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Chapter 3: A Titan Amongst Men, A Stallion Amongst Gentlemen
Above the mechanical symphony of whirring and clicking from the automaton, Emma discerned the marquess's hesitation as distinctly as a trumpet's clarion call heralding a battlefield charge. Then, with determined resolve, he strode forward, each step resonating with bold arrogance. He had decided his course and was advancing with all the gravitas of heavy artillery.
Hook was indeed heavy artillery, she mused. No amount of David's or anyone else's tales could have adequately prepared her. His coal-black locks framed piercing blue eyes, accentuated by a scar etched like a warrior's badge on his right cheek. His mouth held a sullen sensuality that seemed to whisper of ancient seductions—a face that could have been plucked straight from the lineage of Lord Byron himself.
As to the body…
David had painted Hook as a towering titan of muscle and stature. Emma half-expected a lumbering gorilla, not a thoroughbred stallion: tall, impeccably proportioned, and clearly defined in all the right places—his snug trousers leaving little to the imagination. She shouldn't have let her eyes wander, even for an instant, but such a physique demanded attention, drawing it magnetically... everywhere. After that unseemly lapse, it took every ounce of her stubborn resolve to keep her gaze fixed on his face alone. She feared that any further indiscretion might lead her to lose what little remained of her composure and commit some scandalous act.
"Very well, Miss Nolan," Hook's resonant voice reverberated, seeming to materialize just above her right shoulder. "You have thoroughly piqued my curiosity. Pray tell, what have you discovered there that's captured your fascination so completely?"
While his head loomed above hers like an impending storm, the rest of his imposing frame intruded upon her personal space with a bold closeness. The lingering scent of his recent cigar indulgence mingled with the subtle yet extravagantly expensive essence of his masculine cologne, enveloping her senses in a heady cocktail. A slow, deliberate simmer stirred within her, akin to the initial spark that had ignited moments earlier and still lingered unresolved.
She mentally chastised herself, resolving to have a stern conversation with Ingrid. These sensations surely couldn't be what Emma suspected them to be.
"The watch," she stated calmly. "The one featuring the woman in the yellow gown."
He leaned in closer, peering into the case. "She's amidst a midsummer meadow, is that the one?"
He rested his impeccably gloved left hand on the case, and all the moisture seemed to evaporate from her mouth in an instant. It was a formidable hand, and she couldn't help but ponder how effortlessly it could lift her clear off the ground.
"Yes," she managed, suppressing the urge to moisten her parched lips.
"You must wish to inspect it more closely," he continued.
With a swift motion, he retrieved a key from a hook on the rafter, unlocked the back of the case, and extracted the watch.
Gold could hardly miss his audacious move. Yet, not a word escaped his lips. Emma glanced back. He appeared engrossed in a conversation with David, though "conversation" was perhaps too generous a term for their usual exchange. "Engrossed" was even more improbable. Engrossed conversation, and in French no less, was utterly out of the question.
"Perhaps I had better demonstrate how the thing operates," Hook announced with a playful solemnity, redirecting her attention to him.
In the mellifluous cadence of his voice, Emma discerned the feigned innocence that typically preceded a man's predictably absurd attempt at humor. She could have interjected, eloquently asserting her familiarity with the intricacies of timekeeping, having not just sprouted into existence yesterday. Yet, the mischievous glint in his azure eyes suggested he was thoroughly amused, and she saw no need to douse the flame of his merriment just yet.
"How kind," she murmured.
"As you turn this knob," he continued, demonstrating, "you can see her skirts part, and there, nestled between her legs, is a-" He leaned in, pretending to inspect closely. "Goodness gracious, how scandalous! I believe that's a chap kneeling there." He brought the watch nearer to her face.
"I'm not shortsighted, my lord," she said, accepting the watch from him. "You are quite correct. It is indeed a gentleman - seemingly her paramour, as he appears to be rendering a lover's service to her."
