Page 53 of Apt to be Suspicious
“Not tonight, no.” Edmund approached cautiously, leaving a fair bit of space between them. Interestingly, she had not claimed the chair facing the door, where she’d have the best view of whoever was entering. Instead, she’d settled on the centre of the sofa. There was more or less enough room to get out on either side, or for someone to join her if they were brave enough. Edmund chose the chair closest to the door, refusing to focus on the door that led to the back room. If she charged for the exit, he would at least be physically in the way.
It was interesting what she’d chosen to wear. Aunt Cassie’s comments over the years meant he was certain that it was an older frock, remade. And not, he thought, originally hers, there was something about the fit of the shoulders that suggested it had originally been for a woman a little more broadly built.
He could not have explained how he knew that. It was in his head from all of Aunt Cassie’s murmurs at gatherings or when he visited her shop in Trellech and they had a moment to watch people through the window. The frock itself was a vibrant blue, with the sort of intensity that made the most of her striking colouring, dark hair and blue-green eyes. And the jewellery she wore, a single pearl pendant and matching earrings, drew attention to her face.
The drinks were on a tray on the table, and that was interesting. Edmund settled his feet under him— so he could stand and move quickly if called for. “I wanted to speak with you about a matter or two.”
Miss Styles nodded. “I suspected as much when you— mmm.” Her eyes flicked to the door he’d come in from. “Have a drink, do. We should be civilised, surely. The usual grounds of hospitality.” The liquid in the glasses was amber, the shade of diluted honey with the sun behind it, with a half-empty bottle beside it.
Edmund deliberately leaned over, lifting it. “To a fruitful conversation.” He waited for her acknowledgement and then took a modest sip. “Mead. Your own?”
“A family recipe.” She lifted her own glass and drank a moderate swallow before setting it down. “Not the sort of thing usually served on Oxford’s high street.”
It made him snort. Miss Styles was at ease, despite the fact she had not sought this conversation. She had not attempted to leave. Those were both interesting details, and they did not add up in the way he had expected. The way the odds had suggested, at least. There were a number of places he might begin, but he started with the simplest and the most complex. “You are of Albion.”
His own oaths did not grab him. There was not even a hint of it. It told him enough about the answer. “I am.” She lifted her glass slightly. “Not all of us make a show of it.”
“Many people don’t.” Edmund agreed. He certainly hadn’t for two years or so. His parents didn’t at times, though of course they were as recognisable as he was to anyone who paid attention to that sort of society news. “And you’re reading what, Miss Styles?” He had actually looked it up, but of course best not to admit to that.
“Modern languages.” She shrugged. “Do call me Cecily.”
Edmund noted it was a particular formation, presenting the name she chose, rather than a more solid identification. “Cecily. And you know I’m called Edmund. Please do. As you say, I hope for a civilised conversation.”
“The question, Edmund,” She leaned into the name a little. “Is why you are here for a conversation at all.”
“Ah. Well. I have something of an interest in the well-being of others at the university. Nothing specific, you understand, not that many of them are from the New Forest.” Where it would be rather more directly his interest. “Though certainly some in those circles are.”
She inclined her head, and leaned forward, shifting on the sofa until she was sitting closer to him, close enough she could reach out and touch him. She hadn’t yet. “That is what they call noblesse oblige, I suppose? They are silly young men. They get into such trouble with no help from me.”
Edmund shrugged once, then sipped again from his drink. He knew perfectly well she’d put something into it. Papa had trained his palette in that as much as anything else. Papa had focused on the wine, and Papa’s two alchemists on everything else. The question would be what she expected in terms of results. “Still.” He wanted to draw this out, and see how far she might extend herself without him pressing the matter. Pressing would come later, if he did this correctly. “And yet, you’ve not drawn attention within Albion.”
“No. Besides,” Now she reached to touch his arm lightly, her body inclined and giving him a rather deliberate view of her bosom. “It wasn’t as if you would give me a second look.”
If that was how she wanted to play it, he could play along. “I’ve not had much time for that sort of question.” He shrugged, keeping his own gestures deliberately casual, without showing the effort that took. “A few dances, of course. Not attending draws the eye as much as the dance.”
“With Miss Stirling. Does she know you’re calling on me?” The question had a barb to it.
Edmund had expected that, though, enough that he could show his amusement, take a sip of the mead, and pace his reply. “Ah, Cecily. We do not have the sort of relationship, you and I, where I’d answer that question.”
“A pity.” Her fingers touched his arm again. There was that inclined angle, a little deeper this time. “Now that you’re here, I see that you’re not at all what I expected.” Cecily’s voice dropped in pitch a little, and Edmund tuned his own attention to what his magic— what the Naming magic, in particular— could tell him. “I have perhaps miscalculated. You’re neither as stiff nor as limp as I thought you might be.”
He was entirely certain she meant the innuendo. She gave no hint of it, in the shift of her eyes or her hand, but he could feel the implication. He met her eyes, the way she was focused on him. “You’d given me some thought then. Not just as— hmm. Someone to avoid, in case I might object to what you were doing.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing? Besides my essays and my studies? Oh, and enjoying myself when I’ve the chance?”
This was where he needed to unspool what he had, carefully. He took another sip deliberately, and he was rewarded with another touch on his arm. This time, she left her fingers there, as if she were trying to sense his pulse through his sleeve. Certainly, she might be trying to feel his magic, but he was dressed to avoid that. He suspected she had far less experience with magically woven suits than he did. Her familiarity more likely focused on what could be done with women’s clothing and fashions. That was interesting.
In this case, he was dressed to hide his magic, to obscure it. To keep it close to him, in easy reach, without hinting to anyone else what he might do. “I might say it’s something out of a mystery. Sayers, perhaps. As in the Attenbury Emeralds.”
“Ah.” There was a tiny hesitation, then she tapped his arm, as if waiting for something. Just with one finger. “What could I possibly have to do with such a thing? I grew up in the country.”
“The country allows one to develop quite a range of skills, potentially,” Edmund replied, now more than a little amused. “Come on, you know that if you swore on the Pact you had nothing to do with it, I’d go away.”
“Mmm.” She shook her head, her smoothly styled hair staying firmly in place. Whatever other magics she applied, she clearly knew and had mastered a number of the cosmetic ones. “I’d rather not, darling. Such a bother to brush against that sort of fear.”
It was an intriguing answer. Oaths on the Pact brought out one’s strongest fear, at least for a moment. That was part of how the magic worked. Fear, as Edmund had been taught several times over, was the clearest emotion in many cases. He considered. “Where did you spend your war, then? Something from that?”
He felt the twitch rather than saw it, the slight shift in pressure in her hand. Her face stayed neutral, though, and that suggested a great deal of self-control and training of a particular kind. Or a particular sort of structure— even abuse— in her life at some earlier point. What she said, however, was simple enough. “London, for most of it.”
