A Dangerous Love by Sabrina Jeffries (4)

After the maid finished helping her dress the next morning, Rosalind paced her room in the same state of agitation possessing her ever since Mr. Brennan had exited the study last night.

He’d as good as threatened her! Him—a man of affairs! Did he actually believe she’d quake in her boots for fear that he’d tell Papa what had happened? If he did, he was a fool.

She sniffed as she picked up her best lace shawl, tossed it about her shoulders, then headed toward the door. Let that scoundrel say what he wanted to Papa. She didn’t care in the least. She’d simply go down to breakfast and continue about her business the rest of the day. No Irishman with devil-may-care looks and a running footman’s well-formed body could frighten her. No, indeed.

And if he did speak to Papa? Then she’d reveal how the man had been snooping about in the desk, and Papa would laud her diligence.

Well, unless Mr. Brennan mentioned her…flimsy attire.

Scowling, she halted at the door, then turned back into the room. Papa wouldn’t approve, to be sure. The curst Mr. Brennan had guessed aright on that particular.

Once more she felt the heat of a whisper against her ear—Never challenge a thief, my lady, unless you are well prepared to best him.

Blast! Mr. Brennan clearly realized that Papa wouldn’t overlook this, especially after hearing the entire story—how the insolent man had dragged her hard against his body and steadied her with a broad hand too intimately placed on her belly, prompting the strangest whirligig sensation in that vicinity. How the heat of his hand had seared her through her wrapper and chemise…

Heat now seared her cheeks, too, launching her into a quicker pace about the room. That blackguard even had her blushing, for pity’s sake! It was too much to be borne—this absurd reaction to him! It made no sense. Men of affairs weren’t supposed to provoke such feelings in a woman.

But then, men of affairs were supposed to wear spectacles and cough a great deal. They were supposed to smell of dust and ink and moldy paper. They should be spidery men, all arms and legs and bulging eyes, like Papa’s man of affairs.

They most certainly shouldn’t be constructed of solid steel, sleek and hard as her ancestor’s sword. They shouldn’t smell of woodsmoke and leather or have eyes so blue that even with spectacles they’d be intoxicating.

She sank onto the bed and absently stroked the jade green damask, only a shade less bright than the stripes of the dress she wore today—her favorite. Mr. Brennan’s rakish air and deft ability to disarm her made her wonder. Could he be one of Mr. Knighton’s smuggling companions, brought here to tally up the estate’s valuables before Papa was even in the grave? Yes, that must be it.

Yet how odd that he knew Shakespeare. It seemed unlikely that a smuggler would read A Midsummer Night’s Dream. On the other hand, as Shakespeare wrote, “the Devil can cite scripture for his purpose,” so why couldn’t the Devil cite Shakespeare?

There was also his skulking about to consider—she didn’t quite believe his tale about the cigars. What if he had indeed been searching for Papa’s private papers?

Sliding to the foot of her bed, she opened her wooden trunk to check on the strongbox. Thank God Mr. Brennan hadn’t had time to find it last night. As she studied its heavy padlock, her curiosity blossomed. Its contents certainly seemed important to both Papa and Mr. Brennan’s employer, who no doubt had put the man up to searching the desk in the first place.

Well, if finding the box was Mr. Brennan’s task, she would prevent him from succeeding. She wouldn’t let him out of her sight, no matter what the consequences. Even if he wasn’t looking for it, knowing her enemy couldn’t hurt her. Mr. Brennan might unwittingly provide evidence of his employer’s poor character that she could use in convincing Juliet to defy Papa. Surely Papa would never force Juliet into marriage if the girl truly didn’t wish it.

She shoved the trunk lid shut. Yes, that would be her plan—to unravel the men’s secrets and thus win this battle.

With renewed determination, she rose and swept toward the door. Let Mr. Brennan say what he would at breakfast. She’d counter every accusation with one of her own. He wouldn’t best her—no indeed.

Hurrying from her room, she nearly collided with Juliet, who was coming up the hall. As Juliet’s gaze swung to her, the girl blanched. “R-Rosalind?”

“Good morning, dear. Headed down for breakfast?”

“Yes.” Juliet eyed her anxiously. “Y-You aren’t furious at me?”

