Her Majesty's Necromancer (The Ministry of Curiosities #2)(57)

"There's one in a drawer somewhere. I'll look for it later."

"Very well. Come fetch me when you're ready for training." I smiled somewhat awkwardly and turned to go.

"Charlie. Wait." He knuckles whitened and his gaze didn't quite meet mine.

"Yes?" I murmured. "Is there something you need?"

"Your help."

"To tie the ribbon?"

He shook his head. "With…conversing."

"Oh? You mean you want to know how to engage someone in a conversation that has nothing to do with the paranormal, fighting, or grave robbing?"

"Don't tease me."

"Being teased and knowing how to tease is part of the art of conversing and flirting. Not that I think you ought to flirt just yet," I added quickly. "Leave that for when you're more comfortable with small talk."

"So how does one begin?"

"That depends. You need to adjust what you say according to the people you're with. Perhaps observe and listen for a few minutes before joining in. See what topics interest the group and gauge their general mood, then offer an opinion on something they're talking about. The gentlemen will no doubt discuss politics, and I've seen you read the newspapers. You must be able to say something appropriate."

"And if politics isn't the topic?"

I shrugged. "You're a clever man and very knowledgeable about a wide range of subjects. I'm sure you'll be able to offer something interesting to a conversation."

"Whenever I try, the conversations usually stop dead."

"Perhaps you try too hard. It's best to keep your strongest opinions to yourself until you're fully comfortable with someone. Say something witty—" I cleared my throat. "Say something clever, but be sure it's nothing too gruesome, inappropriate or dull."

"Therein lies the problem. How do I know if what I want to say is any of those before I get a reaction?"

I sighed. This was proving tougher than I thought. "I'm not sure I'm the best person to give advice. The art of conversing in ballrooms is beyond my experience. I'm far more familiar with juvenile jokes that amuse boys than mature banter. And as for flirting, I've never practiced it, I'm afraid. I've never had the opportunity."

He pushed off from the table and came to stand in front of me. "You're wrong. Your skills are equal to any woman I've met. Perhaps it simply comes naturally to you."

My stomach tied itself in knots as I blinked up at him. He wouldn't think it came naturally to me if he knew how his attentions affected me, and how his praise made me want to earn more. "Perhaps," was all I said.

"Your childhood was spent in polite society, and the habits of good manners and conversation were drilled into you by your adopted parents. I grew up isolated from society for much of my life. It's a limitation of my training that the general didn't identify until it was too late."

"Training," not upbringing. Did he see his childhood as one long training session to be endured? How awful and sad; cruel, even. "Oh, Lincoln."

His eyes flared then, and he backed away. He turned to his desk and shuffled a stack of papers. "Thank you, Charlie. You may go."

I opened my mouth to apologize but shut it again. I wasn't sorry for pitying him, only for letting him see and hear my pity. I needed to be more careful in the future.

"Sometimes all that's required is silence and a smile," I said, in a lame attempt to return to our topic. "Indeed, a smile can achieve much, particularly with women." I regretted saying it immediately. I didn't want him to bestow a smile on another woman. I wanted him to bestow one on me. Yet he'd never done more than twitch the corners of his mouth, and I doubted he ever would; for me or anyone else.

"I'll keep that in mind. You may go."

One day I would get him to shed a little bit of his pride, just for me. But I suspected that day was a long way off.

***

Lincoln disappeared into his rooms after our training session. I hovered in the library, a duster in one hand and a book in the other, and waited for him to come down. I didn't want to miss him before he went out. Training hadn't eased the awkwardness between us—it had only amplified it—and I hated to part like that. I hoped he did too and would come looking for me.

It was growing quite late, however, and I was about to go in search of him to see if he'd changed his mind and wasn't going after all, when the crunch of gravel beneath hooves and wheels announced the arrival of a coach. I peered through the window just as Lady Harcourt's footman opened the door for her and she stepped out of the large carriage.

What was she doing here?

I set down the book and duster and went to open the door for her. She seemed surprised to see me and not Gus or Seth. I bobbed a curtsy.

"Good evening, my lady," I said. "Are you expected?"

"I'm not." She smiled as she swanned inside, the hem of her deep blue gown skimming over the floor tiles. It was the first time I'd seen her out of mourning, although it was a dark enough color to keep most sticklers for propriety happy, even with the silver thread embroidered into it. She stood beneath the chandelier and every diamond on her person sparkled. She wore them at her earlobes, over the gloves on her fingers and wrists, and those were merely the ones I could see. The high collar of the gray fur coat probably hid even more at her throat and décolletage. She even had them in her hair and I had to admit her dark tresses set them off beautifully. She was breathtaking.