Chapter Nine
Nine
“So how did you come to be an escort?” the marquis asked when we had placed our orders.
We had walked about twenty minutes from the pub until we’d arrived at a small tavern, one that promised home cooking and plenty of it.
My main concern was that anyplace we went be quiet and discreet, since the marquis’s appearance was so striking—even without the knowledge that he was a demon—as to cause a stir.
This place was cozy and dimly lit, so I thought it should be safe enough.
“A species ombudsman,” I corrected.
He waved a hand. “Whatever. How were you chosen, out of all the unremarkable humans in London?”
Well. That didn’t sound very complimentary. Perhaps he wasn’t all that taken with me after all. Perhaps he was just amusing himself by dallying with—
“Not that you aren’t good at your job, mind you,” he added hastily.
“You acted quite quickly at the bazaar and weren’t intimidated by the encounter with creatures you’d never seen before.
” His expression was admiring, and I softened.
“I would have thought you might have chosen something easier to do. Or at least more traditional—aren’t most women your age married already? ”
My eyebrows rose. “You mean, would I rather be tied permanently to a man who can dictate what I do, what I wear, where I go, how I act, and who I know rather than sort out disagreements between beings, create a better understanding among species, and ensure that humans continue to have a say in the world?”
His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “And be temporarily tied to some men who can dictate where you go, though not any of the other items?”
I laughed. “Exactly.” I took a breath as I considered it.
“I am not from a wealthy family. My father provided for us but not enough for an impressive dowry, if I had wanted to get married in the first place. He was a solicitor, but he was not very good at collecting money from his clients. My mother did needlework to supplement our income. I tried to do the same, but I am dreadful with a needle.” I held my hands out and gazed at them ruefully.
“One thing I have always been good at is clarifying people’s positions.
I think it is because I take after my father.
I would listen to him making his cases and assist him when I was older.
So when I heard the government was in need of someone for this ombudsman position, I applied.
” I shrugged. “I cannot be a solicitor, and this is the next best thing.”
“I wonder how you came to get the job. Surely—”
“Surely a man would be a better fit?” I said sharply.
“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” he replied.
He looked as if he found my ire amusing, which was even more annoying.
“I was going to say that surely your government would believe a man to be more suitable. Even though that is not true. We do have those same prejudices in Hell, of course, but not to the same extent. Look at Keres—she wields extraordinary power, and she is female. Though we do muck it up with having beings in Hell who are neither male nor female, which makes it all the more meaningless. The gender division, I mean.”
My eyes widened as he spoke. I wouldn’t have thought Hell of all places would be more tolerant of women’s independence than London.
But here we were.
“I got the position because nobody else applied,” I said simply.
“Other humans were initially too terrified to even speak to other species, beyond necessary conversation. There were obviously some exceptions, but those people had already carved out professions for themselves.” I shrugged.
“I was one of the few who met those two criteria.”
“It is our good fortune you are our species ombudsman, Hastings,” he said, nodding his head deferentially.
I basked in the appreciation. I knew I was good at my job—Mr. Connors had told me so—but there were few others who recognized the importance of what I was doing.
Who knew that if I weren’t so successful at mediating conflict that London, and possibly then the world, might escalate into an interspecies war?
It sounded self-aggrandizing, but I had spent many sleepless nights after a particularly difficult workday running through the scenarios of what might happen if I wasn’t successful.
That was why I wanted more people—or beings—in my profession, beings I could train with my experience.
But I was getting ahead of myself. Right now I had to make certain the Devil wasn’t the target of another assassination attempt, or I—or everyone in London—might be subject to the whole roasting-over-an-open-fire thing.
“Do you like what you do?” I asked.
“What I do?” he said, frowning.
“Yes.” The server arrived just then with our food, placing the plates on the table in front of us. We’d both ordered shepherd’s pie, one of my favorites, which he had requested because he’d never had it. It was surprisingly enjoyable to introduce someone to things one took for granted.
