“Tolliver, my valet, says the same when I alter our departure by a quarter hour without warning.”
She leaned in, conspiratorial. “He does more than say it. He arranges your boots an inch out of place as revenge.”
Gabriel blinked. “You noticed that.”
“I notice many things. He places the left pair just ahead of the right. I think he believes you will correct them and feel restored to order.”
A low sound escaped him, not a laugh, not a sigh. “I have been managed.”
“Expertly,” she said. “And with affection.”
They fell into an easy quiet. The two women at the center table traded plates. The couple by the hearth leaned closer, heads almost touching. Felix’s cup remained steady in his hand, his posture careful, his attention turned inward. Thomas Wade turned another page, the paper rustling like a small wave.
“Tell me something I do not know about you,” Gabriel said at last. “Something not in any report, not in any drawing room account.”
She considered his question while looking at her hands. “I can tie a bowline with my eyes closed.”
A small lift touched his brows. “You can.”
“My father taught me at the summer races. He said there are knots that hold and knots that look as if they will. One should know the difference before trusting a sail, or a promise.”
Gabriel’s gaze steadied. “Wise advice.”
“You did ask for something you did not know.” She hesitated, added, softer, “When the wind is right, you can hear the bells from the outer harbor from our garden. I used to count them at night and try to make stories from the pattern. If there were three, it meant good fortune. If there were five, a letter would arrive.”
“Did it?”
“Sometimes,” she said, smiling at her own foolishness. “I decided the bells liked to keep their secrets.”
He looked as if he might say something more, but he sat back and studied her, and the look was almost enough by itself.
“Your turn,” she said, to break the intensity before it made speaking difficult. “Tell me something that is not in any report.”
“I cannot abide boiled carrots,” he said.
She blinked, surprised into another laugh. “That is your offering?”
“You asked for truth. I am giving it.” He paused. “Also, when I was twelve, I tried to teach myself the violin. The house still bears the scars.”
“Your uncle allowed that?”
“He was out. The butler did not wish to contradict an Ashcombe.”
“And the violin?”
“Returned to its case,” he said, “where it has done no harm since.”
“A tragedy for music,” she said. “A relief for the staff.”
He tipped his head. “Do you see, Leticia, what you have done? You have coaxed a confession from me.”
“I will be discreet,” she said. “Except when it suits me to tease you.”
This time he did laugh, a quiet, rich sound that startled them both. He looked immediately away, as if the laugh might escape again if not watched. She let the pleasure of it move through her, light as a breeze.
“About the brooch,” he said after a moment, more gently than before. “You recognized the pattern because of the picture in the hall. You said your mother’s brooch is the same.”
“It looks like her.”
