Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(66)

Desperate for a moment to think, she stumbled, “Would you, uh, like some tea?”

“Emmeline’s taking care of it. Come, sit.” Ogden gestured to a chair. He didn’t appear angry, only puzzled. “Master Kelsey says you met in the market?”

Elsie’s gaze flitted like a fledgling sparrow from Bacchus to Ogden, to Bacchus, to the mantel, to Bacchus, and back to the chair he occupied. By the time she reached her own seat, she’d investigated everything in the room, and Master Kelsey a dozen times over. “Yes, when I went to get those paints.” Truth. Her mind spun through everything that was safe to share. She sat. Tried to read Bacchus’s expression, but he was so bloody good at hiding his thoughts all she got was stoic curiosity, if such a thing existed. “You’ve tested, then?”

“It was not so much a test as a formality of my acceptance, but yes.” His English accent was crisp, flawless. His green gaze swept over her quickly. Elsie checked her posture.

In reply she said, “We are generally unharmed, though as you can see, Mr. Ogden took the brunt of the attack.” Ogden’s eye was a nice mix of yellow, red, and violet, and it would only be darker tomorrow. Remembering herself, she added to Ogden, “The blacksmith will be here tonight, the glazier tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Turning to Bacchus—it was unreal to have him sitting there, in their sitting room, looking so normal, so present—she asked, “How is the duke? Mr. Ogden, I don’t know if Mr.—Master—Kelsey told you, but he’s staying with the Duke of Kent. Apparently he was good friends with Bacchus’s late father.” She was talking too fast.

Master Kelsey. Master Kelsey. She certainly wouldn’t get used to that. And the more she dwelled on it, the smaller their sitting room seemed, the plainer her dress became, the simpler her life, her interests, and her employment. One word, one title, had done all that.

She hated it.

“He did mention it, yes.”

Emmeline stepped in then, carrying the tea service. She set it down, but Bacchus politely declined, and Elsie waved her cup away, stomach too tight to accept so much as a sip. Ogden, however, took his, sugar and cream and all.

“The duke is unwell,” Bacchus finally answered as Emmeline departed, looking over her shoulder every fourth step. “I often forget how old he is, how mortal.”

“Oh no.” Elsie leaned forward. “Not terribly ill, is he?”

Bacchus shook his head. “A temporal aspector came by, but the duke is seventy already, so he could only do so much. The outlook is rather dim.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Ogden set aside his tea. “I imagine you are close to him.”

“Will you stay?” Elsie asked. Then, realizing how pleading the words sounded, she added, “I-In Kent, I mean. For the duke’s convalescence.”

He nodded. “Of course. But I did not come to share my grievances, only to ensure you were dealing well with your own.”

Ogden replied, “Journalists will embellish any story to make it sell. It was a by-the-books failed robbery, I’d say.”

“I agree with you, about the journalists.” Bacchus folded his hands together. His sleeves seemed more fitted, as did the shoulders of his frock coat. Goodness, was it possible for the man to get even larger now that the siphoning spell wasn’t sucking his strength away? “But you are an aspector, and if your attack is related to the other crimes, it could be a serious matter.”

Ogden chuckled. “Then the culprit is indeed getting desperate.”

Bacchus seemed to consider this.

“And you?” Elsie tried, still struggling to discern his state of mind. “You’re well? Outside of the duke’s health?”

He nodded. “Very well.” There was an intonation in the words that warmed her, like he was thanking her yet again for his newfound vivacity. “As for the duke, time will tell.”

Of course, Bacchus was going to leave eventually, no matter how long he stayed. From what he’d told her on the way to Ipswich, he had no interest in furthering himself with the London Physical Atheneum. His real life was in Barbados, where he didn’t have to fake an accent or complain about frigid weather. She knew that—had reminded herself of it often—and yet she was glad he’d come to see her. Perhaps he would stop by again before sailing the River Thames. Perhaps.

The small talk ran low, and Elsie heard the front door open downstairs. Ogden must have heard it as well, for he stood, tugged down his shirt, and offered a hand to their guest. “I thank you for looking out for us, Master Kelsey. It’s unnecessarily kind of you.”

He nodded. “I hope your eye heals quickly.”

They ventured downstairs, Elsie wringing her hands together, and had just turned toward the studio when Emmeline, flustered, came barreling down the hall. “M-Mr. Ogden, Nash is here for you.”

“Tell him now is not a good time.”

The blond-haired man appeared in the hallway behind her, dressed casually in a linen shirt with no cravat or waistcoat. “Sir, if I might—”

“Not now, Nash.” Ogden didn’t shout it, but he might as well have. The venom in his voice gave Elsie pause, and even Bacchus looked askance at him.

The deliveryman looked offended—even enraged—for half a second, but he didn’t say anything as he turned and strode away, exiting through the studio door. Elsie thought he’d slam it, but he didn’t.