Page 11 of Infamous

‘I thought Lord Byron wasthepoet—’

‘Christ, Rose, I told younotto mentionByron.’

Eddie could tell that Rose was about to query this, no doubt drawing Nash Nicholson’s attention and ire and ruining any chance that he might consider Eddie worth talking to again, but luckily they were interrupted by the precipitous arrival of pudding.

*

Rose was dancing with Mr Rednock. It was dreadful, but there was no way around it: they lookedhappy. She kept laughing at things he was saying – a real laugh, not her society one – and he was smiling so much that his eyes had almost disappeared into the depths of his face.

Miss Higgons the spinster had proven herself very adept at the pianoforte and had been playing lively tunes to accompany the past twenty minutes of dances, all of which Eddie had sat out, nursing a drink in the corner of the drawing room and watching Nash Nicholson smoke his pipe, with the intensity and focus of a hawk pursuing a particularly voluptuous rabbit.

She had just resolved to concoct a good excuse to cross the room to sit next to him – some invented draught, perhaps, that risked a chill, although she did not wish to appear fussy and unrobust in front of him – when she glanced up from her lap and saw that he had vanished, leaving only pipe smoke behind.

Eddie got to her feet immediately, looking around to see where he might have gone. Mr and Mrs Li were nearby speaking with Mr Carter, of dog-perambulator infamy, and she saw Mrs Li’s eyes slide from where her daughter was still giggling on the dance floor to where Eddie was standing stricken by indecision.

‘I’m going for some air,’ Eddie said, not addressing anybody in particular, before ploughing through the dancers and escaping into the hallway beyond. The front door was open, and she followed the scent of smoke to find Nash Nicholson standing on the dusky doorstep without his jacket on, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. She stilled, with no idea what to do now that she’d caught up to him. Luckily, he spoke first.

‘Do you smoke?’ he said, as if they had already been mid-conversation, turning and offering her his pipe without looking at her.

‘No,’ said Eddie.

He glanced up at the sound of her voice, and Eddie realised that he hadn’t known who she was at all, and had simply not minded who he was offering his pipe to.

‘Aha! Miss Miller. Not dancing?’ Eddie shrugged. ‘No. No, well, it’s not really for me, either – two left feet.Eightleft feet. Like a well-soused spider, with no command of my .?.?. Anyway. The weather’s turning. I thought for certain we had a few more weeks, but look atthis.’ He raised his arm for Eddie to study. ‘Gooseflesh. Bloody gooseflesh! You’d better go back in, before you freeze, or before .?.?. Well, I suppose they might call for the constable, to have me clapped in irons for showing you my forearm.’

Eddie snorted, and Nash Nicholson grinned, with a softness about his eyes that was entirely unexpected. She thought he’d look away again but he held her gaze, tilting his head to one side like a quizzical dog.

‘Albert said you’re a writer.’

This was simultaneously the best and worst thing that could have possibly come out of his mouth. Eddie spent half a second luxuriating in it and then the other half feeling her veins flood with panic.

‘I’m .?.?.’ She paused, her protests dying on her tongue. He was looking at her expectantly, and she knew there was only one correct answer. ‘Yes. Yes, I am a writer.’

‘Very well, then. And what do you write?’

‘Everything. Nothing. Er .?.?. It’s silly, really.’

‘Is it, now?’ He continued to appraise her with immense focus. His nose was very slightly dented, as if it had been broken on some grand adventure. It only added to his general rakishness. ‘I shouldn’t think it is. Albert said it was your dream to be published. You should not be so quick to sell yourself short, Miss Miller. If you are serious, there will be plenty of people willing to do that on your behalf.’

‘What do you mean?’ Eddie said, noting as she did that she sounded breathy, like a knight-struck maiden of yore.

‘Oh, only that you must be your own champion in this sort of business. To everybody else, your writing will be .?.?. a commodity, or a passing curiosity. A horror. A punchline.Youmust love it fiercely, and take pride in it regardless.’ His gaze had drifted out across the street, but he shook his head and then smiled bashfully at her. ‘God, listen to me. Eight-and-twenty, and yet I sound ancient. And miserable. It ages you, writing. Or .?.?. not the writing, but all the rest.’

Eddie could not agree. From the moment he had crashed into the dining room, she had been stunned by his vigour, his spirit; even if it was subdued now, he still looked as if he might gather himself any minute and shoot off again like a greyhound.

He straightened up, giving her a very gentle nudge with his elbow. Eddie felt the shock of even such a brief contact skitter down her arm.

‘Youought to come to my salon. My wife and I, we hold a .?.?. Well, it’s a silly old thing really, always ends in spilled drinks and tantrums and tears, and that’s just me – but there are a lot of fascinating,artistictypes who’ve become quite the regulars. You’ll fit right in.’

‘I .?.?. Thank you,’ said Eddie, her heart beating embarrassingly fast as she did. ‘Yes. I will.’

‘Good, good.’ A door shut loudly inside the house and he startled, then craned his neck to find the source of the noise, frowning as if he’d been interrupted doing something nefarious. Seeing that nobody was coming to accost him, he gave Eddie a solemn salute. ‘I’ll see you back inside, then, soldier.’

‘Oh. Yes, Mr Nicholson.’

‘Fuck, don’t call me that,’ he said, laughing. Eddie hoped he hadn’t noticed just how hard she had to press her lips together to stop herself from gaping at him. ‘Christ. Just .?.?. Nash. Call me Nash.’

‘Nash,’ Eddie said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘I’m Eddie.’