She retrieved a small magnifying glass from her reticule and subjected the watch to meticulous scrutiny, all the while keenly aware of his scrutinizing gaze upon her.
"A touch of enamel has worn off the gentleman's wig and there's a minute scratch on the left side of the lady's skirt," she observed. "Aside from that, I'd say the watch is in remarkable condition, considering its age, though I highly doubt it will keep perfect time. It's no Breguet, after all."
She pocketed the magnifying glass and lifted her gaze to meet his languid stare. "What do you reckon Gold will demand for it?"
"You're considering a purchase, Miss Nolan?" he inquired. "I doubt your guardians will endorse such an acquisition. Or have English notions of propriety taken a dramatic turn while I've been away?"
"Oh, it's not for me," she replied. "It's for my grandmother."
She had to admire his composure. Not a flicker of surprise crossed his features.
"Ah, well then," he nodded. "That changes things."
"It's her birthday," Emma elaborated. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I ought to rescue David from his haggling. His tone suggests he's attempting arithmetic, and as you so aptly observed, that's not his strong suit."
He could lift her with one hand, Killian mused, watching her saunter across the shop. Her head barely reached his nose, and even with that overloaded bonnet, she couldn't tip the scales at more than eight stone.
He was accustomed to hefting heavy weights—first as a service to the boys at Eton, then to build his muscles and outmatch them. Sports—boxing and fencing, in particular—had taught him to be agile on his feet.
Next to her, he felt like a clumsy oaf. A great, ugly, stupid lummox. She had known precisely what sort of watch the crusty trinket was all along. The question was, what sort of trinket was she? The chit had stared straight into his blackguard's face without batting an eye. He had stood much too close to her, and she hadn't flinched.
Then she had produced a magnifying glass, of all things, and scrutinized the lewd timepiece as calmly as if it were a rare edition of Foxe's Book of Martyrs .
He wished now he had paid more attention to Nolan's references to his sister. The trouble was, if a man paid attention to anything David Nolan said, that man was certain to go stark raving mad.
Killian had scarcely completed the thought when David bellowed, "No! Absolutely not! You'll just encourage her, Ems. I forbid it! You're not to sell it to her, Gold."
"Yes, you will, Gold," Miss Nolan interjected in impeccable French. "There's no need to heed my dear old brother. He holds no sway over me whatsoever," she translated for her brother, whose face had turned an impressive shade of crimson.
"I'm not old ! And I'm the head of this curst' family. And I-"
"Go play with the drummer boy, David," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "Or better yet, why don't you take your charming friend out for a drink? He looks parched."
"Emma," David's tone took on a pleading desperation. "You know she'll show it to people and—and I'll be mortified ."
"Brother, what a prig you've become since you left England."
David's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "A what?"
"A prig, dear. A prude and a killjoy. A regular Methodist."
David sputtered incoherently, then turned to Killian, who had by now abandoned all thoughts of departure. He was leaning on the jewel case, observing David Nolan's sister with a brooding curiosity.
"Did you catch that, Hook?" David demanded. "Did you hear the audacity of that beastly girl?"
"I couldn't miss it if I tried," replied Killian with a sardonic grin. "I was listening most attentively."
"Me!" David jammed his thumb into his chest. "A prig."
"Indeed, it's absolutely scandalous. I shall be compelled to sever our association forthwith. I simply cannot risk the contamination of such impeccable virtue."
"But, Hook, I-"
"Your friend speaks the truth, dear," interjected Miss Nolan with a sly smile. "If this tidbit becomes public knowledge, he can't afford to be seen in your company. His reputation would be in tatters."
"Ah, Miss Nolan, you seem to be well acquainted with my reputation," Killian remarked with a raised brow.
"Oh, indeed. You're reputed to be the wickedest man alive. Small children are warned that you'll eat them for breakfast if they misbehave," she retorted.
"And yet, you don't seem the least bit alarmed."
