All his notes. . . the draft manuscript. If anyone read that. . .
Fate had found him again.
For a very brief moment, he considered his assistant seeking revenge through theft, but Leonard would never do that. He simply would not. Grey wasn’t that poor a judge of character. He knew precisely how human nature operated. Leonard was one of the dedicated students of learning, honest, more than competent?—
And Grey would bet his fortune that Leonard was loyal to a fault.
Which meant Leonard had his manuscript, if he’d had any warning whatsoever.
Grey had delivered books to Leonard’s pathetic abode in the past. He had occasionally wondered how anyone living in such poverty could speak with the educated accents of the upper class, but the world was full of little mysteries. Finding Leonard wasn’t one of them. He knew where to look.
While a few students watched with puzzlement from the doorway, Grey shoved files of art prints into his satchel. Glancing around to be certain he left nothing behind, he picked up his beaver hat and walking stick and departed, without looking back.
It was the last of the term. His students had only the final exam to finish. Let Harrowby handle it. Those new bays ought to cost him some effort.
The meager June sun didn’t make it through the fog of Edinburgh’s alleys. Moss and vines clung to high brick walls, fertilized by the muck in the streets. Children shouted in yards hidden by tall walls. Church bells rang noon.
Finally, he arrived at the cheerful blue door he remembered from his last visit. A small pot of colorful flowers adorned the worn step. Leonard must have a female looking after him. Without a salary, they’d be out in the street by next month. July wasn’t a bad time to be homeless, but females didn’t look kindly upon it, Grey wagered.
He disliked arriving anywhere without a prior appointment but needs must. He rapped the gold knob of his walking stick on the door. It popped open instantly, revealing a harassed young man, his light brown curls disheveled, his cravat askew, and a cane apparently propping him up. “We can’t pay?—”
He halted abruptly, staring.
The young man almost looked like Leonard, but there was a lack of refined features and. . . Grey focused on the man’s odd boot. Leonard did not have a clubfoot.
“Andy?” a voice called from the cottage’s tiny interior. “Who is it?” A tall, slender figure of the same approximate size and coloring as this young man emerged from the darkness. “If I’m to apply for that position, I need help with this. . . ”
Cravat unfastened, wearing only a waistcoat over an open linen shirt and trousers, Leonard halted at the sight of Grey. She had the same light brown curls as the man with the club foot.
She.
Loyal, efficient, knowledgeable Leonard was female.
Two
Eleanor
Eleanor Anne Leonard stared at the professor and wished the rathole beneath her too-large boots would swallow her.
Except for his electrified golden mane, Greybourne appeared as elegant as always in an impeccably tailored dove gray coat and silver waistcoat. His immaculate linen was only slightly disheveled, as it became when his tempestuous humors erupted.
She had to say something if she couldn’t arrange to disappear. Recovering, she grasped with relief that he was here for his manuscript.
“I have your notes.” Hastily tugging at her untied shirt, El stepped deeper into the shadows, leaving Andrew between her and the professor.
“Hide them,” Greybourne ordered before she could escape. “You locked the desk before you left, did you not?”
“Of course, sir,” she said indignantly. “The students would steal your paper and ink and hunt for your lecture notes otherwise. But I thought I might finish copying the pages you left this morning.” She needed the salary he paid her. He wouldn’t continue paying a female, but he might give her what he owed.
“The desk was ransacked.” He made no attempt to enter when Andrew stepped aside.
“Ransacked, sir?” That temporarily shocked her from her monetary fears. “I assure you, I did not?—”
He interrupted her protest with a curt wave. “I know you did not. But I fear the papers are no longer safe.”
His book was a scholarly treatise of contemporary art. Eleanor didn’t dare argue. They needed his wages.
“I have been planning to spend time with my cousin,” he continued abruptly. “I’ll simply leave sooner than anticipated. I take it you have not found new employment yet?”
