her from before the massive fireplace, with a narrow-eyed glare, then stepped aside to allow Filchett to announce that dinner was served.
Unperturbed, Charles nodded to Filchett and came to take her hand.
Steeling herself, she surrendered it, but didn’t bother to curtsy. As he laid her fingers on his sleeve and turned her to the door, she stated with what she felt was commendable restraint, “I would have been quite happy with a tray in my room.”
“I, however, would not.”
She bit her tongue, elevated her nose. She knew better than to waste breath arguing with him.
Half an hour after she’d regained her room, a maid had tapped on her door and inquired whether she would like a bath. She’d agreed; a long, relaxing soak was just what she’d needed. The steam had risen, wreathing about her; her thoughts had circled, constantly returning to the crucial question. Could she trust Charles, the Charles who now was?
She still wasn’t sure, but now understood she couldn’t—wasn’t going to be allowed to—put him off for much longer. Witness this dinner he’d jockeyed her into.
When the maid, Dorrie, had returned to inquire which gown she wanted laid out, she’d replied she intended to have dinner in her chamber. Dorrie’s eyes had grown round. “Oh, no, miss! The master’s told Mrs. Slattery you’ll dine with him.”
An exchange of notes had followed, culminating in one from Charles informing her she would indeed be dining with him—where was up to her.
She’d opted for the safety of the dining parlor, the smaller salon the family used when not entertaining. He sat her at one end of the table, then walked to the carved chair at its head. The table was shorter than usual—every last leaf had been removed—yet there was still eight feet of gleaming mahogany separating them. Nothing to overly exercise her.
Reaching for the wineglass Filchett had just filled, she smiled her thanks as the butler stepped back, and reminded herself that dinner alone with Charles didn’t mean they’d actually be alone.
A gust of wind splattered rain across the window. It had been pouring for the last twenty minutes. At least Nicholas wouldn’t be scouting about tonight; she wasn’t missing anything.
As soon as the first course was served, Charles signaled Filchett, who, along with the footmen, withdrew.
Charles turned his gaze on her. “I checked in Debrett’s . Amberley, Nicholas’s father, was with the Foreign Office.”
She nodded and continued eating her soup. She waited as long as she dared before replying, “He retired years ago—’09, or thereabouts.”
What else had he pieced together? There was only one major fact she knew that he still didn’t. Would he guess…or might he connect Nicholas directly with the smugglers and not realize there was—had been—an intervening link?
Setting down her spoon, she reached for her napkin, glanced at him as she patted her lips. He was finishing his soup, his expression uninformative, but then he glanced down the table and caught her eye.
He’d seen the alternatives.
She looked away as Filchett and his minions returned.
Leaning back in his chair, Charles waited until the main course had been served and Filchett had once more retreated. “Did Nicholas visit Wallingham often over the years before Granville’s death?”
She kept her gaze on her plate. “He’s visited off and on since he was a child—Amberly and Papa were close friends.”
“Indeed?”
The word sounded mild; she wasn’t deceived.
“But Nicholas hasn’t been a regular visitor here over the last decade?”
She wished she could lie, but he’d check and find her out. “No.”
To her surprise, he left it at that and gave his attention to the roast lamb.
From beneath his lashes, Charles watched her, and let her nerves stretch. She was waiting, keyed up to meet his next tack, his next inquisitorial direction. In lieu of intimidating her in any other fashion, he’d opted for
Unperturbed, Charles nodded to Filchett and came to take her hand.
Steeling herself, she surrendered it, but didn’t bother to curtsy. As he laid her fingers on his sleeve and turned her to the door, she stated with what she felt was commendable restraint, “I would have been quite happy with a tray in my room.”
“I, however, would not.”
She bit her tongue, elevated her nose. She knew better than to waste breath arguing with him.
Half an hour after she’d regained her room, a maid had tapped on her door and inquired whether she would like a bath. She’d agreed; a long, relaxing soak was just what she’d needed. The steam had risen, wreathing about her; her thoughts had circled, constantly returning to the crucial question. Could she trust Charles, the Charles who now was?
She still wasn’t sure, but now understood she couldn’t—wasn’t going to be allowed to—put him off for much longer. Witness this dinner he’d jockeyed her into.
When the maid, Dorrie, had returned to inquire which gown she wanted laid out, she’d replied she intended to have dinner in her chamber. Dorrie’s eyes had grown round. “Oh, no, miss! The master’s told Mrs. Slattery you’ll dine with him.”
An exchange of notes had followed, culminating in one from Charles informing her she would indeed be dining with him—where was up to her.
She’d opted for the safety of the dining parlor, the smaller salon the family used when not entertaining. He sat her at one end of the table, then walked to the carved chair at its head. The table was shorter than usual—every last leaf had been removed—yet there was still eight feet of gleaming mahogany separating them. Nothing to overly exercise her.
Reaching for the wineglass Filchett had just filled, she smiled her thanks as the butler stepped back, and reminded herself that dinner alone with Charles didn’t mean they’d actually be alone.
A gust of wind splattered rain across the window. It had been pouring for the last twenty minutes. At least Nicholas wouldn’t be scouting about tonight; she wasn’t missing anything.
As soon as the first course was served, Charles signaled Filchett, who, along with the footmen, withdrew.
Charles turned his gaze on her. “I checked in Debrett’s . Amberley, Nicholas’s father, was with the Foreign Office.”
She nodded and continued eating her soup. She waited as long as she dared before replying, “He retired years ago—’09, or thereabouts.”
What else had he pieced together? There was only one major fact she knew that he still didn’t. Would he guess…or might he connect Nicholas directly with the smugglers and not realize there was—had been—an intervening link?
Setting down her spoon, she reached for her napkin, glanced at him as she patted her lips. He was finishing his soup, his expression uninformative, but then he glanced down the table and caught her eye.
He’d seen the alternatives.
She looked away as Filchett and his minions returned.
Leaning back in his chair, Charles waited until the main course had been served and Filchett had once more retreated. “Did Nicholas visit Wallingham often over the years before Granville’s death?”
She kept her gaze on her plate. “He’s visited off and on since he was a child—Amberly and Papa were close friends.”
“Indeed?”
The word sounded mild; she wasn’t deceived.
“But Nicholas hasn’t been a regular visitor here over the last decade?”
She wished she could lie, but he’d check and find her out. “No.”
To her surprise, he left it at that and gave his attention to the roast lamb.
From beneath his lashes, Charles watched her, and let her nerves stretch. She was waiting, keyed up to meet his next tack, his next inquisitorial direction. In lieu of intimidating her in any other fashion, he’d opted for
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