The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

set with blue stones as well. His beard was heavy but neatly trimmed, mouth arrantly sensual, and his eyes glittering blue. The entire air of the man was strangely powerful and utterly, disturbingly, masculine.
    “Would you care for something
other
than tea?” she asked.
    “Perhaps a pot of coffee, if you will not object.”
    “There is no evil in coffee,” answered Miss Temple, a bitprimly. She raised her hand for the waiter and gave him the Comte’s order when he arrived at the table. She turned to the Comte. “Nothing else?” He shook his head. The waiter darted to the kitchen. Miss Temple took another sip of tea and leaned back, her right hand gently gathered the strap on her bag and pulled it onto her lap. The Comte d’Orkancz studied her, his eyes flicking at her hidden hand with a trace of amusement.
    “So … you were expecting me, it seems,” he offered.
    “It did not particularly matter who it was, but I knew one of you would arrive, and when you did, that I would meet you. Perhaps I preferred another—that is, perhaps I have more personal
business
elsewhere—but the substance remains unchanged.”
    “And what substance is that?”
    Miss Temple smiled. “You see, that is the kind of question one might ask a foolish young woman—it is the kind of question an idiot suitor would ask
me
when he is convinced that the path to groping my body on a sofa leads through flatteringly earnest conversation. If we are going to get anywhere, Comte, it will aid us both to be reasonable and clear. Do you not think?”
    “I do not think too many men have groped you on a sofa.”
    “That is correct.” She took a bite of her scone—she had been regretting the interruption for some minutes—and then another sip of tea. “Would it be better if I asked questions of you?”
    He smiled—perhaps in spite of himself, she could not tell—and nodded. “As you prefer.”
    But here his coffee arrived and she was forced to hold her tongue as the waiter set down the cup, the pot, the milk, the sugar, and their requisite spoons. When he was gone, she gave the Comte time to sample his drink, and was gratified to see that he consumed it black, minimizing the delay. He set down the cup and nodded to her again.
    “The woman—I suppose for you there are so
many
women,” she said, “but the woman I refer to was from the brothel, one Angelique. I understand from Doctor Svenson that you might have been genuinely troubled—even surprised—at the unfortunateresults of your … procedure, with her, at the Royal Institute. I am curious—and it is not an idle curiosity, I promise you, but
professional
—whether you possessed any genuine feeling for the girl, either before or after your work destroyed her.”
    The Comte took another sip of coffee.
    “Would you object if I smoked?” he asked.
    “If you must,” replied Miss Temple. “It is a filthy habit, and I will have no spitting.”
    He nodded to her gravely and fished a silver case from an inner pocket. After a moment spent considering its contents, he removed a small, tightly wrapped, nearly black cheroot and snapped the case shut. He stuck the cheroot in his mouth and the case in his pocket and came back with a box of matches. He lit the cheroot, puffing several times until the tip glowed red, and dropped the spent match on his saucer. He exhaled, took another sip of coffee, and looked into Miss Temple’s eyes.
    “You ask because of Bascombe, of course,” he said.
    “I do?”
    “Certainly. He has dashed your plans. When you ask of Angelique, someone from the lower orders we have taken up to join our work, to whom we have offered
advancement
—social, material,
spiritual
—you also inquire about our feeling for
him
, another, if not from such a dubious social stratum, we have embraced. And equally you speculate, indeed are ferociously hungry to know, what reciprocal feeling our work receives
from
him.”
    Miss Temple’s eyes flashed. “On the contrary, Monsieur le Comte, I ask out of curiosity, as the answer will likely dictate whether your fate is a more perfunctory retribution at the hand of objective justice, or lingering, stinging, relentless
torment
at the hands of vengeance.”
    “Indeed?” he replied mildly.
    “For my own part—well, it matters only that your intrigue fails and you are powerless to further pursue it—which could equally mean the law, a bullet, or fierce persuasion. Roger Bascombe is nothing to me. And yet, as I must feel