"Well, it's hardly breakfast hour, and I've outgrown the nursery rhyme phase," she quipped, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "Though I can see how, given your vantage point, you might mistake me for one."
Killian eyes her up and down. "No, I don't think I should make that mistake."
"I should hope not, especially after her performance of scolding and slighting a fellow," added David.
"However, Miss Nolan," Killian went on just as though David did not exist - which, in a properly regulated world, he wouldn't - "if you are naughty, I might find myself tempted to—"
"Qu'est-ce que c'est, Gold?" Miss Nolan interjected, gliding over to the assortment Killian had been perusing upon their arrival.
"Rien, rien," Gold replied, shielding the tray with his hand. He cast a nervous glance at Killian. "Pas intéressante."
She followed his gaze. "Your purchase, my lord?"
"Hardly," Killian declared. "I was momentarily captivated by the gold inkwell, which, as you'll discern, is the sole item there deserving of a second glance."
She bypassed the inkstand altogether, opting instead for the small, dirt-caked painting ensconced in its thick, mold-riddled frame.
"A portrait of a woman, it appears," she remarked, peering through her magnifying glass.
Killian left the jewel case and joined her at the counter. "Indeed, Gold insisted it was human. You risk dirtying your gloves, Miss Nolan."
David, sulking, also approached. "Smells like... I don't know what," he grimaced.
"Because it's rotting," Killian explained.
"That's due to its age," Miss Nolan pointed out.
"It seems it's spent the better part of a decade in a gutter," Killian quipped.
"She has an interesting expression," Miss Nolan remarked to Gold in fluent French. "I'm torn between dejection and delight. What's your asking price?"
"Quarante sous."
She put it down.
"Trente-et-cinq," he suggested.
She chuckled softly.
Gold divulged that he had paid thirty sous for it initially and couldn't go lower.
She regarded him with a pitying look.
He appeared on the verge of tears. " Trente, mademoiselle ."
"In that case," she responded coolly, "I'll take only the watch."
In the end, she paid a mere ten sous for the filthy, noxious piece, and if negotiations had dragged on any longer, Killian mused, Gold might have started slipping her money just to make it vanish.
Killian had never witnessed the unflappable Gold so thoroughly tormented, and he couldn't fathom why. Certainly, when Miss Emma Nolan finally departed the shop—thank the heavens, taking her brother with her—the only torment Killian endured was a headache, which he attributed to enduring nearly an hour, sober, in the company of David Nolan.
Later that evening, ensconced in a clandestine chamber of his beloved den of vice, known innocuously as Boussole Dorée , Killian entertained his cohorts with a recount of the charade, as he dubbed it.
"Ten sous?" Arthur Pendragon exclaimed with mirth. "Nolan's sister talked Gold down from forty to ten? By Jove, I wish I'd witnessed that!"
"Well, it's clear as day now, isn't it?" remarked Robin Locksley. "She walked away with all the wit; there wasn't a speck left for poor Nolan."
"Did she inherit the beauty as well?" Will Scarlet inquired as he topped off Killian's wineglass.
"I discerned no trace of similarity in complexion, features, or build," Killian replied, savoring his wine.
"Is that all?" Will pressed. "Are you going to keep us guessing? What's her appearance like?"
Killian shrugged. "Blonde hair, emerald eyes. About five point five feet tall, give or take, and somewhere between seven and eight stone."
"You weighed her, then?" Robin chuckled. "Would you say those seven to eight stones are evenly distributed?"
"How the devil would I know? Between all those corsets, bustles, and whatever else women stuff and strap themselves into, it's a maze of illusions and deceit, isn't it? Until they're stripped bare," Killian smirked. "Then it's a different sort of deception."
"Women don't deceive, my Lord Hook," a faintly accented voice chimed from the doorway. "It only appears so because they inhabit a different reality." Comte Jefferson Hatter entered gracefully, closing the door behind him.
