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“As I hear it, you’ve rather a lot of experience dealing with unprincipled, arrogant knaves,” she added sweetly.

When he straightened, the barest hint of a smile touched his lips. “I do indeed.”

“I was just on my way back to my office, if you’d care to come along.”

“Of course,” he murmured, extending a hand for her to lead the way.

The men flanked her on either side as she walked toward her office, pausing with her as she stopped to coil a rope, and again as she inspected a newly finished joist.

Back in her office, Gwen retreated behind her desk while Mr Anson folded neatly into the chair opposite her. He held himself perfectly still, save a single finger, fluttering against the back of his folded hands. Across the room, Harry retreated to his own desk and began slicing an apple. Apparently, she was not the only one who’d skipped lunch.

“Have you obtained lodgings?” Gwen tore her gaze away from the apple and hoped her stomach didn’t growl. “I don’t know if Harry mentioned it, but the company owns a boarding house adjacent to the yard. We offer dormitory-style suites or, if you prefer more private accommodations, there are two individual chambers available. Mrs Peffley, who keeps the house, will be happy to show you about, should you wish it.” Gwen paused when she heard her stomach protest its emptiness and cleared her throat in the fruitless attempt to cover up the sound. “There are other options in town, mind. The Wandering Gull is clean and respectable.”

Mr Anson’s mouth curved into a smile, still self-contained, but it softened the otherwise angular lines of his face. He had a nice face, she supposed. His eyes, an unremarkable brown, were made more interesting by their curious, almost shrewd alertness.

“Thank you. But I am certain the boarding house will prove entirely satisfactory.”

She doubted it. The overly complicated knot of his cravat suggested he traveled with a valet, which in turn suggested he was accustomed to other luxuries—like the timely arrival of morning chocolate and a freshly ironed morning paper. Yet there was nothing especially soft or pampered in his demeanour, so perhaps she was being unfair.

On the contrary, he struck Gwen as a deeply competent man: industrious and disciplined. She couldn’t say precisely how she’d arrived at that conclusion. Something in the way his gaze swept the yard as they walked—eagerly assessing, cataloging every detail as if a single missed observation might prove detrimental to his work.

Even now, seated in the relative comfort of her office, he seemed to press against the limits of his enforced stillness, as though every moment of inaction chafed just a little too much to be ignored. Oh, he wore patience with commendable skill; she might even have been convinced of his ease were it not for that single tapping finger, which could not, it seemed, be wholly governed. Honestly, she was not at all certain what to make of him, of that curious discord between his refined exterior and the energy straining just beneath it. And while she was sizing him up, it seemed he was busy doing the same. When their eyes met, he chuckled, a soft, low sound that, for some inexplicable reason, reminded her of warm scarves on the first cold day of winter. She decided then and there that she liked that laugh, even if the sound of it did, quite irrationally, bring heat to her cheeks. Certainly, it was well within her rights to show some level of curiosity about a man she was hiring. She countered her discomfort at being caught out by putting an extra layer of starch into her voice.

“Is something humourous, Mr Anson?”

His chestnut eyes all but danced with merriment. “Come now, Mrs Bevans, you don’t strike me as the sort of person to play at misunderstanding.”

Gwen clung doggedly to that expression of complete bewilderment.

He arched a brow and held it there, granting her an opportunity to amend her claim. When she did not, his mouth twitched. “Nothing at all. It’s just an unexpected pleasure to find myself seated across from a woman whose reliance upon intuition rivals my own.” He lowered his chin. “You were attempting to make out my character just now, were you not, Mrs Bevans?”

Harry, whom she’d all but forgotten, looked up then, and they both briefly shifted their attention in his direction.

Her stomach growled, adding an extra layer of awkwardness to the moment, unmistakably this time.

“Might we break for a light repast?” Anson asked casually, though the quick flick of his gaze toward her stomach rather undermined the attempt at discretion.

“No. I haven’t the time.”

“Of course you have. You are seated here at present, with nothing whatsoever to prevent the occasional chewing and swallowing of food.”

She pressed her lips together. “In anticipation of not having the time, I’ve neglected to pack anything to eat.”

And there was that smile again.

“That is most convenient, madam, as I, too, find myself hungry and without the benefit of having prepared ahead. Perhaps we might continue our silent assessment of one another over a pasty. You mentioned an inn, The Wandering Gull, was it?”

She shuffled a bill of sale from one stack to another. “Not possible, I’m afraid. I have roughly six hours of work to complete in the remaining three.”

“Come now, Mrs Bevans, everyone works better on a full stomach. Surely you can resume your work tomorrow; it can’t be as pressing as all that, and you have me to assist you now.” Reaching onto her desk, he flipped the topmost piece of paper in his direction and began to leisurely peruse the invoice. “I’m brilliant at paperwork.” She tugged it from beneath his fingers, meeting his unrepentant gaze. Almost instantly she felt her resistance begin to crumble. “Oh, very well. Let me just straighten up.”

His expression shifted into one of such obvious satisfaction that the sight of it sent a fizz of ticklish warmth through her belly. She was thankful for the excuse to busy herself with tidying.

“Will you join us, Harry?”

“No. I’ve nearly finished up here and should get back to the yard.” But he didn’t move. He waited, giving Gwen the opportunity to press for his company if she truly wanted it. When she offered only a small nod, he pushed back his chair and stood, inclining his head to Mr Anson before leaving.

Gwen retrieved her coat, but before they could take their leave, Lewis cracked the door and peeked his head around, streaks of sawdust still clinging to his sleeves from the morning’s battle over the salvaged tree. His eyes flicked briefly between her and Mr Anson.