“No,” Neil hurriedly replied.“I just… wasn’t certain that he was here.”
His throat was dry.Borthwick was still studying him.The silent weight of his attention was a vise compelling Neil to keep talking.
Neil was certain that if he did, he was going to blow the game.All Borthwick had to do was continue giving him that waiting, expectant look, and Neil would spill it all.
He grasped for something he could say instead—something other thanI am trying to steal your manuscript.
“The man’s an idiot,” he burst out.
Dark amusement flashed through Borthwick’s pale eyes.“That aligns with my own assessment.”
Relief washed over Neil.He forced a stretched, awkward smile before bowing back over the manuscript, copying out another line of the Brahmi.
How many people could actually read Brahmi?
Certainly not Dawson.
And then Neil’s overtaxed brain finally spat out another obvious and deeply unsettling deduction.
If Borthwick knew Dawson, that meant that Dawson washere.
And Dawson would certainly know that Neil was not Dr.Bartholomew Culpepper.
Neil forced himself to keep writing.It gave him a reason to avoid meeting Borthwick’s eyes.“Is the professor here, then?”
“No,” Borthwick scoffed.
Neil felt a rush of relief.
“He’s at the club,” Borthwick elaborated—and Neil’s relief evaporated.
Constance shot him another warning glare.
Neil shut his mouth.Clearly Vedic, he scribbled between another pair of lines on his transcription.City… treasure… army…
He hoped the sound of his pen scratching against the paper sounded convincingly scholarly.
The bust of Clive by the window seemed to eye him with disdain for his awful performance.
Borthwick moved to the bookshelf.Sweat ran down the back of Neil’s neck, tracing along his spine.Why wouldn’t the man bloody leave?
“I’m afraid this sort of work does require time.”
Borthwick adjusted the line of the meaningless volumes on the shelf, leaving them a bit straighter than they were before.“Take as long as you need.”
Neil risked a more direct look at Constance.She continued to be ignored by both Borthwick and his constable—just another servant lingering in the corner.
Her hand drifted to her pocket… where Neil knew she had hidden at least one of her daggers.
He shook his head urgently.
Constance frowned at him.
He frantically wrote out another line of the script.He had nearly reached the end of the Brahmi text—which begged the question of what he would do then.Go back and start over at the beginning?
The constable lingered just outside the door, looking bored.
Neil’s nerves jarred at the soft scuff of Borthwick’s boot on the floor.
