Ghost?” St. Vincent shot him an incredulous glance. “Christ. You’re not serious, are you?”

"I’m a Gypsy,” Cam replied matter-of-factly. “Of course I believe in ghosts.”

“Only half Gypsy. Which led me to assume that the rest of you was at least marginally sane and rational.”

“The other half is Irish,” Cam said a touch apologetically.

“Christ,” St. Vincent said again, shaking his head as he strode away.

I won’t apologize for my past. A man is supposed to have experience.”
“From all indications, you’ve acquired enough for ten men.

One of the servants had reported that Daisy had been sneaking around the house at night, deliberately tripping all the traps to keep the mice from being killed.

“Is this true, daughter?” Thomas Bowman had rumbled, his gaze filled with ire as he stared at Daisy.

“It could be,” she had allowed. “But there is another explanation.”

“And what is that?” Bowman had asked sourly.

Her tone turned congratulatory. “I think we are hosting the most intelligent mice in New York!

I’m not short. I’m…vertically disadvantaged.

Beatrix, do you know what happens to girls who ask such naughty questions?”
“They’re ravished in haylofts?” she inquired hopefully.

Rohan, one of us is an unmarried man with superior mathematical abilities and no prospects for the evening. The other is a confirmed lecher in an amorous mood, with a willing and nubile young wife waiting at home. Who do you think should do the damned account books?" And, with a nonchalant wave, St. Vincent had left the office.