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Anna’s eyes flew open. Sacrebleu, but the man was observant.
He leaned forward with a frown, his sharp eyes piercing hers. “Are you well?”
“I am quite well, thank you.” She spread her napkin across her lap with two fingers, in a slow, measured movement, relieved that her fingers no longer trembled, and met his gaze calmly. “And how are you, may I ask? You appeared to be rather unwell earlier.”
He grimaced. “I am fine. You must forgive me those bouts of—” He made a vague gesture and did not complete his sentence. “They come and go.”
Bouts of what?
Illness?
Insanity?
It must be that.
Most definitely. After what she had seen, there was no reason to think otherwise. Anna stared at the steaming pea soup in front of her. She should have lost her appetite given what she’d seen only moments earlier, but her stomach growled. She was hungry, and she had to eat. And nothing and no one would keep her from doing so.
He was watching her with eagle eyes during the entire dinner, which unnerved her. What did he see? His next victim?
He was attempting polite conversation, which Anna responded to politely but indifferently.
Phoebe, not in the mood for conversation and still upset with her uncle, picked at the food, then excused herself. “I am tired,” she said with a pout. “I shall retire.”
“Very well, Peeps. I shall allow you to retire for tonight, for it has been a long day and you must no doubt be tired from the journey. But I must insist that you maintain some sort of schedule here and not lock yourself up in your room as you’re wont to do.”
“I’m merely imitating you, Uncle,” Phoebe muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. May I be excused now?”
“Very well, Phoebe,” Anna said, in Miss Hilversham mode. “We shall commence our lessons tomorrow morning. In the library.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Assuming there is a library in this godfors—I mean—place?”
“There is indeed a library in this godforsaken place.” A smile flitted over his face so briefly, lighting it up for a fraction of a second, so quick she nearly missed it. “Filled with all sorts of books. Pray, Miss Hilversham. What is your favourite book?”
“The Arabian Nights, specifically Sinbad,” she answered immediately, without thinking.
“Indeed?” There was a hint of laughter in his voice.
“Why is that amusing?” She tilted her head to one side, not understanding why he thought that was funny.
“Not at all. Not at all. It is just that one wouldn’t have expected refined ladies, particularly not the prim and proper Miss Hilversham of England’s most proper seminary for young ladies, to be fond of something like the Arabian Nights, since it does contain—how shall one put it delicately?—erotic and morally ambiguous elements?”
“How odd. Is the book indeed considered scandalous?” Anna wondered out loud. Then she cleared her throat. “I do not care a fig. I mean to say, I quite disagree. It is my favourite book, and I see no reason not to read it just because some people might consider it scandalous.” Not something Miss Hilversham would have said, ever. Well. There it was.
“You fascinate me,” he drawled.
Anna felt like rubbing her neck and refrained from meeting his eyes. She finished her wine and then wished she hadn’t because alcohol always made her tired. Before she could say something, he refilled her glass. She looked intently into the burgundy-red liquid, so like blood. And then, because the alcohol gave her courage, she said, quite unexpectedly:
“My turn to ask questions.”
Once more an amused smile tugged at his lips. He had quite nice lips, Anna noted. Not that it mattered, for she had no business noting St John’s lips, and whether they were nice, or otherwise.
“Please.”
She drew in a big breath. “Are you usually in the habit of chopping off people’s fingers and toes and eyes and brains and pickling them in preserving jars?”
Chapter 8
