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“Just a drop or two of milk,” Lancelot replied.
Hugo nodded to indicate he’d like the same.
“Sacrilege,” she teased.
He had always found her Southern accent incredibly charming.
She sighed over their lack of desire for sugar, but she did so with a pleasant smile that caught the attention of parts of him that shouldn’t be involved in this conversation. A quick peek at Lancelot proved the knight was just as taken by her.
Once their hot tea was prepared, and she’d poured herself a tall glass of the dreadful sweet version, she led them to the living room. The house was tidy, though not overly clean.
She must have noticed Hugo looking around. “I apologize for the house. I tend to live by the lick-and-a-promise style of cleaning. My grandma was the neat freak, and without her…” Her words drifted away.
Hugo couldn’t exactly say that he already knew her grandmother had died a year ago, so instead he said, “I remember your fondness for your family. Particularly your grandmother.”
“She was an amazing woman.”
“I believe you have several poems about her in your second book.”
Sylvia’s cheeks pinked a little. “You’ve read my books?”
“Of course. You were a skilled wordsmith, even when you were younger.”
“Everything I wrote back then was a bit naive, a bit romantic.”
Hugo shrugged as he smiled. “I am French. I see no problem with romance.”
“Well, thank you for reading my work. I’m honored. And you’re right, several of the works in the second book are about her.” Sylvia glanced at Lancelot, turning her smile on him. “And how do you like being an investigator?”
“It’s interesting. Always something different. What I’m doing with Hugo is nice. Not dangerous. I also freelance for the London office of Cohortes Praetorianae.” Should Sylvia decide to check, Cohortes Praetorianae was a very real security firm, that in part acted as the public face for the security officers of the territory of Rome. Lorelei arranged for Lancelot’s name, picture, and a fictitious bio and email address to be posted on the Cohortes Praetorianae website.
When Hugo had asked Lancelot why they didn’t use whatever company was the equivalent front for England’s security officers, Lancelot had said that involving multiple countries with different languages would add layers of complexity if Sylvia became suspicious and decided to check their story.
Hugo was going to make sure that didn’t happen. He was also going to make sure that their coming here and talking to her didn’t result in Sylvia ending up in danger.
“I bet you have some wonderful stories,” she said.
Lancelot grinned. “Not that I can tell you about.”
Sylvia pursed her lips. “Now that is certainly intriguing. I might just have to make you talk. I’ll put sugar in your tea until you spill the beans.”
Lancelot laid a protective palm over the top of his cup. “Bloody Yanks.”
“I am certainly not a Yankee. You take that back.”
They shared a chuckle, then sipped in companionable silence. Hugo remembered this about her—that she seemed very at home in her own skin, and was therefore easy to be around. She stood. “I’m getting a refill. Can I offer you more tea? I promise, no sugar.”
Lancelot eyed her suspiciously.
Sylvia laughed as she walked into the kitchen, calling out, “Hugo, do you do much guest lecturing these days?”
Hugo raised his voice to reply. “No. Most of my time is spent in research and writing. Though I do miss teaching sometimes.”
“You were a wonderful teacher. You and Mrs. Rutherford, a teacher I had in high school, were my two favorites.”
He and Lancelot shared a speaking glance, but shifted back to polite smiles when she came back with a tray bearing the pitcher of sweet tea, teapot, and a small creamer that looked like a cow.
“Mrs. Rutherford?” Hugo asked casually, fighting not to look at Lancelot. They’d spent nearly an hour last night debating how best to question her about her former teacher. Now, within moments, she was dumping the opportunity right on their laps.
