He pulled a flask from the drawer of a nearby desk, removed the stopper, then set it in her hand. Brandy, she realized, as he helped guide it to her mouth. She drank lightly, afraid that her stomach would reject it. She focused on the burn of fire down her throat and the steady support of his hands on her. Between the two, her stomach settled.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “I promised I would not interfere.”
He smiled. “You didn’t interfere. We were done.”
“I cannot understand what overcame me. I have never been so missish in my life.”
His fingers trailed over her arm in a soothing caress. “What you saw was disturbing. What you learned would bother anyone.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t learn anything new. Geoffrey duped an idiot footman. And Mr. Fisher did not confess to anything. He claimed over and over that I poisoned Oscar.” She grimaced at the futility of it all. “He will confuse the issue in a court of law. It is not proof.” Then she shrugged. “Either way, it is no cause for me to fall apart.”
He smiled. “Murder so close and personal is not something to be absorbed in one go. The mind rebels and rejects, taking it in as it can.”
Her eyes widened as she nodded. “It seems to come in waves. I think I understand things, and then it hits me anew. Geoffrey killed his father. And he wants me d—” Her voice caught, but she forced the word out. “Dead.” Her stepson wanted her dead.
“I will keep you safe. No one will hurt you.”
“I know,” she said. And she did. She felt safe in a way that she never had with anyone. Not even the boy he’d been twelve years ago. Back then, she had been the one to think matters through. Now she had no thoughts at all except that she must put everything in his hands, and he would do whatever was necessary. “I trust you.”
His expression softened into a look of joy. A quiet, beautiful happiness that she saw in his eyes and pulled into her body. It eased the terror inside her and settled her as nothing else could.
“Do you need more brandy?” he asked.
She looked down at the flask and passed it back to him. “No. I’m much better now. Thank you.” The words did not convey the depth of her gratitude.
He nodded and took the flask to his mouth, draining it with a few quick swallows. How handsome a man’s neck could be, she thought with a curious kind of surprise. His rugged skin and the steady bob of his Adam’s apple. She admired the cut of his jaw and the broadness of his shoulders. And she flushed again in embarrassment as he caught her looking.
To cover, she glanced around the room. It was a small place filled with the pallet on which she sat, a desk to the side, and a washing table. There were papers stacked neatly everywhere, on the desk, beside the bed, and three small piles by the door. Then she saw the clothing—specificallyhisclothing—folded neatly on top of a trunk next to the bed.
“This is your room at the Lyon’s Den,” she finally deduced.
“Yes.”
“There is nothing personal here. Nothing at all. If I didn’t recognize the clothes, I wouldn’t see anything of you.” She looked at him. “How long have you lived here?”
“Two years.”
Two years and this was all he had. “Oscar collected books on birds. He recorded birdsong as musical notes in pages and pages of his journals. It was his passion. My brother, Elliott, remembers the smallest facts about everyone he meets. It allows him to find the perfect people for whatever work he sets his mind to. I hum music to myself whenever I can. When Oscar was better, we would go to musical evenings. It didn’t matter who played or sang. I could sit and listen to it all.” She looked about the room. “What is it that delights you? Is it truly all those papers? Is that the work you did here?”
He looked about his room, his gaze picking out the piles of papers. He pointed to one stack. “That is the details of the people here that I supervise. Each man and his history, schedules, and the like, plus payment records. The next pile is your men and your home. It is also everything on the desk there. The last pile holds my thoughts on the Beddoes and the plans I have for a business to protect people who need guarding.”
Her eyes widened. “You plan a business venture for that?”
He grinned. “I do, and Lord Beddoe has already recommended me to a few more customers, should it work out.”
“But that is excellent! You will do a wonderful job, I’m sure.”
He nodded as if he knew it was true, but then his gaze softened. “But if you look for my own pleasure…” He adjusted so he could reach beneath the bed and then brought out a guitar. It was battered and the strings frayed, but he held it with such care, she knew she looked at a true love of his. Next came a few sheets of music that he dropped beside her. There were smudges and crossed-out passages, but it was obvious that he had labored over each one.
“Did you write these?” she asked, amazed.
“I did. They are silly tunes,” he said. “I play because it is good for my hand.”
“And because you like it. Because you want to.”
He ducked his head as if embarrassed by the idea. “It is nothing like a true composer. I play very simply, and when I like the tune, I write it down to help me remember.”
She laughed. “But that is exactly like a true composer.” She touched the sheets. “Will you play one for me? Please?”