“For what?” She paused. “Oh, yes, for locking me in Papa’s room.” Her encounter with Mr. Brennan had blotted it right out of her mind.

“I’m so sorry I did it,” Juliet whispered, pleating the skirt of her lemony satin gown with nervous fingers. “Are you very angry?”

How could she rail at the girl when the poor dear looked so remorseful? “Not anymore. You thought you were doing the right thing.”

“I did! Truly, I did.” Turning, Juliet lifted her skirts and walked toward the stairs. “I know Mr. Knighton’s past concerns you, but it isn’t as if he were a smuggler himself. And anyway, Papa says it was a long time ago. There are worse things he could have been—like a drunkard or a rakehell or a friend of that awful Lord Byron.”

Rosalind rolled her eyes, but Juliet did have a point. Mrs. Inchbald’s letters hadn’t mentioned any character traits that would make the man a poor husband. Nonetheless….

“You won’t rail at Mr. Knighton about the smuggling, will you?” Juliet went on.

“Really, Juliet, I’d never be rude to a guest.” Not rude enough to send him running to Papa, in any case. She didn’t want to earn another evening locked away.

A sunny smile transformed her sister’s features. “I’m so relieved to hear you say that. I don’t like it when we’re at odds. It’s quite vexing.”

“Yes, it is,” she said, and meant it. After Mama had died bearing Juliet, Rosalind and Helena had tried as best they could to take their mother’s place. At six and nine years old respectively, they’d coddled Juliet with great affection. They still did.

She was everyone’s darling—and with good reason. At seventeen, the girl already possessed a stunning figure and rich hair of spun gold. The three of them all had the Laverick hazel eyes, but Juliet’s shone as green as brilliant emeralds when she wore the right color. Rosalind’s more often bore a strong resemblance to that dull moss growing on the trees in the deer park, no matter what color she wore. Juliet was far too pretty for an unsavory character like Mr. Knighton.

“So,” Rosalind remarked, as they approached the stairs, “what do you think of our cousin? What can I expect?”

Ducking her head, Juliet hurried down. “He’s nice. Very gentlemanly.”

Eyes narrowing, Rosalind hastened after her sister. “You liked him, did you?”

Juliet shrugged and quickened her pace.

“Then you did not.” Aha! Perhaps there’d be no need to expose Mr. Knighton’s secrets after all.

“No. I-I mean, yes!” She glided down the stairs like a sleepwalking Lady Macbeth. “Oh, I don’t know. He’s all right, I suppose.”

Rosalind caught up with her and stayed her with one hand. “But something about him troubles you.” When Juliet started to protest, Rosalind pressed a finger to her lips. “Don’t pretend with me, dearest. Your face is as easy to read as a child’s primer.”

That was the wrong thing to say. “I’m not a child,” Juliet retorted in a hurt tone, “and nothing is troubling me. I can do this. Truly, I can.”

She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. Rosalind sighed as the girl continued down. When had Juliet become so determined to save Swan Park? For a girl used to floating through life on a dream, she was suddenly very set on martyring herself to Papa’s cause.

You weren’t much older than her when you took on the task of caring for an invalid father, a desperately ill sister, and a failing estate.

Yes, well, that was different, she argued with herself. I had no choice.

Juliet probably felt the same. With a sigh, Rosalind caught up to her sister, resolving to say no more for now. Perhaps it would work itself out. Perhaps Juliet’s fears would convince her to turn off this disastrous course.

When they reached the lower floor, they fell into a more sedate pace on the balding carpet and headed for the dining room. A man entered the other end of the hall, so tall and solidly built that he blotted out the light from the arched window behind him. After spotting them, he waited at the door to the dining room.

“Did the blessed creature grow in the night?” Juliet muttered under her breath.

Rosalind kept her voice low as well. “That’s our cousin?”

“Yes, that’s Mr. Knighton.”

She scrutinized the man she’d already cast as the villain of the piece. He didn’t look like a villain. He looked like a field laborer in gentlemen’s clothing, awkward and uncomfortable and wary of his surroundings. Papa’s valet, assigned to Mr. Knighton for the visit, must have tied his cravat too tightly, for the man tugged at it so often he was in danger of unraveling the knot entirely. His clear discomfort had the strange effect of making her feel sympathy for him.

