The Diviners (The Diviners 1)

Evie raised one eyebrow. “I can’t sing. I can’t dance. I can’t act.”

“See? A real triple threat.” He grinned. “Well, there goes the St. Mary’s talent show.”

o;No, thank you.”

“Nice topper.” He winked and Evie remembered the porter’s hat.

A mirror hung in the window of a druggist’s shop, and Evie stopped to fix her hair and replace the porter’s hat with her own brimless gray cloche, turning her head left and right to make sure she was at her best. She took the twenty-dollar bill she’d won playing poker and, after a moment of deliberation, stuffed it into the pocket of her red, summer-weight traveling coat.

“I can’t say I blame you for taking in the view. I’ve been looking for a while.”

The voice was male, and a little gravelly. Evie caught his reflection in the mirror. Thick, dark hair with a longer piece in front that refused to stay swept back. Amber eyes and dark brows. His smile could only be described as wolfish.

Evie turned slowly. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet. But I hope to remedy that.” He stuck out a hand. “Sam Lloyd.”

Evie curtsied. “Miss Evangeline O’Neill of the Zenith O’Neills.”

“The Zenith O’Neills? Now I feel underdressed. Let me just get my dinner jacket.” He grinned again, and Evie felt a little off balance. He was of medium height and compact build. His shirtsleeves had been rolled to his elbows; his trousers were worn at the knees. Faint black smudges stained the tips of his fingers, as if he’d been shining shoes. A pair of aviator’s goggles hung around his neck. Her first New York admirer was a bit rough around the edges.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Lloyd, but I’d better—”

“Sam.” He picked up her case so quickly she didn’t even see his hand move. “Let me carry that for you.”

“Really. I can—” She made a swipe for her case but he held it up.

“I insist. My mother would skin me for being so unchivalrous.”

“Well”—Evie looked around nervously—“just as far as the door, then.”

“Where ya headed?”

“My, you ask a lot of questions.”

“Let me guess: You’re a Ziegfeld girl?”

Evie shook her head.

“Model? Actress? Princess? You’re too pretty to be just anybody.”

“Are you on the level?”

“Me? I’m so on the level I can’t get off it.”

He was flattering her, but she was enjoying it. She loved attention. It was like a glass of the best champagne—bubbly and intoxicating—and as with champagne, she always wanted more of it. Still, she didn’t want to seem like an easy mark.

“If you must know, I’ve come to join a convent,” Evie said, testing him.

Sam Lloyd looked her over and shook his head. “Seems a waste to me. Pretty girl like you.”

“Serving our lord is never a waste.”

“Oh, sure. Of course, they say now that we’ve got Freud and the motorcar, God is dead.”

“He’s not dead; just very tired.”

The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement, and Evie felt the warmth bubble up again. He thought her clever, this Sam Lloyd with his knowing grin.