To Sketch a Sphinx - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,29

wasn’t sure which reaction she would succumb to.

“Indeed, Monsieur Pratt,” de Rouvroy agreed in an almost booming voice, making Hal jump as Pratt assisted her to her seat. “It is a piece of complete brilliance, is it not? Such a beautiful building, and not half so grand as the Salle le Peletier, if you can believe that.”

Hal snickered behind a hand when she caught Pratt’s miserable expression as he sat beside her. “Save me,” Pratt whispered. “Find your familiar face, I beg you.”

“I don’t know,” Hal mused with a flutter of her lashes, opening her fan and setting it to work in as elegant a manner as possible. “I’m rather enjoying this discussion of architecture and art and decor…”

“Ange…” He gave her a long-suffering look. “Please.”

Shaking her head, she reached out to pat his arm, leaving her hand there as she scanned the other guests taking their seats.

“Anything?” Pratt asked eagerly.

“In the last fifteen seconds?” she shot back. “Not bloody likely. Have you seen the number of people here?”

He held up his free hand in a sign of surrender. “Apologies. Please.” He gestured to the theatre with a sigh. “We have… a long time.”

Hal nodded as she continued to look, seeking the flash of the familiar she had felt and seen earlier. The overture of the opera began, and still she looked, hoping she was no longer the subject of inspection for others, as her attention was anywhere but on the stage.

The actors began to perform, when finally, she found the face she sought.

She smiled indulgently and leaned closer to her husband, her fingers sliding down his arm until her fingers laced between his.

He jerked beside her, but quickly recovered, leaning towards her in expectation.

Intelligent man.

“Last box across from us,” she whispered. “Towards the center. Third seat in, second row.”

“Bless smaller theatres,” he replied in the same tone.

Again, Hal nodded, the motion brushing her hair against him, which she somehow felt to her toes. “See him?”

This time he nodded. “I do. Try to recollect the specifics of how you know him. Leave the interval to me.”

“The interval?” Hal hissed, facing him more fully. “What are you…?”

He gave her a quelling look, somehow smiling without smiling. “Leave it to me,” he said again.

Scowling, Hal nudged him hard, but let her attention move to the stage, then promptly fix itself on her memories, sketch after sketch flipping through her mind.

She would find the man. She would remember who had seen him. She would be able to tie him to their mission somehow.

She would.

As if he could hear her thoughts, feel her determination, Pratt’s fingers, still laced between hers, curved around her own, comfort and confidence tight in their grasp.

Chapter Seven

“I don’t see why I couldn’t have come with you. To be left in the box with Victoire and Agathe was torture, I’ll have you know.”

“I’m sure it was.”

“What in the world do you mean by that?”

John exhaled in resignation and looked across the small table in the parlor he and Hal shared while they ate their breakfast. Thankfully, de Rouvroy and his family were not so particular about breakfast that they had everyone eat it together in the breakfast room at a particular hour. René and de Rouvroy ate there themselves, naturally, and the children did as well, but it happened that Madame de Rouvroy and Agathe were more inclined to take trays.

He’d been hard-pressed not to kiss their host’s feet when he’d suggested that they also might enjoy breakfast in their rooms, though he could have done without the mischievous smile that had accompanied it.

Whatever the reason, solitary breakfast with his partner was a blessed relief.

Most of the time.

“You don’t engage in small talk, Hal,” he explained, ignoring how she had yet to put her hair up and it waved down her neck and across her shoulders with a freedom that intrigued him. “This isn’t a flaw; or, if it is, then it is one we share. Even with ladies as admirable as Madame de Rouvroy and as fine as Agathe…”

“She’s not that fine,” Hal grumbled with an impressive frown as she picked up her coffee. “Surly, spoiled brat. I’ll wager you half a crown she marries an aged marquis with a gouty disposition near to reclining on his deathbed and weasels the whole of his fortune away from his legitimate heirs.”

John blinked at the specificity of her suggestion and actually paused in the middle of his point. “Is that half a crown for that exact result? Or for each aspect