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She should’ve given Simon more time to respond to her message. However, not knowing what was happening was driving her mad. She found this new, impatient version of herself unsettling and blamed it on the reclusive marquess. If he would’ve replied to her request for an update, the visit wouldn’t be necessary.
“This way, miss,” the odd butler said when he returned from seeing if Simon was receiving callers. His gestures were rather dramatic, and she hid a smile as he motioned with a wide-sweeping hand for her to follow him to Simon’s study.
He held open the door for her to pass through, then took a bow as though he’d just completed a performance on stage.
A glance at Simon showed him shaking his head at the servant. “That will be all, Fletcher.”
“Of course, my lord.” The man backed out of the door as if Simon were royalty.
Norah curtsied, then lifted a brow as she continued forward, drawing a deep breath as awareness filled her. She’d missed Simon and the way he made her feel—tingles running along her skin and a knot of passion in the pit of her stomach. “He has interesting mannerisms.”
“I’ve told him that isn’t necessary to no avail. He has a background in the theatre.”
“Ah. That explains it.” She studied Simon as he stood behind his desk, noting he looked rather tired. She hated to think the missing coin was causing him such distress. “I hadn’t received a reply to my message, so thought I’d call to see if you had news.”
He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “I can’t say that I do, though, of course, I’m continuing the search. No additional clues have arisen, which makes progress nearly impossible.”
“How frustrating.” Norah had suspected as much but was still disappointed. She glanced at a chair that now sat before his desk, certain it hadn’t been there her previous visit.
“A recent addition to accommodate the callers I’ve had of late,” Simon said dryly as he gestured to it. “Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you.” She sank into the chair, rather pleased it was there. “I have been thinking of ways to help with the search but thought it best to speak with you first.”
“I would prefer you didn’t do anything,” he said as he sat. “It could be dangerous.”
“Yes, we experienced a bit of that while trying to find my father’s journal. Or rather, Ella did.”
“All the more reason for you not to involve yourself in this.” Simon moved a piece of paper on his desk, the motion catching Norah’s gaze.
She gasped. “What on earth happened?” She rose and leaned close. “Your hands look terrible.” His knuckles were cracked and bruised, the skin raw in places.
He flexed his hand with a frown, apparently annoyed by the injuries. “Nothing serious.”
“They’re bleeding.” She tugged off her gloves and set them aside to take one of his hands in hers, examining it more closely. “That must hurt terribly.”
“A bit tender, though no one’s fault except my own.”
She walked behind him and tugged on the bell pull, then returned to lift his hand again, gently running her fingers over the bruises. “You need to put something on this.”
“It will pass. It always does.”
“What causes it?” She couldn’t imagine why this could be a frequent occurrence.
He gave a one-shouldered shrug as if embarrassed. “A bit of boxing.”
“Boxing? With whom?” Warmth spread through her at the thought of Simon sparring, his lean body shirtless, muscles flexing, skin glistening with perspiration. She shut her eyes tight to dispel the image with little success.
“A bag.”
Her eyes flew open at his answer, trying to process it. “You did this by punching a bag?”
“Yes.” He pulled away his hand, then brushed at the cracks as if that would make them disappear. “Boxing is supposed to provide mental clarity and deeper concentration. It also happens to be hard on one’s knuckles.”
Of course, that would be the reason he would practice the sport. She should’ve guessed. “Perhaps you should wrap your hands or wear some gloves.”
“Miles suggested bare-handed would be best for a time. Toughen up the skin.”
“Miles?”
