A Most Dangerous Profession(87)

“More’s the pit—”

“What my brother means to say,” Mary said hurriedly, “is that The Morning Post serial is but a small portion of his writings. He’s the author of many scientific treatises on artifacts and ruins that he’s unearthed, and—”

“And my diaries,” he interjected smoothly.

One of the other girls clasped her hands together and said in a soulful tone, “I’ve never known a man to keep a diary.”

“And just how many men do you know?” Michael asked, irritated to be placed upon a pedestal for the most mundane of things.

Mary glared at him as if she were fighting the urge to smack his head, as she had when they were children. “No one will invite you anywhere if you continue like this,” she hissed.

“Nonsense. They are too silly to know any better.”

As if to prove his point, a girl with brown hair and a protruding chin said brazenly, as if every word were a challenge that he wouldn’t be able to resist, “Mr. Hurst, I daresay our petty little parties bore you to death.”

“Yes, they do.”

Not realizing he found the ball boring because of inane comments like hers, she sent her companions a triumphant glance over her shoulder. “Of course! This must seem so dull after your adventures on the Nile. Especially after wrestling crocodiles, and—”

“I beg your pardon,” Michael interrupted. “Did you say ‘wrestling’ and ‘crocodiles’?”

The girl blinked. “W-why, yes. You wrote that you were forced to do so last January, during mating season when they’re at their most fierce.”

Michael crossed his arms and glared at his sister. “Mary?”

She blushed, a bit of desperation in her tone as she said, “I daresay you’ll remember it quite clearly once you’ve had some refreshment.” Mary curtsied to the small group. “I hope you’ll excuse us, but my poor brother needs some nourishment. If you don’t mind, we’ll make our way to the refreshment table.” Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed his arm and burrowed through the crowd.

At the table she quickly took two glasses and a small plate with a tiny piece of stale cake on it. With an air of determination, she found an alcove safely hidden from prying eyes.

Mary let out a huge sigh as she sat upon the small settee provided for those fatigued from dancing.

“A crocodile?” Michael asked. “You’ve been wielding your pen far too artfully in my serial for The Morning Post.”

“You asked me to write the serial for you,” she pointed out.

“Yes, because I didn’t have the time to do it. Not because I wished someone to fabricate ridiculous stories. When I first arrived in town, I thought people were beginning to warm to true scientific discovery. Now I see that they were merely amazed at the preposterous tales you’ve told about my expeditions.”

“People are interested in your research. Just last week, Lord Harken-Styles said he wishes to invest even more in your adventures.”

“Lord Harken-Styles waylaid me in White’s last night and asked if he could see the arrowhead from the savage who shot me through the neck.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. His lordship seemed to be under the delusion that not only had I been shot through the neck with an arrow, but that I was such a sapskull as to wear the arrowhead around my neck as a good luck talisman.”

Her lips twitched. “I thought that was a very romantic touch.”

“And thoroughly untruthful,” he replied sternly. “Are there any other surprise adventures that I should know about? A duel over a foreign princess in the desert? A missing limb? An extra toe?”

She giggled. “It is all your fault, you know. You are such a horrid correspondent that I was forced to make up things.”

A commotion suddenly roiled across the ballroom.

“What is it?” Mary asked, who could see very little since she was sitting.

“I don’t know. Everyone has turned toward the door and—Ah! Jane has arrived.”

Jane Smythe-Haughton had been his assistant for almost four years now, and he almost couldn’t remember his life before she’d swept in and begun arranging his expeditions. Things were infinitely better with her around. His meals were more to his liking, his clothes where they should be, his pen nibs sharpened just so, and his scientific equipment always at the ready. She was extraordinarily efficient and, except for a very few times, he rarely had to think about her at all—exactly as he liked it.