Acknowledging Jefferson with a nonchalant nod, Killian was secretly relieved to see him. Will had a knack for prying out secrets people were least inclined to share. While Killian enjoyed a good game, he preferred not to be the target.
With Jefferson's presence, Will's attention would be diverted. Even Killian found the count distracting at times, albeit for entirely different reasons. Jefferson possessed a beauty that transcended typical masculine standards, with his slender frame, blond locks, and piercing blue eyes—a face akin to that of an angel.
When he had first introduced them a week prior, Will had jestingly proposed they commission his wife, an artist, to paint their likeness together. "She could title it 'Heaven and Hell'" , he'd said.
Will coveted Jefferson desperately. Jefferson yearned for Scarlet's wife. And she desired no one at all.
Killian found the whole affair delightfully entertaining.
"Just in the nick of time, Hatter," Robin interjected. "Hook had a bit of an escapade today. A young lady freshly landed in Paris, and who does she stumble upon first but our distinguished Hook? And he actually conversed with her."
Throughout the realm, it was common knowledge that Killian categorically avoided any entanglements with respectable women.
"David Nolan's sister," Will clarified, motioning to the vacant chair beside him, a clear invitation. But Jefferson sauntered over to Killian's side, leaning casually on the back of his chair, purely to vex Scarlet, no doubt. After all, Jefferson only resembled an angel.
"Ah, indeed," he remarked. "She doesn't quite look like him at all. Clearly, she takes after Ingrid."
"I should have guessed," Will replied, pouring himself another drink. "You've met her, I presume? And did she take after you, Hatter?"
"I encountered Nolan and his kinfolk not long ago at Chez Victor's," Jefferson recounted. "The place was in an uproar. Lady Wintercrest—Ingrid, that is—hasn't been seen in Paris since the Peace of Amiens. It was abundantly clear she hadn't been forgotten, despite twenty-five years gone by."
"By Jove, yes!" Robin exclaimed, slamming his palm on the table. "That's it, exactly. I was so taken aback by Hook's extraordinary conduct with the girl that I hadn't pieced it together. Ingrid. Well, that settles it."
"Settles what?" Arthur inquired, intrigued.
Locksley and Killian locked eyes, the former's expression turning uneasy.
"Well, naturally, you were a tad... intrigued," Robin ventured. "Ingrid's a bit of an anomaly, and if Miss Nolan's cut from the same cloth, well, she's akin to those treasures you purchase from Gold. There she was, right in the man's shop. Like that exotic Trojan horse medicine case you acquired last month."
"An eccentric find, you mean," Killian mused. "No doubt, an exorbitantly priced one as well. Excellent analogy, Locksley," he toasted with his glass. "I couldn't have articulated it better myself."
"Still," Will interjected, shifting his gaze between Locksley and Killian, "I find it hard to believe a Parisian restaurant would be in an uproar over a pair of unconventional women."
"You'll understand when you meet Ingrid," Jefferson interjected. "She's not just a beauty, monsieur. She's a femme fatale . The men were so besotted, they could hardly focus on their meals. Our friend Nolan was particularly vexed. Thankfully, Mademoiselle Nolan exercises remarkable restraint with her own allure. Otherwise, I suspect there might have been duels. Two such women..." He shook his head mournfully. "It's too much for the Frenchmen to handle."
"Your compatriots do have peculiar tastes in charm," Killian remarked, pouring a drink for the count and passing it over. "All I encountered was a sharp-tongued, haughty bluestocking of a spinster."
"I adore clever women," Jefferson countered. "They're so invigorating. Mais chacun à son goût . It pleases me that you find her disagreeable, my Lord Hook. The competition remains minimal."
Will chuckled. "Hook doesn't compete. He negotiates. And we all know there's only one type he negotiates for."