It did not, however, seem to do the same for Juliet. The young woman lagged behind Rosalind fearfully. For pity’s sake, the man was smiling, which transformed his rawboned features into something almost attractive. So why did he intimidate Juliet?

As they drew near and Rosalind realized how large he was, a suspicion leapt into her mind. The man was rather gigantic. And Juliet was so very petite…

“You needn’t bother with him, you know,” Rosalind whispered. “If he frightens you, then—”

“Someone has to marry him,” Juliet interrupted. Rosalind couldn’t help noticing that she didn’t deny her fright. “You and Helena refuse to do it, so the task falls to me.”

“Dearest—”

“Enough!” Juliet hissed, though tears shimmered in her eyes. “I shan’t live out my days as a Swanlea Spinster, and if I don’t marry Mr. Knighton and we’re thrown from Swan Park, that is exactly what I’ll become!”

Rosalind signed. The young could be such tragedians. “There’s still time for you to find another man to marry.”

“You think so, do you? Helena missed her chance because of her illness, and you missed it because of your responsibilities and because Papa won’t take us to London. Well, I won’t miss mine. I won’t let go of my only chance because of silly qualms about Mr. Knighton’s size. I will adjust to it. I will.”

Oh, what was the point of reasoning with the foolish girl when she was so blasted stubborn? But somehow Rosalind would make everything right. She owed it to Juliet to see her happily wed to a man of her choice, not an ox who terrified her.

Mr. Knighton bowed as they reached him, an action that only accentuated his size, since when he brought his head down to three-quarters mast, it was still a good foot above Juliet’s. Quickly, her sister stammered through the introductions.

He politely overlooked the girl’s nervousness. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, cousin,” he told Rosalind. “Your sisters have told me much of you.”

“You mustn’t believe a word.” Extending her hand, she settled into the familiar role of mistress of the manor. “No one can exaggerate a person’s faults quite so effectively as a sister.”

He took her hand briefly before releasing it. “Then I hope you’ll give me the privilege of learning your virtues so I can counter your sister’s exaggerations. If indeed they were exaggerations.”

When coupled with a winning smile, his charming words almost disarmed her. Almost. “Why, Mr. Knighton, I am impressed. You’re far more talented at flattery than your man of affairs.”

A thin blade of alarm sharpened his gray eyes to steel. “You met Griff?”

Griff? Oh, yes, the scoundrel had said people called him that. “I did. Last night.” Without elaborating, Rosalind peered through the door into the empty dining room. “And where is Mr. Brennan this morning? Still abed, I take it?”

“Er…. yes. He tends to keep town hours.”

Precisely what Mr. Brennan himself had said. Had Mr. Knighton already spoken to him and heard of her attack last night?

If so, he hid it well, for his expression showed only polite disinterest. “I’m sure he’ll be along soon. Shall we go in to breakfast?” His smile included Juliet, who watched him doggedly, as if that might help to dissolve her fear of his great bulk.

“Of course.” Rosalind stepped between him and Juliet to take the arm he offered, and her sister sighed with relief.

Yet it wasn’t Mr. Knighton occupying her thoughts as they entered the sun-drenched dining room. Mr. Brennan had outslept the coming morn—ha! And after all his veiled threats to reveal their embarrassing encounter, too. Who had the upper hand now?

Better yet, this would allow her to question Mr. Knighton without Mr. Brennan’s interference. Or Papa’s, for that matter. She waited until the three of them were seated, with Mr. Knighton beside her and Juliet opposite him. While the servants set platters of scones and sausages and shirred eggs on the table, she took up the teapot and began her inquisition. “I suppose your company is a rather large one, Mr. Knighton?”

“Yes, very large.” He leaned back to allow her to pour him some tea. “The London office of Knighton Trading alone employs thirty people.”

“Thirty!” She poured a cup for herself, adding a generous dollop of cream. “That’s a great many indeed. You must tell us how you came to establish such an impressive concern.”

She sipped her tea and awaited his reply, eager to see if the man could answer without alluding to his trading company’s unsavory beginnings.

“It’s too dull a tale for fine young ladies like you.” He glanced toward the door. “Speaking of young ladies, where’s your other sister this morning?”

