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“Hhot,” June corrected, stressing the first letter.

“Hhhhot,” he repeated obediently, looking up from the sand tray.

Their gazes caught, and she saw that his eyes were smiling. It was a peculiar moment, intimate and warm. Perturbed, she realized this man and his quiet ways had sneaked up on her when she hadn’t been paying attention.

But she didn’t let herself smile back at him, only picked up the bowl of egg whites and started whisking again. She was a woman with plans. She was working hard for a future that was difficult enough—and there was no place for someone like him in it.

Chapter Nine

The Fault in Our Stairs

For the rest of the afternoon, John explored Westbrook House on his own. It was in a state of dereliction, to be sure, but the walls appeared straight and the floors level, and the overall design was sound. Judging from the abundance of windows, installed at a time when glass was oppressively taxed, the original owner must have been of considerable means.

The rooms had been furnished with simple pieces from the Georgian era, all straight lines and symmetry, but Spanish antiques had been mixed with the regular décor. Carved and ornamented cabinets, chairs with intricately turned legs and soft leather upholstery, tables inlaid with silver and precious stones. The result was uniquely charming.

At the back of the residence, a set of servants’ stairs, built narrow and steep to avoid taking up room, led from the basement to the attic. When John reached the second floor, his attention was caught by a miniature arched door in the wall. It was no more than ten inches high, too small for any kind of storage purpose. Wondering if it concealed an access valve to a water or gas line, he crouched down for a closer look.

“Cat door,” he heard someone say flatly.

He glanced over his shoulder at the approach of a woman who appeared to be in her thirties. She was lean and clothesline-taut, her balance imperiled with every forward step. A contracted and rotated hip had led to the shortening of one leg, but a built-up shoe compensated sufficiently for her to walk.

John stood and turned to face her. “You must be Enid. I’m Mr. Pembroke, the—”

“I know. You’re the butler.” The housemaid’s face was stiff and unsmiling, as if she were having her photograph taken by one of the old daguerreotype cameras that required a long exposure time. “I heard you giving out orders downstairs.”

With that, she walked away in the manner of someone trying to avoid a pile of horse shit on the pavement.

After three years of working in law enforcement, John was accustomed to being the focus of hostility. But usually he knew the reason for it. He couldn’t fathom what he’d done to offend the woman before they’d even met.

“Cat door, you said?” he asked in a pleasant tone. “How did you know what it was?”

“There were little doors just like that at the dressmaker’s house where I used to work. It let the cats go from room to room when they were chasing mice.”

“You were a seamstress?” he asked conversationally.

Enid grunted for reply, continuing toward the servants’ stairs.

John’s brain suddenly worked out the issue. Stairs. Flights of high, narrow steps—a deadly risk for a woman with a bad hip.

“Enid,” he said, following swiftly.

But before he could reach her, the door to the well of stairs opened and Mad Dog appeared.

Enid stopped in front of the brawny coachman. “What do you want?” she asked coldly.

Mad Dog’s gaze flickered to John before returning to Enid. “Near time for dinner,” he said.

“What of it?” Enid snapped.

“Do you need a lift?”

That seemed to surprise Enid just as much as it did John. Her face went blank. “You came all the way up here to ask if I need help going down the stairs?”

Mad Dog responded with a cautious nod.

“Lawk a’ mercy,” Enid said with a little shake of her head. A tentative smile crossed her lips. “I would like a lift,” she said. “That’s right good of you, Mad Dog.”

“No trouble.”