Free A Most Extraordinary Pursuit by Juliana Gray Page B

direction and applied his gaze first to my face, and then my bosom. The ball rolled nimbly around his right palm. “There are other ways, of course. But I daresay you’d object to those, too.”
    I swung my feet to the floor and rose from the sofa. “If you’re trying to discompose me, it won’t work.”
    â€œPerish the thought.”
    He watched me as I walked across the length of Persian rug to the gramophone cabinet. Lord Silverton had the kind of gazeyou could feel between the blades of your shoulders, and down your spine to the back of your legs: not keen or piercing or tingling, but simply heavy. Heavy and quite, quite blue. I turned the crank briskly and lifted the needle.
    â€œIf you’re right about the corruption, there is always the possibility that these reports from Mr. Haywood—the
former
Mr. Haywood—were not reports at all, but simply payments,” I said. “I imagine his explorations in Crete require a certain amount of goodwill from the Greek authorities.”
    Smack.
“The thought had crossed my mind, I will admit.”
    â€œNaturally the official would be upset if the payments ceased.”
    â€œIncensed, one imagines. Though not so much that he’s willing to risk his own comfort to gambol off in search of the missing Max himself.”
    The needle scratched, the music began. I turned to face Lord Silverton, leaning my body protectively against the cabinet, hands braced against the edge. He was now twirling the cricket ball at the end of one finger. His head tilted to one side, catching an unnecessary radiance from the electric lamp nearby, and I realized that the unsteadiness in my stomach had quite disappeared.
    â€œNor would he send any men from his own department to investigate,” I said, “for fear of arousing suspicion, and perhaps jealousy for his additional income.”
    A slow smile began at one corner of Lord Silverton’s mouth and spread to the other end. He enclosed the cricket ball in the middle of his hand and extended his index finger,
waggle waggle
. “Why, Truelove. What a deliciously devious mind you’re hiding behind that mask of oppressive piety.”
    â€œI am only doing my job, Lord Silverton.”
    â€œA job for which you’re singularly suited, I think. Well done,the duchess. I only hope Max keeps you on, once we find him and deliver the awful news.”
    Caruso sang:
O dolci baci, o languide carezze.
    â€œNow, there he goes again,” said Silverton. “What’s the poor fellow lamenting this time?”
    â€œYou would neither understand nor appreciate his dilemma.”
    â€œTry me. I once wept at the Willow Song, though—to be fair—I
had
just lost a faithful old hound at the Boxing Day meet at Beaulieu the day before. Awfully broken up.”
    I pushed myself away from the cabinet and wandered to a painting on the opposite wall, depicting the cutting out of the
Hermione
. On the one side, the Porto Cavallo guns made furious orange-pink clouds against the harbor walls; on the other, the silver moon rode at peace in the night sky, casting a path along the agitated sea. In the middle, the frigate herself, young and triumphant.
    Sobbed Caruso:
E muoio disperato . . . e muoio disperato . . .
    â€œHe is to die by firing squad at dawn,” I said, “and he is remembering how marvelous it is to be alive.”
    No answer came from the armchair in the center of the saloon. The drum of rain intensified briefly, and then abated. Beneath my feet, the deck was steady and level but nonetheless alive with the grind of the engine, the surge of motion through the water. As if the soles of my shoes were vibrating.
    â€œWell, you’re wrong there, Truelove,” said Silverton. “I understand the poor fellow’s dilemma very well.”
    I turned in astonishment, but his lordship was already striding toward the door, moving his long legs with