5
Zayne stretched out his legs and leaned back against the plush seat as a distinct sense of disgruntlement settled over him. That disgruntlement made it next to impossible for him to enjoy the opulence of the private Pullman car on the train his family had sent for him. And that gave him yet another reason to be annoyed with Agatha.
She’d always been a meddler, but this time she’d gone too far.
Not only had she blown up his mine, she’d somehow decided—even though he thought he’d been more than clear about the matter—she needed to take him in hand. She’d been spending almost every minute of the past two weeks since the unfortunate incident as she liked to call it, ordering him around. She’d even gone so far as to personally pack up his meager belongings before they’d boarded the train to head east.
He was beginning to lose patience with her.
His foul mood increased when the door to the train car opened. Knowing the morsel of quiet he’d finally been able to obtain was soon to disappear, he narrowed his eyes at the door but sighed in relief when only Mr. Blackheart strode into view. His lips curled just a bit when he got a good look at the man. Mr. Blackheart was wearing his ever-present scowl, but his normally well-groomed hair was slightly untidy, giving clear testimony that something was bothering him—something that probably went by the name of Agatha.
“What’s wrong with you?” Zayne asked.
“The ladies are what’s wrong with me, or more specifically, Miss Watson.” Mr. Blackheart dropped into a chair next to Zayne and began rubbing his temple. “I swear, once we reach New York, I’m off to my club—one that, thankfully, doesn’t admit ladies and one where peace and quiet is the order of the day.” He stopped rubbing his head and looked around. “Although, this setup you have here is very nice, very peaceful at the moment.” His gaze sharpened. “Is that Matilda’s tail sticking out from under your bed?”
“It is. She seems to have taken a peculiar liking to me.”
“Highly doubtful, since it’s become clear she doesn’t like men. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say she likes sleeping in here because it’s never quiet in the ladies’ Pullman car.” Mr. Blackheart eased his head back against the chair. “But do be sure to thank your family for me for sending us this train. I certainly wasn’t expecting to travel back east in such luxury. It’s made it easier to watch Miss Watson with no other passengers onboard, only highly competent members of the staff.” He considered Zayne for a second. “Why do you think your family sent us our own train?”
A tiny trace of remorse stole through Zayne’s dark mood. He knew full well he’d been horribly negligent when it came to his family after the accident. His mother and father had come to see him while he’d been recovering, but they’d left before Helena had abandoned him. He’d sent them a letter, explaining briefly that he and Helena were through. He’d also let them know he needed to be by himself for a while, but he’d never bothered to tell them anything about the mining venture.
A monthly telegram telling them he was still alive was all he’d managed. It had been a very telling statement of how much his parents wanted him home when, after sending them word he was coming back to New York, they’d immediately arranged for this train.
“Are you feeling unwell?”
Zayne forced a smile. “I’m fine, simply lost in thought.”
“Those must have been some thoughts.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t care to discuss them.” His smile dimmed. “I’d offer you a drink, but Agatha poured out every drop of alcohol I tried to bring with me.”
“I’m fairly sure, if you’re really thirsty, the staff should be able to provide you with whatever you want.”
“Agatha got her greedy hands on their supply as well, and told them she’d be very disappointed if they purchased additional quantities during the route to New York.”
“She is thorough when she gets her mind set on something.”
“She’s irritating. It wasn’t her place to dump out my whiskey.”
“Whiskey rots your insides.”
Zayne shrugged. “I use it to numb the pain in my leg.”
“Understandable, but at least now your insides won’t start giving you trouble.” Mr. Blackheart tilted his head. “I did find it interesting, though, that you didn’t protest too strenuously when Miss Watson insisted you stop drinking. Makes me wonder why you gave in so easily.”
“Is there a reason you sought me out?”
Mr. Blackheart’s lips twitched, but then he coughed behind his hand, and when he lowered his hand, he looked as grouchy as ever. “I’ve been trying to eavesdrop on the ladies.”
