Two nights later, Juliet was seated on a Chippendale sofa with cabriole legs and threadbare brocade cushions that was tucked beneath the small window. God alone knew how long ago it had been relegated to the attics, but Levet had done his best to beat away the dust and cobwebs. He had also managed to clear enough space among the forgotten trunks and family portraits to place two wooden chairs around a small scrolled table in an appearance of a dining room.
The tiny gargoyle was astonishingly domesticated and complained bitterly (and far too often) at being forced to reside in the cramped, grimy attics.
As far as Levet was concerned, he should be inhabiting rooms at Versailles.
At the moment, however, amusement shimmered in the gray eyes and the delicate wings fluttered as he laughed at Juliet’s tale of her daring burglary of the valuable crystal that held the tears of a fertility god, while Justin had kept the ancient Lord Stoneville distracted.
“You are certain it was a Damanica?” the gargoyle demanded, his French accent pronounced.
“Without a doubt.” Juliet shrugged. “Justin is currently attempting to lure the wood sprites out of hiding with it.”
Levet laughed again. “Pathetic. Do English wood sprites have no stamina? No manly vigor? Sacre bleu. They must be like fish left out of the water.” He wiggled his hand. “Flop, flop, flop—”
“Levet,” Juliet hastily interrupted.
“Ah, pardon, ma belle.” The sensitive gargoyle was instantly contrite. “I forget what a delicate flower you are.”
“Delicate flower?” Juliet snorted. “Hardly that. I am a thief and a liar, and I sell my services to keep a roof over my head. Many would claim I am no better than a common whore.”
“Non, do not say such terrible things. We all do what we must to survive.”
Juliet heaved a sigh. She was painfully acquainted with the sacrifices that survival demanded.
“Yes, I suppose that is true enough.”
Levet tilted his head to the side, regarding her with a narrowed gaze.
“There is something troubling you, ma belle.”
Juliet turned her head to glance out the window, more to hide her revealing expression than to admire the view of Hyde Park slumbering beneath the silver moonlight.
“Nothing more than ennui.”
“Ennui? But only a few days ago you were telling me how delighted you were that the Season was at last under way.”
Of course she had been delighted. She had told herself that the restless dissatisfaction that had plagued her throughout the long winter would be cured by the return of society to the city.
It was only when Victor had strolled into Lord Treadwell’s ballroom that she accepted her discontent had nothing to do with the lack of society and everything to do with the breathtakingly beautiful demon.
The knowledge was galling.
And something she did not intend to share.
“I hoped that the return of society to London would provide a distraction,” she said, her voice determinedly light. “Foolish, of course. ’Tis the same tedious balls, with the same tedious guests, with the same tedious gossip.”
“But we adore gossip, do we not?”
“Only when it is interesting.” Juliet turned back to her companion, her fingers fidgeting with a satin ribbon threaded through the bodice of her peach muslin gown. “Thus far I have heard nothing more fascinating than that Lord Maywood’s youngest daughter was quietly removed from London after she attempted to elope with a blatant fortune hunter and that there has been an odd rash of lightning that people claim is coming from clear blue skies. One burned down a warehouse near the docks.”
Levet’s tail stiffened, as if startled by her inconsequential chatter.
“Lightning, you say? At the docks?”
“And why would you be interested in strange bolts of lightning?”
A smile touched the ugly gray face. “A nest of pixies will often attract lightning. Perhaps they have settled near the Thames.”
“You have a fondness for pixies?”