“Fine.” I tugged on the lapel of his black jacket, a small sign of possessiveness. Matthew had dressed the part of the distinguished professor today with his steel gray trousers, crisp white shirt, and fine wool jacket. I’d picked out his tie. Hamish had given it to him this past Christmas, and the green and-gray Liberty print picked up the changeable colors of his eyes. “How did it go?”
“Interesting discussion. Chris was brilliant, of course,” Matthew said, modestly giving my friend center stage.
Chris, Matthew, Miriam, and Marcus had been presenting research findings that expanded the limits of what was considered “human.” They showed how the evolution of Homo sapiens included DNA from other creatures, like Neanderthals, previously thought to have been a different species.
Matthew had been sitting on most of the evidence for years. Chris said Matthew was as bad as Isaac Newton when it came to sharing his research with others.
“Marcus and Miriam performed their usual charmer-and-curmudgeon routine,” Matthew said, releasing me at last.
“And what was the fellows’ reaction to this bit of news?” I unpinned Matthew’s name tag and slipped it into his pocket. PROFESSOR MATTHEW CLAIRMONT, it read, FRS, ALL SOULS (OXON), YALE UNIVERSITY (USA). Matthew had accepted a one-year visiting research appointment in Chris’s lab.
They’d received a huge grant to study noncoding DNA. It would lay the groundwork for the revelations they would one day make about other hominid creatures who were not extinct like the Neanderthals but were hiding in plain sight among humans. In the fall we would be off to New Haven again.
“They were surprised,” Matthew said. “Once they heard Chris’s paper, however, their surprise turned to envy. He really was impressive.”
“Where is Chris now?” I said, looking over my shoulder for my friend as Matthew steered me toward the exit.
“He and Miriam left for Pickering Place,” Matthew said. “Marcus wanted to pick up Phoebe before they all go to some oyster bar near Trafalgar Square.”
“Do you want to join them?” I asked.
“No.” Matthew’s hand settled on my waist. “I’m taking you out to dinner, remember?”
Leonard was waiting for us at the curb. “Afternoon, sieur. Madame.”
“‘Professor Clairmont’ will do, Leonard,” Matthew said mildly as he handed me into the back of the car.
“Righty-ho,” Leonard said with a cheerful grin. “Clairmont House?”
“Please,” Matthew said, getting into the car with me.
It was a beautiful June day, and it probably would have taken us less time to walk from the Mall to Mayfair than it did to drive, but Matthew insisted we take the car for safety’s sake. We had seen no evidence that any of Benjamin’s children had survived the battle in Chelm, nor had Gerbert or Domenico given us reason for concern since their stinging defeat in Venice, but Matthew didn’t want to take chances.
“Hello, Marthe!” I called into the house as we came in the door. “How is everything?”
“Bien,” she said. “Milord Philip and Milady Rebecca are just waking from their nap.”
“I asked Linda Crosby to come over a bit later and lend a hand,” Matthew said.
“Already here!” Linda followed us through the door, carrying not one but two Marks & Spencer bags. She handed one to Marthe. “I’ve brought the next book in the series about that lovely detective and her beau—Gemma and Duncan. And here’s the knitting pattern I told you about.” Linda and Marthe had become fast friends, in large part because they had nearly identical interests in murder mysteries, needlecraft, cooking, gardening, and gossip. The two of them had made a compelling and utterly self-serving case that the children should always be attended to by family members or, failing that, both a vampire and a witch working as baby-sitters. Linda argued that this was a wise precaution because we didn’t yet understand the babies’ talents and tendencies—though Rebecca’s preference for blood and inability to sleep suggested she was more vampire than witch, just as Philip seemed more witch than vampire given the stuffed elephant I sometimes saw swooping over his cradle.
“We can still stay home tonight,” I suggested. Matthew’s plans involved an evening gown, a tuxedo, and the goddess only knew what else.
“No.” Matthew was still overly fond of the word. “I am taking my wife out to dinner.” His tone indicated this was no longer a topic for discussion.
Jack pelted down the stairs. “Hi, Mum! I put your mail upstairs. Dad’s too. Gotta run. Dinner with Father H tonight.”