Colin Westcliff, Lord Highwood, entered as if he had stepped from a ballroom rather than a rainy street. He was everything the beau monde admired—tall, well dressed, impeccably mannered—and he carried himself with the easy confidence of a man who had never had to request permission for anything in his life.
His smile was polite.
His eyes were not.
They were the eyes of a man who listened for the second meaning beneath the first, and who had learned long ago, that danger rarely announced itself with raised voices. They took in the room the way Rathbourne’s had, noting exits, shadows, the placement of chairs, then landed on Eleanor with a fraction more warmth than she trusted.
“Miss Hargrove,” he said, bowing. “My condolences. London is poorer for your father’s passing.”
Eleanor returned his bow with a cool inclination of her head. “Lord Highwood.”
He stepped nearer the desk. His gaze flicked, briefly, to the torn catalogue page—quick enough to pretend it was happenstance, precise enough to tell Eleanor he had been trained not to stare.
Eleanor watched his hands as he removed his gloves. Perfect nails. A faint line of ink at one cuticle, as if he handled paper more often than he admitted.
“You are fond of arranging the battlefield,” he observed, glancing at the chair angled toward the hearth.
Eleanor’s lips curved without yielding. “I prefer to know where everyone will stand.”
“How sensible.” Colin’s smile deepened by a hair. “It is not a preference common among young ladies.”
“I am told,” Eleanor said dryly, “that I am not common.”
A soft sound left him, and amusement reached his eyes for the briefest moment before his gaze moved to the tea tray. “May I?”
Eleanor gestured. “If you must.”
He poured tea as though it were a ritual and handed her a cup, careful not to touch her fingers. The restraint read as deliberate. “Lord Rathbourne has spoken to you,” he said.
He made it a statement, not a question.
“He has,” Eleanor said, and sipped. “Enough to be inconvenient.”
Colin’s brows lifted. “Ah. He is learning.”
Eleanor lowered her cup. “And you?”
“I am only here to ensure you are not frightened into foolishness,” Colin said pleasantly.
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of foolishness?”
“The variety that gets you killed,” Colin replied, and the pleasantness did not slip, only sharpened.
Eleanor set her cup down. “You know what my father was doing.”
“I know what he refused to do,” Colin said, and his gaze flicked, quick as a stitch, to the letter packet on her desk. “Which is why he is gone.”
Eleanor’s throat tightened.
Colin saw it and, to her irritation, softened his tone. “Miss Hargrove… none of this is your fault. I regret it has become your concern.”
Eleanor’s smile turned colder. “I have never been comforted by a man telling me I am blameless. It usually means he intends to take my choices next.”
Colin’s expression stilled. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Fair.” He reached into his coat and produced a small object, setting it on the desk between them.
A dark metal token stamped with a tiny forget-me-not.
Eleanor’s breath caught.
