Free The Escapement of Blackledge: a novella by Mary Robinette Kowal Page B

and picked up a glass. “You’ve lost me a bet.”
    Weatherby’s mouth dropped open. “You were betting on—”
    “The probable end date of your virginity.” George passed the glass under his nose and grinned.
    The room became intolerably hot, which meant that his cheeks must be bright red. Weatherby squeezed his eyes shut and breathed through his nose. “This should not surprise me.”
    “So who is she?”
    Weatherby brought his hands up to rub his face before opening his eyes. “I do not think it would be seemly to share her name.”
    “Oh come… you must tell me something.” George reached out to punch Weatherby lightly on the shoulder. “I am delighted for you, truly. Not even a bit put out about losing the bet — though you might have given me some warning.”
    “It was unexpected.”
    “Is that why you lit out so quickly tonight?”
    “I— Yes.” Weatherby picked up the teapot to pour. “But you came on an errand, what brings you?”
    “Well that’s the curious thing… I thought it was related to our mysterious burglar, but I am now thinking it has something more to do with your assignation.”
    Tea splashed onto Weatherby’s hand. “Damn it.” He shook the hot liquid off and set the teapot down with a thump.
    “Are you all right?”
    “Just embarrassed.” He picked up a serviette and wiped the tea off the tray. “Could we please talk of something other than my… activities last night?”
    “Just tell me if she is blonde. And an acrobat. And named Helena Troyes.”
    George could not possibly know any of those things. Weatherby swallowed, even though his shock must have been clear enough. “Why would you think that?”
    “Because when I met Miss Troyes at the ball, I knew she looked familiar but couldn’t think of where we had met.” George folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the table. “But when a man of Indian descent called at the kitchen door — while I was wheedling a bite from Cook — I recalled where I had seen her. Both of them really. At Astley’s Circus.”
    “What did… what did this man want?” Weatherby could barely breathe. He had known she was a performer, but not where. The fact that George knew — George had seen her perform — only drove home how very little Weatherby actually knew about her.
    “Begging, he said.” He shrugged. “But given that I had seen him at the circus, and the tricks they could do, I thought it rather more likely that he was examining my home in preparation for a burglary.”
    “He was— he was probably looking for Miss Troyes.” Weatherby ran his hand through his hair and bowed his head. “You had invited her to the card party, if you recall.”
    “To which she did not come.” George prodded Weatherby with his finger. “Oh… and what she must be capable of, given her profession. To which I return to my original assessment: You dog. You sly dog.”
    Weatherby’s skin heated. It would be so much easier to deny George’s assertions if he did not have the memory of Helena kneeling with him inside her, and then arching backwards to run her tongue up the inside of his thighs and— He walked to his workbench, aware of the sudden snugness of his breeches. “Could we not?”
    “But I am happy for you.”
    “Nothing happened.”
    Behind him George laughed, clapping his hands together. “You mean ‘nothing’ happened several times.”
    “This is a string of conjecture that—”
    “Think about to whom you are speaking. You reek of sex, and it is an aroma with which I am well familiar.”
    Weatherby leaned his hands on his workbench, his breath coming too quickly. Amid the streaks of grease and scuffs on the wood, a pale stain lay in testament to his earlier activities. A throbbing in his groin insisted on recalling the perfect height of the workbench.
    He slid a piece of brass out of the cupboard to cover the stain. “I have work to do.”
    “Work? My dear fellow, I’m wounded. You have finally joined the