black demonstrating the split, but Sebastien focused past it. At her face, her pallor, the whiteness of her lips where they tightened over her teeth, the faintly visible capillaries warming her pale cheeks.
"You're staring, Don Sebastien."
He glanced quickly down so she would not see him fail to blush. "So it would appear. Is the material any good?"
"I beg your pardon?"
He gestured to the crawling sea below the isinglass. "You must be working on a novel."
"Only scribbling observations. It's what I do."
"Scribble?"
"Observe."
"And eavesdrop."
"That, too." And yes, she could blush, a delicate seashell glow across her cheeks. "Fortunately, I am discreet."
"And unshockable."
"Quite," she said, after a short pause. She capped the pen and clipped it to a cord around her neck, so that it slid out of sight between her breasts. She marked her place in the notebook with a ribbon and stowed that, as well, in her reticule. "Your young ward thinks highly of you."
Sebastien could no more blanch than he could blush, and this once he thanked Providence for it. They had been quiet—ferociously quiet, fiercely quiet—but Jack had not been able to stifle a gasp against his fist, or the sharp single flex of his hips that had shaken the aluminum frame of the bunk when Sebastien's fangs slipped in.
At that, he was quieter than Sebastien had been in his own time.
"He is very dear to me as well," Sebastien answered. "And your travelling companions? Do you think highly of them?"
Her true smile dazzled. Gone was the contrived, ladylike lift of her mouth at the corners. This was honest mirth, and it included Sebastien rather than mocking him. "I find them a font of human detail," she said. "A veritable education."
"On what do they educate you?"
"On the unpleasant nature of seduction," she said, in a softer tone. She leaned forward, hands braced on the promenade railing, to stare down at the sea below and the Hans Glücker's attendant flock of gulls. The white birds did not seem to care that the ship they followed flew rather than floated. "I would not ever care to find myself on the sort of string upon which Miss Meadows keeps Mr. Allen."
It struck home. Sebastien leaned against the railing beside her, and spoke in French. "Or upon which I keep Jack?"
She tilted her head, watching him from the corner of pale eyes. She
didn't shift away, and when she answered it was in the same language. "I
didn't say it."
"Did you need to?"
"Don Sebastien," she said. "Is it you who has the young Mr. Priest on a string? Or perhaps the other way around?"
"Ach." He pushed himself straight against the railing. "Mutual dependency. How unflattering."
"How very like a marriage." She fiddled one pearl earring, refusing to meet his eyes. "No, perhaps you should look to Korvin úr and Mlle. LeClere, if you wish to see a troublesome partnership breeding."
"Are they partners?"
"He makes her cry," Mrs. Smith said, dropping into English again. "And while she seeks refuge and distraction with Lillian—with Miss Meadows—she does not return Korvin úr's notes unread, either."
"She encourages him."
"She breathes for him, Don Sebastien," Mrs. Smith said. "And Lillian thinks it's funny."
* * *
When Sebastien returned to the salon, he watched for it. Conveniently, Allen, Korvin, Mlle. LeClere, and Miss Meadows were still present, playing whist under an electric light. Ladies were partnered against gentlemen, and Mlle. LeClere and Miss Meadows were winning—on brass moreso than chivalry.
Sebastien swirled a cognac in a balloon glass and lounged in the armchair he'd appropriated, back in the corner beside the door, pretending to read a four-day-old Times of London. He had a knack for vanishing into the shadows when he cared to, and as long as he didn't snap the paper or rattle his cufflinks the card players in their armchairs seemed to have more or less forgotten him. Except for Oczkar Korvin, who never glanced over at all, as if he were consciously ignoring Sebastien's presence.
The Hungarian was of a yellowish complexion, which could have been natural, but also made it more difficult to tell if he blanched where his hand pressed the cards. But then Mlle. LeClere stood between tricks, laying her hand tidily face-down and fetched drinks for the table—sherry for herself, whisky for Miss Meadows and Mr. Allen, and a plum brandy for Korvin úr. Mademoiselle slipped the glass into his hand rather than set beside him so she had the excuse to brush her fingers across his palm. And then, Sebastien saw him lift the glass to his lips, his