“No?” the younger Morgan challenged, a smirk creeping at the corners of his mouth.
Harte didn’t react to it. “If Jack’s spoken of me, then I’m sure he’s told you—I’ve made a careful study of the hermetic arts,” Harte said, inclining his head. “Alchemy, astronomy, theurgy. The usual branches of the occult sciences. I don’t perform tricks.” He forced himself not to glance over at Jack for help, keeping his focus steady on Jack’s cousin. “I present demonstrations of my skill and the knowledge I’ve acquired through my many years of study.”
“Yes. He might have mentioned something like that,” Morgan said.
“You didn’t believe him.” It wasn’t a question. The smug certainty in his own superiority was clear as day on Morgan’s face. ?As was the disbelief that anyone not of their own class could have mastered any sort of power. It took a considerable amount of effort on Harte’s part not to smile at the irony of it.
“I make my own decisions,” Jack’s cousin told him, squinting through another deep drag on his cigarette before he snubbed it, violently, on the marble tabletop. “Though when it comes to Irish filth”—he raked his eyes over Harte’s pristine, perfectly tailored clothes—“or whatever it is you are, there’s rarely anything to decide.” He leaned forward, malice glinting in his eyes. “What was that rumor I heard about you? Oh, yes . . . the bastard son of a Chinaman.”
The other men at the table shifted. Even if Jack was the wastrel of the family, good breeding and manners went deep.
Luckily, Harte didn’t have the problem of good breeding. His mouth curved wickedly, the barbing response already loaded on his tongue, but before he could speak, he felt the familiar brush of magic and the unsettling feeling that someone was watching him. His words were forgotten, and he went on alert.
He was on his feet instantly, searching.
Morgan laughed. “Going somewhere, Darrigan?”
The others chuckled, but Jack was still too busy with the waiter girl to even notice how badly things were progressing at the table.
Harte couldn’t find any sign of the girl’s green velvet dress or whiskey-colored eyes. Maybe it was Corey’s security, he thought, which wasn’t any better. There had already been too much magic in the air, and magic was something Harte Darrigan couldn’t risk being associated with. Not with these men, members of the Order who posed an even greater threat than Corey’s security.
Morgan smirked over his glass of champagne. “Feeling out of your depth, are you?”
Jack finally looked up from the bit of silk and muslin on his lap. “You can’t be leaving already,” he said, sputtering in confusion. “You . . . you haven’t even finished your drink.” As if that was the point that truly mattered.
Harte ignored Morgan and gave Jack a wry look. “I’m not really thirsty anymore.”
“But—”
“Jack, gentlemen, the one thing my many years onstage have taught me is when to make an exit.” He gave the other men a nod, allowing his cold gaze to linger on Morgan, to send the message that he wasn’t afraid of him. “I’ll see you later, Jack.”
Truth be told, Morgan’s barbs hadn’t hurt nearly as much as Harte’s swollen tongue.
A moment later, he was pushing through the crowd toward the door, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching, tracking him, as he moved steadily into the cool freedom of the night beyond.
IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT
He’d barely made it to the end of the block when Harte heard Jack’s voice calling him through the din of the crowded sidewalks. He didn’t stop at first, just continued barreling down the sidewalk—away from the Haymarket. Away from the whole mess of a night. But Jack was determined.
With a sigh, Harte stopped and turned, giving Jack a chance to catch up. He might as well get this over with. . . .
Jack had the kind of patrician good looks most of his class sported: straight, narrow nose; light eyes; strong, square forehead. He wasn’t that much older than Harte himself, but the humiliation in Greece had done a number on him. Away from the glittering lights of the dance hall, he looked worn, run-down. His face was flushed and damp from the exertion caused by his sprint. It made his puffy skin and the shadows beneath his eyes look that much worse.
“What is it, Jack? Coming back for another round? Was there some insult you forgot to get in yourself??”
“You left,” Jack said, ignoring Harte’s sarcasm and his anger. His bloodshot eyes betrayed his sincere confusion. As though no one had ever walked out on him before.
It was probably the truth. Even if Jack was his family’s current black sheep, few would have risked word of an insult getting back to his famous uncle. Harte probably couldn’t afford it either, not if he wanted Jack to trust him, but he was too on edge to care. Morgan Jr. and the rest had come too close to the truth, and in that instant he’d seen all his careful plans crumbling between his fingers.
“Look, Jack, I only came tonight because you invited me. I wasn’t expecting to be the evening’s entertainment. Usually my audience pays for that particular pleasure.”
“It’s not like that, Darrigan—”
“It was exactly like that, Jack.”
“I didn’t expect them to be there, and then . . .” Jack took a deep breath, as though he was trying to steady himself.
“And then you sat there with your hand down a girl’s dress and let your cousin insult me.”
Jack had the decency to look the slightest bit uneasy at this charge. “I’m sorry, Darrigan, but—”
“But nothing, Jack. ?Aren’t those the same ones you’re constantly complaining about? They don’t understand your genius. They don’t understand the dangers we face,” Harte mimicked. Then he pinned Jack with a caustic glare. “I thought we understood one another—”
“We do!” Jack protested.
“But tonight you tossed me to the wolves,” Harte continued.
He took a breath and stepped back from Jack. It was too easy to call up the old indignation, the bitterness he thought he’d long ago put to rest. It was too easy to still let their words affect him. Which wouldn’t do, not in a situation as delicate as this one.
He needed to keep his wits about him and his head cool. He needed to make sure he—and not his emotions—were in control. He’d been working on earning Jack’s trust for too long to screw it all up now.
“Look, let’s go somewhere and talk,” Jack offered. “I’ll buy you a drink and make it up to you. We can talk. Without them.”
“I don’t know . . . ,” Harte hedged, making a show of checking his watch. Let Jack be the eager one, he told himself, mentally pulling back. ?You couldn’t force a con. The mark had to believe it was his own idea.
Jack was already stepping to the curb. “Let me get us a cab. There’s a quiet bar over on Fortieth—”
“It’s getting late, and I have an early show tomorrow,” Harte said, staying where he was.
Because the last thing he wanted was another smoky barroom. He needed to walk, to clear his head. He needed some space away from Jack Grew and all the feelings the evening had stirred up.