“Brave of you.”
“Indeed, especially since I keep getting caught. . . . But I am concerned about Miss Watson. I get the distinct impression she’s not going to stay behind closed doors once we reach New York.”
“And that surprises you?”
“Given that her life is in danger in the city, yes. I was hoping she’d be reasonable and agree to lay low until I have time to assess the situation.”
Even though he was incredibly irritated with Agatha, Zayne couldn’t stop the worry that began trickling through him, worry that was distinctly mixed with guilt. “You do realize that I didn’t want her to accompany me back to the city, don’t you?”
“You were quite vocal with your protests. Although, I have to tell you, the more you protested, the more determined Miss Watson became to see you safely home.” He released a snort. “You turned into a challenge for her, and unfortunately, Miss Watson views a challenge the way most ladies view a delicious tart. Even if she hadn’t blown up your mine, she’d have found a way to get you back to the city.”
Fresh irritation replaced the guilt. “But she did blow up my mine.”
“You may not appreciate my reminding you of this fact, but I did warn you that putting her in the direct vicinity of dynamite wasn’t exactly a stellar idea. It shouldn’t surprise you in the least that something of a dastardly nature occurred. Although, I suppose we do owe Miss Watson our thanks for getting us away from Mary alive.”
“That was completely unintentional.”
“Everything is with Miss Watson.”
“Exactly my point,” Zayne said before he folded his hands over his stomach. “Do you know that I stored a whole cache of gold in that mine? It’s gone now, buried under an entire mountain of dirt, and it will take months of hard work to unbury it again—if I can even find it.”
“That explains why you’ve been a bit sulky of late, but . . . don’t you think it would have been more prudent to store your gold in a bank?”
“And let everyone know how much I was uncovering? Certainly not.”
“You’re supposed to be a businessman, Mr. Beckett, but burying your fortune in a mountain is hardly good business, which makes me question your mental capabilities at the moment. I would have thought you’d have invested your profits in the market, earning you additional, and probably substantial, money.”
“Weren’t we talking about the ladies?”
“You’re the one who brought up the mine and your loss of what seems to be a fortune.”
“I still have a fortune, one I earned working in the family business, and then there’s the trust I received from my grandparents.”
“Then you have absolutely no reason to sulk. Most people never acquire one fortune in a lifetime, let alone several.”
“Getting back to Agatha,” Zayne said loudly. “Any ideas on how you’re going to keep her safe?”
“Not a one. She’s unpredictable, fearless, and doesn’t enjoy being told what to do. Quite frankly, I have no idea how I’m going to keep her alive once we reach New York.”
“The threats to her are really that severe?”
Mr. Blackheart’s almost pleasant expression immediately changed to menacing. “Forgive me, Mr. Beckett, but you’ve spent a great deal of time with Miss Watson during the past two weeks. Surely she explained the threats that have been made against her.”
“She did mention that someone wants to kill her.”
“And?”
“Well, that was about it.”
“You didn’t press her for details?”
“No, I didn’t, because right after she mentioned the threats I realized she was trying to manage me, and . . . I suppose I didn’t take the time to sufficiently sort out the idea that she truly is in serious danger.”
“You do remember, even though Miss Watson is a progressive sort, that she’s a lady, don’t you?”
“What’s your point?”
“Even if you realized she was trying to manage you, Miss Watson, as I’m sure you remember, doesn’t lie. She might exaggerate the details of a situation, but she puts her dainty foot down at speaking an untruth.”
“I have no idea where you’re going with this.”
“You should have shown her concern. Ladies, whether they be independent or not, like to know we gentlemen will do everything in our power to keep them safe.”
“Our conversation went downhill rapidly when I started laughing and she got testy, but . . . ” Zayne paused as an intriguing thought sprang to mind. “You’re right. Agatha is a lady, which means”—he caught Mr. Blackheart’s gaze—“we need to find her a man.”
