Cassin craned to see. Sabine Stoker stepped into view.
“In Chapel Street,” Sabine said. “Not far. Just around the square and to the left.”
Cassin nodded to her. “Thank you, ladies,” he said, already turning toward the square.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
The knock on the door caused Willow to jump. Her head shot up, and she stared down the corridor at the heavy front door to the Chapel Street house. She squinted. The sun rapidly slid from a soggy grey sky, and the last of the workmen had gone. It was far too late for deliveries or a call from the owners. Willow had assured Mr. Fisk that she would be perfectly safe in the deserted house, which was a short walk from Wilton Crescent. She’d been in and out of the new construction on Chapel Street at least four times today, as she was most days, endeavoring to pin down as many measurements as possible before she departed for Yorkshire. She hadn’t even bothered to lock the front door when she’d slipped inside for a final peek at the swatches of paint sampled on the music room wall.
The knock sounded again, and Willow took two steps back.
Silence.
She stopped breathing to listen harder.
Walk away, walk away, walk away, she chanted in her head, speculating wildly about who would pound on the door of an unfinished home at sunset. She was just about to shout,Is anyone there? when the knock sounded a third time, louder, so loud that timber rods propped against the wall jumped and rolled to the floor.
“Who’s there?” she called out. Fear diluted her voice, and she cleared her throat.
She took two more steps back. Wildly, she scanned the room for a weapon near to hand.
“Willow?” came a muffled voice from the other side of the door.
Willow’s heart stopped. In an instant, she forgot about the house and the paint and every other thing she’d ever known. She stared at the closed door.
But that sounded like . . .
She tried to suck in breath.
But that sounded likeCassin’svoice.
“Willow, it’s Cassin,” said the muffled voice again. “Will you—”
And now she launched herself. Her world shrank to the door at the end of the corridor and its heavy brass knob. She grabbed hold with both hands and jerked, throwing it wide.
And there he was.
Her husband leaned against the jamb of the door, his right arm above his head, his forehead on his arm. He’d been looking down, speaking to the keyhole.
She saw the top of his head, dusty-blond hair, sun-bleached to almost white. She saw massive shoulders. Large tanned hands.
He looked up, and her heart burst. Green eyes, tanned face, a surprised smile. It quirked up on one side, a little bit uncertain, a little bit . . . delighted?
Willow sucked in a shaky breath and tried to speak. She fought her first impulse, her only impulse, which was to throw herself into his arms. He had come home, but she didn’t know why. He’d traveled halfway around the world. Someone was dead or in grave danger. Something horrible had happened.
He rose from the door jamb. When he stood at full height, she had to look up to see him.
“I’m here about the advertisement . . . ” he said calmly, his smile hitching up a notch.
Willow laughed. “You were meant to apply by letter, sir.” Her voice felt weak and uneven, but she couldn’t hear it over the pounding of her heart.
“I was compelled to apply in person,” he said. “For efficiency’s sake.”
She laughed again.
Horses’ hooves clomped up the street. A bird called. In the distance, thunder boomed softly.
Cassin cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow.
