Page 75 of A Modest Independence

Jenny looked both intrigued and appalled. “You never let on that you knew anything about the man, let alone his father. I thought he was a stranger to you.”

“I recognized him in Marseilles.” Tom gave her a fleeting, dry smile. “I told you I had a long memory.”

She didn’t appear to be amused. “But you were so civil to him. You even played cards with him of an evening.”

“Why not? I had no dispute with him then.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is there anyone else in our party you recognize? The distant cousin of a murderer or the grand-nephew of a horse thief?”

“A few of the surnames are familiar to me. Then again, they’re common enough. Those that bear them likely have no connection to anything untoward.”

“Which names? Not Mrs. Plank, surely? Or any of the others we met in Marseilles?”

“You can’t truly expect me to answer that.”

Her lips compressed. “You keep far too many secrets.”

“A consequence of my profession.” He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a brief kiss to her palm. “And of my character, I’m afraid.”

“I would have you share some of them with me.”

“You know I—”

She forestalled his objection. “Not the ones about your clients. Only the secrets about yourself.”

“Only? Good lord, Jenny, we haven’t the time. We’d miss dinner. And believe me when I say that my secrets are not worth going hungry over.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Tom set her hand to his cheek, just as he’d done on the train to Cairo. Her fingers curved against him, cradling his face with a tenderness that made his pulse stutter.

In that perfect moment, he’d have given her the moon if she asked for it.

“Very well,” he said. “What would you like to know?”

“To start?” Jenny shifted her hand to brush the tip of her finger over the bridge of his nose. “I want you to tell me how this happened.”

“Ah.” He wasn’t entirely surprised by her request. Nevertheless, it sent a stab of ice through his vitals. “Is that all?”

“You wouldn’t confess it when we were on the Valetta.”

“There’s nothing to confess. It wasn’t a crime. It’s merely an old tale, hardly worth the telling.”

“Don’t you trust me, Tom?”

“As much as I trust anyone.”

She frowned. “That’s not very comforting.”

“Is it so important to you how a boy of twelve had his nose broken?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I can’t fathom why.”

“Because I’m too curious for my own good. A dreadful failing, I admit.” Her fingers were soft on his cheek, a slow caress. “And because I care for you, Tom Finchley, most awfully.”

His throat bobbed on a swallow.