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“Just promise me that you won’t go to any more coffeehouses.”
“I can promise that.”
Mrs. Foster grinned. “Off with you, then.”
Madalene exited her townhouse and stepped into the waiting coach. It wasn’t long before they arrived at the gate in front of Hawthorne House. After her driver spoke to a guard, they were admitted entrance into the courtyard.
As Madalene exited the coach, she took a moment to admire the enormous townhouse before approaching the main door, which was promptly opened.
The butler greeted her with a kind smile. “Good morning, Miss Dowding,” he said, stepping aside to allow her entry. “It is good to see you again.”
“Likewise, Pratt.”
Pratt closed the door. “Lady Jane has been expecting you,” he revealed. “I shall inform her that you have arrived.”
“Wonderful,” Madalene replied. “I shall wait for her here.”
Pratt tipped his head in acknowledgement before heading towards the stairs. Madalene turned and started admiring the paintings and tapestries that hung on the wall. She had always been fascinated with all the works of art that Hawthorne had amassed.
She was so enamored with the paintings that she failed to hear someone approach. In the next moment, she felt someone grab her arm and could feel the warmth of his breath on her ear as he asked, “What do you think you are doing here?”
Madalene turned her head and her heart dropped. It was that horrid man from the coffeehouse. Realizing that she needed to take control of the situation, she yanked back her arm and turned around to face him.
“I have every right to be here.”
His eyes narrowed. “Did you follow me here?”
“Why would I do that?” she asked in an exasperated voice.
“Coming here was a huge mistake for you.”
“And why is that?”
The man placed his hand on the wall behind her and leaned in, his words low. “How did you find me?”
“Trust me, I wasn’t looking for you,” she replied, attempting to appear unaffected by his nearness. There was a gleam in his eyes that she knew she should find terrifying, but instead she found herself intrigued.
“Who sent you?” he demanded.
She cocked her head. “Why would anyone send me to find you?”
“You may play coy—”
Speaking over him, she said, “I am not playing coy with you. Frankly, I want this conversation to be over with.”
“Not until you answer my questions.”
“Are you always this insufferable?”
A smirk came to his lips, but it held no humor. “You have no idea who you are dealing with.”
“That may be true, but I still find you to be irksome,” she said.
Slowly, methodically, his intense eyes roamed over her face. “Why are you here?” he asked. “Do you have a message for me?”
“I am not here for you nor would I ever have a message for you.”
A huff passed his lips. “I grow tired of this game.”
