Graham’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Good. Put your mind where it is most lethal.”
When the time came, she rose, splashed water over her face, and returned to pin her hair with quick, efficient hands. Once satisfied, Eleanor moved to the corner where her small collection of clothing was kept.
Graham watched her tie her bonnet.
“Something dark,” he said.
Eleanor arched a brow. “You have said that already.”
“It bears repeating,” he replied.
He reached for her cloak without asking, then stopped himself, fingers hovering in midair.
Eleanor noticed.
After a heartbeat, she lifted her chin and turned slightly, offering her shoulders as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Graham settled the cloak around her with careful hands, the fabric brushing her throat. His knuckles grazed her jawline by accident and his pulse jumped.
Eleanor’s breath hitched.
He felt it, and hated that he did.
They left by the back. Graham checked the lane twice before hailing a hackney, and kept his hand at Eleanor’s elbow until she was safely inside.
He told himself it was practical.
He knew it to be a lie.
The City smelled different from the rest of London—less perfume and carriage leather, more coal smoke, rotting garbage, and money. Clerks hurried with collars turned up, hat brims shedding rain. The river’s stench curled through the lanes, damp and cold.
They arrived at the Jerusalem Coffeehouse and hour early. It was choosen for what it did best: made privacy impossible and secrets easy. The room was thick with smoke and argument. Newspapers crackled, cups clinked, a man in the corner swore about exchange rates as though numbers had insulted him personally.
Graham positioned them with care, Eleanor near the window where she could see the alley, himself with his back to the wall.
“You watch,” he murmured. “Under no circumstances do not intervene.”
Eleanor’s gaze swept the room with cool precision. “I am not the sort who intervenes loudly,” she said. “I intervene effectively.”
Graham’s attention sharpened at her words. The woman was beautiful and stubborn and brilliant. And he had to protect her. There were a hundred ways a clever woman could die in a room like this. And only one of them involved him losing control.
Time crawled.
At half past five, a clerk entered. He was young, neat, and nervous in the way of men who feared being noticed. He paused by the door as if deciding whether he was already too late.
Eleanor’s pencil, always at hand, moved once, just a small mark in her notebook. “Mercer,” she whispered.
Graham’s eyes narrowed. “You have seen him before?”
“On my father’s accounts,” Eleanor said. “A signature. A receipt. A name that appeared, vanished, reappeared. Not important enough to remember unless you are looking for patterns.”
Graham watched the man cross the room and choose a table near the hearth. Mercer held his cup with both hands as if it were a shield.
At ten minutes to six, another man entered. This one was older, well-dressed, respectable on purpose. He carried a leather folio and wore an expression of mild impatience.
He did not order. Nor did he sit. He drifted.
Graham felt the hair at the back of his neck rise.
