low and steady, aware that there were other people in the room. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to…”
“I don’t mind.” Bell practically dismissed him, taking a few steps toward the lighters, his whole face looking…hungry. As he reached for one, part of the tattoo that matched his name peeked out from his cuff. “I can look.”
And steal. Who’d stop this lunatic from slipping one of Max’s beloved Ronsons into his pocket? Or sneaking off with the locket that Declan found. He didn’t trust this clown, not one single thing about him. And he didn’t like him salivating over the house and heirlooms that belonged to Evie’s family…their family.
He gracefully stepped between Bell and the lighters. “So, Jim, can I introduce you to anyone? Who did you know to get on the coveted invitation list?”
His eyes flickered for a second. “Nellie’s an old friend.”
“Really? Because she’s right there, and you haven’t said hello.”
“Oh, yeah.” He glanced around and nodded to a woman…who was not Nellie Shaker.
What the hell?
“I’ll talk to her later. Could I see those—”
“No.” Declan glared down at the man. “You can leave.”
“Excuse me?” He choked a laugh. “Do you have a problem with me or something?”
“I kinda do, Jim. You see, you’re not picking up on the not-so-subtle cues that say this house isn’t for sale and neither is anything in it. Evie and her grandfather live here, and a Hewitt or a Bushrod has lived in this house for one hundred and twenty years. So a Bell isn’t going to be next.”
A Mahoney might, but not this guy.
The man’s pale brown eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
Did he not speak English? “That the house isn’t for sale, so you can stop salivating over it.”
“You want me to leave?” He gave Declan a challenging look, holding it long enough that for one minute he could have sworn he knew the guy. Or maybe it was just that Bell cockiness reminded him of someone.
“I do.” Declan tipped his head to the side. “In fact, I’ll walk you out. Through the back.” Because the last thing he needed was a scene at Evie’s party, and he did not trust this pushy guy.
The other man seared him with a look. “Fine,” he said. “But if you think I’m done going after—”
“You’re done.” Declan put a hand on the man’s elbow and steered him toward the kitchen. In there, the place hummed with caterers and clanging dishes, the low lights casting the whole room in odd shadows.
Very odd shadows.
As he walked to the back door, Declan slowed his step when he saw the flickering kerosene lamps on the wall.
“Who lit these?” he demanded.
A black-clad waiter stepped next to him. “For authenticity,” he said. “It puts us in the mood.”
“Turn them off,” he demanded.
“Who the hell are you?”
“The next chief of the fire department,” he said, catching a glimpse of Bell going right up to the brass fixture to examine it like the lights might be part of the house purchase he was never going to make.
“But they work fine,” the waiter said.
Declan glared at him. “You do not light kerosene lamps in a hundred-and-twenty-year-old house. Do you understand how easily they could start a fire? Catch one bit of oil on one of these outfits, and someone could be engulfed in flames.”
The man drew back at the force of the words. “I’ll turn them off.”
“And leave them off.” Just then, he saw Bell disappear out the back door.
He waited a split second, then decided to follow, standing on the back step to watch the man skulk through the shadows to the other side of the house.
Where he crossed the patio to stand outside the sunroom.
The son of a bitch was going to come right back in, wasn’t he? Declan marched after him, the low-grade annoyance fully amped up to pissed-off now.
He found him on the patio, hands cupped against one of the French doors, peering inside the sunroom.
“Can I help you find the front of the house?” Declan said in a voice that left no doubt how he felt about the encounter.
“Gotta say, Mahoney.” He inched away from the glass and turned to Declan. “You’re the last person I thought would care about this house. On the contrary, I’d expect you’d like to see it burned to the ground.”
Some heat fired through his veins, but he didn’t say a word.
“I mean, if my study of Gloriana House’s history is right, then…a man named Joseph Mahoney died right on this spot.