“Mrs. Cabot.” He caught her attention.
“Yes, Mr. Moon. Here and accounted for.” She gave him a wide, beaming smile. She would kill him with kindness. Smotherhim with niceness. And she would adore watching him squirm under the weight of her enduring cheerful temperament.
“I see that.”
He assessed her. No doubt she was meant to squirm here, but she didn’t care. His gaze was nowhere near as penetrating and painful as his mother’s.
“I heard you met with Lord Rascomb and Miss Bridewell?” She pushed on. If he wouldn’t begin the conversation, she would.
“I did. They were in agreement that you should have open access to the ledgers at all times.”
She smiled smaller this time, not just in acknowledgment of what he said, but also of what he did not say. “And that I use the funds at my discretion.”
“Naturally. But I retain my rights to oversee any purchases. I would hate for the money to be misused.”
Prudence did her best to not clench her jaw or narrow her eyes, even though she desperately wished to do so. This man thought she was either a confidence artist or an idiot. And she’d bank on the latter rather than the former. So she smiled in her best empty-headed American way. “Did Miss Bridewell also inform you of the task I am dispensed with?”
Now Mr. Moon’s steel-colored eyes narrowed.
Glee struck her. “Which I suppose, in turn, you are to help with, since you must oversee my purchases.” Oh, she would absolutely rope him into this because he would loathe it. He deserved it. “Miss Bridewell believes we must throw a fundraising ball. And not just any run-of-the-mill charity party. No, an epic, no-holds-barred wildly extravagant soiree to rival the ones of the eighteenth century.”
Mr. Moon’s jaw dropped open just slightly. Prudence would take that as a win.
“Now, I don’t know what that last part means,” she continued. “But I trust you can help me with that.” His face flushed with color. She rather liked it.
“I am not a party planner,” he said through gritted teeth.
She stood. “You are now, Mr. Moon.” She held her hand out, inviting him to shake on it, like business partners. He slowly got to his feet and clasped her hand in his. He met her gaze gravely, and it felt as if he were building steel walls around her with the intensity. Instinctively, she looked away as her body flushed from her toes and stopped below her waist.
But, oh! All it took was her shift in perspective, from sitting to standing. The labels on the drawers were Morse code. They were numbers. Birthdates, judging by the continuity of the numbers. Her hand was still in his when she said, “Why have you labeled your files by birthdate? That doesn’t seem very efficient.” The words popped out of her mouth before she could stop herself.
“How would you know that?” He did not let go of her hand.
She gestured towards the labels with her free hand. “It’s obviously Morse code. And with a repeated four digits on each label with numbers, that could only be years.”
He closed his eyes for a moment and then let go of her hand. Puzzled, Prudence sank back down in her chair, her hand suddenly cold. “You are likely accustomed to being the smartest person in the room. How aggravating to find out that might not be true.”
His expression was cold and smooth. She couldn’t tell if he was angry or embarrassed or pleased or anything. “I would be interested to find out if that were true.”
Prudence didn’t know why, but she blushed. It had been a long time since the last time she blushed. “I am more than what you think I am.”
“I have never doubted that for a second,” he said, sounding as if he meant it.
She took her turn evaluating him. His thin frame was covered in neatly pressed tailored clothes. She liked the look of his broad hands, ink covered, with long, fine fingers. He had an angular face that wasn’t exactly handsome, nor was he ugly. He was sharp edges and high cheekbones, with cold gray eyes that saw everything.
“Mrs. Cabot,” he said, his voice suddenly low and quiet. But he didn’t say anything after that. Just her name.
Her mouth was suddenly dry. She swallowed hard. “Yes, Mr. Moon?”
“I have a confession to make.”
“Oh?” She could barely squeak out the word. Her mind ran faster than a pony on a wet track, sliding this way and that, trying to figure out what he might say.
“I did not mean to, but I found myself eavesdropping on you and my mother during your first visit here.”
Prudence frowned. And? That was hardly something that needed to be confessed.
“To be very clear—” Mr. Moon cleared his throat. “I overheard you say that you were in search of a lover.”
