Chapter Twelve
Roger exited the bottom level of the library after a rather nice evening with a treatise on soil. It was not the evening he’d expected—cancelling his appearance at a dinner held by the Viscount Bradford had been painful—thus far less productive, but admittedly also far less tedious.
Besides, if one endeavored to be king, one must make certain sacrifices. Jewels locked in a box had no value. He should—no, needed to—be out and about.
Soon. Just a few weeks and he’d finally succeed. Even David would be pleased with him.
Nodding to himself, he padded toward the staircase, ready to retire to his bedchamber. Glancing down toward the entry to his home, he started, as there, standing by the large marble-topped table, was a woman.
A rather well-dressed one, in a fur-lined cloak, her hair neatly coiffed, her flawlessly white-gloved hands folded in front of her as she stood waiting for something.
“Hello,” he said, hurrying down to greet her, and more importantly, inquire about her presence, before calling Lopez to ask why he was not informed of the same when she arrived.
At the sound of his voice, she lifted her gaze toward him, her large, doe-like eyes widening.
Young. The woman was quite young. Really more of a girl. Which made her solo presence even more curious. Who was she?
“Hello, Mr. Berab,” she greeted him, bending into a deep, formal, perfectly executed curtsy. Well, whoever she was, at least she was properly-mannered. And likely, important. Or at least the child of someone important.
Best to turn on his full charm.
“Fancy meeting you here. What, in your own house?” she continued, her lips turning up at her own quip.
“It is,” he said, properly bowing in acknowledgment. “And who might I have the honor of speaking with this evening?”
“You don’t recognize me?” she asked, those same lips turning into a coquettish though slightly pugnacious pout.
“I—” He searched his mind once more, as evidently he’d made some error. His least favorite activity.
“I jest.” The pout vanished, leaving her expression merely coy. “Last time we were formally introduced, I was wearing a mask.”
“A mask?” he asked, searching his mind for the correct occasion. Gentiles most certainly enjoyed such balls, though they were rare in their community. Except for Purim. But that had been nearly a year ago.
“At the final Lira ball,” she supplied.
Roger winced at the reminder of the occasion.
“Though I’m a touch disappointed,” she continued, prowling toward him, “as it’s been said I resemble my father greatly, and you met with him just the other week.” She raised both dark brows expectantly.
He met with her father the other week? David had no guests besides family for Shabbat, and he’d not left the house since—and his eyes widened. He should’ve seen it before. The shape of the chin, the high, wide cheeks, not to mention the set of her nose—
“Miss Teres?” he inquired, working to cover his shock.
What was his soon-to-be betrothed doing here? Now?
Roger cursed in his head. This was not what he wanted. Well, he did want her—just, he was certainly not ready. Not to meet her here. Before matters were formalized, when things could still go awry.
Not that he’d let them, but still… He swallowed.
Fortunately, the woman didn’t seem to notice. Her smile widened, revealing a small dimple on her cheek. “At your service,” she replied with another curtsy. “I hope.”
“I believe I should be at yours,” he offered, forcing himself into character. He cleared his throat. “To what do I owe this honor?” he asked. Especially at this hour? Not that he could say that out loud.
“My maid Renata is under the care of Mrs. Henriques, but given the weather and the close proximity of our homes, it was more convenient to temporarily seek Miss Adler’s assistance,” Miss Teres explained, her voice bright.
Logical. And well said, as far as excuses went. But based on her tone, it was clear her motivation was multifaceted.
The second almost certainly being to test her own satisfaction with him. Annoying, as he’d have liked some notice so he could properly prepare, but fortunately, he was quick on his feet.
“Indeed,” he told her with a deferential incline of his head. “That’s very wise.”
“We endeavor to be,” the woman said with another full, admittedly rather charming smile. And an impressive amount of poise.
“As do I,” he assured her quickly.
“Naturally, as you accepted our offer,” she teased. She traipsed toward him again and clasped her hands in front of her. “Right from the moment I met you—no, when I saw you—I knew you were perfect. For me, at least,” she told him rather earnestly.
The compliment made Roger’s skin itch. Even if it marked success.
“I’m not sure I’d describe myself thus,” he told her, rubbing the back of his neck.
