Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
It’s as if Josephine was scrubbed clean from history except for one painting released from a dusty attic. After weeks on this fruitless venture, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little disappointed in myself. Not to mention kicking myself for picking such a difficult and elusive subject. Why not another investigation of Jack the Ripper, the Solway Spaceman, or the Highgate Vampire? I could have saved myself all sorts of grief.
When it’s my turn to present, Professor Langford picks up on my frustration and suggests I rededicate my efforts to further study of the brothers.
“There’s a small museum and cemetery not far from the Tulley estate in Surrey,” she tells me. “I’d suggest availing yourself of their assistance.”
Huh. How’d I miss that? Especially after finding the gallery in Rye. I was so preoccupied with a connection to Josephine, I managed to ignore the obvious avenues on the family. Sorely missing a dose of perspective, it seems.
“Finding a primary source within the family would also be prudent,” my professor adds.
I breathe out a sharp laugh before I realize she’s serious. Primary sources are every historian’s best resource, of course. In this case, that’s not so easy. How the hell would I get the current duke and duchess to agree to an interview for some student’s class project on their ancestors’ personal tragedies and private embarrassments? Or even get close enough to ask?
Then I get a terrible idea.
After class, I give Jamie a call.
“Abbey, darling, settle an argument for me,” he says instead of hello. “Should ketchup be consumed cold or at room temperature? We need an American perspective on this.”
“You don’t even eat ketchup.”
“Of course not. There’s nothing so hideous in all of creation,” he says, because, Jamie. “But if one did…”
“Room temp. Obviously.”
“Yeah, see,” he says away from the phone. “She says you’re barking, mate.”
“Hey, so listen,” I press. Jamie is a doll, but the boy is easily distracted.
“Right, sorry. What can I do for you?”
“I need a favor,” I confess. “A big one. Any chance you could get me an introduction to someone connected to the Tulleys?”
“Oh.” He chuckles. “Well, you don’t make it easy on a bloke. This about the painting still?”
“Yeah. Bonus points if it’s a member of the family.”
“I see.” There’s a long pause with some indistinct chatter in the background mingled with the sounds of London traffic. Like me, he’s on campus across town today. “For you, Abbs, I’ll do my best. Give me some time.”
“You’re a peach,” I say in relief.
If anyone can swing it, it’s his lordship Jamie Kent.
“Tell me I’m your favorite roommate.”
“My very best favorite.”
That was easier than expected. Far from a done deal, however. In the event Jamie can’t manage a connection, I’ll need a fallback plan. As I’m typing some notes to myself on my phone, I receive a text.
My fingers freeze at the name on the screen.
Nate: How’s the hunt?
Holy shit.
I can’t believe he’s on my phone.
Like, the fucking nerve of this dude.
But also, I’m kind of okay with it.
Maybe more than okay.
I haven’t heard from him in weeks. So long now that our road trip seems almost a hallucination. I’d even started to wonder if I was the reason he’d been absent from the usual group outings.
Now he slides into my texts all cool and casual. Typical. He’s got that energy. The fleeting rogue, always asking forgiveness with a bashful smile and those brooding eyes. And we never say no because of course not. If their schtick didn’t work, their species would’ve died out generations ago.
I’m tempted to answer immediately, but I stop myself.
The sensible thing to do is respond with a polite but succinct yeah, good. Whatever his motivations in contacting me now, they’re definitely not the ones that I entertain in the whispering parts tucked way back in my own head. Reading more into a simple message says more about me than it does about him—or his intentions. The easiest way to let myself off the hook is not to lunge at it in the first place.
I, of course, do none of that.
Me: If you want to give me a lift to a cemetery in Surrey, I can fill you in.
Nate: Where are you now?
Me: Albert Hall at Pembridge.
Nate: Meet me out front in fifteen.
18
I BLOW OFF THE REST OF MY CLASSES FOR THE AFTERNOON TO HOP on the back of Nate’s motorcycle. After only a few miles, the lash of colder air across my face reaches bone, and I cling to Nate for warmth and hug the body of the bike with my legs. It’s all I can do to stop from shivering. At a stop sign, he notices my nearly frozen fingers and tucks my hands into the front pockets of his leather jacket.
“Better?” he says roughly.
“Much.” My voice sounds odd to my ears. Somehow simultaneously too high and too throaty.