Page 37 of Who’s That Earl

His eyes shifted to take in the rest of the room, and all it represented. “This was not a decision I ever thought to be asked to make. What I have been, and what I am now expected to become, seem to me to be at odds.”

“More like two sides of the same coin,” she corrected gently. “Both cannot be uppermost at once, of course, unless you intend to stay balanced forever on the thinnest edge—a precarious position, to be sure. But a man with your history, your education, your experience seems to me to be precisely what Dunnock requires.”

“My history,” he scoffed. “Aye, the people hereabouts remember me as a mischievous lad. They willna—”

She, of all people, could speak with confidence on the character of Balisaig’s citizens. “They will. In time.”

His skeptical expression did not budge. “Well, in the meantime, I think I’d best stick to what I do best. Let’s go over the letter. Together.” He thrust it toward her. “Tell me what you notice.”

After the slightest hesitation, she took the paper in a surprisingly steady hand. At first, the jumble of words swam before her eyes. Some sympathetic chord within her echoed his words: I cannot. But he obviously needed a distraction too. So she would do it. For him.

“Here,” she said, jabbing at the paper with her forefinger and holding it out to him again. “This phrase is from the Monthly Review. ‘Stupid and sickly prose’—I remember that. The nicest thing their reviewer said about The Necromancer’s Bride.”

Thomas’s brow darkened as he reread the phrase. “Tasteless hack,” he muttered beneath his breath.

“Yes, I think he might have called me that too,” she agreed with something like a laugh. “Oh, don’t bother being offended on my behalf. The real victory was in infiltrating their hallowed pages at all. Don’t you see? The popularity of my book forced the Monthly Review to acknowledge the existence of gothic novels. It is, perhaps, my favorite review of all.”

With a mixture of amazement and amusement animating his features, Thomas shook his head. “Then we know the person who composed this note reads your reviews.”

“So it would seem. And this bit here, ‘shocking and scandalous, unfit for innocent eyes,’ that’s the Critical Review. Mr. Canfield had to print more copies, the book sold so well after that notice.”

“And the newsprint here?” he asked eagerly, sitting down beside her. “Do you recognize it?”

“I can’t be sure.” Focusing on each individual scrap from which the letter had been constructed was far easier than taking in the whole. Still, Thomas’s proximity—the heat of his body where it almost touched her side as together they held the letter and studied it, the mingled scents of his cologne and the damp wool of his greatcoat and the sweet spice of spilled tea—was itself a powerful lure. “What about these longer strips, the ones that call me a ‘vile procurer doomed to hellfire’ and the like? The paper’s different.”

“From a book, I’d say.” He paused. “Odd. It’s one thing to cut up a ha’penny broadsheet to make his point. But costly quarterlies? Books? Whoever wrote this must be a man of some means.”

“Or a lunatic,” she pointed out. “And why ‘he’? Are you so sure this must have come from a man?”

“No, I can’t be certain,” he reluctantly admitted. “I suppose it’s little consolation to you to know that if it was written by a woman, she’s somewhat less likely to make good on this threat to ‘carve your sinful words into your flesh with a quill.’”

Another laugh shuddered from Jane’s chest. “Oh, a very little consolation, I should say. I myself can never seem to get a quill to stay sharp for more than a page or two. I hope he will at least share his secret.”

At that bit of macabre humor, Thomas’s eyes dropped shut, though a thin smile curved his lips. “I think it’s time we called it a night.” Even when he opened his eyes again, he did not look at her, but at the letter, which he folded carefully and tucked in the breast pocket of his greatcoat. “I’ll make sure everything is locked up tight,” he said, rising, “and that Dougan is on the alert. The dogs—”

“They might better stay with Mrs. Murdoch,” she suggested. “She’s all alone.”

He froze. “And what about you?”

Tonight, she had pushed him to confront his fears. Perhaps it was time for her to confront her own. But what was it she feared?

Wanting him? Needing him?

Or losing him? Again.

She was used to being alone. But tired, so very tired, of being lonely.

She tipped her head slightly, in the way she did when she had a challenge to master. “I want you to stay with me tonight, Thomas.” The invitation itself was only slightly more shocking to her than calling him by his given name. But it would be entirely incorrect for her to call him Mr. Sutherland now, and she had no desire to wound him with the title he so reluctantly bore. “That way, I’m sure to come to no harm.”

Just last night, they had faced one another for the first time in seven years. How much had changed. And how little. The very air between them seemed to crackle.

“Jane.” A whisper. A plea. His gaze darted past her, toward the door to her bedchamber. At last, he gave a curt nod. “All right. I’ll stand watch here in the sitting room. But do me the kindness of leaving a blanket on that godawful sofa,” he said, tugging up the collar of his greatcoat as he turned to leave. “And lock your chamber door.”

The heat of anticipation melted into a cold ball of uncertainty in her stomach as she watched him duck beneath the lintel and disappear. Disappointed, she dropped her gaze to the floor.

In passing, her eyes caught the gleam of firelight over her silk banyan, saw the ink stains on her fingers. In spite of herself, a small smile rose to her lips. No, those had not been the parting words she’d longed to hear from him.

Fortunately, Robin Ratliff knew how to manage a reluctant hero.