She looked at him in surprise. “You think there’s criminality here? Or even danger?”
“No, but until I’m sure, I’m on guard. If you turn up crimes and scandals, come to me before you shout them to the world.”
“Well, really! I don’t think I deserve that.”
“Of course not.” But then he added, “I don’t know you, Kitty, any more than you know me. Our encounters have been few, and form more of a patchwork than a picture. I don’t know what you might do or how you might react.”
“Nor I you,” she pointed out.
“I am as I am.”
“So am I.” What did he want—that she be only one version of herself? Presumably the composed, calm one. That had been as close to deception as she’d come. “I might have presented a motley impression,” she said, “but nothing was put on for show.”
He didn’t like that. He lifted a box out of the cabinet and put it on the desk. “Explore, if you wish.”
A test? If so, she’d pass.
She sat at the desk and took out a paper. Then she wrote in the ledger, trying to be as neat as he:Receipt for repair of ormolu clock, Stelby & March. February 3, 1810. “I assume I can put NOI?”
“Miscellaneous household receipts have their own box. Add H, and give it to me.” She passed it over andhe put it into a box in the cabinet. “The inventories might indicate which house, though I suspect there are a number of ormolu clocks.”
And how can it matter?Kitty thought, but she returned to the box.
The next paper was a letter dated September 25, 1810, from a Charles Day to the fifth viscount about a house in Edgware. The Edgware Road ran north from London close to Moor Street, where she’d lived, but she didn’t know how far away it was. She wrote the essentials, then asked, “Is there a box for a house in Edgware?”
“No.” He came toward her to take the paper, but the coffee arrived then, the aroma very welcome. Kitty was pleased to see a plate of tiny cakes came with it. She’d only nibbled at the wedding breakfast. She put the letter on the desk and rose.
The footman placed the slender coffeepot and tiny cups on a small table beside one of the armchairs and set the cakes alongside, together with a jug, plates, and serviettes. He left, and Kitty sat in the other chair, curious.
Sillikin, always aware of food, came to her knee. “No,” she said. With a reproachful look, the dog lay down again, head on paws, half over Kitty’s feet. “You wouldn’t like it,” Kitty said, then bit her lip. She was going to stop doing that.
“She wouldn’t,” Braydon said as he sat, “unless she’s a very unusual dog.” He poured coffee for them both and passed her a cup. “I requested cream in case you’d like it.”
“I assume it’s not normally used?”
“No.”
She sipped, and felt her eyes open wide. It was very strong and very sweet. And very delicious. “I don’t think I want cream.”
A smile in his eyes might even be true approval. “Try one of the cakes.”
They were tiny squares, and when she picked one up she could tell it was dense. She nibbled. “Marzipan? But not quite.”
“It’s halva, made of ground sesame seeds and sugar.”
“The kitchen here makes these?”
“Hardly. I recently purchased a new supply from a Turkish bakery in London. Do you like it?”
“The taste is a little odd, but I think... Yes. I do enjoy new things.” She sipped more of the coffee, which went well with the little cake. “You’ve visited Turkey?”
“In 1809, and occasionally at other times.”
“You were a diplomat?”
“It was on army business.”
That intriguing army business again. “Did you visit a harem?” she asked.
