Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(28)

The vicar fumbled through his pockets for a folded piece of paper, opened it, and handed it over. On it was a simple design sketched in pieces. Elsie could not really describe it other than to think it looked very “Ogden.” Dark tiles made a design against white ones, giving an illusion of two almost-circles, one inside the other. There was something familiar about it that she could not put her finger on. It made her fingers itch to touch it.

The vicar proceeded to ramble about his discussions with Ogden. Elsie’s pencil stayed poised to record the relevant information, and she scrawled down numbers in the far-right column, occasionally prying for more information.

“Blue and white,” she repeated.

“Peacock blue. A muted peacock blue, that is. I don’t wish to distract from worship.”

Elsie wrote muted and underlined it. “We’ll be in touch about the timing and cost.”

“We did discuss a budget,” the vicar continued.

“Mr. Ogden has an impeccable memory, I assure you.” The door opened again, and a flash of blond hair caught Elsie’s eye. She glanced up at Abel Nash, but he merely scoured the room once, offered a cheery nod, and departed again, ignoring the deliveries she’d prepared. That addle pate. Did he expect her to hand them to him?

Elsie sighed. “Thank you, Mr. Harrison.”

The vicar left, and Elsie found both Emmeline and Ogden, the latter cursing up a storm, in the hallway, surrounded by an array of boxes and knickknacks pulled from the cupboard below the stairs.

“Are they not in the kitchen?” she asked, and was ignored. “The vicar came by about a mosaic at the chapel. And Nash was here.”

Ogden cursed again. “Is he waiting?”

“The vicar or Nash?”

“Nash, damn it.”

“Mr. Ogden.” Emmeline looked uncomfortable, though Elsie didn’t think it was due to the wording of his reprimand.

“No,” Elsie answered. “He left.”

“Of course he did.”

Elsie looked over the mess. “Might your granite tools be misplaced in the studio?”

Ogden paused in his rifling, shoulders drooping. “Do check, Elsie.”

She nodded and returned the way she had come, setting the ledger back on its shelf before rummaging for the tools. She’d searched three-quarters of the studio when Ogden shouted, “Eureka!” from the hallway. He stumbled into the studio a moment later, a heavy leather bag in hand. Elsie would bet a shilling the bag had been in the kitchen the whole time.

“I have details for those chapel tiles in the binder.” He wiped his forehead. “I need you to go to the quarryman and request the stone.”

Elsie swallowed but nodded. That would take her another two hours, most likely. Perhaps Mr. Kelsey wouldn’t detain her long, and she could do it on the way back? But she’d received no telegram regarding the duke’s invitation to dinner, which likely meant she was obligated to go. Maybe she could go to the quarryman’s home after hours and make her apologies.

“Of course,” she managed.

Ogden relaxed. “Thank you. I’ll be back.” He tromped through the studio and out the front door, leaving it ajar in his wake. Elsie shut it. She’d never make it to Kent in decent time. Would Mr. Kelsey hold it against her? But she’d told him she had this job to worry about!

She pressed her forehead to the cool wood of the door. This was some sort of twisted nightmare. Blackmailed by an aspector and invited to dinner by a duke. The latter was unheard of. She was no gentlewoman! Even her finest dress wouldn’t suit their table. Surely the man hadn’t mistaken her for someone of rank, so what was he getting at?

The duke would ask questions. Barrage her with them. He’d judge her. His whole family would judge her—

“Elsie, whatever is the matter?”

Pulling her forehead from the door, Elsie turned to see a very concerned-looking Emmeline standing in the doorway of the studio. Elsie slumped.

“Oh, I wish I could tell you. But on top of it all, I have a dinner invitation.” It would be unbelievably rude to ignore the invitation. The man didn’t actually know her . . . but he was a duke, for heaven’s sake!

Elsie drew a harsh breath through her nose. Look on the bright side. It will provide an opportunity to determine just what spell Mr. Kelsey is hiding on his person. Perhaps he was secretly older than the duke and merely used magic to make himself appear so rugged and masculine. Stupid spellmaker and his stupid rich friends.

Emmeline lit up like a child on Christmas morning. “Dinner invitation? With whom, the vicar?”

Elsie snorted. “You would never believe it.”

Emmeline hurried across the room and grabbed Elsie’s hands. “Do tell me.”

“I have to visit the quarryman.”

“Oh, Elsie, you’ve time to tell me quickly. Please.”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek a moment. “Well, I met this aspector in . . . town . . . and he apparently works for the Duke of Kent—”

“The Duke of Kent!” Emmeline squealed. Elsie might have as well were their positions switched. But gossip involving oneself was nowhere near as interesting as digging into someone else’s business.

“And I’m to come to dinner, and if I say no . . . Who says no to a duke?” Elsie might have cried.