"I pay a whore a few coins," Killian retorted. "She provides precisely what I desire. Once it's over, it's over. With no shortage of such companions in the world, why should I bother with the excessive trouble of pursuing the other kind?"
"There is love," Jefferson suggested.
His audience erupted into uproarious laughter.
When the laughter finally died down, Killian interjected, "It appears there's a bit of a language barrier, gentlemen. Wasn't love what I was talking about?"
"I thought you were speaking of fornication," Jefferson replied.
"In Hook's lexicon, they're often interchangeable," Will quipped, rising from his seat. "I believe I'll venture downstairs to toss a few francs into that pit they call Rouge et Noir . Anyone care to join?"
Arthur and Robin promptly followed him towards the exit.
"And you, Hatter?" Will inquired.
"Perhaps," the count replied thoughtfully. "I'll make my decision after I finish this wine," he added, taking the seat beside Killian that Arthur had just vacated.
After the others had wandered off, Killian leaned in and remarked, "It's all the same to me, Hatter, but I am intrigued. Why not simply inform Scarlet he's chasing shadows?"
Jefferson grinned wryly. "It wouldn't alter a thing, I assure you. With me, he faces the same dilemma as he does with his wife."
Will roots around with just about anything that moves, while his exasperated wife decreed years ago that he keep his hands to himself. Yet, she still holds sway over him. Will's possessiveness knows no bounds, and Jefferson's attentions towards his wife are driving him mad with jealousy. It's rather pitiful, Killian thought, and utterly absurd.
"One of these days, I might grasp why you squander your efforts on her," Killian pondered aloud. "You could secure someone very much like Kathryn Scarlet here, you know, for a few francs. This establishment caters precisely to one's preferences, doesn't it?"
Jefferson polished off his wine thoughtfully. "I believe I won't return to this place. It leaves me... uneasy," he announced, rising to his feet. "Tonight, I think I prefer the Boulevard des Italiens ."
He extended an invitation to Killian, who politely declined. "It's nearly one o'clock, and I have an appointment upstairs with an Amazonian brunette named Nova."
Perhaps Jefferson's unsettling intuition had sharpened Killian's instincts, or perhaps he had imbibed less wine than usual. Whatever the cause, the marquess scrutinized his surroundings keenly as Nova ushered him into the room adorned in crimson drapes.
He noticed the spy hole just as he began to remove his coat, positioned a few inches below his eye level on the wall to the left of the bed.
Taking Nova's hand, he guided her directly in front of the peephole and instructed her to undress, slowly.
Then he acted swiftly—darting out the door and into the corridor. He yanked open what seemed to be a linen closet and kicked through the door behind it. The room beyond was dimly lit but confined, and he didn't have to reach far before he sensed movement—a man heading towards another door, though not quickly enough.
Killian jerked him back, spun him around, and with a firm grip on his cravat, slammed him against the wall.
"I don't need to see you," Killian growled, his voice dripping with menace. "I can smell you, Scarlet."
It wasn't difficult to identify Will up close. His attire and breath typically exuded the scent of liquor and lingering opium.
"I've been considering a career in the arts," Killian continued coolly as Will struggled for air. "I think I'll entitle my first piece 'Portrait of a Dead Man'."
Will emitted a strangled noise.
Killian relaxed his hold slightly. "There was a comment you were itching to make, pig?"
"Can't…kill me…cold blood," Will wheezed. "That's... the guillotine."
"Quite right. Wouldn't want to lose my head over your wretchedness, would I?"
Releasing Will's cravat, Killian landed a swift right hook to his face, followed by a left jab to his gut. Will collapsed to the ground.
"Don't provoke me again," Killian warned, and he departed.
At the same moment, Emma perched on her grandmother's bed. It was their first chance for an uninterrupted chat, free from David's constant fussing. He had sauntered off an hour ago, likely to some den of vice, leaving Emma to summon his finest cognac. She had just recounted her encounter with Hook to Ingrid.
"An undeniable animal attraction, no doubt," Ingrid remarked.
