“Tomorrow isn’t good either,” she told him, her heart thundering in her chest. Why had she mentioned the girl? She could already tell that this man was going to be like a dog with a bone until he got his way. And once he did, once Molly told him that Prometheus was a woman, it wouldn’t be hard for him to connect the dots. “I’m not letting any men near Molly until she’s settled in here. She needs to feel safe and comfortable after what she’s been through.”
He dropped his gaze, seeming to realize that they were talking about a real little girl who had suffered terribly. “Of course,” he muttered. “I’m not trying to antagonize you, Mrs. Bohannan. I just want to get to the bottom of this.”
“Even if I knew who Prometheus was, I wouldn’t tell you!” Giving him one last glare, she spun on her heels and headed back toward the house, her anger mounting at the fact that Morgan Strathmore had inadvertently stymied the night’s rescue mission.
* * *
MORGAN’S FRUSTRATIONgrew as Fiona Bohannan walked away from him, her chin high and her shoulders squared. He’d forgotten what a fierce little thing she was. He’d also forgotten how very lovely she could be, all full of righteous indignation with her green eyes spitting fire and her auburn hair cascading around her slim shoulders.
The very thought seemed disloyal to Anne, but once it had taken hold, he couldn’t shake it. During the time after Anne’s death, when Fiona had taken care of baby Felicity for him, he’d been so full of guilt and anguish that he hadn’t taken much note of the woman. He’d appreciated that she’d been there for his daughter when he’d been unable to do it himself, but he’d seen her as little more than hired help, someone his brothers had arranged to provide a service.
Somewhat chagrined, he faded back into the shadows, staring at the house pensively and noticing when a light came on so very high up that it had to be the attic. Did Fiona sleep in the part of the house that would swelter the most in the summer and freeze in the winter? No one would blame her if she took one of the better rooms for herself. Lord knew she did enough for the place.
He stared down at Prometheus’s mask, which he still held in his hands, and brought it up into a pale sliver of moonlight. It seemed to mock him, the sightless eyes daring him to do something.
Fiona’s words had struck him deeply. He didn’t blame Adrian for hanging up the mask and moving on with his life. However, Fiona was right. So many children still needed rescuing, and if the imposter was actually doing that, then how could he be so selfish as to only think how it might affect his family?
Slipping the mask back on his face, he decided that perhaps instead of trying to unmask the new Prometheus, he should think of how best to give him a hand.
Chapter Three
“Ma’am, there’s a gentlemanhere to see you.”
Fiona looked up from her ledgers to find Bridget, one of the older girls, standing nervously in the doorway of her office.
Bridget stepped closer, lowering her voice, her blue eyes wide with awe. “Arealgentleman, ma’am. Mr. Morgan Strathmore.”
Suppressing a sigh, Fiona sat back in her chair and glanced at herself in the mirror across the room. She looked a mess, tired and disheveled. She pushed a few strands of auburn hair behind her ear, then realized what she was doing and stopped. It wasn’t as though a man like him would be attracted to her, not even if she was fresh from a bath and wearing her finest dress. And, in any event, why should she care what he thought of her? “Send him in.”
Bridget nodded and scurried away, and Fiona tried to control her racing heart. On some level, she’d known he’d call today. He wasn’t the sort of man to make false threats or promises. She wasn’t sure which of those their conversation last night had been, and perhaps that disconcerted her most of all.
Moments later, Bridget returned, Morgan Strathmore in tow. If possible, he looked even more wildly attractive this afternoon than he had last night. He wore a pearl-gray morning suit with a sky-blue cravat, which made his startling azure eyes even more breathtaking. His black hair had been ruthlessly slicked back, but the look on his face was a bit wary and uncertain.
“Good afternoon,” he murmured, after Bridget had left.
She gestured toward the chair that faced her desk, girding herself against the undeniable attraction she felt for him. “I’m not sure why you’ve come,” she said coldly. “I thought we’d said everything that needed to be said last night.”
