Eleanor did not look up. She drew a straight line from the catalogue to her map. And beneath it, in the smallest hand she could manage, she wrote a single word that felt like a vow.
Protect.
Chapter 8
The hush of the corridor isolated it from the world.
Eleanor stood at the edge of the silence with her reticule clutched close, the torn catalogue pressed flat against her side. Ahead, a set of double doors bore the club’s crest, two rampant stags, and a motto meant to flatter men into believing discretion was virtue.
Behind those doors, the powerful conversed. Here in the corridor it was just the two of them, waiting.
Graham stationed himself at her left shoulder, one hand resting on the back of a chair, the other tucked in his coat pocket.
“They keep us waiting to make their point,” he murmured.
“Time is a variable,” Eleanor replied, “not a constant. My father always preferred late meetings. Less chance of interruption.”
She did not look at him, but she felt the smallest shift in the air—the suggestion that her remark had pleased him.
Laughter swelled beyond the doors. Someone in the room was winning, and someone else was about to lose something far more precious than coin.
Graham’s hand flexed once. “He’s here.”
“Colin Westcliff,” Eleanor murmured. “Lord Highwood. Economist, philanthropist, darling of the beau monde?—”
“And a man with a taste for shadows,” Graham finished.
Eleanor’s mouth tightened. “Is he dangerous?”
Graham’s gaze slid to her. “Is water?”
The doors opened.
A steward emerged, face bland with practiced neutrality. “Lord Highwood will see you now.”
Eleanor followed, Graham half a step behind.
The room was a map of dominance: books no one read, thick carpet meant to swallow sound, gilding meant to impress men who mistook expense for authority.
Colin Westcliff, Lord Highwood, occupied the largest chair as though it had been built for him. He rose when they entered, polite enough to be unassailable, and his smile arrived a fraction before his eyes.
“Miss Hargrove,” he said with a brief bow. “And Lord Rathbourne. Thank you for coming at such an inconvenient hour.”
Colin gestured to the chairs opposite his own. “Do sit. The chairs are less comfortable than they look, but the conversation is worth the discomfort.”
Eleanor sat, spine straight, and watched him as carefully as she would have watched a man holding a knife.
Colin’s gaze flicked to her reticule. “I understand you have your father’s catalogue.”
Eleanor held his gaze. “I understand you requested this meeting.”
He offered a soft laugh. “Fair enough.” He leaned forward. “I also understand you are wondering why I did not come to your mews.”
Graham’s eyes narrowed.
Colin’s smile did not change. “Because there are ears in narrow streets, and men who pretend to be Bow Street love nothing more than knocking on humble doors.”
Eleanor’s stomach tightened. “So this is neutral ground,” she said.
