Anthony bounced the boy playfully before he handed him back to her. “I’ll leave you to it, then, but one of us will have an eye on this chamber door, and the other will be watching the grounds.”
His gaze locked with hers, intentionally, if not flirtatiously. The blueness of his eyes jolted her as they had when she was young, and that giddy, girlish feeling flared unexpectedly. And for the first time since returning to Hollythorne House, she did not want to squelch it. In fact, she could not deny it: She wanted him to stay. She yearned for it.
But as he turned toward the door and exited the room, she reminded herself of all that was at stake and the seriousness of the threat they’d received. It would not do to take her eyes off her goal now. Her heart and personal desires should be the least of her concerns. Right now, Henry’s safety was all that mattered. There might be time to allow her mind to engage in dreams at a later date, but for now she had to remain steadfast.
* * *
Anthony would have to face the situation sooner or later.
Theoretically, he owed Timmons no explanation, but they’d experienced the worst aspects of humanity together—war. Injury. Crime. What was more, they trusted each other. Therefore, the respect between them required Anthony to address what Timmons had witnessed. So with a lantern in hand, Anthony sought Timmons out as the man sat on his horse at the perimeter.
Even in the darkness Timmons’s expression was sober. Any trace of his good-natured humor had fled. Anthony was not entirely surprised, for his friend had been displaying a somber countenance as of late. Only this time, his censure and disapproval were leveled at Anthony.
Timmons slid from his horse’s back and spoke first. “That was a rather interestin’ sight to walk into t’ stable and see. My friend, a confirmed bachelor, wooin’ a woman. And not just any woman but our very recently widowed client.”
Initially Anthony said nothing in response and fell into step next to Timmons as they walked toward the stable. He’d learned a long time ago that it was best to gather all the facts and find out what the suspect knew before speaking, because many times people wanted to say their piece. He suspected that, in this instance, Timmons was no different.
After several moments Timmons scoffed and stopped abruptly, turning to face Anthony directly. “T’ oddest thing ’appened earlier, before I sought ye in t’ stables. Mrs. Prior was lookin’ for ye, and she called ye Anthony. No one ever calls ye that. Now, why would a well-bred woman such as Mrs. Prior address ye as such? Normally, I’d figure it a mistake. A slip of t’ tongue or t’ like. Then I started to put things together. Ye used to live ’ere. Her family’s owned this property for who knows ’ow long.”
Anthony looked past Timmons into the murky night, taking in his friend’s argument and wishing he didn’t have to respond.
Timmons tilted his head to the side. “’Tis funny, ’ow friendships go. We’ve seen each other on our deathbeds. We’ve chased criminals and fought side by side. I know what brandy ye take and what weapons ye prefer, but at t’ end of t’ day, I know nothin’ about ye. Not really.”
Anthony inhaled the moor’s mossy scent as he considered his options. Timmons had put the pieces together, and Anthony was faced with a decision: He could deny it. Or he could tell the truth.
“I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’ ’tis none o’ me business. But ye made it me business when ye brought your secrets into an assignment that we’re workin’ on together, makin’ me the fool.”
Timmons adjusted his stance, leaned closer, and lowered his voice. “I see you’re goin’ to be quiet on the matter, so I’ll tell ye what I think. Ye know this family and did long before we came out ’ere. Ye know ’er.”
Anthony considered each word carefully. “Yes, I know Charlotte Prior, only I knew her as Charlotte Grey. And I knew her very well.”
Timmons muttered a slew of curses as he resumed lumbering toward the outbuildings. “Does Walstead know?”
“No one knows. Except now you, of course.”
Timmons stopped again, suddenly, and pivoted to face Anthony, an incredulous expression beclouding his features. “Ye lied to Mr. Walstead?”
Anthony nodded. “At the time it didn’t seem important.”
Timmons’s sudden sarcastic laughter bellowed. “Mr. Walstead will find out. And when ’e does, ’e’ll assume I knew, too, and did not tell ’im.”
“He won’t find out.”
“Why?” Timmons flung his hand out in frustration. “Because ye excel at concealin’ truths? If ye believe that, then I suggest ye and Mrs. Prior avoid whisperin’ alone in darkened stables and avoid referrin’ to each other by Christian names.”
Anthony had no response. He had been caught in his deception.
Timmons propped his elbow on the horse’s back and paused for several seconds before fixing his eyes on Anthony. “Ye really didn’t think to tell me?”
Anthony adjusted his stance. “I didn’t want to put you in a situation where you had to lie to Mr. Walstead.”
“Ye think me a fool then? That I wouldn’t notice?”
“No. Quite the opposite.”
“Ye an’ Mrs. Prior are playin’ a dangerous game. Your omission of t’ truth is a lie to Mr. Walstead, whether ye choose t’ think so or not.” The cynicism in Timmons’s voice reverberated. “My advice? Tell Walstead. Ask for reassignment. No good can come of this little arrangement of yours. Don’t ruin this—for either of us.”
Chapter 29
Charlotte hesitated outside of the Gold Room.
As mistress of Hollythorne House, no area of the property was forbidden to her, including this room that had been her mother’s private chamber, yet Charlotte paused before crossing its threshold. As she stood there with Henry in her arms, she could hear her father’s words echoing in her mind.
“Stay out and leave it as is. There is nothing you need in here.”
Even now that she was an adult, the words stayed with her.
As an adolescent Charlotte would sneak in here when her father was away and admire the round gowns in the wardrobe and try on her mother’s dancing slippers. When she had turned eighteen, her father permitted her to select some of her mother’s jewelry, but other than that, the space had always been treated as a shrine. Now it felt like a distorted glimpse into her memory.
With Henry on her hip she stepped farther into the room. Everything was as she remembered—from the gold curtains on the heavy mahogany bed to the embroidered shawl strewn on the back of the settee. She stepped to the windows and pulled back the thick curtains of ochre brocade. The white afternoon light flooded the sparse space, giving new life to the room and illuminating the dust motes hovering in the stale air.
The Gold Room was on Hollythorne’s northwest corner. Instead of looking out over the front courtyard and main road as her bedchamber did, this one overlooked her mother’s beloved garden and the moorland beyond. She dropped the curtain from her fingertips and pivoted to assess the chamber with a fresh eye.
Haphazardly shelved tomes lined the mantel shelf, and a thick layer of dust covered the mahogany dressing table. She lifted a gilded hand mirror on it and turned it to gaze at her reflection. Henry reached out, and she smiled as he grabbed hold of it and giggled and babbled at the likeness that met him there.