"I am not scared of it," Smith said bitterly.
"I just don't want it." Sighing, he caressed the rear of his neck with one hand.
She cracked up at him and slipped a sincerely thankful glimpse over his pale form.
"I hate to accept something for nothing. Care for a slight whack in the aisle before I leave for Bradshaw's?"
"I acknowledge the proposal," he said reasonably, "but no."
She clamped a shoulder in a cheerful half-shrug. "Less labour for me, then. Good evening."
Smith acknowledged with a short nod, appearing to ponder an area on the floor with extreme attention. He was very still, appearing to heed for some virtually indistinguishable sound.
Raising a hand to the rear of his neck again, he caressed it as if to caress a notification prickle. Gradually he wriggled and stared hastily at Jenny.
A little panic went through her as their stares met. Although they were standing on many lawns aloof, she felt the entire force of his attention.
His mood was not fortified by tenderness or compassion. He looked ruthless as if he had long before begun the earth to be a heartless place and had agreed to endorse it on its tenures.
As his impartial stare brushed over her, Jenny understood just what he was seeing: a woman clothed in satisfactory costume and logical shoes.
She was fairly smoothed and gloaming-haired, of normal height, with the rosy-cheeked wholesomeness widespread to the Andersons.
Her statue was thick and curvy when the style was to be reed-slim and wan and weak.
Without pretence, Jenny understood that although she was not an outstanding beauty, she was adequately elegant to have captured a husband.
But she had staked her heart once, with tragic outcomes. She had no intention to embark on it again. And God understood she was diligent enough to attempt to organize the rest of the Andersons.
Smith stared away from her. Without a statement or a nod of declaration, he strolled to the back foyer of the union. His tempo was sluggish as if he were bestowing himself a moment to reckon about something.
There was a unique solace in his activities. His steps did not measure out distance so vastly as gush over it like water.
Jenny entered the doorstep at the exact time he did.
"Sir Mr Smith I assume you are the administrator of the 1 club."
Smith halted and twirled to face her. They were standing intimate enough for Jenny to distinguish the fragrances of male sweat and warm skin.
His unbuttoned waistcoat, made of elegant grey brocade, hung open at the sides to disclose a tiny white linen shirt beneath. As Smith strode to button the waistcoat, Jenny saw an abundance of gold rings on his fingers.
A surge of uneasiness went through her, relinquishing an unusual warmth in its wake. Her corset felt too rigid, her high-necked collar constricting.
Shuffling, she fetched herself to stare at him hastily. He was a young man, not yet thirty, with the expression of an exotic angel.
This face had been created for sin ...the angular jaw, the brooding mouth, the golden-hazel eyes shaded by long straight lashes.
His hair required cutting, the heavy black locks twirling barely over the back of his collar. Jenny's throat cinched around a sharp breath as she saw the gleam of a diamond in his ear.
He gave her a precise bow. "At your service, Miss..."
"Anderson," she said specifically.
She twirled to signify her colleague, who had to arrive to stand at her left. "And this is my colleague, Marvyne."
Smith glimpsed at him alertly. "The Romany term for life' and also death.'"
Was that the meaning of Marvyne's name? Shocked, Jenny perked up at him. Marvyne gave a small shrug to imply it was of no significance.
She twirled back to Smith. "Sir, we have come to inquire of you a query or two regarding—"
"I don't like to be queried."
"I am searching for my brother, Lord Graham," she proceeded doggedly, " and I desperately crave any news you may hold as to his location."
"I would not tell you even if I knew."
His tone was a perceptive combination of foreignness and Cockney and just a clue of the upper class. It was the mouthpiece of a man who kept company with an unprecedented variety of people.
"Be rest assured sir, I would not put myself or anyone else to the problem was it not completely crucial. But this is the third day before my brother has gone missing—"
"Not my issue," Smith whirled toward the entrance.
"He inclines to fall in with bad colleagues—"
"That is unfortunate."
"He could be dead by now."
"I can not help you. I wish you luck in your search."
Smith pushed the door open and made to enter the company. He halted as Marvyne uttered in Romany.
Since Marvyne had initially come to the Andersons, there had been only a handful of occurrences on which Jenny had listened to him communicate the confidential language known to the Rom.
It was heathen-sounding, raw with consonants and drawn-out vowels, but there was a piece of fundamental music in the way the words suit concurrently.
Glancing at Marvyne intently, Smith crouched his shoulder against the door outline. "The ancient language," he said.
"It has been years since I have heard it. Who is the father of your clan?"
"I have no clan."
A long period expired, while Marvyne stayed inscrutable in the face of Smith's concern. The hazel eyes dwindled.
"Come in. I will see what I can discover."
They were taken into the band without procession, Smith instructing a labourer to indicate them to a person accepting room upstairs.
Jenny listened to the whisper of voices, and music arriving from somewhere, and footsteps going to and fro. It was an energetic masculine hive forbidden to somebody like herself.
The labourer, a young man with an East London tone and critical expressions, took them into a well-appointed room and request them to pause there until Smith returned. Mertipen went to a window overlooking King Street.
Jenny was surprised by the quiet luxury of her surroundings: the hand-knotted rug done in colours of blue and cream, the wood-panelled boundaries and velvet-upholstered furniture.
"Quite elegant," she remarked, discarding her bonnet and laying it on a neat claw-footed mahogany table.
"For some purpose, I had anticipated something a little... well, tawdry."
"Jenner's is a scrape above the particular organization. It disguises as a gentlemen's union when its actual objective is to procure the biggest hurdle bank in London."
Jenny moved to a built-in bookrack and examined the sizes as she inquired idly, "Why is it, do you believe, that Mr Smith was hesitant to accept money from Lord Sel-way?"
Marvyne throws a sarcastic look over his shoulder.
"You realize how the Rom feel about substantial possessions."
"Yes, I understand your people don't like to be weighed down. But from what I have discovered, Romas are barely hesitant to receive a few coins in favour of service."
"It is more than not wishing to be weighed down. For a chal to be in this position—"
"What is a chal?
"A son of the Rom. For a chal to adorn such fine apparel,
to remain under one roof so long, to obtain such financial dividend ... it is disgraceful. Embarrassing. Unfavourable to his nature."
He was so serious and specific about himself, Jenny could not restrain taunting him a little. "And what is your explanation, Mer-ripen? You have remained under the Anderson roof for an extremely long time."
"That is different. For one thing, there is no dividend in inhabiting with you." Jenny chuckled.
"For another.. ." Marvyne's voice soothed. "I owe my life to your family."