“No.” Miss Teres shook her head. “You’re too modest.” Her smile turned wry. “Given the impending intimacy of our acquaintance, I pray you’ll feel more comfortable being honest with me.” She searched his face.
“Certainly,” he said quickly, a strange thrumming starting in his temples.
“This matter is quite simple, Mr. Berab,” she told him.
“We’re each from good, old families who rose from the conflagration of the Inquisition to lead.
We have similar traditions, backgrounds, and outlooks.
And we each happen to be extraordinarily gifted in proper social comportment.
Not to mention we have the style and beauty to put the same to its highest use, coupled with matching will and ambition,” she explained, counting off each attribute on her gloved fingers.
“As far as I can tell, we’re each other’s only equals in the community, and thus, as I said before, you’re perfect for me. And I, in turn, am perfect for you.”
Roger stared at her. The words, her recitation, were no doubt correct and more something that he himself might have said, and yet he could not shake the uneasy feeling that had, out of nowhere, settled in his stomach.
Perhaps he should’ve taken more time with his dinner.
“Indeed,” he murmured, clearing his throat yet again as the woman studied his face. “I mean. Yes, quite so,” he agreed quickly.
“Good,” she said, her voice and smile bright yet again. “I’m glad we understand each other.” She raised a single finger. “Now, I know my family wants to be cautious these few weeks before it is announced—”
“And before the agreements are negotiated and signed,” he reminded her.
“That as well. But I couldn’t resist seeing you while I was here,” Miss Teres told him, confirming his initial suspicions. “Reminding us both what our mutual, brilliant future holds.”
“I’m excited for the same,” he assured her, pressing a hand to his most certainly upset stomach.
Hopefully, he was not becoming like one of those old men who picked and poked at anything with bolder flavors.
Though it would probably assist his enjoyment at certain dinner parties.
“As am I,” Miss Teres assured him, breaking his thoughts, her expression once again earnest. “I shall be counting down the days until then,” she told him, her voice and eyes softening. She tilted up her chin, almost as if she expected him to kiss her.
Inappropriate at this juncture, but not unheard of.
Furthermore, the woman was well-mannered, clever, and objectively beautiful. Not to mention, in a few weeks she’d be his wife. Thus, he should want to kiss her, posthaste. What was the matter with him?
“Oh good, my muff,” she cried, saving him from his own inaction, her gaze fixed on a spot above his head.
Roger whirled around to find Marguarite trotting down the stairs toward them, holding the named object, her expression formal and appropriate, even as her eye twitched between the two.
“Thank you so much,” Miss Teres said, accepting the item from his housekeeper, who stepped backward to stand behind him, now watching the scene.
Probably ending it.
He should not be so relieved by that. Especially as, sooner rather than later, Miss Teres would not be exiting at all.
“I must be going now,” his soon-to-be-betrothed said after a beat.
“Good evening, Miss Teres,” Marguarite said from behind him.
“Yes, good evening,” Roger said. “I’m so grateful that we were able to spend a moment conversing.”
“Leone,” Miss Teres insisted, firmly meeting his gaze.
Roger swallowed. “Leone,” he repeated.
The woman smiled once more. “You say that well,” she told him, dipping into another graceful curtsy.
Marguarite coughed.
Miss Teres paused and gazed up at her. “Oh, you poor dear,” she said to the housekeeper. “You should rest. I’ve heard, without proper treatment, winter coughs can be quite debilitating.” She turned back to Roger, still smiling. “Good evening, Roger.”
Without another word, she slipped on her muff and exited, leaving him staring after.
Carrying an old copy of Spinoza in Latin, the best thing in his library to help him sleep after Miss Teres’s surprise visit, Roger padded through the hall toward the staircase to finally retire for the night.
However, as he approached, a loud series of thuds shook not merely the banister but the ground beneath his feet.
He hurried to the landing, only to find Miss Adler—gown slightly mussed, red waves coming loose, sweat dripping from her flushed skin—attempting to drag the large trunk that had been rescued from her home down the entire staircase, using merely her good arm.
Abimerai, abimeras, abimera, abimerons, abimerez, abimeront.
“What are you doing?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level amid the dozen or so scenarios flitting through his mind in which she, his home, or both would be irrevocably harmed by the action.
A poetic bit of revenge.
Even if it wouldn’t help her in the slightest.