A Most Dangerous Profession (30 page)

Potential headaches was what they were. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he asked irritably. “Where’s that damned refreshment table? If I’m going to face these monkeys, I’ll need a drink.”

“Lady Bellforth usually sets the refreshment table by the library doors.”

He nodded and stepped forward. As if in answer, fans and lashes fluttered as if hoping to trap him in a gossamer hold. “For the love of Ra,” he said through
gritted teeth, “don’t they have anything better to do than stare?”

“You’re famous,” Mary said calmly. “Get used to it.”

“I don’t wish to be famous.”

“But you are, so you’ll just have to live with it. Just smile and nod, and we’ll navigate through this crowd in no time at all.”

He scowled instead, noticing with glee that several of the flowery fans stopped fluttering.

“Michael, you can’t—”

He placed his hand firmly under Mary’s elbow and led her into the crowd, scowling at first one hopeful-looking miss and then another. They blushed and then sagged as if he’d stabbed their empty little hearts.

Mary made an impatient noise. “We’ll never get another sponsor if you keep this up. These women are the daughters and sisters of wealthy men who could benefit your endeavors greatly.”

“They are cotton-headed misses and I refuse to pander to them.” One of them boldly winked at him. “Good God, what happened to female modesty while I was in the wilds of Egypt?”

“More to the point, what happened to gentlemanly manners?”

“I left those worthless skills on the shores of the Nile,” he retorted. “Good riddance, too.”

“Your time away has turned you into a barbarian.”

“I won’t dignify that with an answer.” Just as
they were within a few feet of their destination, a young woman stepped into his path, almost thrust into place by the girls who circled behind her.

Tall, with a large nose and auburn curls decorated with pearl pins and cascading over one shoulder, she appeared all of seventeen. “Mr. Hurst! How nice to see you again.” She dipped a grand curtsy, her smirk letting him know that she expected a greeting of welcome.

Michael lifted a brow, but said nothing.

Her cheeks bloomed red, her lips pressed in irritation, though she hid it almost immediately behind a forced smile. “I’m Miss Lydia Latham. We met at Lady MacLean’s soiree.”

Michael stared as Miss Latham held out her hand expectantly.

Mary jabbed her elbow into his side.

With a grimace, Michael took the girl’s hand, holding it the minimal time required by politeness.

Miss Latham beamed. “I
knew
you’d remember me! We spoke at length about the Rosetta stone.”

“Did we?” he asked in a bored tone.

“Oh, yes! I’ve read every word you’ve ever written.”

“I doubt that, unless, of course, you’ve managed to sneak into my bedchamber and procure my diaries. I’m fairly sure no one but me has read those.”

Miss Latham’s face turned several shades pinker and she tittered nervously. “Oh, no! I would never sneak into a man’s bedchamber.”

“More’s the pit—”

“What my brother means to say,” Mary said hurriedly, “is that
The Morning Post
serial is but a small portion of his writings. He’s the author of many scientific treatises on artifacts and ruins that he’s unearthed, and—”

“And my diaries,” he interjected smoothly.

One of the other girls clasped her hands together and said in a soulful tone, “I’ve never known a
man
to keep a diary.”

“And just how many men do you know?” Michael asked, irritated to be placed upon a pedestal for the most mundane of things.

Mary glared at him as if she were fighting the urge to smack his head, as she had when they were children. “No one will invite you anywhere if you continue like this,” she hissed.

“Nonsense. They are too silly to know any better.”

As if to prove his point, a girl with brown hair and a protruding chin said brazenly, as if every word were a challenge that he wouldn’t be able to resist, “Mr. Hurst, I daresay our petty little parties bore you to death.”

“Yes, they do.”

Not realizing he found the ball boring because of inane comments like hers, she sent her companions a triumphant glance over her shoulder. “Of course! This must seem so dull after your adventures on the Nile. Especially after wrestling crocodiles, and—”

“I beg your pardon,” Michael interrupted. “Did you say ‘wrestling’ and ‘crocodiles’?”

The girl blinked. “W-why, yes. You wrote that you were forced to do so last January, during mating season when they’re at their most fierce.”

Michael crossed his arms and glared at his sister. “Mary?”

