Colin watched her reaction with the patient attention of a man confirming a suspicion. “You have seen one,” he said.
Eleanor did not touch it. “Rathbourne has it.”
Colin’s mouth tightened. “Naturally he does.”
“What is it?” Eleanor asked.
“A claim,” Colin said. “A signal. A proof of access. In the wrong hands it becomes a license.”
Eleanor stared at the forget-me-not, feeling her father’s inked warnings hum beneath her skin.
“And in the right hands?” she asked.
Colin’s gaze held hers. “In the right hands, it becomes a way to close doors that should never have been opened.” He slid the token a fraction closer.
“You will not keep it,” Eleanor said.
Colin smiled. “This one does not belong to me.”
“Then why bring it?”
“Because you must be familiar with it,” Colin said, voice low, and for the first time his polish cracked enough to show urgency. “And because Rathbourne cannot protect you if you do not understand what you are standing inside.”
Eleanor’s fingers tightened around the torn catalogue page. “You mean to frighten me.”
“I mean to spare you from surprise,” Colin replied. “Your father was a friend. It is the least I can do.”
Eleanor studied him. He was a man who could smile in a ballroom and set a token on a widow’s daughter’s desk in the same breath.
“How many of you are there?” she asked.
Colin’s mouth curved. “Enough. Not enough. Depends on who one asks.”
“And Halford?” Eleanor asked, eyes sharp.
Colin’s gaze went very still. “Do not say that name in a room unless you are certain no one is listening.”
Eleanor’s pulse jumped.
Colin rose, slid his gloves back on, and looked down at her with a careful sort of respect. “You have a choice, Miss Hargrove,” he said. “You may leave London for the country and pretend none of this exists.”
“And the other choice?”
Colin’s eyes flicked once toward the torn edge of her catalogue page. “You may stay,” he said, “and become inconvenient enough that the men who prefer blanks begin to fear ink.”
Eleanor’s mouth tightened.
Colin inclined his head. “You may decide after tomorrow. Rathbourne will take you to St. Paul’s. If you survive it, you will know whether you were made for this.”
Eleanor’s gaze cut to him. “And if I was?”
Colin smiled—mild, deadly. “Then welcome to the shadows, Miss Hargrove.”
He paused at the door and glanced back. “For what it’s worth,” he added, “Rathbourne does not like losing.”
Eleanor’s brows lifted.
Colin’s mouth curved. “And he already sees you as something he might lose.”
