declared Beatrice with smug satisfaction. “You see, Olivia, I am destined to be an actress.”
“Destiny has no part in this,” said the German. “If you will keep your head very still, miss.”
She subsided.
Herr Grossmann moved his fingers. “Ideality is pronounced.”
“A love of the beautiful, desire of excellence, poetic feeling,” recited Michael. “Abuses include extravagant and absurd enthusiasm, preference for the showy over the solid and useful, a tendency to dwell in the regions of fancy and to neglect the duties of life.”
“You have her character to a T!” exclaimed Olivia, laughing.
“Please do not recite your definitions aloud, Michael,” said the German. He sounded annoyed. “It is meant to be done silently.”
“Yessir.”
“Are there lists of the traits?” asked Lord Randolph. “In books perhaps?”
“Great thick ones in German,” Michael answered. “But Herr Grossmann copied the details out for me.”
The look his employer gave him made Verity wonder if the relationship would last much longer.
“Might I have a copy?” Lord Randolph said.
“What else about my head?” Beatrice demanded. “We came here about me.”
“Yes, miss,” replied Grossmann, who didn’t appear eager to fulfill Lord Randolph’s request. “If we might have silence, please.” When his audience obeyed, he went on with his examination. “A bent toward combativeness.”
Verity wondered if this point was real, or a subtle dig at the interruptions.
“Fortunately not combined with destructiveness,” he added. He stepped back and lowered his arms. “Those are the main points I discern.”
“That’s all?” said Beatrice. “What about my…animal appeal? You told Mrs. Saxon that she was ‘exceedingly amative.’”
“Where did you hear such a thing?” asked Olivia.
“She was visiting Mama, and she said—”
“That is not the way I would have summarized my findings,” interrupted Herr Grossman stiffly. “I am a scientist, not a gypsy fortune-teller.” He stepped down from the dais, muttering something about words being twisted. “Michael will prepare a written report for you, approved by me, with the proper terminology.”
Beatrice looked disgusted.
“Do you keep records of all your sessions?” Olivia asked.
“Of course. As I said, I am a scientist.”
“Even the more informal ones? You examined Mr. Rochford at an evening party, for example.”
Verity glanced sharply at her friend. She noticed that Lord Randolph was frowning.
“I made notes afterward, naturally. Thorough records are vital to the scientific process.”
“So you have files.”
“Of course.”
Verity watched Olivia, thinking that her friend was more akin to Beatrice than she’d realized.
Beatrice stood. “Well, if that’s it, we may as well go,” she said. She stepped over to snatch her bonnet from Olivia’s lap and pull it on. “I must say I thought this would be more exciting.”
“I hope you will tell all your young friends about your mistaken assumptions,” said Herr Grossmann.
Verity laughed, then turned it into a cough when Beatrice frowned at her.
“There is the matter of payment.” Herr Grossmann looked at Lord Randolph. Which was the other side of the coin, Verity thought. If you were in charge, you paid. It wasn’t fair in this case, but she still somehow felt that it served him right.
“I brought the money,” said Beatrice pettishly. She took a banknote from her reticule. “It does seem like a lot for what you get.” Herr Grossmann glowered. Michael stepped forward and took the money before Beatrice could change her mind. The girl turned her back on them. “We’ll go to Gunter’s now,” she decreed. “I want an ice cream.”
“Miss Hoity-Toity,” said Olivia. But no one voiced any objections.
Beatrice flounced out, Hilda on her heels. As Verity followed, she saw Olivia pause beside Michael and speak to him while Lord Randolph had Herr Grossmann’s attention. She couldn’t hear what her friend said, but it wasn’t difficult to guess.
Randolph followed the ladies out. Herr Grossmann hadn’t wanted to give him the list of traits. Perhaps he viewed the details as secrets of his odd trade. Randolph suspected that young Michael would be susceptible to bribery, however, if he decided to pursue the matter. Verity Sinclair turned her head at that moment and smiled at something Miss Townsend said to her. Randolph forgot all about phrenology.
When they reached Gunter’s in Berkeley Square, Randolph dismissed his father’s coachman. There was no need to keep the horses. It was a fine day, and he and the girls could easily walk home from here. And it had occurred to him that if he plotted the route correctly, he could escort Verity home last and carve out a little time to redeem himself after his earlier incoherent conversation.
“I want to have my ice in the park,” declared Beatrice. She sounded like a