Beth turned to stare at him amazedly. He looked back with equanimity. The air between them, washed faintly gold from lamplight, glinted as raindrops drizzled through it. The sea’s whispering was interspersed with the bell-like sounds of halyards clanking against boat masts. Beth did not know whether she ought to take the umbrella in her own hand, or insist Devon share in its shelter, or just dive into the harbor and swim away so as to avoid embarrassment.
“Thank you,” she said as a last recourse.
“It’s the least I can do,” Devon said. “If I hadn’t noticed you lurking behind the train, I’d have walked into a trap. I should have known Oberhufter wouldn’t have left his binoculars on the train.”
“I wasn’t lurking,” Beth retorted. “I was pausing with a sensible discretion.”
Devon’s mouth quirked. “One day I’d like to read whatever dictionary it is that you use.” He tilted his head to regard her more seriously. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she said in Automatic British. “You think Oberhufter was behind this?”
“Actually I’m not sure. His footman may have sent me back to the train, but Oberhufter himself is not that sneaky. If he wanted to do away with me, he’d just have had me thrown off the train.”
“Why do you work with a man like that?” Beth asked curiously.
Devon shrugged. “My departmental head asked me to spend the summer helping his daughter train her pet falcon. In other words, spend the summer being maneuvered into marriage.” He shivered dramatically. “Chasing the deathwhistler with Klaus Oberhufter was a better option. It also meant I could ensure the bird ended up in a sanctuary rather than the weapons laboratory he planned to sell it to. Why do you work with a woman like Quirm?”
“I’m trying to prove a connection between psychic territories and the phylogenetic relationships of thaumaturgic birds,” Beth explained. “But I keep getting denied funding, so I need a field partner with resources. Hippolyta fit the bill.”
“According to Lady Trimble, she uses you as her personal servant.”
Taking umbrage at such an utterly ridiculous claim, Beth grasped the umbrella and stepped back. Devon kept a firm hold on her gaze, however, his eyes dark and amused and seeing far too much. Beth lowered the umbrella defensively. “Hippolyta respects my judgment,” she said, “and therefore relies on me.”
“She’d throw you off a cliff if it got her a bird.”
Beth thought of the several cliffs she’d rappelled down in order to inspect nests while Hippolyta stood at the top, shouting instructions. “I admire her ambition.”
“So you don’t think she was the one responsible for us being lured into a trap?”
“Oh, it’s entirely possible she was.”
“But you just said—?” He broke off, frowning in confusion.
“Hippolyta and I may be associates, but there’s no space for loyalty or friendship when it comes to ornithology.”
“That’s true.”
A lonely little moment of silence followed. Beth lifted the umbrella again, glancing at Devon. He stood beside her, hands in his coat pockets as he looked out over the sea. He seemed forlorn, and she surprised herself by feeling sympathetic toward him. Perhaps the man wasn’t completely bad. He’d just saved her life, after all. And more importantly, he’d kept the deathwhistler from a miserable fate.
“I have a little money,” she said. “Enough to buy us tea somewhere in town.”
Devon turned back to her, the forlorn mood replaced by an amused frustration. “Miss Pickering, we’ve just established the ruthlessness of ornithologists. You ought to leave me out here alone, wet and cold.”
Beth applied within for a witty response but came up blank. She was not used to playing with conversation—she was barely used to conversation at all. Unless a person was speaking about birds, or pointing to birds, or asking her to please tell them all the fascinating details she knew about birds, she generally avoided engaging. Moreover, inherent shyness, mixed with her attending university from a prodigiously young age, had not been conducive to her developing social skills. Even in Oxford’s ornithology department, as a female professor of twenty-four among predominantly old men, she seldom socialized beyond polite nods, observations of the weather, and joining in the occasional excitement about who stole Professor Humberton’s sandwich from the faculty lounge. And Hippolyta rarely required more than intermittent noises of agreement.
Besides, how was she supposed to be eloquent when the outrageous fellow didn’t even wear a tie, let alone the civilizing influence of a waistcoat? She tried for dignity but hit indignation instead:
“You are being presumptuous. Perhaps I intend some trickery that involves buying you tea.”
Devon took a step toward her. “Will you poison it?”
“I might,” she said, lifting her chin and absolutely refusing to retreat.
He set a finger beneath the rim of the umbrella, tilting it back. His eyes were full of dangerous promises as he looked down at her unblinkingly. “I might push you into the water,” he said.
Hot sparks went through her. “I might get you a croissant along with the tea,” she countered.
His mouth twitched. “I might tie you up, gag you, and put you on the next train to Istanbul.”
The sparks set fire to an unmentionable part of her body, and it was all she could do not to squirm. “You might,” she agreed, “but before you can, I’ll telegram my bank for funds to get you a ferry ticket.”
The twitch became a slanting smile. “Ah, I see the plan now. Bedazzle me with courtesy, then leave me in your dust. Very cunning, angel, but alas, I have my own money.”
Angel. Well! Really! Humph! Villain! And other emphatic words that sadly failed to halt the blush speeding toward her face! She’d never been called a nickname before (except in the deep privacy of her own imagination, that is, where she kept a list of suggestions should anyone want one, although no one ever did). She attempted a reply, but her voice seemed to have swooned.
“I’m sure I’ve enough to buy us cake along with the tea,” Devon continued, reaching into his coat pocket and withdrawing not a wallet but a small, narrow object.
“What the fuck?” he said, staring at it in shocked bewilderment.
Beth did not chastise him for this vulgar language, primarily because she was secretly thinking the same thing. “You have the caladrius call,” she said in a bland tone that concealed the emotional chaos swirling beneath it.
Devon looked at her with eyes that seemed even darker than usual, due to the pallor of his face. “I have no idea how it got in my pocket.”
“Sure you don’t,” Beth murmured sarcastically. Being nice did not mean being a complete idiot.
“I’m serious,” he insisted. “Would I lie to you?”
“Yes. You’d lie and steal my bird and send Mrs. Trimble to spy on me and—”
