“It’s not honorable,” Icarus said lamely, and even as the words left his mouth, he heard how hypocritical they were. Taking Miss Trentham to Marshalsea hadn’t been honorable. Taking her to Basingstoke hadn’t been honorable. And bringing her to Bristol certainly wasn’t either. In fact, nothing he’d done had been honorable.
He looked down at the floor. I used to have honor.
Miss Trentham rose from her chair and came to stand in front of him, not too close, just out of arm’s reach. “The only reason not to do it again would be if one or the other of us doesn’t wish to.”
Icarus reluctantly met her eyes. He’d thought they were sea-green, but he’d been wrong; they were blue, almost the same shade as her gown.
“For my part, I would be happy to do it again. But if you don’t wish to, I perfectly understand.” Miss Trentham’s tone was almost offhand, and there was a faint, ironic smile on her face, as if she was inviting him to laugh with her and at her at the same time.
Icarus stared at her, unable to think of a response, and while he was staring at her he became aware of just how much effort it was taking her to stand there looking cool and unflustered and amused, because she wasn’t cool and unflustered and amused, it was a mask, and underneath it she was far more nervous than he was.
And with that insight came a second one: Miss Trentham would make a droll joke when he turned her down, be poised and confident and unconcerned, but that would be a mask, too, and beneath it she’d be hurting, because she was cursed with a fortune and a face that wasn’t pretty and no man had ever wanted to kiss her for herself before.
It suddenly became even more important to find the right words. But what? What could he possibly say?
An honorable man would gently tell her that he couldn’t kiss her again because it was wrong, and it would be the truth.
A kind man would tell her something different.
Icarus swallowed, and found his voice. “I wouldn’t mind either.”
Two waiters laid a substantial repast on the table—Icarus counted seven different dishes—and departed. “Did you have any luck finding Houghton?” Miss Trentham asked, unfolding her napkin.
“No. You?”
She shook her head.
They ate in near-silence. Icarus was aware of a self-conscious awkwardness between them. She’d admitted she wanted to kiss him. He’d admitted he wanted to kiss her. Where do we go from here? He served himself at random. It wasn’t until he’d finished, that he realized how much he’d eaten. He looked at his empty plate with astonishment.
“Would you like some ratafia pudding?” Miss Trentham asked.
Icarus glanced at the pudding, opened his mouth to say No, and realized it was a lie. “A very little.”
The ratafia pudding was extremely tasty. Icarus ate more than a little. Finally, he forced himself to put down his spoon and push his bowl away.
Without the business of eating and the faint clatter of cutlery, his awareness of Miss Trentham increased. Annoyingly, so did his self-consciousness. He was thirty, for crying out loud. Well past the age of self-consciousness.
Icarus reached into his pocket, took out the sketched map, unfolded it, and laid it on the table. “I went to these four,” he said, matter-of-fact and businesslike. “And you visited all five on that list?”
Miss Trentham nodded.
“Which leaves us with four more. Plus any the landlord forgot.”
“Then we should find Houghton tomorrow.”
“With luck.” Icarus studied the map for a moment, then glanced at her. “Do you wish to accompany me tomorrow, or wait until we know which parish he’s in?”
“What would you prefer?”
Icarus hesitated, and wished that Miss Trentham’s ear for falsehoods wasn’t quite so infallible. “I would be glad of your company,” he admitted.
Miss Trentham looked down at the table. Perhaps it was the candlelight, but he thought that faint color rose in her cheeks. “Will it be safe?”
“With me? Yes. And if for some reason I think it’s not, I’ll bring you back here immediately. You have my word on that.”
Miss Trentham bit her lip, and glanced at him. “Then I shall accompany you.”
“Good.” Icarus refolded the map and placed it back in his pocket. That business sorted, the rest of the evening loomed before him. What did Miss Trentham expect of him?
Nothing, it appeared. She was pushing back her chair and bidding him good night.
Icarus stood politely. “Good night.” He watched Miss Trentham leave the parlor with a strong sense of relief—and a faint pang of opportunity lost.