Chapter 3 #3
“I mean,” he said, “to make certain they regret choosing you.”
Silence opened between them again, stripped of quarrel and performance. It felt private enough to unsettle him.
Genny looked away first.
“That,” she said lightly, though the lightness trembled at the edges, “was very nearly heroic.”
“I beg you not to say so. I have a reputation for sobriety to maintain, and heroism would wrinkle it.”
“Poor man. It must be exhausting, protecting a reputation from every passing display of humanity.”
“It becomes especially difficult in your company.”
This time when she smiled, it was slower. Warmer. Less defensive.
The sight of it settled somewhere perilously deep.
He drew a breath and stepped back, restoring a more sensible distance between them. “We should return to the drawing room and compare this list to the current subscription book once it is found.”
“When,” she corrected.
He inclined his head. “When.”
They left the sitting room together and started back toward the main hall, carrying between them not only the folded subscription sheet and a handful of new suspicions, but something far less manageable: the dawning and mutually inconvenient realization that working side by side suited them altogether too well.
By the time they reached the foot of the stairs, Harrison had arrived at three conclusions.
First, the theft of Lord Penworth’s ledger was part of a broader design aimed at the Penworth fête and one or more of its principal guests.
Second, Miss Genevieve Moreland was proving altogether more perceptive, useful, and dangerous to his peace of mind than he had previously allowed.
And third, if he wished to solve the first problem with any efficiency, he would need to ignore the second. Entirely, if possible.
It was a perfectly sound plan.
He did not, however, believe in it for a moment.
By the time they reached the main hall again, the house had begun to change around them, subtly at first, the way most shifts did before pretending became impossible.
Servants moved faster and spoke less. A maid with a tray of clean glasses paused at the sight of Harrison, dipped a curtsy, and continued on with the strained concentration of someone who had overheard enough to know there was danger and too little to know its shape.
From the blue salon came Lady Penworth’s brittle laugh, pitched too high.
Somewhere upstairs the pug barked again, as though determined to contribute his share to the disorder.
Genny paused at the foot of the stairs.
Harrison paused with her.
“What now?” he asked.
“I was only thinking that a house is very poor at keeping secrets once the servants know something is wrong.”
“Servants are often better at keeping secrets than their employers.”
“Yes, but they must first be told which secret they are keeping.” She glanced toward the back passage where the footman had disappeared earlier.
“At present they know there is a missing ledger, altered papers, and a great many anxious gentlefolk pretending not to be anxious. That is fertile soil for rumor.”
Harrison studied the passage. “You are suggesting we give them a simpler story.”
“I am suggesting we give them a harmless one. A misplaced book. A confusion of copying. Something dull.”
His eyes returned to her. “You have a talent for social misdirection.”
“I have spent years surviving drawing rooms.”
The answer emerged lightly. It did not feel light once spoken.
He seemed to understand that as well. “Then perhaps you should speak with the maids and footmen who saw the morning’s movements.”
Genny blinked. “You wish me to question servants?”
“I wish you to learn what I will not.”
That stopped her.
Not because the task was grand. It was not. But because he had named the difference between them without making hers the lesser part. He did not say charm them. He did not say distract them. He said learn.
Genny felt that word settle inside her with unreasonable force.
“I can do that,” she said.
“I know.”
The simplicity of his confidence nearly undid her more than praise would have.
Her throat tightened, and for an instant the hall blurred at the edges.
It was absurd to be so moved by a task, by one man assuming she might be equal to it, yet there it was: a warmth beneath her sternum and a terror just beside it.
She lifted her chin and smiled because it was safer. “Very well. But if I am to be useful belowstairs, you must promise not to terrify everyone first.”
“I do not terrify everyone.”
“Harrison.”
It was the first time she had used his Christian name without thinking.
Both of them heard it.
The hall seemed suddenly too bright, too still, too occupied by every unsaid thing gathering between them. His gaze held hers, and for one reckless instant Genny thought neither of them would move. Then Lady Penworth called his name from the blue salon, and the moment vanished into duty.
His voice, when he answered, had recovered its careful evenness. “I shall endeavor to be less terrifying.”
“A noble ambition.”
“And you,” he said, “will endeavor not to start a revolution in the servants’ hall.”
Genny smiled. “I make no promise I cannot honor.”