“And therefore have you none,” he said. “But I jest!” He clinked his cup against my cup and gestured to the dancing, bending his head close to mine, effectively shutting Mortenson out of the conversation.
The neglected man slipped away. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him for just a moment—never comfortable in conversation, not anyone’s favorite, always the odd man out. But his absence did help me breathe a bit easier, and I took a grateful sip from my cup. I watched him without turning my head; our detecting skills always came in handy, even in an atmosphere like this one, which might not seem to call for them.
After a few minutes, Mortenson joined a circle of conversation that included Tim Bellamy, who had an unusually dainty young lady decorating his arm. I couldn’t help but stare at her. Her gown was made of a deep pink silk with five flounces, lovely and clearly expensive. Ribbons ornamented her sleeves. The waves of her jet-black hair, parted in the center and beautifully styled into broad loops, gleamed in the light above her silver, bell-shaped earbobs. Most remarkably, she looked up into Bellamy’s face with an open, rapt gaze. I nudged DeForest.
“Is Bellamy married?”
He glanced over with a subtle motion. “Affianced, I believe.”
“Good for him, then.”
“Won’t last. They never do.”
The idea of upright, stony Bellamy as a serial fiancé struck me as slightly ludicrous. “He’s been engaged to be married before?”
DeForest laughed. “Not him in particular. It’s the work. Late nights, too many secrets, never able to talk about anything or build a life in private. We belong to the work first and foremost. Everything else comes second or not at all. The other person never understands.”
“Seems like Pinkerton’s wife does.”
“The exception to the rule. And he’s the boss—he’s not out on cases day and night. It’s different for us. When an operative is involved, marriages don’t last.”
Softly, I said, “Even if you were interested in such things.”
“Actually, I’m strongly considering it.”
It was the last response I expected to hear from him, given his situation, which he now knew I was aware of. I dropped my voice but kept my tone casual, in case anyone was listening. We both looked straight ahead, watching the dancers. It made the seriousness of our conversation feel less ponderous.
“But why?”
“People ask fewer questions. Wife at home, nobody wonders. You understand?”
“In a sense.”
“As a matter of fact,” he said, still looking at the dancers and not at me, “I’ve thought about proposing to one woman in particular.”
“She was still married.”
“Good God, Kate, not Cath Maroney, that hotfooted harlot. I’m not a fool.”
“Aren’t you?” I teased.
His mouth turned up at the corner. “Perhaps.”
“So who’s the mystery lady? A wealthy widow?”
“A widow, yes. Not so wealthy but very intelligent. Perhaps the most level-headed woman I’ve ever known.”
“She sounds like a peach.” I was staring at Bellamy’s fiancée, just a slip of a girl with a worshipful smile on her rosy pink lips, and wondering if Graham’s intended was as lovely.
He continued, “But I wasn’t sure whether you might consider getting married again.”
Realization took a long moment. I heard what he said, but I didn’t understand it. Then it dawned on me, what he was asking.
A proposal. A backward, strange, left-handed proposal of marriage. From a man I knew had no love for me as a woman and could never have.
I burst out laughing.
There was a hysterical edge to it, an uncontrolled note, and I quickly brought my hand up to my mouth to muffle the sound. I couldn’t react like this, in a room full of our coworkers, none of whom knew his secret. I’d just been too surprised.
Moments later, I had smothered the sound. A few people seemed to have noticed—Bellamy and his pretty fiancée both appeared to be looking in my direction—but after a heartbeat, they looked away again, returning to their conversations.
My eyes sought DeForest. He still faced the dancers, so I could only see his profile. The sharp features, the set jaw, so handsome. I couldn’t read his expression. I knew my reaction had been unexpected, but he betrayed no discomfort, no disappointment. He was a good man.
I said in a calmer tone, “Graham, what an utterly ridiculous idea.”
“Is it? We’re both alone in the world, aren’t we?”
I couldn’t disagree. “Yes.”
“We enjoy each other’s company very much. I respect your mind, and I think you respect mine. I hope?”
“Yes,” I said again.
“Plenty of marriages don’t even have that.” His tone was level, sincere. “If you get married to a real man, he’ll expect to stuff you full of babies and take you off Pinkerton’s payroll straightaway. Husbands want to be fathers. You’ll go from operative to drudge, trailing after your squalling charges instead of bringing criminals to justice. Is that what you want from life?”
After a pause, I said, “Not when you put it that way.”
“I think the old man might not like it though,” he said, gesturing to where Pinkerton and his daughter danced, their cheeks both flushed. “He wouldn’t understand it was just for show. We couldn’t tell him, of course. I don’t think he could keep my secret as well as you have. As you will.”
I stood, speechless again.
“But that can be managed. Consider it for a few days,” he said. “No need for us to rush.”
He tapped my cup with his again, then turned his attention back to the song.