“That’s called a question,” Corinne said when he didn’t reply. “In polite society, it involves an answer.”
His eyebrows shot up, and Corinne could detect a hint of what could have been a smile or a smirk around his mouth. The movement did nothing to soften the severe line of his jaw. The tousle of his hair made the angles on his face even more pronounced, and there was something etched in his features that she couldn’t quite pinpoint. Like a gaunt hunger.
“I wasn’t aware that I was in polite society,” he said.
“You can’t hold last night against us,” Corinne said, turning her attention away from his jawline and back to her toast. “Not every day here involves asylum escapes and police raids.”
“I’m not sure I believe that.”
Corinne smiled and hid the expression with another bite of toast. Now that she’d had a few hours of sleep, she had decided to play nice with Gabriel Stone. Johnny wasn’t an idiot, and he didn’t let just anyone join his crew. If he’d hired Gabriel, there was a good reason for it.
“I thought we’d start with the tour,” Corinne said.
“Don’t you want to finish your breakfast first?”
“No need. There’s the stage, the backstage door—that’s where the musicians shoot the breeze when they’re waiting for their set. Beside that is the kitchen door, which leads, predictably enough, to the kitchen. You’ve been to Johnny’s office downstairs, and the other rooms down there are all private, aside from a few closets.”
“Thorough,” he said drily.
Corinne ignored his tone and continued. “Danny runs the bar every night, but don’t believe a word he says about me because he is a bitter, bitter man, and I am a darling. I’m sure you met Gordon, our resident charmer. He’s usually only on duty when the club is open, to keep drunk patrons from snooping. There used to be a show every night, but the new law complicates things.”
“I’d say police raids are more than just a complication.”
“Debatable. Anyway, Ada and I had it covered.”
“Right,” he said.
It wasn’t the way he said it but his fleeting expression that gave Corinne pause. “What?” she asked.
He hesitated.
“Look,” she snapped. “If you’ve got a problem with Ada, then—”
“I don’t have a problem with Ada.”
“Then is it women in general who shouldn’t be handling things?”
He sat back in his chair, obviously bemused. “I didn’t say anything like that,” he replied.
Corinne eyed him and finished off her toast.
“Sorry,” she said once she swallowed. “I guess I’ll let you actually say something stupid before I berate you for it.”
“Appreciate it.”
Corinne stood up. “Nice chat,” she said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to change into something more suitable. We’re meeting Ada at ten. I’ll explain on the way.”
Corinne dropped her dishes off in the kitchen and went downstairs. She and Ada didn’t have a wardrobe in their room, so finding a dress that wasn’t hopelessly wrinkled was a challenge, although Ada never seemed to have a problem. Corinne dug her maroon silk out of a crate. Not the right material for the season, but with its belted waist and gold thread trim, it was her most respectable dress. She pulled on stockings and her black suede kitten heels. Ada’s black felt cloche finished the ensemble, and Corinne grabbed her coat off the pile of clothes at the foot of her bed and ran out the door.
She made it two steps before running into Guy Jackson.
“Slow it down, sweetheart,” he said, gripping her arms as she caught her balance.
Corinne shook him off. “You forget my name already?” she asked.
Jackson grinned at her toothily. He was of average height, with compact muscles, a shaved head, and permanent stubble on his chin. His brown eyes were always either darting or leering. Right now it was the latter. Corinne slipped her coat on and started for the stairs. He joined her.
“Good show last night,” he said in a pleasanter tone. “Your friend all right?”
“Ada’s fine.”
“Glad to hear it. Haversham’s a nasty place.”
At the top of the stairs, something occurred to Corinne and she turned around. He was a couple of steps lower than her, making their height even.
“Did you go into the basement?” she asked. “What are they doing down there?”
His brow furrowed at the question. “I don’t think you want to know what’s going on down there, sweetheart,” he said, scratching his stubble absently. “I think you’d be better off praying that you never have to find out.”