Chapter One #2
“If we do Shakespeare instead of the far superior Pyramus and Thisbe, you mean?” she snapped, making him both flinch and grin at her. “No one. I have long been tired of iambic pentameter unless it is in service of Titania.”
“You’re going to sit out your own production?” Jasper asked, perching his hand on his chest like a scandalized church matron. “Why would you do that?”
“I will direct it, of course,” Libba answered impatiently. “There is more to stagecraft than the acting, you know.”
“Is there?” he replied, clearly to goad her into giving him a firm whack on the arm, which he rubbed with a smug chuckle of satisfaction. “Well, I suppose that’ll free you up a bit, won’t it? For other endeavors?”
“‘Other endeavors’?” she asked, finishing off her second glass and taking up the pitcher for both herself and Rhys. “Such as?”
“Oh, nothing in particular,” he said so easily, she immediately knew it was a lie. “Whiling away the chill here in the pub. You could polish off your old Princess Xandine gambit.”
“That’s for tourists,” Monica Thresher told him from the opposite side of the table, tucking her wispy, blonde hair behind her ears. “There are no tourists when it is cold.”
“There are always sailors,” Jasper pointed out. “They’re tourists of a sort.”
“It needs no polish, anyway,” Libba said with a lift of her chin. “I was Princess Xandine not two months ago here at this very pub, if you’ll recall, and it was as well-oiled and perfect a performance as ever.”
“Lord,” Malcolm muttered, rolling his eyes and looking around for someone else to speak to.
He had never approved of anything he perceived as a scam.
And Princess Xandine of the African Isles, while harmless, was certainly a scam.
The game was a simple one. Libba would fashion a costume out of whatever was available already amongst herself and her compatriots and transform herself into a believably foreign and alien beauty.
Then, when new and alien patrons came into the bar, she would assume the character of the beguiling Princess Xandine, usually to the end of many free drinks and the occasional gift or two extra.
It had only gotten to the point of marriage proposals a couple of times.
And she’d never accepted.
Still, Malcolm found the whole thing unsavory.
Because he was a prig.
If Libba ever pointed out that the whole world of banking and shipping and so on was a scam in and of itself, and not a particularly far more sophisticated one, he would always dissolve into sputtering vapors. So, she didn’t.
Or rather, she let Rhys do it, usually.
“What are you up to?” she asked Jasper, softer, once Malcolm was sufficiently distracted. She leaned forward, her voice gone soft and breathy so it would not be overheard as she searched his face for an answer. “Why do you care if I have free time?”
“What do you mean?” he replied, quirking up the corners of his lips. “I haven’t been able to properly spend time with you in years. Obviously, I’ve missed the pleasure.”
She squinted, skeptical. “But I’ve been back from London for three months now,” she pointed out.
“Yes, and who knows how long you will stay this time?” he said, raising his copper brows. “You might scuttle back off at the next church bell and then where will I be if I didn’t take advantage of the time you were here? I hate the sensation of regret, dear Libba.”
“Mhm,” Libba said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You know very well that Malcom and I are stuck here until next May at the very earliest. If we leave before, we forfeit our inheritance.”
“Doesn’t mean you won’t,” he teased, flicking the tip of her nose.
“Jasper!” she snapped, swatting away his hand. “Shall I just ask you a little louder to get you to answer me truthfully?”
He gave a little sigh of resignation, attempting to frown, though he couldn’t actually hide how delighted he was by the entire exchange.
“I’m still working out the details myself,” he confessed, sparing a quick, flicking glance at her brother, seemingly also invested in making sure he was not listening.
“But I’ve an idea. Something big. Might need you for it. ”
“Yes, that sounds more correct,” she replied with a chuckle, tapping at the rim of her glass. “Your schemes are always a disaster, Jasper.”
“I beg your pardon. My schemes occasionally pay off in spades,” he answered, returning her smile, the freckles on his nose stretching with the breadth of it. “That’s the important bit.”
“Occasionally,” she agreed, watching his eyes. “Mostly, they don’t. Remember the soap empire? The gambit with rag mops? The time you tried to pitch a new stamping mechanic to the Royal Mail? How’d those work out?”
“Risk brings reward,” he returned, undaunted and beginning to grin.
When Jasper got one of his ideas, he always looked a little more vulpine to Libba. The gold of his hazel irises seemed to glint, the upturned corners of his eyes seemed to narrow, his many translucent eyelashes appeared to bristle like a tod’s whiskers.
That was how one could know he was in fine form about it, and that he intended to follow through, no matter how unlikely the success of the scheme he’d concocted.
“Consistency brings reward,” she returned, rolling her eyes. “Do you need more examples?”
“No, but I will tell you what I do need,” he offered, content as a clam. “Shall I do so?”
She sighed. She knew him well enough now to know that he was too far along in his plotting for anyone to be able to stop him from progressing.
And so, the only thing to do was to hear him out.
“Get me some more ale so I forget how often your plots result in disaster or worse, nothing at all,” she said fondly. “Do that, and then we’ll talk.”
“Right away,” he agreed, swinging his legs over the bench to retreat back to the bar. “Your Highness.”