He turned and stomped toward the house. “This way, then.”
Gwendolyn and Jackson stepped into pace with one another side by side.
“He’s…charming,” she said.
“He’s brilliant. At least my father thought so.”
“Let us be direct and be done with him.”
“That is no way to get the information we want, Gweny.” Briefly, he curled his fingers into her palm. Two layers of gloves separated them, but still he felt her. He heard her too, her gasp of an inhale tightening his gut. “We must see if he can be trusted first. Then we must learn if he has any knowledge of the manuscript. Then we must poke quite carefully to discern if he’s willing to share such knowledge with us.”
She sniffed. “It’syour father’sbook.”
“Scholars can be odd. You know that. They may care nothing for a book except for a single idea contained inside, and if they think that idea is theirs, they’ll—”
“Knife a fellow for trying to claim it’s otherwise.”
“Precisely.”
They followed Mr. Stewart into the cottage and into a small parlor cluttered with books.
“My,” Gwendolyn breathed.
“See something you like?” Mr. Stewart asked, a glitter in his eye and a smirk on his lips.
Did the man want Jackson’s fist in his nose?
“I see,” Gwendolyn said, “that you are in desperate need of an organization system. Your books have… exploded.”
He shrugged and dropped into a dusty armchair and studied her as if she were a rare text he intended to figure out. He tilted his head, eyes narrow, and let his gaze trail over her face, her body, a moment too long.
Jackson cleared his throat.
Mr. Stewart still did not look away. “Where are you from, Miss Smith?”
She blinked, ducked her head, licked her lips, every movement slow and steady as if to buy time to think through her answer. “I have been, lately, a citizen of the world.”
He nodded, ripped his gaze away, and turned to Jackson. “Why are you here? Can’t send a note ’round first, Cavendish? Your father always did. That man knew that minds in thought shouldn’t be disturbed.”
By Jove, they’d discovered a “true scholar.”
Gwendolyn groaned but cut it off short. She looked at Jackson from the corner of her eye and raised her brows, a look he knew the meaning of well—not one ofthose.
“Yes, Miss Smith,” Jackson said, “one of those.”
“Pardon?” Mr. Stewart barked.
Jackson stepped over a pile of books and reached out to move another from the seat of the only other chair in the room.
“Don’t touch those!”
Jackson lurched back. “Apologies. I assume you have a… system.”
Mr. Stewart nodded.
“My system is superior,” Gwendolyn said. “You should let me—”
“No,” Mr. Stewart barked. “Here I was, thinking I’d discovered a lovely young thing, but you’re as ignorant as the rest, aren’t you?”