Perhaps that was how he was feeling After the Kiss. Perhaps he liked introducing me to the deliciousness of kissing and was momentarily intrigued by how clueless I was.
Apologies to Fred the greengrocer once again for my lack of skill.
And in exchange, here I was introducing the marquis to a dish made of ground meat and mashed potatoes. Not quite the same thing.
He took a bite, then drew his head back in surprise. “That is excellent,” he said. “It looks like a proper mess on the plate, but then you eat it, and—” At which point he closed his eyes and chewed, his expression one of utter pleasure.
I swallowed as I regarded him, his beautiful face, his strong throat with its Adam’s apple, then the spot where his neck met his shoulders.
He eschewed a cravat today, unlike most other human-presenting men of my acquaintance (Mr. Connors sometimes wore a bandanna around his neck, but that was entirely different), so his neck was bare.
The sight of it was almost as shocking as it was for a lady to show her ankles. At least, I knew I felt a flutter as I looked at it.
“Seen enough, Hastings?” he said in a smug tone.
I jumped, then met his eyes again, feeling entirely guilty.
“It’s fine,” he continued. “I don’t mind in the least. I am accustomed to being looked at, after all.”
Of course. A timely reminder that this was a powerful, beautiful being who was far out of my world, someone who wouldn’t normally deign to speak to a nonentity like me.
It wasn’t that I didn’t value myself, but I knew where I stood in this new world’s hierarchy, which was to say, slightly above horses, which could at least move very quickly, and slightly below the most rudimentary troll, who at least could look intimidating, if nothing else.
“And I very much like being looked at by you,” he added in a much warmer tone.
Oh. I felt my insides flutter and hastily swallowed a bite of pie. It was quite good; he was correct.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said, my voice strained. “About if you like what you do.”
“What do I do?” he said, making it sound as though that was the first time he’d thought about it.
“I suppose I do something similar to you, though not in an official capacity. I smooth things over in Hell. I ensure my father doesn’t have to bestir himself too much—he is really quite lazy; he hates to have to think—and I settle petty differences between demons. ”
I gave him a look of astonishment. “It sounds as though you do precisely what I do. Do you enjoy it?”
He pondered it for a moment, those exquisite eyebrows drawn together in thought. “I think I do. I wouldn’t want to just sit around and torture people all day, like my father does.”
I shuddered. “I thought you said he was lazy?”
He shook his head. “That is sport to him. He sees it as his duty, a very pleasant duty, to dole out the punishment those arriving in our domain deserve. We’re as punitive and judgmental there as you are up here, you see.”
I bristled at the comment but realized it was the truth, even though it stung.
Prior to the Revelation, there had been various types of inequity among humans, depending on wealth, status, race, and gender; after the Revelation, the inequities were still sorting themselves out, but it was easy to see a clear ranking emerging, with humans at the bottom and vampires—Queen Victoria in the lead—at the top.
The old inequities were still there, of course, but altered due to the change in the world.
“I wonder if I can persuade the cook to share the recipe,” the marquis said, scooping up another bite of pie on his fork.
“It can be difficult to find certain vegetables, though finding fresh meat is never a problem.” His accompanying grin made my insides quake for a moment, and not in a good way, as I thought about what type of fresh meat he might be talking about.
Never mind that, I told myself, squashing it away in a tiny part of my brain. If I allowed myself to get drawn into the specifics of life in Hell, I’d never be able to concentrate on what was happening up here, which seemed hellish enough at the moment.
“So who do you think might be the mole?” I asked.
“Mole?” he said, sounding confused.
“The spy,” I clarified. “The one who knew where your father would be and told that information to whoever sent that assassin.”
“Mole,” he repeated. “Something operating under the cover of darkness. Clever. I like that.”
“Yes, well, we can discuss etymology at another time,” I said impatiently. Not that I didn’t appreciate a curious man who wanted to learn more; I did. Just not now, when we were supposed to be figuring out who might be wanting to harm the Devil, which would cause chaos throughout the country.
I rather thought the word sourcing could wait.