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As she continued to eat her dinner, John went back to the sideboard. He stared blindly at the silver tray, trying to gather his wits.

What she’d just given him was impossibly rare: Acceptance. Complete acceptance, without asking him to explain or justify anything about himself. He wouldn’t have to help her decide what category he belonged in. Instead, she would meet him on his own terms.

He was alarmed by his reaction to the unexpected grace of reprieve, the rush of warmth left in its wake. His throat and chest had gone tight.

This woman was going to be trouble for him. Before he’d set foot in Westbrook House, the task before him had seemed simple: Manage the servants and report on Reina Martin’s activities. Now it was clear there would be nothing simple about it.

Coming to understand her wouldn’t be an objective process. He couldn’t do it at a remove, jotting down facts for reports. It would require closeness, communication, artful lies, an eventual betrayal of trust.

And Reina had already endured enough adversity to crush most women. He didn’t want to hurt her.

But his job was to uncover the truth, no matter what it was or how he felt about it. When all was said and done, he would have a position with the Metropolitan Police. His own flat. A decent salary. A chance for someone like him to rise in the world.

Squaring his shoulders, he reached for the wine bottle and a second glass.

Chapter Twelve

The Stroke of Midnight

To Reina’s delight, Pembroke poured wine for himself. Oh, he interested her, this man, with his shrewd gaze and cool reserve, and the air of deference he wore like a borrowed shirt. A paroled prisoner and former footman who quoted Hegel. He had the same world-weary look as the other ticket-of-leave prisoners, as if he’d already seen and done enough for ten lifetimes. But there was something different about him, a steely independence, a sense that he followed his own moral logic. Like a sovereign knight in battered armor.

He turned to face her, a glass in one hand, the other reaching up to loosen his silk tie. His slow, easy smile sent a thrill of awareness through her.

“Let’s sit by the fire,” she suggested.

Pembroke readily followed her to a pair of Chesterfield armchairs positioned in front of the hearth.

Reina had brought the club chairs, along with some other furniture, from the town house on Walters Street. Although it had been many years since Papa had last sat in one of them, Reina thought she could still detect the pungency of his pipe tobacco in the waxed leather. They were low-backed and roomy, upholstered in deeply tufted English hide with brass nailhead trim. The style was so perfectly suited to a clubroom environment, they might have grown from spores shed by Boodle’s or White’s.

Pembroke held up the glass to view the wine’s inky color, then gave it a swirl or two. As he bent his head to draw in the scent, the firelight slid over the layers of his dark hair like liquid. He tasted the wine and leaned back comfortably.

“It’s very good,” he said, flashing a grin that left her a bit lightheaded.

“Rioja Alta,” Reina replied. “That bottle was a gift from a Spanish diplomat whose family has a vineyard in the Sierra Cantabria hills.”

“You move in high circles,” he commented.

“I’m friends with all sorts of people.”

“How did you become an economist?” he asked.

“I came to it in a roundabout way. Originally I wanted to be a lawyer.”

Pembroke made no comment, but his brows lifted slightly.

“Yes, I know,” Reina said. “Women aren’t allowed to practice law. But I thought if I proved beyond a doubt that I was capable, there might be a chance. So I studied and took classes at University College London, sat for examinations, and was granted the LL.B. with first honors.”

“Well done,” he said.

She smiled ruefully. “Thank you. Unfortunately, the Inns of Court refused to admit a woman. As a result, I found myself in the odd position of having a law degree without being a lawyer.”

“I’m sorry to hear of it,” Pembroke said quietly. “I’d have been tamping mad.”

“Oh, I was,” she assured him. “But it turned out to be a stroke of luck.”

“Did it?”

“I took a job as a clerk for a solicitor in Chancery Lane, drawing up contracts, trusts, settlements . . . and I began to understand that despite all the talk of justice and principles, the real engine of law is money.”