“You’re welcome to borrow it. I doubt anyone in this house has opened it since my grandfather died.” Evander rose and crossed to the bookshelf behind his desk.
The Selden sat on the top shelf between a volume of Blackstone and a Latin Bible that no one read. He pulled it down and blew a layer of dust from the spine.
“Return it within the month.”
Harcourt stood to receive it, and his satchel slipped from his shoulder, spilling a sheaf of papers across the carpet. He dropped to his knees to collect them, his face coloring.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I’m not usually this clumsy.”
Evander studied the young man as he gathered his papers. The nervousness was disproportionate to the situation. A scholar borrowing a book from a private library was a routine enough transaction. Harcourt’s hands were shaking, and his gaze kept drifting toward the open study door as though he expected someone to walk past.
“Is something the matter, Mr. Harcourt?” Evander asked.
“No. No, nothing at all.” Harcourt stuffed the papers into his satchel and stood. He accepted the Selden with both hands, holding it against his chest. “You are very generous, Your Grace. I will take excellent care of it.”
“See that you do.”
Harcourt bowed again, deeper this time, and retreated toward the door. On the threshold, he paused, his eyes cutting once more to the corridor, and Evander saw a shadow of worry and impatience cross the young man’s face. It was gone before Evander could assess it further.
“Good day, Your Grace.”
Harcourt left. His footsteps retreated down the corridor at a pace that suggested a man eager to be elsewhere. Evander heard Harding open the front door, and then the house settled back into its usual quiet.
Curious.
But a nervous academic borrowing a dusty book hardly ranked among his concerns at present. The Bow Street runner’s latest report sat unopened on the desk, and the Madame Fontaine lead needed pursuing, and the stitches in his arm pulled every time he reached for his pen.
Evander dismissed Harcourt from his thoughts and returned to work.
“You’re smiling.”
“I am not smiling.”
“Your mouth has moved. I saw it. That little upward twitch at the corner that you think no one notices.” Quentin leaned across the table and squinted at Evander with exaggerated scrutiny. “There. It happened again.”
“That is a grimace. I am grimacing at you.”
“A grimace goes downward, Blackholm. I attended Eton. I know the difference.”
Evander took a sip of his whisky, the only glass he would allow himself tonight, and set it down.
The club was busier than usual, the card room full, the billiard table occupied by two young lords making more noise than their game warranted. He and Quentin had secured their usual corner, two leather chairs angled toward the fire with a small table between them.
“You look less terrible than last time,” Quentin said. “The bar was admittedly low, but I’m choosing to take it as progress.”
“Your faith in me is overwhelming.”
“Someone has to have faith in you. You certainly don’t.” Quentin stretched his legs toward the fire and crossed his ankles. “How is the arm?”
“Stitched.”
“Dare I ask how it came to need stitching?”
“You may ask. I may not answer.”
“Naturally.” Quentin swirled his brandy. “And the wife?”
Evander’s fingers tightened around his glass. He relaxed them before Quentin could notice, which was pointless because Quentin always noticed.