Mr. Blackheart blinked, just once. “I beg your pardon?”
Pushing himself up in the chair, Zayne rubbed his hands together. “A man, that’s exactly what Agatha needs. Someone strong, possessed of a great deal of patience, and . . . well . . . I suppose he’ll have to be somewhat attractive.”
He looked Mr. Blackheart up and down. “Hmm . . . you’re a man, and you’ve put up with Agatha for an entire year and haven’t killed her yet, so . . . you’ll do nicely.”
“I don’t think I like the direction this conversation is taking.”
Zayne ignored him. “It’s genius, sheer genius. If Agatha settled down to a more traditional life, she’d no longer be running amok looking for riveting stories or trying to save wounded gentlemen. The danger that constantly seems to stalk her would simply go away.”
“Miss Watson has never been traditional, nor do I think she has any desire to become so.”
“That is exactly why you’d be a perfect candidate. You understand her, but you’re a strong man, so you wouldn’t get browbeaten into agreeing to her madcap plans.”
“Really, Mr. Beckett, you’ve heard some of the adventures we’ve had on our trip this past year. They should show you that I have little to no control over the woman.”
“She’s still alive though.”
Mr. Blackheart began drumming his fingers against the arm of the chair. “She’s still alive because it’s my job to keep her that way. But I’m paid to protect her, not court her. Becoming overly familiar with Miss Watson would be a serious breach of ethics.”
“Ah, but if you were to tell Theodore you wished to be released from the case because your feelings for Agatha have changed, there’d be no problem, would there?”
“I don’t have feelings for Miss Watson.”
Zayne arched a brow. “Everyone has feelings for Agatha. She’s very beautiful, and you have to admit, life would never be boring with her by your side.”
“But you do find Agatha beautiful, don’t you?”
“Mr. Beckett . . .”
“I thought we agreed you’d call me Zayne.”
“Fine. Zayne then, but I have to . . .”
“And don’t you think you should allow me the privilege of your given name, given the personal direction this conversation is taking?” Zayne pressed.
“No.”
“Come now, Mr. Blackheart. What is it?”
“None of your business.”
“That’s an unusual first name.”
Mr. Blackheart rose from his chair. “I think I’ll go check on the ladies.”
“I thought they were annoying you, which was why you sought me out in the first place.”
“You’re annoying me, so I’ll take my chances with the ladies. I vastly prefer trying to eavesdrop on the women over this ridiculous conversation we’re having.”
“We’re not actually having much of a conversation, since you’re being stubborn and won’t agree to go along with my idea.”
Mr. Blackheart let out what sounded remarkably like a huff and slowly resumed his seat. “Fine, we’ll discuss this further, but know that I’m in no way interested in pursuing Miss Watson in a romantic fashion. Though I find her to be very beautiful and intelligent, which has always appealed to me, she’s much too young and . . .”
Mr. Blackheart continued speaking, but Zayne barely heard him. For some reason, the moment the man had admitted he found Agatha beautiful, a sour taste began filling Zayne’s mouth and his stomach had taken to clenching.
It was rather disconcerting and made absolutely no sense, because it wasn’t as if he thought of Agatha that way. He . . .
“ . . . given that Miss Watson does seem to hold you in a slight bit of affection, you should be the one to court her.”
Zayne’s mouth dropped open. “Me?”
“But of course. I remember noticing the two of you back in New York before you left for California, and I always thought you made a lovely couple.”
“We were never a couple.”
“But you could have been, if not for Helena.”
Zayne paused for a moment in order to formulate an adequate response. Had he spent most of his time with Agatha when he’d been in New York? Certainly, but they’d been friends—good friends, but friends.
Had he ever considered more with her?
“Zayne?”
Pushing aside his troubling thoughts, Zayne lifted his head. “I’m afraid I’m not the man for Agatha either, Mr. Blackheart. I’ve sworn off women for good. After the fiasco with Helena, I think bachelorhood is the only life for me.”
