Fourteen
Peter waited until the king’s carriage disappeared into Bow Street, then turned and took the stairs two at a time, those stray ringlets of cinnamon and marigold playing a prominent role in his thoughts.
He didn’t give a farthing about what he had scheduled or what Mertons would say.
All he wanted was to return to that spirited, flame-haired visitor who had saved his skin and find out more.
Mertons stood, Cossack-like, at the top of the landing. “Peter—”
“I am officially done for the day,” Peter said as he brushed by. “Tell Stephen to cancel the Danish general. If the author arrives, my compliments, and he—and you—may cordially hang fire until the morn—Oh, Stephen, there you are. Do you hear?”
Stephen, who was deeply relieved to be keeping his position and had twisted poor Moseby’s ear until tears ran down the lad’s face, said, “Aye, sir. What about Nell’s sitting?”
“Move the appointment to Friday,” he called. “I shall finish the painting then.”
“’Tis an interesting thing,” Stephen said, watching Peter’s disappearing form, “the impact of color.”
Mertons frowned. “Pardon?”
“Hair. Some men favor moonbeams and corn silk. Mincemeat on the table and pudding between the ears, that’s their thought, though for my own part, I haven’t found them to be cooks of any great sort.
I myself prefer a brown-haired lass. They may not be the beauty of the room, but one can have a reasonable conversation with them.
Ten years can seem ten lifetimes without that.
But men like your cousin…” He shook his head and allowed himself a contented smile. “They can only spark to fire.”
Mertons blinked. “My cousin?”