9. Sage #2
Mr. Moore was on the floor again, wearing that confident smile of his.
Sage did not know what he could’ve done to deserve it being pointed in his direction.
Despite his efforts, he’d woken up thoroughly entwined with the man again.
His extra pillow had evidently not lasted very long.
Not only had he let go of it at some point during the night, but he’d cast it to the floor beside the bed.
He might as well have never asked for it to begin with.
“Attention,” Miss Thackeray called out haughtily over the low chattering. It was followed by two sharp claps from Mx. Hillcrest. Miss Thackeray placed a quick kiss on their cheek. “Is everyone ready?”
The room went silent as everyone waited. The only sounds were the gentle pops coming from the fire behind Sage and a swell of rain as the wind pushed it against the side of the house.
Miss Thackeray cleared her throat.
“ Forthwith !” Her gaze swept over the captive audience around her. “ Delicate sensibilities beware. ”
Roger made an uncomfortable sound.
“Bucolic delight, verdant and pristine;
A more magnificent expanse you have never seen.
Silk and silhouette, pay a visit to the modiste;
Couturier, spare no expense and give me your finest, I must insist.”
A chuckle burst out of Keelan as soon as Miss Thackeray finished reading.
“They really had to stretch on that last bit,” he said.
“Go on,” Emrys encouraged him.
“Er, well,” he began shyly, leaning back in his chair as he was suddenly aware of everyone looking at him. “ Modiste and insist work well enough together in English. It’s not quite as beautiful in French.”
Lady Imogen Fitzhugh settled an inquisitive look on Keelan. “You speak French, Mr. Rook-Worth?”
“Only a little.” Keelan grinned when Silas took his hand and kissed the back of it. “My husband has been encouraging me to strengthen the skill again.” He pursed his lips. “Would you read the riddle a second time, Harriet? I believe there were several hints to that vernacular, in fact.”
Everyone listened closely as she repeated herself, though most kept their eyes on Keelan. He nodded confidently when she was done.
“ Modiste and couturier , of course. Both designers of fashionable clothes.”
“A dress,” Mx. Hillcrest and Lady Imogen Fitzhugh guessed in unison.
“A gown,” Mr. Thompson put in. “It speaks of expense.”
“The use of both designers leads me to believe otherwise,” Wyndham said sedately, unbothered by the competitive edge that both Ladies Fitzhugh were determined to incorporate into the game.
“If it were one or the other, we could assume it was something more specific, such as a gown. I think it is vague on purpose.”
“An outfit, then?” Lady Anthea Fitzhugh’s brows shot up in the direction of Miss Thackeray. “Is that correct?”
“You’re moving in the right direction,” Miss Thackeray confirmed.
Lady Anthea turned to her wife. “So the second part is some type of clothing.”
“ Fine clothing,” Mr. Thompson added helpfully.
“Yes, all right, fine clothing,” Lady Anthea repeated with a roll of her eyes that one could only get away with to someone who was a close friend. Mr. Thompson smiled in response. “What of the first part?”
Lady Imogen turned to Keelan. “Any other helpful clues?”
“Oh,” Keelan said. “Well…”
“Certainly it is not referring to London,” Wyndham muttered.
Roger angled his head to look up at where Wyndham was standing behind his chair. “We do have the Park. I find it rather beautiful.”
Wyndham’s answering grin was soft.
“Wyndham is correct,” Torquil said easily from Emrys’ lap. “ Bucolic implies somewhere not in London, or any city.”
“A pristine expanse.” Lady Anthea tapped a finger against her lips. “The countryside, then. Pasture? Meadow? Grass?”
Miss Thackeray shook her head at all of the guesses.
“I cannot imagine who would be offended by life outside of London and fine clothes,” Mr. Thompson said. “Delicate sensibilities beware?”
Sage worked over the puzzle in his mind as the group continued to do the same together.
He closed his eyes and thought of his trip out to the Wrenwhistle estate—hours upon hours of staring out the carriage window at nothing.
Not a city, Torquil had said, not a town or a village.
Just the endless stretch of rolling hills, the occasional stand of trees, and fields full of sheep, a blemish of white to mar such an abundance of green. Verdant. Green.
Green outfit. Green clothing. Green…
Sage’s eyes opened and he snorted out a laugh.
“Miss Thackeray,” he said. “Wherever did you find this book?”
Everyone stopped talking and whipped their heads to look at him.
Miss Thackeray chuckled. “Have you got an answer for us, Mr. Ravenwing?”
The room was staring with intense curiosity.
He knew that the moment he gave his reply, any shred of respect these people had for him would be gone for such indecorous behavior in polite company.
Not that there was much to be lost. Sage’s name had appeared in the Tribune so many times he’d long since given up keeping track.
They all knew how Sage spent his time. All but one.
Then again, the answer would be revealed at the end regardless. They all seemed eager to hear it. Why shouldn’t he be the one to tell them? Perhaps some of them even knew it already, if not by action then by phrase. Wyndham did. Wyndham was the reason Sage did.
Sage lifted one hand from the arm of his chair and twirled his wrist with a flourish, as if to say the answer was painfully obvious.
“Green garment, of course.”
Miss Thackeray tittered in her seat. “That is correct!” she cheered.
The room was suddenly divided. Half of the party was looking around, slightly bewildered.
The other half was very purposefully not making eye contact with anyone at all.
He overheard Mx. Hillcrest murmur “grass stains” in Mr. Thompson’s ear.
Miss Thackeray cackled as the gentleman’s face pinked.
Sage was careful to avoid whatever Wyndham’s reaction was.
Instead, he found that his focus had fallen to Mr. Moore.
There was no culpability in the man’s expression, nor confusion, or even curiosity.
Sage could only see his bright smile as he stared right back.
“Well done, Mr. Ravenwing,” he said earnestly. “After last night, I assumed you’re not the type to enjoy playing along with party games.”
“I am not,” Sage answered flatly.
Mr. Moore’s smile grew. “I think I’ll have to sit with you next time so we can work together like everyone else. Nobody would be able to beat us then.”
Sage’s expression curdled. “You would have me sit on the floor?”
“Of course not,” Mr. Moore said, his forehead wrinkling. “We can both sit however we like. Only closer.” Suddenly, he was on his feet faster than a man half his age might’ve managed. “I’ll see you upstairs.”
Sage blinked at the space Mr. Moore had left behind, and then again at the newly empty sofa and chairs around the sitting room. Apparently the answer he’d given was so scandalous that it sent everyone to bed. Sage got up to follow. There was no use staying in the room alone.
“Conrad is rather spry, isn’t he?”
It took a moment for Sage to realize it was Keelan speaking to him.
“He is,” Sage agreed warily. Keelan chuckled.
“Everyone else is a bit surprised, but I think the two of you look well together.” He leaned in far closer than Sage was expecting him to before he added with a whisper, “Do not let anyone try to convince you that a man from the country is not perfectly capable of making you happy.” With a smile and a satisfied nod, Keelan scurried off to where Silas was waiting for him.
Sage stared after him until the room was empty of everyone except for the servants moving the furniture back into place, snuffing the candles, and quenching the fire for the night.