“But you do find Miss Watson beautiful, don’t you?” Mr. Blackheart asked, throwing Zayne’s own words back at him.
“I’ve already admitted as much. A man would have to be blind not to see how beautiful she is, what with those amazing blue eyes of hers and all that unruly black hair. Not to mention her form, which is . . .” Zayne stuttered to a stop when he realized Mr. Blackheart was watching him with clear speculation in his eyes. “But, that’s neither here nor there, since I’m not in the market for a lady.”
“You enjoy sparring with her.”
“No, I don’t. If you haven’t noticed, Agatha and I have been arguing almost constantly since she blew up my mine—arguing, not sparring, and I certainly don’t enjoy it.”
“You smile when you think she’s not watching, especially after the two of you trade heated exchanges.”
Zayne rolled his eyes. “Since you don’t seem keen to pursue her, and I know I’m not, can you think of any other gentleman who might be interested?”
“I can’t think of any gentleman who wouldn’t be interested.”
The sour taste returned to his mouth, causing Zayne to pick up the glass of lemonade—the only drink Agatha seemed to approve of—from the small table beside him and take a gulp. Setting the glass aside, he frowned. “I suppose I could make a list of eligible men once we get back to New York.”
“You could indeed. But remember, Miss Watson has a mind of her own, and I doubt she’ll take kindly to us, or rather you, playing matchmaker. Besides, finding a gentleman to suit her will take time, something we don’t have, since we’re almost to the city, where I expect the threat will resume.”
“Is there any hope that the threat to her has diminished since you’ve been gone?”
“Probably not, given the escalating nature of the threats to her right before we left. I’ve tried to talk her into leaving the city after we deposit you back with your family, but she’s adamant about keeping an eye on you.”
“I’m perfectly capable of seeing after myself. I’ve been doing it for quite some time now.”
“Yes, and doing a remarkable job of it.”
Zayne pretended he hadn’t heard that sarcastic remark. “Agatha has absolutely no reason to feel responsible for me.”
“I agree, but she does, so . . . Hmm . . . perhaps we could use that to our advantage.”
“Meaning?”
“Miss Watson has a very caring heart underneath her annoying demeanor. If you were to assume the role of a true invalid, we could keep her by your bedside. That would allow me an opportunity to work on flushing out whoever wants her dead without worrying about her.”
“But I’ve been feeling better lately.”
“I’m not surprised, given that you’re no longer crawling around a mine and have been forced to give up whiskey, but . . .”
Whatever else Mr. Blackheart was about to say came to an abrupt end when the door burst open and Agatha, followed by Drusilla, breezed into the train car, both ladies looking remarkably smug, which was an immediate cause for concern.
“Ah, lovely,” Agatha exclaimed, walking up to stand beside his chair. “I was hoping I’d find you in here, Zayne.”
“Where else would I be?”
She waved his comment aside. “Drusilla and I were just in the kitchen car.”
“Learning to cook, are we?” Mr. Blackheart asked in a wary tone.
“Don’t be silly, I’ll never learn to cook, although Drusilla told me she is a proficient cook, which doesn’t surprise me in the least.” Agatha sent Drusilla a fond look and then returned her attention to Zayne, even as she brandished a sharp-looking pair of scissors in his direction. “Look what the chef gave me. They’re supposed to be used to cut up fish, but they’ll do in a pinch.”
“They’ll do what in a pinch?” Zayne asked slowly.
“Hack off that hair of yours, of course.”
“Well, I must be off,” Mr. Blackheart suddenly exclaimed, rising to his feet so quickly Zayne barely had a moment to blink. “Mrs. Swanson, would you care to join me in the dining car? I feel the most unusual urge for some refreshment.”
Drusilla caught Zayne’s gaze, then looked to Agatha, who was still waving the scissors. “You know, I do believe I’m a little hungry as well, Mr. Blackheart.” She hurried for the door, Mr. Blackheart a step behind her. The door slammed shut a moment later, and Zayne was left with only Agatha standing beside him, brandishing her scissors.