She blushed, a bit of desperation in her tone as she said, “I daresay you’ll remember it quite clearly once you’ve had some refreshment.” Mary curtsied to the small group. “I hope you’ll excuse us, but my poor brother needs some nourishment. If you don’t mind, we’ll make our way to the refreshment table.” Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed his arm and burrowed through the crowd.

At the table she quickly took two glasses and a small plate with a tiny piece of stale cake on it. With an air of determination, she found an alcove safely hidden from prying eyes.

Mary let out a huge sigh as she sat upon the small settee provided for those fatigued from dancing.

“A crocodile?” Michael asked. “You’ve been wielding your pen far too artfully in my serial for
The Morning Post
.”

“You asked me to write the serial for you,” she pointed out.

“Yes, because I didn’t have the time to do it. Not because I wished someone to fabricate ridiculous stories. When I first arrived in town, I thought people were beginning to warm to true scientific discovery. Now I see that they were merely amazed at the preposterous tales you’ve told about my expeditions.”

“People
are
interested in your research. Just last week, Lord Harken-Styles said he wishes to invest even more in your adventures.”

“Lord Harken-Styles waylaid me in White’s last night and asked if he could see the arrowhead from the savage who shot me through the neck.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. His lordship seemed to be under the delusion that not only had I been shot through the neck with an arrow, but that I was such a sapskull as to wear the arrowhead around my neck as a good luck talisman.”

Her lips twitched. “I thought that was a very romantic touch.”

“And thoroughly untruthful,” he replied sternly. “Are there any other surprise adventures that I should know about? A duel over a foreign princess in the desert? A missing limb? An extra toe?”

She giggled. “It is all your fault, you know. You are such a horrid correspondent that I was forced to make up things.”

A commotion suddenly roiled across the ballroom.

“What is it?” Mary asked, who could see very little since she was sitting.

“I don’t know. Everyone has turned toward the door and—Ah! Jane has arrived.”

Jane Smythe-Haughton had been his assistant for almost four years now, and he almost couldn’t remember his life before she’d swept in and begun
arranging his expeditions. Things were infinitely better with her around. His meals were more to his liking, his clothes where they should be, his pen nibs sharpened just so, and his scientific equipment always at the ready. She was extraordinarily efficient and, except for a very few times, he rarely had to think about her at all—exactly as he liked it.

Mary lifted her brows archly. “So you call her Jane, do you?”

“Of course I call her Jane,” he said impatiently, disliking the interested note in his sister’s voice. “My tongue would be weary if I had to say Miss Smythe-Haughton every time I needed a fresh pair of socks or couldn’t find one of my notebooks.”

He could see Jane standing on her tiptoes by the door now, looking about the room for him.

He lifted his arm and let out a shrill whistle.

Everyone looked startled except Jane, who began to make her way through the sea of people, her large hat making her look like a wide, yellow lily pad swimming across a pond of reeds.

Michael frowned as he saw that his sister was holding her hand over her eyes. “What’s wrong? Do you have a headache?”

Mary dropped her hand. “Michael, you cannot whistle for the poor girl as if she were a dog!”

“I didn’t. When I whistle for a dog, I do it like this—” He whistled two short whistles. “When I whistle for Jane, I do it like—”

“
Don’t!
Once was enough.” Mary shook her head.
“I quite misjudged your relationship with Miss Smythe-Haughton. We all have.”

“You thought I was romantically involved with
Jane
?”

“You write about her in almost every letter you send,” Mary answered in a defensive tone.

“Probably to complain. She can be a bit demanding. When you meet her, you’ll understand.”

“Oh. Is she plain?”

“She’s—” He hesitated. Jane
was
plain—rather wren-like, all small and brown and quick. But she always seemed bigger than her size, more visible than other women. “Jane is . . . just Jane.”

Mary put aside her glass and stood, peering at the crowds. “Ah, there she must be, for the crowd is parting and—Good God!”

Why did she sound so alarmed? “What?”

“She’s wearing a
hat,
” Mary said in a choked voice.

“Yes.”

“For a
ball
?”

