She took a visible breath and slid back into the song, her voice spinning effortlessly through the scales, rough and sweet as raw sugar. “The bird you thought you had in your palm beat its wings and soared away,” she purred. “Wait for love, and she remains ever distant; stop waiting, and she’s there beside you.”
Monsanto, Alex thought. What was Monsanto up to, in Peru? Had he managed to steal the shipping contracts, yet?
What the hell. I can afford to lose them.
Christ. That was not the damned point. He bolted half his glass as the song came to a thunderous close. Frenzied applause broke out. “I say,” Barrington said, raising his voice over the racket, “that was splendid!”
Alex suddenly could not muster the energy to reply. Gwen was bowing, laughing, her face brighter than the gaslights behind her. He watched her as he took another drink. Had he just finished running a dozen miles at full speed, he would have felt precisely as he did just now: exhausted, dry-mouthed, and also wholly awake, thrummingly alive, his every vein invigorated by a fresh current of rushing blood.
Idiocy. Idiot. He should feel nothing like invigorated. He was losing. Fight, then. He never submitted gracefully to defeat.
Losing? Losing what? Irritated with himself, he set down his glass. He was done with liquor for the night.
“You two really must come down to Côte Bleue,” Barrington said. “A small estate I picked up on the Riviera, recently.”
“Perhaps,” Alex said absently. Gwen started down the stairs, and several of the young poetic sorts piled forward to meet her.
Not surprising. Even he could admit to admiring her. Her intention, here, did not seem so dissimilar to those of the rogue artists whom he sponsored. Having glimpsed a vision of something different and better, she wanted to transform that vision into reality. But the invention she was undertaking was herself.
It was, perhaps, the only damned thing she could have done that would have won his instant and entire interest.
“Really, I must insist you come,” Barrington said. “I’m having a small house party this weekend; I think you’d find the company quite enjoyable.”
Alex made a noncommittal noise. He would sit here. No need to rise, to go to her. She would cast him a look if she required his help. “Policy of mine, Barrington: I travel to escape British company, not chase it down.”
“Oh, but I’m quite of the same mind,” Barrington said. “I’ve in mind a few Italians, and an artist or two from Paris should be hanging about. Very small, as I said. Select.”
One of the poets went down on his knee before Gwen. The sound of her laughter traveled across the room, as musical as her singing. How had he not realized she could sing? Her laughter alone should have betrayed her.
“Do think about it,” Barrington pressed. “And if Miss Goodrick would consent to sing a song or two, she’d be well rewarded for it.”
At that, Alex looked Barrington in the eyes. “She is not available for purchase.”
Barrington tempered his smile. “Genius is never for sale. And never fear, sir; I see how closely she holds you in her affection.” The remark raised Alex’s hackles; it seemed, to him, to carry a note of underlying sarcasm. “However, talent does require nourishment, and if Miss Goodrick has an eye for beauty, she’ll find Côte Bleue a natural wonder. Only an hour from Monte Carlo, at that—entertainment abounds for a gambler as well.”
Alex bestirred himself to produce a smile. An invitation to the man’s house was an ideal opportunity to get to the bottom of Gerry’s mystery, and he was never one to waste opportunities—particularly those that would save him a great deal of time in the long run. “I will put the question to Miss Goodrick,” he said with a shrug. “Her wish, as you may gather, is my command.”
Chapter Eight
Gwen finally wended her way back to the table. With Barrington having extended an invitation to his home, Alex saw no need to linger, but he waited as she drank a glass of wine, and watched with veiled interest as she deftly managed Barrington’s compliments.
She had accused him, not without cause, of appraising people like commodities, but it required a deliberate and sustained effort to view her so cold-bloodedly. She would never convince anybody of being a professional courtesan: he was certain of that. Laughter lifted her long face from merely pretty to beautiful, but her blushes came too readily. No one would believe she had professional experience in lovemaking.
Still, she had unexpected talents, and a very unexpected ability to enjoy a masquerade. A bohemian artist . . . he thought she might manage that pretense for a weekend.