“You might as well put those down,” he said. “I’m not letting you anywhere near my hair. I well remember what you’ve done to me in the past.”
“I’ve never cut your hair, Zayne.”
“You made me shave my chest one time.”
“True, but only because that gown I needed you to wear was somewhat low-cut, and, well, you’d have looked silly with chest hair.” She took a step closer, and as she did so, a wonderful scent of lilacs tickled his nose. “Now then, be a good boy and let me get on with this. We can’t very well allow your mother to see you looking like a wild man.” She waved the scissors in front of his face. “There’s really no need to worry. I’m certain I’ll do a more than credible job.”
Zayne narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have any brothers, so how can you make that claim? Whose hair have you cut?”
“I’ve never cut a man’s hair before, but I did have the opportunity to sheer a sheep in Nebraska, and how much different can it be?”
“You know, Agatha, the truth of the matter is that my mother will be thrilled to simply have me returned back to New York. I don’t think there’s any need for you to touch my hair.”
“You also need to lose the beard.”
Zayne shuddered. “You’re not shaving me. Putting a razor in your hand would be almost as foolish as giving you a piece of dynamite.”
Agatha’s eyes turned chilly. “I don’t recall offering to shave you, and really, I would have thought that by now you’d be over the whole dynamite thing.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever recover from that. You do remember the troubling little fact that you destroyed my livelihood, don’t you?”
Agatha moved closer, the skirt of her gown brushing against his leg. He felt the strangest heat flash through him but consoled himself with the idea he was only getting nervous because scissors in Agatha’s hands could be construed as a weapon.
“Your family is one of the richest families in the country. Why, up until you had your accident, you were perfectly content to work by your father’s side, as well as Hamilton’s, growing your railroading business. I certainly didn’t destroy your only means of securing a living.”
“Since our railroad reached the West Coast a few years ago, there’s not that much more growing to do.”
A sharp rap on his head had him gritting his teeth.
“Stop being so surly. It’s unbecoming, and I know for a fact—given all the traveling I’ve done of late—that there’s still plenty of need for new railroad lines.”
“Maybe you should join my father and brother, then. I’m sure they’d love working with you every day.”
“Sarcasm is almost as unbecoming as surliness,” she said before he heard a snip and saw a long piece of matted hair plop to the ground.
“This is a bad idea,” he muttered.
“It’s not. You’re just being difficult, but . . . Good heavens.”
“Good heavens, what?”
Agatha moved closer. “The scissors are stuck.”
“I guess you’ll have to stop.”
“Nonsense, I can’t just leave them there. I’ll have to use the knife.”
Before Zayne could protest, Agatha pulled a shiny and lethal-looking knife out of her pocket and proceeded to saw off more of his hair. “This is so matted and dirty, it almost looks black instead of dark brown.”
“I probably should have sought out a barber sometime during the past several months, but there wasn’t much need to worry about my appearance up in the mine.”
Agatha stopped sawing, stepped away from him, and caught his eye. “I don’t think I’ve actually said this out loud to you yet, but I really am sorry I blew up your mine.”
He opened his mouth to argue but noticed the true sincerity in her eyes. Agatha was, and had always been, impulsive, annoying, and far too much trouble, but she really was a kind woman at heart, something he seemed to have forgotten.
“I know,” he finally said.
She grinned back at him. “That was hard for you, wasn’t it?”
He returned the grin. “Incredibly.”
“You’re considering forgiving me though, aren’t you?”
His grin faded. “I don’t know if I’d go that far, Agatha. You did lose me a fortune in gold.”
“I had nothing to do with Mary robbing you.”
“I’m not talking about the pittance I kept on my belt, but what I’d stored in the mine.”
“You stored your gold in that mine instead of in a bank?”
