Perry grinned through trembling lips. Nor would she, if she could help it.
“No? In for a penny, in for a pound.” She took a breath and another fragrance came to her, the scent of her mother’s preserved rooms at Cransdall. Her father had not bothered looking for a new countess to occupy them, thank God.
“It’s spotless. They must have a girl come up from the village to clean,” Jenny whispered and pointed. “Except for the mess over there.”
Empty dishes and a glass rested on a pretty oval table. Nearby, a dark shawl, much like the ones her mother had favored, draped over the back of a sofa.
Perry stood taller. “The house is not let. No one should be here but me. I have a right.”
“But no key, miss?” Jenny arched a brow.
The sound of a footstep drew their gaze to the drawing room door. A man stood in the shadow, tall, with dark hair longer than what was fashionable. Dim light caught the white of his linens. He was naked of coats.
The clacking in her chest beat all the way to her ears. Inside her pocket was a pistol, not primed, not cocked, and no doubt far too wet to fire.
He stepped through the door, into the gray light from the windows, and her heart all but stopped.
Fox was here. Fox, the artist. Fox, the scoundrel. Fox, the thief.
