To Sketch a Sphinx - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,34
Majesty, so we must admire that. This will set you both up in Paris, I am sure of it. Do you like cards, Pratt? There is destined to be excellent French wine at Savatier’s, you can be sure, and cards and wine are an excellent pairing.”
“Do you think he expects me to react or reply at any time?” Pratt asked Hal softly, leaning close while her cousin continued to prattle on about everything and nothing.
Hal clamped down on her bottom lip to stifle a giggle. “Not really. He must be eager to attend tonight.”
Pratt grunted once. “Well, he is making me less so with his excessive enthusiasm. Make it stop.”
“Shh!” She gave him a scolding smile. “We have to pretend tonight. You know that.”
“I don’t see why I have to pretend I enjoy being social,” Pratt muttered. “I’m already pretending far too much.”
Something about that statement stiffened Hal’s spine and made her shift uncomfortably. Was that a note of bitterness she heard in his voice? What else was he pretending that he could possibly resent? The opera hadn’t been terrible, and they had started to find details for their mission there. They were remarkably relaxed at her cousin’s home, never had to stand on ceremony, and were left to themselves for the most part. The children ran amok with regularity but rarely got in their way.
What was he pretending there?
Was he pretending with her?
The thought sent her gnawing on the inside of her cheek, anxiety and insecurity warring within her, and soon her own resentment joined in. They had only spoken about the mission and details, never about anything particularly personal, and unless he was bitter about being married to her for the time being, the only thing he might have pretended at was cordiality with her.
If that bothered him, there were bigger problems than their mission lying under the surface.
She wasn’t pretending at cordiality with him. She wasn’t pretending when she asked to learn about finding the code in the letter. She wasn’t pretending in her determination to accomplish their mission.
She wasn’t pretending at all when it came to him.
Was she wrong? Should she have been more guarded with him? With the mission? Should she have been pretending and protecting herself constantly?
Perhaps this was why she hadn’t been selected for operations at the Convent. She wasn’t an operative at heart, and she wasn’t an operative by nature.
That was hardly the mentality she needed at this moment, considering the carriage was just pulling up to their destination wherein she would have to pretend to be a British émigré without drawing any attention while pretending to be one.
Lovely.
“Ah, yes,” her cousin said, puffing his chest out as he moved for the door. “You will be impressed, I think. Come, come.”
Hal looked across the carriage at Victoire, who seemed almost exasperated by her husband. “Forgive him, please,” she pleaded with a laugh in her sweetly accented voice. “He feels so alive around other people.”
“You don’t feel the same way?” Hal asked, tilting her head ever so slightly.
Victoire sighed as she scooted to the edge of her seat, preparing to leave the carriage. “I much prefer a quiet evening at home. Ah well. Perhaps one day.” She offered a fleeting smile, then took her husband’s hand and exited.
“Not any time soon, unfortunately,” Pratt murmured with some sympathy. “Not with her children. Well, shall we?”
Hal scowled as Pratt moved out of the carriage and offered a hand to her. “No need to be so cheery. Really, one will mistake you for the sun.”
Pratt’s furrowed brow would have made her scowl further had the others not been watching. “What are you talking about?”
“Never you mind,” she huffed as she took his hand and stepped down. With a smile entirely for the benefit of Jean and Victoire, Hal gripped her husband’s elbow. “Lead on, cousin.”
Needing no further encouragement, Jean did so, chattering away as he had before, while Hal and Pratt followed.
“Are you nervous?” Pratt asked in a quiet tone. “You seem a bit abrupt.”
“Perhaps that’s just my nature finally in full effect,” Hal snapped. She exhaled shortly through her nose, trying to force a calm she did not feel. “No, I am not nervous. The idea of pretending has me irritable.”
That, at least, was true, and he could take it for what he would. There was no need to elaborate or expound, and she could have some relief in speaking her mind, even if it was not in full.
He’d never know.
“I can understand that.” He