Michael glanced at the hat, a wide yellow confection. It was large, though surely not any larger than those he’d seen paraded about Hyde Park this afternoon. It also seemed to have quite a few feathers. Very big feathers. So large that when Jane turned her head, the feathers slapped some silly bumpkin in a ridiculous orange waistcoat. “I like that hat.”

Mary muttered under her breath.

Michael looked about the room at the other women and noted that no one else was wearing a hat.
He shrugged. “Jane should have left her hat with a footman in the vestibule.”

“I should have known that Miss Smythe-Haughton was so unconventional, seeing as she’s been shepherding you through the wilds of Africa for the last four years.”

“And doing it very well. She organizes our travel arrangements and makes certain the men and I are fed, and writes up our schedules and catalogues the finds, and all of that sort of thing.”

“Someone needs to take her to a good
modiste
. That gown and that hat—” Mary shuddered.

Michael could not have cared less. Jane was Jane, and he was perfectly comfortable with that staying as it was.

Jane paused by the silly bumpkin and was speaking to him, probably apologizing.

The man no longer appeared upset. In fact, he was regarding Jane with sudden interest.

Michael frowned. Women never paid Jane heed, but men frequently did, though she never seemed to notice. When he and Jane had been abroad, he’d decided it was because she was often the only white woman present.

Here there was no such excuse, yet—he looked about the room and scowled as he noted several sets of male eyes firmly locked upon her, many with pronounced interest.

What the hell?

For the first time since he’d hired her, Michael
looked at Jane critically, trying to see her with fresh eyes. She wasn’t a beauty, though she wasn’t ugly, either. She was a small woman, with a slender figure. She had brown hair, brown eyes and, because of her years spent in hotter climes, brown skin. Her face could only be described as piquant with its high cheekbones, straight nose, and stubborn little chin. In fact, everything about her was small—except her thickly lashed brown eyes and her wide, mobile mouth.

Those two items seemed overlarge for her face, yet oddly enough they balanced one another.

He rubbed his chin, finding the mystery intriguing.

Perhaps it was her mouth that attracted such attention . . . something about it made her appear sensual. Now that he thought about it, the sulfi who’d held him prisoner had been most vocal in his admiration for the no-nonsense Miss Smythe-Haughton and her lush mouth. The man had been a positive idiot about it, even writing a poem. “A
poem,
” Michael muttered.

“Pardon?” Mary asked.

“Nothing.”

“Michael . . . is she wearing
boots
?” Mary’s voice held a strangled tone. “You can’t allow her to dress like that when she’s in town!”

“What does it matter how she dresses? No one is funding
her
.” He was a little envious of Jane’s freedom, truth be told.

Mary gave a puff of indignation. “Because she will be laughed at. Surely you don’t want that!”

His jaw tightened. “I
dare
anyone to laugh at her.”

Jane wasn’t like other women, who had to don silly finery to prove their worth. She already
had
worth, making his life go as smoothly as possible.

Jane laughingly left her new conquest, who sent a longing glance after her.
Fool
. Jane would never be interested in such a useless man. Jane never showed the least interest in
any
man, which Michael found quite satisfying. He paid her far too much to be forced to deal with female whims.

She finally reached them and he said “Jane, this is my sister Mary, the Countess of Erroll. Mary, this is Jane, Miss Smythe-Haughton.”

Jane instantly dipped a curtsy that even the biggest stickler couldn’t fault. As she rose, she held out her hand and smiled warmly. “Lady Erroll, I finally meet you! Michael has spoken of you frequently.”

Mary looked pleased. “He’s mentioned you quite a number of times, too.”

“Probably to complain about something, but I never take it to heart.” Jane chuckled. “You know how Mr. Hurst can be.”

Michael watched as Mary melted before that friendly chuckle and the genuine note in Jane’s voice. Mary was in the hands of a master. That was one of Jane’s gifts: no matter where they were, in the wilds of Africa or a sulfi’s palace or even the treacherous
ballrooms of London, she knew just what to say and how to say it.

It was partly that ability to understand and blend into whatever society she was in, that made their expeditions so profitable. Where another explorer might be greeted with distrust, after a few deft words and gestures from Jane, Michael and his party were almost always welcomed. They remained that way, too, with Jane there to soothe over the inevitable awkward moments.