“Mrs. Dart.”
“Oh, good afternoon, Drew.” She spoke without looking around. “Must you bellow like that?”
“You heard me?”
“They heard you in London.”
“Why didn’t you come if you heard me?” He stopped beside her, staring at her profile.
“Because we agreed to call each other by our given names,Drew, and you were bellowing?—”
“Mrs. Dart.”
“Precisely.”
“It sounds better when bellowed thanAmeliadoes.Amelia… dances.Mrs. Dartis like an arrow sailing toward its target.” The corner of her mouth twitched up, but still, she did not look at him. “Amelia.” Yes, the name danced. He cleared his throat, knocking away the rhythm of a waltz at his pulse. “Would you please join me downstairs? I’ve something to show you.”
She took a deep breath and finally looked at him. Her black eyes held mischief. So odd to see in their usually martial depths. But… fitting as well.
“I’d be glad to.” She strode off with clipped steps.
When he joined her, he asked, “Do you know who the fellow in the painting is? The one you were studying?”
“My grandfather.”
That brought Drew up short, and he looked over his shoulder. The man in the painting was entirely bald. He wore a thick, luxurious, white mustache, and looked a bit mischievous himself. He dressed as a country farmer in a brown suit at least a decade older than when the likeness had been painted.
“Do you miss him?” Drew asked.
“Tut-tut. I’ll answer no questions since you refused to answer mine.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then I’ll refresh your memory. I asked you why you opened your agency. You refused to answer. A simple question, and one which?—”
“I’ve been busy. Too busy for questions the answers to which do not matter.”
“I’m aware.” She heaved a sigh. “Disappeared every morning before I wake up. I see you only at dinner. Our list is languishing. I do love lawn bowls.”
“We don’t need a list.” He bounced down the stairs, and she followed at a more sedate pace. “I’ve something better for thetwo of us.” He led her to the downstairs study he’d taken over and opened the doors, ushered her inside.
She stopped in the doorway. “What have youdone?”
“It’s perfect, is it not? Almost everything just the same. I could not make perfect matches or even close matches in some cases with the upholstery, but that does not matter so much. Fabric is fabric is fabric.”
“Unless it’s pink?” She arched an eyebrow, a cutting gesture meant just for him, then walked slowly into the room, turning in circles. “You’ve arranged it exactly like your study in Manchester.”
“Yes, so we can do what we do best in an optimal environment.”
She cast him a weary glance. “And what is it we do best?”
“Work.”
She groaned and turned to leave.
“Wait, A-mel-i-a.” He danced out the name and captured her shoulders with his hands, turned her, and marched her back into the room. “Listen to me.” A command she was sensible enough to obey, though her toe tapped beneath her skirts. “Your desk is there. And mine is there, just before the window as it is in my study. There is a shawl across the back of your chair, as there always is in Manchester. And your ink well is on the left while mine is on the right, both as they should be. You’ll find paper in the drawer you always keep it in, and you’ll find the chair is similar in style and comfort to the one you prefer at the agency. Everything is in order for us to get to work.”
“But the point of this entire trip is tonotwork.”
