Elias turned his walking stick back and forth between his fingers. Here, they would probably call his odd jobs smuggling. Personally, he would call it assisting with repatriation when required. His missions tended to come about spontaneously, when he was approached by people who knew he was fluent in the languages of the thieves and educated in their customs. Often enough, his negotiation skills in combination with sponsor money saw pieces returned. In the cases where money didn’t talk, well, perhaps he might have shared the floor plan of a mansion or a warehouse and marked locations of artifacts with an X. He might have deliberately ignored it when his cargo ship carried something other than textile products back east in the darkness of the hull. But he never took payment; he dealt in favors and he gained trust—essential for strong relations between men of business. The family who sponsored the bull mission were merchants, on the cusp of entering a joint venture with him, so if they wanted artifacts from Sidon returned to Sidon and asked him for help, he was at their service. His ambition in life was to build his own business stronghold and reduce reliance on the family enterprise before he turned thirty, and if he were a proper smuggler, who would trust him?
He studied the nearest bull, who returned his scrutiny with the patient expression of those who had watched the rise and fall of various empires.
“He’s laughing at us,” Elias said, “isn’t he.”
“He is,” Nassim confirmed, and dutifully unleashed a stream of insults at the bull that involved his cock, cocks in general, and all of the bull’s dearest relatives.
Elias put a hand to his forehead, his thumb against his temple.
“Listen here,” Nassim said. “I’m by your side. Whatever your plan. Just, a plan would be helpful?”
“Any plan,” Elias said, “would have to involve the local networks. I’m not well enough connected here yet for a major operation.”
Nassim’s expression turned brooding.
“I shall see if anyone in France would fit,” Elias said.
“Yes. And people here at the docks will know.”
“They ought to be higher up in society,” Elias replied.
Nassim’s face brightened at that. A grin split his face. “Of course. That’s why you did it. And I doubted you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Come on. The lady,” Nassim said, his grin widening. “It did surprise me.”
Her bespectacled face flashed before Elias’s eyes. “Nassim.”
“You are seducing her,” Nassim said; the appreciative look in his eyes said You fox!
“Seducing?” Elias drawled.
“It’s destiny,” Nassim mimicked with a dainty wave of his hand. “It struck me as odd, you trying to flirt with her; she seems very stiff, very English.”
“She’s Scottish,” Elias said in a flat tone.
“Well, it’s the same,” said Nassim with some impatience. “But she seems unused to flirtation, so I reckon you’ll win her favor easily . . .”
“Stop insinuating that she would be free with her favors,” Elias said a little too quietly, and whatever Nassim saw in his face made him go still.
A still Nassim was a rare sight, but behind his eyes his quick mind was jumping to outrageous conclusions about Elias’s reflexive protectiveness of Lady Catriona’s honor. Elias, for his part, preferred not to dwell on this at all.
Nassim leaned a shoulder against the bull and tilted his head. “I was complimenting the power of your charm, not insulting the lady,” he offered.
Elias rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Tell me. What would seducing her accomplish?”
“So,” Nassim ventured, carefully, sweetly now, as a devil sitting on a man’s shoulder would. “A woman in love does foolish things. She overlooks things. She explains things away. She likes to help, to make you love her more.”
“Foolish things,” Elias repeated. “Such as: help me with a heist that would besmirch her father’s reputation, the very reputation on which her own ambitions hinge—don’t touch it.”
Nassim withdrew his finger from the bull’s nostril. “Be that as it may, if the Englishman refuses to do business, we will need someone from their side who does cooperate.”
He wanted to say that she wasn’t on another side, but he wasn’t a fool. Not entirely, yet.
“Look,” Nassim coaxed, “if you haven’t done the sweet talk on purpose, I believe you”—clearly he did not—“but it might soften her just the same. You know how quickly one becomes delusional when love beckons; it wouldn’t even be your fault if she jumps to conclusions.”
This sounded like a half-veiled reminder of Elias’s own, now abandoned, delusions about love. There had been a brief but ecstatic interlude, which had resulted in his de facto banishment from the mountain. It was why he was here in this room, he supposed, on his own mission, pushed into establishing himself without much family assistance.
Seduce her.
It was true, her assistance, in whichever form, could only help.
“Shame,” he said, softly, as if to himself.
Nassim shrugged. “Sacrifice something minor to win the whole game. I’ve seen you do it often enough.”
“Yes, when playing chess, idiot.”
The lady wasn’t a wooden pawn on a board. Besides, she did not wish to be seduced. Compliments and poetry wouldn’t woo her, this he knew instinctively, and learning her personal preferences required closeness in the first place . . . Nassim was smiling faintly. The silence had been too heavy with Elias’s weighing of his conscience against his ambitions, and they both seemed to know which way the balance was tipping. It didn’t feel as deplorable to him as it should. A part of him was clearly influenced by his unholy desire to see more of her.
“If I did it,” he said, “it would have to be within the bounds of propriety.”
“Of course, Eli,” said Nassim. “Of course.”
He probably imagined it, that the air still smelled of lavender. The clean scent filled his mouth and teased his tongue as though he had already taken a bite from the forbidden fruit.
* * *
Catriona arrived at the Campbell flat with drooping shoulders. After showing the men around the museum, she had spent the day at various libraries, selecting research material for her new suffrage task that should be ready for her to read by tomorrow. Her body felt as though it had been encased in lead. Too many people for one day. Fleeing imaginary Peregrins this morning hadn’t helped.
“If anyone calls on me, I’m not home,” she told MacKenzie.
Listlessly, she stood in the door to the study. Bookshelves covered the walls from floor to ceiling, except for the doors leading to the bedchambers. On the right side of the room, two Chesterfield armchairs flanked the fireplace; to the left, two desks stood below the windows facing the walled garden. On her desk, a stack of empty pages loomed. She ignored it on her way to her bedroom.