My face warmed, and I looked away. “I believe I might have called her a spoiled Portia with no concept of mercy.”
He laughed and hit his knee. “That’s right. Portia’s speech on mercy in the final act of The Merchant of Venice. Allie had no idea what you meant.”
“In my defense, she was taunting me—”
“With no mercy?”
“Something like that,” I mumbled, embarrassed he’d heard about that.
“Oh, I have no doubt. One of Allie’s charms is her childish teasing.” He laughed again and shook his head. “Next time, though, I suggest you use less obscure insults. They might hit their mark better.”
I didn’t know if I ought to laugh with him or stammer apologies, but at that precise moment, the subject herself saved me from my confusion. Allison bustled up and glared down at us. “What’s so funny?” she demanded. Clarence only shrugged, putting his hand in his pocket, and shot me a conspiratorial wink.
“Fine,” she said. “Keep your secrets. I don’t care.” She lifted a perfect eyebrow. “Scoot over. I want to sit between you.”
“Take my seat, Allie.” Clarence rose and slung a smooth bow. “If you’ll excuse me.” Then he sauntered away.
“Where is he going?” Allison asked.
I didn’t answer. My attention was focused on Clarence’s hand, in which gleamed the golden pocket watch. He strolled through the parlor door and disappeared.
The minutes ticked past, and Clarence did not reappear. Either something at dinner had disagreed with his digestion or the man had sneaked off for some other purpose. But what?
When I was a child, Father used to say, “My daughter’s biggest vices are curiosity and a fondness for buttered toast.” He was right, of course, and that curiosity was now piqued to its fullest.
Clarence was up to something, and I intended to find out what.
I left Allison on the sofa and crossed to the window, where I slid the velvet curtain aside. The parlor lights glared on the window, so although I could make out a few hazy shapes in the garden—the old cherry tree to the left and the bench beside it—I could distinguish nothing more.
I let the curtain fall back. The séance would begin soon, but I still had enough time to peek outside. I casually strolled across the room, darted through the doorway, and softly closed the door behind me.
I crept down the dim corridor that bisected our house and into the high-ceilinged foyer. Voices, deep and low, permeated the front doorway, and I would wager that one of those speakers was Clarence. My heart picked up speed. I gathered my skirts, tiptoed pass the main staircase, and pressed my ear to the front door.
“Two hundred,” drawled a male voice with a Cockney accent.
Someone sputtered—Clarence. “That’s outrageous.”
“Hmmm. Well,” said the Cockney man, “if you want his word, you’ll ’ave to pay.”
“Yes, yes,” said Clarence. “And have you had any news on Sure Hands?”
“No, but I brought you this. It’s a picture of him—quite old. He’s only a boy in it.”
“But you’re certain the man you saw was he?”
“Aye.”
“All right, then.” There was a rustling sound, like paper being handed over. “Same time tomorrow night,” Clarence added. “I’ll be at the Arch Street Theatre.”
“Yes, sir.”
Suddenly, footsteps drummed toward me.
I reeled back. Clarence hadn’t even said good-bye, and now he was coming back inside? The door handle turned, and I scrambled around to flee to the parlor. I only made it four steps.
“Miss Fitt.”
I whirled around. “M-Mr. Wilcox. Hello.” I bobbed a curtsy.
“What the devil are you doing here?” His eyebrows were angled so far down, they practically reached his nose.
“I was l-looking for you.” I gulped. “The entertainment is about to begin.” I glanced at his hand. He held a rolled-up newspaper and, at my gaze, he stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
Clarence strode through the foyer and peered down his perfect nose at me. “How long have you been standing here?”
“Only a moment.” I fluttered my lashes. I am as innocent as a baby bird, I tried to say with my eyes.
“Really.” He spoke it as a statement, and frowned. “You know, eavesdropping is most unladylike.”
My jaw dropped. “Eavesdropping? I was doing no such thing.”
“No?”
“Certainly not, Mr. Wilcox. And false accusations are most un... most un-manly-like.” The retort was a stuttered failure, but I puffed out my chest anyway. “What were you doing outside?”
“Getting fresh air.”
My eyebrows shot up as if to say “Really?” He squinted at me, and I glowered back.
At last he cleared his throat and donned a tight smile. “Miss Fitt, while I am delighted to have your company at present, I would ask that you keep our current meeting to your—”