Hart left the upper gallery, passing the orchestra as it began to play again.
He continued through an arched doorway into a corridor that led to the quieter side of the mansion.
When he reached the door to the lord’s study the sounds of the reception had faded away.
A faint scent of beeswax lingered in the corridor, stirring an unwanted childhood memory of running through the portrait gallery and trying to hide from his ancestors’ painted, disapproving eyes.
The nearly five-hour ride before dawn was beginning to take its toll.
While waiting for the lord, he tried to stretch his muscles, but the damned finery he was forced to wear restricted his movement.
With a frustrated sigh, he leaned his broad back against the heavy wooden door.
The corridor was dim and quiet, and his heavy eyelids drifted shut.
But even with his eyes closed he listened closely to every sound in the corridor.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Hart knew that the lord had finally arrived.
“I’m sorry, Hart.
I couldn’t free myself earlier.” Henry Thornwick pulled out a ring of keys from his trouser pocket, selected a key and opened the heavy door.
Then they entered the dim room.
The room looked more like a library or archive than a typical lord’s study.
Bookshelves covered every wall and filing cabinets replaced most of the usual furniture.
Still, a dark-brown leather couch and a pair of armchairs flanked a low table in the middle.
The lord’s desk stood in front of the bay window.
Light came through a gap in the heavy curtains, revealing dust floating in the air.
“Please try not to mind the dust.
I don’t allow cleaning here unless I can’t breathe,” the lord said as he drew the curtains open and let light into the room.
Then he laughed heartily.
Although his demeanor and his appearance suggested a serious man, he was nothing of the sort in private.
Henry took a bottle and a pair of glasses out of the desk drawer.
He glanced at the sharp-featured man.
For once, Hart was dressed well and he had combed his naturally wavy hair.
Dressed like this, the man didn’t quite fit the image of an ordinary traveling spice merchant.
Henry noticed a few more lines had appeared on Hart’s face during the last year abroad.
Henry opened the bottle and poured amber-brown liquor into the glasses.
“Here.
Did you get the documents?” He offered the other glass to Hart, who took it gladly and gulped it down in one go.
The burn trailed down Hart’s throat, stinging his eyes and sharpening his mind.
Nothing woke him up faster than strong spirits.
He let out a rough breath.
God, he hated this smoky drink.
“I needed that.” Hart refilled the glass and emptied it just as quickly.
“Yes, I got them.” Hart pulled a small, worn leather case out of his jacket, tossed it onto the desk, and sat down on one of the chairs.
“Since I had to come here personally, I brought your spice and wine delivery as well.
I told Miles to handle it.” “Good.
Did you read these?” Henry held up the documents he had taken from the case.
“What do you think?” “Yes, yes.
I knew you would.
I didn’t have anyone else to ask.
So, thank you.” The lord gave Hart a small, overly formal bow.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Henry.” Henry’s smile faded as he skimmed the first pages, then he continued inspecting the papers, tapping his thumb against the edge of the stack.
“Someone’s been naughty and smuggled salt.” Henry slammed the documents down on the desk.
“But it doesn’t say who,” Hart pointed out.
“It mentions a ledger, though.
You need to find it.” Hart took the bottle and moved to the couch.
Closing his eyes, he rested his head on one armrest, stretched his long legs over the other, and crossed them at the ankles.
The cool leather against his head eased the dull ache of lost sleep.
“Do you mind if I rest here for a while?
I’m exhausted.” “Not at all.
I will ask the maid to bring you refreshments.” Hart grunted from the couch and took a sip from the bottle.
His muscles would be sore tomorrow from all that riding.
That reminded him of arriving at the mansion.
“By the way, your guards have become less lax than last time.
They refused to let me in without an invitation.
Luckily the Quentin girl saved me.” “Surely getting inside is not a problem for you,” Henry said, raising his gaze from the documents at Hart.
“You just wanted to humor her, didn’t you?” “Maybe,” Hart answered.
Miss Quentin had been so eager to do him a favor, so he let her.
Little favors and debts could be useful in the future.
“There was an unwanted visitor, so I tightened the security.” “The visitor did you a service, then.” “I suppose she did.” Henry chuckled.
“She?” “Just a local girl who puts wild ideas into my youngest son’s head.
I had to take him to Waterfort and assign him a strict tutor.” “Those kinds of ideas?” Hart raised his eyebrows.
Riverd had to be about fifteen or sixteen by now, and certainly at the age when girls would start to interest him.
“No, no, no.
Just some shenanigans like stealing, fighting, sneaking into places they shouldn’t.
The crazier the idea, the more into it he gets.” The village was small, and Henry had invited the guests.
Maybe he knew who the two girls were.
“How well do you know the guests you invited?” “Very well.
Why?” Henry put the documents back into the leather case and locked it in one of the filing cabinets.
He coughed as the movement sent dust into his face.
“The elegant young miss who isn’t a noble.
Maybe a merchant’s daughter.
Sandy-blond hair and…” “She is the baker’s daughter.
Talia Summerhay.
Are you interested in marrying her?” One corner of Henry’s mouth twitched upward.
“Please.
You know I don’t plan to marry.
I think she has caught the magistrate’s interest.” In truth, Hart wasn’t sure which one of the girls had caught his interest, but it was easiest to put it that way.
He put the bottle on the floor and rested his other arm over his forehead.
He let his mind wander and he suddenly realized what had been bothering him about the maid.
Her posture, movements, and the way she held her hands were not those of a maid.
Even the way the young miss had spoken to her had been too familiar.
The baker’s daughter had probably just smuggled one of her friends in for fun.
He mentally slapped himself for overanalyzing silly girls’ nonsense.
“Has he?
Her family surely has much higher hopes for her.” “Maybe you should marry your eldest son to her.
She would become a fine-looking countess one day,” Hart teased.
But the lord only snorted and gave Hart an amused glance.
He took his ring of keys from his pocket, removed one key from it, and placed it on the desk.
Henry straightened his jacket and smoothed his hair back with both hands.
“I should return.
Lock the door before you leave and leave the key with the butler.” With that, the lord left the room, and Hart fell asleep.
But his sleep was light.
As a merchant who visited strange places and hostile neighboring countries, he had learned never to let his guard down.
The door opened without a knock, and he snapped awake.
Hesitant footsteps entered the room.
That wasn’t a maid bringing refreshments.
Before doing anything else, he concentrated on lowering his heart rate until he could draw on his gift.
He silenced the sounds of his own movements to avoid the intruder’s attention and placed a sound barrier around the room.
Then he took a slim dagger from his sleeve.
His fingers closed one by one around the polished bone hilt, cool and familiar against his palm.
He opened his eyes, rose slowly, and crossed the distance in three silent steps.
He caught the intruder from behind, one hand over their mouth and the dagger at their throat.
The intruder was a woman, and judging by her clothes, she was the baker’s daughter’s maid.
He should have trusted his instincts.
He hadn’t been overthinking it after all.
“When I move my hand away from your mouth, you can scream as loud as you want.
No one will hear it,” he rasped into her ear.
Up close, his greater height gave him a clear view of her chest rising and falling with each breath.
His eyes dropped, unbidden, to the fabric pulling tight around a single strained button.
“Turn around slowly,” he ordered her, keeping his voice steady.
And when she did, he found himself staring into the same big green eyes he had seen on his first day in the village.
She was the dirty runaway girl he had bumped into in front of the inn.
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