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Mrs. Barrow laughs too, a light, bell-like sound that doesn’t match my notion of housekeepers, and looks at me pointedly. “I know I’m quite impertinent—the Allens always tell me so, but bless their hearts, they still keep me on. I don’t mistake that Mr. Quinten has always been sweet on you.”

“Mrs. Barrow, please…” I have to laugh as I glance back down the stairs. We’re far enough from the drawing room that I don’t think anyone will hear, but what if Kitty or Florence or any of them choose to follow for some reason?

Mrs. Barrow snorts and hurries past the mirrors too fast for my liking. I wouldn’t have minded lingering and letting the outspoken housekeeper gossip about what she knows. She couldn’t have known the real reason Quint bought them, but buying so many mirrors to add to a collection is something any servant would note.

“Miss Catherine won’t have me in England with them, so I’ve no love lost there, dear,” Mrs. Barrow says, stopping in front of the room I stayed in the last time I was at the Allen home and opening the door to allow me to walk in. It hasn’t changed much since my last stay, with the wood-framed bed and the layers of floor-to-ceiling sheer curtains draped around the window. The mirrored closet doors are a new addition, as is the damask-patterned wallpaper.

“I’m quite surprised Miss Catherine comes here at all,” Mrs. Barrow huffs, going on as I take stock of the room. “As much as she looks down on anything American, poor Mrs. Allen.”

“You must be joking.” I turn from my perusal of the vanity table that matches the bed across the room to stare at the housekeeper with surprise. “How does Quint stand that?” He was always as devoted to his mother as his father was to her.

“Oh, Miss Catherine is cleverer than that,” the housekeeper says darkly.

“Funny, I thought Quint was clever too,” I mull and then clap my mouth shut. “Well, we’re quite a pair, for I’m impertinent too. Quint must have said so, and you’re only remembering the nice things.” What has he said about me?

I have always known you had your own mind.

The words strike me, as does remembering Quint’s face when he said them, the familiarity and the adoration. I look down at the bed to hide my emotions.

Mrs. Barrow gives a laugh, her good mood returning. “I don’t think so, Miss Mitchell.” I look back up at her in time to catch her casting me a knowing look that I pretend not to understand. “Well, Mr. Quinten has seen Miss Catherine every summer since he was a baby, and he should wonder at all the time it’s taken him to decide to marry her.” Mrs. Barrow nods decisively.

I like Mrs. Barrow, so I grin, despite the prick to my conscience at my part in that long-awaited decision. “You’ve been with the Allens a long time, then?”

“Oh, dear, yes. Since Quinten was born. I worked as a maid before I married Mr. Barrow, but then he died in the Great War, and I was very glad when Mr. Allen asked me to come keep house here. No one else would hire a mouth like mine—none except Quinten and his sweet mother and father.” Mrs. Barrow’s eyes twinkle with undisguised affection.

“He’s one in a million,” I agree, letting wistfulness seep into my tone. Mrs. Barrow casts me a sympathetic smile, and I turn away, embarrassed. I sit on the settee at the end of the bed to take off my shoes. They’re brown oxford pumps with an adorable bow on the top—masterful recreations procured by Agent Willis—and I’m going to make extra sure they come home with me so I can keep them. “Quint and Ben will want to talk to me when the others leave, and I don’t mind someone fetching me,” I say, letting my toes sink into the thick white rug that the bed and settee are on. I welcome some time to mentally prepare myself for facing the man I hadn’t expected to see this time around.

“Of course, Miss Mitchell. Is there anything else?” Mrs. Barrow asks.

“No. I’d just like to lie down for a while.” I move toward the bed, thinking I’d actually like to curl up for a while. Sighing, I sink onto the bed. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to prevent overwhelming tears from escaping. I can’t go down to the men red-eyed. Ben will know exactly why, and poor Quint doesn’t need my choices torturing him any longer. I bury my face in the pillows and take as many breaths as I need to calm the knot in my chest.

Heaven help me, he’s twice as irresistible now, ten years older. I growl into the pillow. Why does he have to make this so hard—showing up in his own home when he’s supposed to be in England?

I shove all thoughts of the possibility of kissing Quint Allen and letting my fingers run over that rugged stubble from my mind and focus on a meditation technique of visualizing myself walking the grounds—alone—instead.

My mind betrays me, however, because the second I fall asleep, Quint joins me in my dreams.

Chapter Twenty

A maid wakes me an hour later to let me know the other guests have left and that Ben and Quint wonder if I’m well enough to come down. Actually falling asleep has ruined the barely-passable-in-the-first-place hairstyle I’d concocted before stepping through the mirror. So, I take out all the pins, brush through the kinks and curls, and leave it falling down over my shoulders.

The library is just as I remember, with much of the furniture still the same. Like the comfortable couches Quint and Ben are sitting on at the far end of the room. My gaze strays to the shelf with the family photograph albums, but I avert it quickly.

Quint stands when I enter, his eyes lingering on me for what seems like a long time before he blinks and looks away. Ben stands reluctantly and drops into his seat almost as soon as he leaves it.

“Good evening, Miss Granville. Did you have a chance to rest?” Quint asks.

I hate the stilted, formal way he’s talking to me. “Yes, thank you.” I slip into a seat on the couch and look between the two men. I stop on Ben. He doesn’t meet my eye. “Have you brought him up to speed?” I ask.

Ben shakes his head. “Quint’s guests only just left.”

“Left?” I glance at Quint. “Kitty and her sister aren’t staying here?”

“They prefer hotel accommodations to being under Mrs. Barrow’s care.” Quint smirks, and the return of that mischievous look he’d worn so often in my company before almost makes me faint.

“I see,” I say in a breathy voice, then clear my throat.

Ben stands, moving to lean on the table next to Quint. He pulls a picture of Gibbons from the pocket of his jacket. “Remember him?” Ben asks, handing it to Quint. “The man we were here ten years ago to catch, Simon Gibbons.”