Not caring to discuss that subject again, since Mr. Blackheart had already made him feel slightly less than intelligent, Zayne dropped his gaze. “If you’re going to finish my hair before we reach New York, you’d better have at it.”
She stepped closer, the scent of her perfume tickling his nose again. He wasn’t positive, but he thought he detected the slightest trace of violets mixed in with the lilacs.
He’d forgotten how she always smelled rather delicious.
A jolt of something disturbing slid down his back, and for a moment he thought it was a reaction to his troubling thoughts, until he realized Agatha had dumped half a pot of water over his head.
“Was that really necessary? I’m soaked to the skin.”
“You’ll dry by the time we reach New York, and I thought the water would help with the matting. I still can’t get the scissors out because the tangles are so thick the knife won’t go through that part.”
As Agatha struggled to remove the scissors, Zayne tried to ignore the warmth that was seeping into his skin from the closeness of her body. Deciding he needed something to distract him, he searched his mind for a safe topic of conversation.
“Did I mention to you that Matilda’s sleeping under the bed in here?”
A grunt was Agatha’s only reply before there was an ominous snap. She stumbled backward, righted herself, and smiled as she waved the newly freed scissors at him. “Got them, but I do think I took out a huge chunk of your hair in the process.” She reached out and ruffled his hair right before she began attacking it again. “Not to worry though. I’m sure I can blend it in so no one can tell. Now, what were you saying about Matilda?”
“Ah, well, she’s sleeping under my bed, but . . . let’s get back to my hair. I’m not going to be bald, am I?”
“You’d look very handsome bald, because you have such a strong face. And if you were missing a large chunk of hair—not that I’m saying that’s the case—well, it would just draw more attention to your eyes. They’re a very nice shade of green, unusual even.” She let out what sounded remarkably like a giggle. “Did I ever tell you about the time I overheard some ladies sighing over how long your lashes are?”
Zayne frowned. Agatha never giggled, nor did she flirt, which is exactly what she seemed to be trying to do at the moment, which meant . . . His eyes widened. “I really do have a bald spot, don’t I?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s completely bald.” Agatha cut off another piece of his hair. “But baldness aside, I have something else I need to discuss with you, because Drusilla and I have been mulling over your situation.”
All thoughts of flirting immediately disappeared. “What situation?”
“The mess you’ve made of your life.”
“My life is hardly a mess.”
“I understand it’s easy for a person to embrace denial, but it’s time for you to stop that. You need a purpose, Zayne, and Drusilla and I have very kindly found one for you.”
“You’ve found me a purpose?”
“Indeed, and it’s a very noble one.”
He refused to groan out loud. “And . . . ?”
“Drusilla and I are going to help you track down that Willie person—you know, the man you bought the mine from—once we get settled and all.”
“And why exactly would we track Willie down?”
“So that you can return his mine to him.”
“What makes you so certain I’d be willing to turn over a lucrative mining venture to a man I legitimately purchased it from?”
For just a brief second, he felt Agatha stiffen, but then she started cutting his hair again, although she did so rather too enthusiastically. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask that question.”
“It was a legitimate question, Agatha.”
“It’s too late. I’m not going to be able to help you,” she mumbled.
“For the millionth time, I don’t need you to save me.”
She completely ignored his statement. “The Zayne I used to know was a compassionate man. A man who wouldn’t have blinked at what I just suggested because it’s the right thing to do.”
“I don’t know many businessmen who’d willingly turn over a profitable venture simply because of a compassionate nature.”
Another handful of his hair fell to the ground. “You could at least try to find Willie and offer him some type of partnership with you.”
“We’ve been over this before, Agatha. I purchased the mine from him, sight unseen.”
“True, but since I blew it up, it’s going to take a lot of time and money to get it up and running again. If we could find Willie, maybe he’d be willing to go back to Colorado and get things moving. You told me he was responsible for making those tunnels. You’re in no shape to do it, so . . .”
