“What’s with the help?” she asked.
Nigel looked down, brushing some invisible thing off his shirt. “I’ve invited a guest for supper. He’ll be here shortly; the rest of his family will be traveling from Sacramento via airship tomorrow morning with Mayor Chambers. They’re possible investors for Emma.”
“But you detest the mayor.”
“No . . . I dislike the mayor’s charging-bull approach to politics, but he’s bringing me investors, so for now I find him quite agreeable.”
Alistair walked into the room holding a jug, two glasses, and a parasol of fine antique lace and pearls tucked under his arm. Seeing tea in the jug instead of wine, Westie frowned. Her disappointment deepened when Alistair handed Nigel the parasol. It was beautiful, no doubt. All the gifts he gave her were beautiful, but they were usually swords, or daggers. Westie had never been the type of girl to sit in front of picnic baskets or stroll down city streets with a handsome man on one arm and a parasol on the other.
“Thank you, Nigel. It’s, uh, something, but . . .”
Nigel ran a long finger down the length of it before gripping the end of the parasol and giving it a sharp yank to unsheathe a gleaming sword made of Japanese steel.
Westie immediately reached for it. “Now that’s something.”
Nigel made a tsking sound, holding it just out of her reach. “You must be careful.”
He pointed to the umbrella tip of the parasol. Westie noticed the opening of a barrel, and just above it, a bolt and trigger.
“Oh!”
A gun. Nigel carried a weapon just like it himself, hidden beneath the dark wood of his cane. He took it everywhere and used it to aid the limp he’d acquired from an orc bite during the creature war, when man and creature had been fighting over territory in the West.
Westie smiled down at her gift. Not even an outlaw would take a lady’s parasol from her. She liked the idea of never being without a weapon.
She threw herself into Nigel’s arms for a hug. He tensed beneath her. Nigel was not affectionate in a physical sense, nor was Westie, usually, but she was thrilled with her gift and he was getting a hug whether he liked it or not. Her mechanical arm with the power of a hundred horses was there to see he didn’t argue.
“All right, that’s quite enough,” he said, pushing her away with a smile in his voice. “Go on, clean up. Supper is in two hours.”
Three
After a bath and a short attempt at a nap, Westie entered the dining room. The servants were still in the house. They prepared the meal and set the table. The food smelled far better than any of Nigel’s concoctions.
Nigel and Alistair had already taken their seats. Alistair had an empty place where his plate of food should’ve been. It was no surprise, for he never ate with them, not since he’d stopped taking off his mask. There were two other settings, one for Westie and one for the mystery guest. Westie sat down next to Nigel and watched a young servant girl haul a stack of linens up the stairs.
“Did someone piss the bed?” Westie asked.
Nigel coughed into his hand. “Honestly, Westie, at the table?”
“Well,” she said, noticing Alistair’s eyes squint the way they did when he smiled, “why are the servants changing all the sheets in the house?”
Nigel said, “I told you the mayor’s friends will be in town tomorrow.”
“You mean they’re staying here?”
“I’m not about to let them stay at that flea-infested inn.”
“How long will they be staying?”
“However long it takes to convince them that Emma, when it’s complete, will be worth the money they invest and then some.”
Westie meant to ask Nigel more about the investors but was distracted by movement in the corner of the room as a man—no, a boy—peeked in from the hall.
“You?” she said, twisting in her seat to look at the young aristocrat from the saloon. Her knife fell off the table with a clatter.
He smiled with his entire face. “Hello again.” He’d cleaned up and had changed his clothes since the last time she’d seen him, wearing a crisp white shirt beneath a leather vest. “Sorry I’m late.”
Alistair and Nigel rose from their seats. When Westie tried to stand, she stepped on the hem of her gown, teetering before righting herself. She hardly ever wore dresses while on the road. It would take some getting used to again.
“You two know each other?” Nigel asked.
The young man exposed a trellis of brilliant white teeth when he opened his mouth. “She saved me from a troll this afternoon.”
Nigel’s face was electric with joy when he looked at Westie. “You did?”
“It was an ogre, actually,” Westie said, enjoying Nigel’s smile for the moment. If tradition held, it was only a matter of time before she disappointed him again.
“Wonderful!” Nigel said, turning to his guest. “James, this is my daughter, Westie, and my assistant, Alistair. Westie, Alistair, I’d like to present James Lovett Junior, the son of our former mayor and nephew of the investors.”