“Did you just call me a liar?” His laugh was low, edged with something sharp. “It is rare that I receive such an insult to my face.”
“Do you prefer insults uttered behind your back?” she asked.
“I prefer not to be insulted at all.” He stepped closer. She did not retreat. The space between them crackled like the air before a storm. “I was impressed with the most recent volume of the catalogue of your father’s collection and notes that accompanied it, Miss Barrett.”
“The catalogue…? How did you come to see it?” Had Papa shown him the catalogue when he had called here? That made no sense, given that Papa had chased him off like a crow. “The catalogue was not my father’s work. It was?—”
“Yours,” he finished for her. “Which brings me to the reason for my visit. I make you the same offer I made your father…lodging, salary, work cataloguing my collection and repairing the state of my library. A state that is sorry, indeed. I believe Mr. Christopher outlined the terms of employment in his note. They are generous.”
“They are, but that does not allay my concerns.” Her thoughts spun. Papa had turned down this offer. He had warned her away from this man. She had no reason to trust him and every reason not to.
“I suspect it is not the work that unsettles you,” he said, voice low. “It is me.”
Her heart thudded. She made no reply, her silence answer enough.
“Accept the position,” he said. Not a request. A declaration, softly spoken and inarguable.
A feeling of foreboding settled over her. His offer felt both sincere and forced, the situation contrived, though she could discern no reason for such subterfuge. But then, that would be his intent, would it not? To keep her oblivious and unaware of his purpose?
“I think it is time for you to leave, Mr. Caradoc.”
The moment stretched as he watched her with those too-pretty eyes, and then he said, “As you wish, Miss Barrett.”
She led him back to the entry and opened the door.
He paused. “Take this. It is a ticket for the train to Maidenhead. I will arrange for a post-chaise to convey you from there to The Crown in Marlow. My carriage will meet you in the square.” He held out a train ticket. A single slip of paper, innocuous and yet…not. “The ticket is for four weeks from Monday. That gives you time to decide.”
She looked down at the ticket, then back to his face. His expression was unreadable.
When he spoke again, his voice was low and measured, each syllable carefully placed. “You will be paid well to carry out a task you enjoy. You will spend your days with books.”
The proposition felt too neat, too perfect. Books. Shelter. Safety. A quiet refuge where the voices might be softer, the wraiths less insistent. He dangled sanctuary. They both knew it.
The picture he painted ought to have felt harmless. Appealing. But it made something tight and cold prickle across her skin. Curiosity. Dread. Apprehension.
Intrigue.
She inhaled deeply. “You maneuver. You withhold. You hide behind civility. I cannot trust a man who is not honest.”
His mouth shaped a feral smile, white teeth and sharp danger.
“I make no claim to be kind or good…or even civil. But my offer is honest enough and exactly as outlined.” He took a step toward her. The shadows lengthened across his face, leaving his eyes gleaming like shards of glass. “Come to Harrowgate Manor, Miss Barrett.”
Neither of them moved. He held her gaze and she felt as if he looked deep inside her, seeing secrets she had no wish to share.
Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. His presence surrounded her, not with touch, but with some unseen current that hung in the air, sparking like a storm.
She did not trust him. But for reasons she was not ready to name, she did not refuse him outright. Her hand lifted of its own accord. She took the ticket, her fingers trembling as they brushed against his. The brief contact sent a jolt up her arm, a cold spark jumping under her skin.
“I make no promise that I will come,” she said, her voice more composed than she felt. Something twisted in her belly…fear or anticipation, she could not tell.
“But you will consider it.” His voice was a snare, rich and dark, curling around her like silk.
She stood in silence as he stepped out onto the stoop. And then she shut the door behind him, train ticket in hand, her heart pounding a harsh rhythm in her chest.
The following afternoon, Isabella answered the door to find Mr. Christopher standing on the stoop holding a large basket covered in a checkered cloth. She was expecting him as he had sent a note earlier to apprise her of his visit.
After they exchanged greetings, he held out the basket toward her. The end of a loaf of bread protruded from beneath the cloth.