With those words, Emma's fleeting hope—that her inner turmoil had merely been a feverish reaction to the stench wafting from the gutter outside Gold's shop—met a swift, merciless end.
"Damn," Emma muttered, meeting her grandmother's twinkling silver gaze. "This is not just embarrassing but terribly inconvenient. I'm infatuated with Hook. Now, of all times. Of all men, him ."
"Indeed, not convenient," her grandmother agreed with a chuckle. "But isn't it an intriguing challenge?"
"The challenge," Emma replied sternly, "is prying David away from Hook and his band of boorish miscreants."
"It would be far more lucrative to pry Hook loose for yourself," her grandmother opined. "He's exceedingly wealthy, comes from impeccable lineage, young, robust, and you're undeniably drawn to him."
"He isn't husband material."
"What I have described is perfect husband material," her grandmother insisted.
"I'm not interested in a husband."
"Emma, no woman is when she can scrutinize men objectively. And you've always been remarkably astute. But we don't live in an ideal world. Opening your shop would undoubtedly bring financial success. Yet the family would shun you, your social standing would plummet, Society would pity you—even as they bankrupt themselves buying your goods. And every dandy in London would be making improper advances. Yes, it takes courage to embark on such an endeavor when one is in dire straits. But you're not desperate, my dear. I can support you adequately, if need be."
"We've hashed out this argument time and time again," Emma sighed. "You're no Croesus, and we both have extravagant tastes. Besides, you'll only stoke more animosity within the family—while I'll appear a hypocrite after years of insisting you owe us nothing, that we're not your burden."
"Your courage and pride shine like a beacon, my dear," her grandmother said, leaning in to pat Emma's knee affectionately. "You're not just my granddaughter; we're more like sisters, the closest of friends, bound by a unique bond. And in the spirit of sisterhood and friendship, let me say, Hook is a prize of exceptional brilliance. My advice? Cast your hooks and draw him in, pun fully intended."
Emma raised her glass, savoring her cognac thoughtfully. "This isn't a trout, Ingrid. This is a great, hungry shark ."
"Then use a harpoon."
Emma shook her head.
Ingrid reclined against the pillows and let out a sigh. "Ah well, I won't badger you about it. It's most unbecoming. I'll simply hope his interest in you wasn't as unsettling as yours in him. That man knows how to get what he wants, Emma. And if I were you, I wouldn't want to be the one caught in his net."
Emma suppressed a shiver. "No risk of that. He's not interested in ladies. According to David, Hook regards respectable women as a form of deadly fungus. He only spoke to me to entertain himself, attempting to shock me out of my wits."
Ingrid chuckled. "The watch, you mean. That was quite the birthday surprise. Even more delightful was David's face when I unveiled it. I've never seen him blush that shade of crimson before."
"Probably because you decided to open the gift in the restaurant. With Comte Jefferson Hatter watching," Emma added dryly.
And that was the most vexing part of it all, Emma mused. Why on earth couldn't she have fallen in lust with Jefferson instead? He was fabulously wealthy as well. And stunningly handsome. And quite the gentleman.
"Hatter is quite amusing," Ingrid remarked. "It's a pity he's spoken for. There was something rather intriguing in his beautiful eyes when he mentioned Mrs. Scarlet."
Ingrid had brought up the ten-sous picture to Jefferson, along with Emma's suspicion that it held more than met the eye. Jefferson had proposed seeking Mrs. Scarlet's advice on experts to clean and appraise it, and he offered to make the introduction. They set a meeting for the next afternoon, coinciding with Mrs. Scarlet's involvement in a charity event for her late art teacher's widow.
"Well, we'll soon find out if anything catches her eye tomorrow—or rather, today," Emma said. She drained her cognac and slipped off the bed. "I wish it were already time. I'm quite disinclined to sleep. I have this dreadful feeling I'm going to dream about sharks ."