As Agatha continued speaking, Zayne couldn’t help but conclude she had a very good idea. He had no intention of completely abandoning his mine, had only agreed to go back to New York because she’d been so demanding . . . and he’d wanted to see his family . . . and the snow would soon start falling in Colorado, if it hadn’t already. But . . . Willie had done a fine job setting up the tunnels, and if he could be found, he would be the perfect man for the job.
“I think you might be right.”
Agatha froze. “Did you just say you think I’m right?”
“Well, I wasn’t actually listening to everything you were saying, but I think you’re right about finding Willie.”
“And you’ll turn over the mine to him?”
“No, but I wouldn’t be opposed to bringing him on as some type of partner.”
“Why won’t you just give him the mine?”
“Because as you said, it’ll take money to get it running again, and I’m pretty certain Willie doesn’t have any of that.”
“Oh, good point.” Agatha leaned down, smiled, and caught his gaze. “Thank you.”
His breath caught in his throat. Why, he couldn’t really say, but before he could think of a response, or even get a sound out of his mouth, the door opened and Mr. Blackheart walked back into the room.
“We’re about an hour out of the city,” he said. “I thought I’d see how Mr. Beckett’s transformation is coming along.” He walked across the room and winced. “Hmm . . .”
“It’s not that bad,” Agatha argued.
“Give me the scissors,” Mr. Blackheart demanded.
“But I’m not finished, and Zayne and I were right in the middle of an important conversation.”
“It’ll have to wait. His mother will be appalled if she sees her favorite son looking like this.”
“You think I’m my mother’s favorite son?” Zayne asked.
“Of course you are,” Agatha said before Mr. Blackheart could reply. “But that has nothing to do with Drusilla and me helping you find Willie.”
“Shouldn’t you go collect the rest of your belongings since we’re almost to New York?” Mr. Blackheart asked.
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” Agatha countered.
“Yes.”
“Because I’m going to have to give Mr. Beckett a mirror soon so he can begin shaving, and once he sees what you’ve done to him, your life will be in danger. Since it’s my job to keep you alive, I’m going to suggest you leave this room, immediately.”
Agatha considered Zayne’s head for a moment, wrinkled her nose, and let out a whistle as she began to walk toward the door. Pausing to wait for Matilda to scamper to her side, she looked up and winced when she caught his eye. “Just remember, you look better than you did thirty minutes ago, although that might not really be saying much.” With that, she opened the door and disappeared.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Mr. Blackheart said. “Nothing I can’t fix.”
“Why did you make me think it was, then?”
“Don’t get me wrong—at the moment your hair looks hideous. But again, I can fix it, because I’m somewhat talented when it comes to cutting hair.”
“Why didn’t you offer to cut it in the first place?”
“Hmm . . . that’ll give you something to think about, but not right now. Now we need to discuss a situation that’s arisen, and I’ve come to the conclusion I’m going to need your help.”
“A situation?”
“Indeed.” Mr. Blackheart eyed Zayne’s hair. “After speaking a few minutes ago with Drusilla, not that she was overly generous giving me many details, I think we’re going to have to move forward with the idea of you playing the invalid.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t protect Agatha if she’s roaming around derelict parts of the city trying to find that Willie character.” He blew out a breath. “From what Drusilla disclosed, Agatha believes if you make matters right with Willie it’ll help you recover, which means she’s focused now on finding the man and won’t be easily dissuaded.”
“But there’s nothing wrong with me, except my leg, of course, and Agatha has no reason to believe I need help recovering.”
Mr. Blackheart quirked a brow. “Right, because it’s completely normal for a gentleman to turn his back on everything he cares about and dig in the dirt for months on end with only his sulky attitude for company.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’ve been sulking. And my digging in the dirt, as you so quaintly put it, was beginning to turn profitable before Agatha blew everything up.”
“Be that as it may, Agatha’s determined to save you.”
Zayne frowned. “So what exactly do you expect me to do?”
“Let her.”