unusual name.”
She pulled out her chatelaine bag and thumbed through it. She retrieved nothing; perhaps she merely needed something to occupy her hands. “I think it is rather too late for that consultation you requested, Mr. Kelsey. Do send word once you inform the duke of my utter unimportance. Otherwise, I will see you tomorrow morning to pay off my debts.”
She gave him a sloppy curtsy and again saw herself out, not so much as allowing him a chance to demand another hour’s work or to offer the use of a carriage. Not that he was feeling particularly charitable at the moment.
He turned back toward the house, working out how he would explain the situation to the duke without betraying Miss Camden’s trust. He did not think her a particularly trustworthy individual, but he had made a promise, and he would keep it.
However, he had a sinking feeling that the duke would merely cajole him and that the man’s mind, set, would be impossible to change.
CHAPTER 8
Elsie had just prepared herself for another day out and was reaching for the back-door handle when Ogden yanked it from the other side, causing her to shriek.
Hand on her chest, chatelaine bag in her hand, she said, “Mr. Ogden! Are you not at the squire’s today?”
She’d been preparing to set out for the Duke of Kent’s estate, again, while pondering how she could adjust the route to deliver two bids. She’d already prepared a couple of orders in the studio for Nash to pick up.
Ogden looked frustrated. “I am, but not yet. I tell you, Elsie, a stonemason’s job in a town like this one is a leisurely pursuit three hundred and sixty-four days of the year!” He marched past her, a man on a mission, into the studio. Opened a drawer beneath the counter. “Where are my granite tools?”
Brow furrowed, Elsie hurried over to him and checked the drawer. Empty. She checked the one next to it, and the one next to that. “I put them right here.”
“Emmeline!” Ogden bellowed. “I need my granite tools!”
“Is everything all right?” Elsie asked, following Ogden like the tail of a comet.
Ogden searched a cupboard. “Fine.” His head struck the top of the cupboard, and something sharp seasoned his breath. Pulling free, he sighed. “It’s fine, really. Just . . . people.”
Elsie leaned her weight on one leg. “You’ve always been fond of people.”
Ogden snorted. “I won’t give in to rumor, Elsie, but the squire has his hands in all sorts of nefarious affairs, and they bleed all over that house. Emmeline!”
Nefarious affairs?
Her shoulders slackened. “Did the Wright sisters say something?” Perhaps they were saving her the trouble of solving the mystery of the squire, the baron, and the viscount.
Ogden didn’t answer. Emmeline came racing around the corner, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes, I think I know where they are—”
A knock sounded at the front door.
Setting down her chatelaine, Elsie hurried to the door and found herself face-to-face with the vicar.
“Mr. Harrison, how are you this morning?” Her pulse was beating too quickly for her short run.
The vicar removed his hat. “Quite well, quite well. Thank you. I’ve come to officially commission that tile work. Mr. Ogden and I discussed it some time ago—March, perhaps. For the church.”
He emphasized for the church as though doing so would earn him a discount.
He continued, “Is Mr. Ogden available?”
But Ogden had already vacated the area. Somewhere down the hall, something—many somethings from the sound of it—clattered to the floor. Elsie’s best guess was that Emmeline had knocked something over in the space beneath the stairs.
“He is, unfortunately, preoccupied.” Elsie smiled, falling into the persona of the helpful secretary. She retrieved a ledger from beneath the narrow counter separating herself from the vicar and opened it to the first blank page, glancing once at the clock. Mr. Kelsey would no doubt comment on her tardiness, but he couldn’t keep her under his thumb forever . . . Could he? “Why don’t you tell me about your request, and anything specific you discussed with Mr. Ogden?” She thought she recalled Ogden mentioning a mosaic of sorts for the chapel but didn’t remember any details.