To Sketch a Sphinx - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,54

touch. “Her eyes were exactly the same shape. Your father used to call the pair of you the eyes of March.” He rolled his eyes at the horrible joke and shook his head in memory.

The same shaped eyes? But dark, like her cousin had said… Hal thought back to the sketch she had started in London of her mother, the one she could never get right, and instantly she itched to look at the eyes she had drawn. Now she’d have a far better reference for them, and perhaps that would get her even closer to accuracy.

“Your brother is your father, though,” Romano said on an exhale, folding his arms. “Maddening, really, to be so uncanny a likeness and temperament.”

“You know Trick?” Hal asked with a small smile.

He grunted once. “Too well, I’m afraid. I already prefer you to him.”

“Excellent choice.” Hal looked out of the window and frowned to herself. “We should be home by now.”

“I asked for a longer route.” Romano shrugged once. “Habit, I’m afraid. Never take the same route twice. It’s sure to throw off scant pursuers.”

Hal eyed him again, marveling at the habitual cleverness there. “Your accent leads me to suppose that your surname isn’t actually Romano, sir, and that you are no Italian.”

He only shrugged again. “Suppose away.” He examined their surroundings and narrowed his eyes. “I’ll take you to the door of the house, but not join you. De Rouvroy’s servants are likely more observant than the ones we left. If anyone asks, tell them your husband wished to walk a while. People do so in Paris. Hopefully, he’ll be along before too long. Ruse is good, I wouldn’t worry.”

“And what about you?” Hal asked, more curious than ever. “What will you do?”

“Continue on,” he said evasively. “I’m always on the move, plenty to do, plenty to see. And plenty of people who are most anxious to see me.”

Hal could only shake her head. “Why? What do they want?” she demanded. “Who are you?”

His smile deepened just a touch. “Only one question gets answered tonight, my dear Sketch. The name is Skean.” He inclined his head in a sort of bow. “At your service.”

Chapter Twelve

John slipped into the front door of the de Rouvroy home, his heart pounding, his mind swimming, his feet aching in odd places.

Darting about the streets of Paris after an evening of dancing was not an activity he would recommend to anyone, nor one he would be taking up again any time soon.

“Avez-vous apprécié votre promenade, Monsieur Pratt?” the butler asked as he approached, his smile more welcoming than anything John had expected after the night he’d had thus far.

John stared as he shrugged out of the overcoat Ruse had provided him and handed it over. How in the world had the man known John had been walking about Paris?

Our friend will have made up some story for Sketch. Whatever it is, go along.

Ruse’s words to him only moments before echoed in John’s mind, and he nodded, praying his hesitation and delay had not been as apparent to the man as it had felt. “Yes, thank you. Not so chilly this evening as it has been.”

The butler nodded. “It will turn soon, I zink. Winter, you know.”

Yes, John did know.

It rather felt like winter now, with various parts of him feeling particularly chilled, and the whole of him feeling especially exhausted.

“I shall retire now,” John informed him, moving towards the stairs, wondering if he really was as terrible an actor as he felt.

But the butler seemed to notice nothing and only bowed. “Oui, monsieur. Bonne nuit.”

Good night, indeed. He wished it was a good night. He’d thought it might be a good night, and it had certainly appeared as though it might have been a good night while he was in it, but then…

How had everything shifted sideways after Hal had entered the card room? From what he could tell, she hadn’t been forced out, and the conversation after she had left hadn’t even remotely mentioned her as suspicious.

But then Ruse had appeared and shoved John further into the servants’ corridor, down at least three more dark and cramped ones, then out into the Paris night. He’d explained as much as he could, that John and Hal had been spotted entering the corridor itself, and that, while their identities were safe, the danger was quite real. Thundering footsteps not far behind them had emphasized that fact, and it was only due to Ruse’s keen knowledge of Paris that they