To Sketch a Sphinx - Rebecca Connolly

Chapter One

London, 1825

“Hal! Hal, where are you?”

Hal chose not to answer. Couldn’t answer. Not now, not in the middle of this project.

“Sir, as I said…” Thad’s gravelly, barely polite voice was full of exasperation, and yet tinged with respect.

How odd.

“Hal! HAL!”

“Sir…”

The door creaked open loudly. “Hal, are you home?”

“Would you have been let in if I were not?”

“You know, that is a remarkably excellent question.”

“I do make it a point to have those when I can.”

Silence reigned, and Hal wondered if the voice bellowing throughout the house had actually heard that last statement, muttered as it had been.

The only sound for some moments was that of charcoal gliding against paper, the tone shifting and moving with each new angle and avenue. The face was beginning to come to life, shapes transforming into features, imitation morphing into reflection, and the thrill of excitement that came with the witnessing of that change began to rise.

Almost. Almost.

“Ah, there you are!”

The charcoal stopped moving, and Hal exhaled a short sigh before turning to glance at the tall man now leaning in the doorway of the makeshift study.

“Where did you expect me to be?” she asked.

The man grinned, though the charming appearance of it would have no effect here. “I gather there are a limited number of locations I could have chosen from?”

Hal lifted a brow and attempted to return to the drawing. “I am only ever in two places at home, Weaver. Here or my bedchamber. As it is not early morning or the middle of the night, it is only right that I should be here in my study.”

“You call this a study? Surely, a gallery or a library would be more appropriate. Or… a drawing room, as it were.”

The charcoal stopped once more, and Hal glared at the guest. “That was poorly done. Thad could do better.”

Weaver shrugged easily, still grinning. “I don’t know, I thought it was rather witty.”

“No.”

“Oh well. Perhaps next time.”

Sighing, Hal set down the charcoal in earnest and pushed her spectacles atop her loosely pinned curls. “Is there something I can do for you, Weaver? Or were you hoping for a social call?”

Weaver pushed into the room and waved dismissively. “No, no, I understand and appreciate your spite for all social endeavors. And I know full well that if I were to come on any matter other than business, I would have to bring my wife, or else I would be barred from the house.”

“Too right,” Hal grunted, shifting on her settee as Weaver took a seat in the nearby wingback chair. “Though you know full well she could never be seen calling here. I’m supposed to be living in shame, remember?”

“Indeed,” came Weaver’s reply with the accompanying sage nod. “Your family discredited and all that. I do hope you are bearing up the burden as best you can.”

Hal finally managed to flick a rueful smile at the sarcasm. “I manage well enough. Such a pity to not have more respectable friends.”

Weaver smiled very blandly. “Yes, I can see that you feel the loss keenly.”

“Quite.” She batted her lashes once, then snorted and looked down at the portrait, frowning slightly.

Something was off. Her eyes darted here and there, looking for what was missing or wrong. She had felt so in tune with her memory, so detailed in her recollection, but now…

“And what are we working on at the present?”

Hal glanced up at Weaver, who was watching her with an interest that she did not trust at all. She had worked with him for years, at least a full decade, and when he had an idea or a plan, his expression tended to resemble a cat happening upon a particularly plump and unsuspecting mouse. However, this cat wielded incomparable political power and influence, and he could take down any number of monarchies with his wealth of information if he had chosen to do so.

Which, naturally, Weaver would never do.

Anymore.

“It’s supposed to be what I remember of my mother,” Hal admitted without any hint of sentimentality, for she had none where her mother was concerned.

Weaver raised a questioning brow. “But you have portraits, surely.”

“In the family home,” she confirmed with a quick nod. “At my brother’s estate, naturally. Here? Not a one. As it really is too much trouble to send for one, considering, I thought I would do what I could from memory.”

“I would say such a thing would be extraordinarily difficult, given the passage of time, but with your gifts, I can only say that I wonder at your