Rosalind wasn’t about to let him change the subject. “Oh, Helena is with Papa. Now, about the founding of your trading concern—”

“Is she preparing him for visitors?” he broke in stubbornly. “Does that mean I’ll meet your father after breakfast?”

That brought Rosalind up short. “You haven’t met Papa yet?” She turned to her sister. “Juliet, why hasn’t Mr. Knighton met Papa?”

Juliet’s face turned a mottled shade of red. “Because Papa wasn’t feeling well last night, remember?”

“He was no worse than usual when I was in—” Juliet’s kick under the table came at the same time as her memory. “Owwhh, yes. Right. Papa wasn’t feeling well.” Twice now her encounter with that blasted man of affairs had made her forget her imprisonment. That the scoundrel had such an effect on her was vastly annoying.

Across from her, Juliet lifted the cover off a platter and sniffed. “Mr. Knighton, do you like shirred eggs? It’s our cook’s specialty, so you must try some. We have truly superior eggs here at Swan Park.”

That launched them into a discussion of Cook and her talents, which led to a discussion of the kitchen’s capacity, which led them far afield into a discussion of where they got their coal. Rosalind bided the changes in subject impatiently, eager to return to the topic of Knighton Trading. Meanwhile, she used the opportunity to observe Mr. Knighton.

He wasn’t at all what she’d expected. He lacked Mr. Brennan’s arrogance and annoying certitude about his own opinions. Mr. Knighton seemed as nervous as Juliet and as determined to be friendly. He was polite and charming. His table manners were a bit rough—he ate an enormous amount and had some trouble negotiating the cutlery—but otherwise he was quite amiable, not in the least the ogre she’d anticipated.

Still, she wouldn’t let his apparent good nature lull her into complacency. She waited for an appropriate break in the conversation, then plunged in where she’d left off. Only this time she was more direct. “Mr. Knighton, is it true you once sold goods brought into England by smugglers?”

“Rosalind!” Juliet exclaimed. “You promised—”

“I’m merely making conversation.” Rosalind fixed their cousin with a challenging look. “You don’t mind talking about it, do you? It’s widely rumored that you gained your success in trade by selling French brandy and silks brought in illegally during the war, so I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn. It is true, isn’t it?”

Mr. Knighton seemed at a loss for words, and Juliet was babbling a wild apology, when a rumbling voice sounded from the doorway.

“Attacking your guests as usual, Lady Rosalind?”

She swung her head around with a groan. She should have known bad timing would be one of that wretch’s many vices. “Good morning, Mr. Brennan. We were just discussing Knighton Trading’s origins.”

“I heard.” Casual and devious as any Iago, he sauntered into the room. “I’m relieved to see it’s not only me you suspect of criminal activity, but my employer as well. Isn’t there enough drama in your life without your having to create some?”

Juliet’s relieved laughter bubbled into the air. “You’ve taken her likeness exactly, Mr. Brennan! How did you know that Rosalind is so dramatic?”

“That’s a secret, I’m afraid.” A wicked smile spread over his lips as he took the seat directly across from Rosalind. He gestured to the servant to bring him food as if ordering servants about was commonplace for him, then went on. “Your sister begged me not to discuss our first encounter, and as a gentleman, I must abide by her wishes.”

“A gentleman wouldn’t even allude to it,” Rosalind snapped. “And I didn’t beg you. I don’t care what you tell them, as long as it’s the truth.” But she rushed to tell her side first. “Did you enjoy the cigars after you went to so much trouble to find them? I assume it was your smoking rather than any further expeditions into our private rooms that caused you to ‘outsleep the coming morn.’”

Mr. Knighton apparently found his voice. “Griff doesn’t s—”

“Sleep late as a general rule,” Mr. Brennan finished for him. “Yes, that’s true. But you’re right, Lady Rosalind. After you were so kind as to give me those cigars when you discovered me wandering the house—” He paused to shoot a pointed glance at his employer. “I ended up retiring very late.”

Mr. Knighton opened his mouth again, then shut it. How very odd that Mr. Knighton would let Mr. Brennan intimidate him like that.

Mr. Brennan served himself some shirred eggs and sausages. “In any case, I hope my lateness didn’t inconvenience anyone.” He cast her a mocking smile. “Especially you, Lady Rosalind. I’m all too familiar with what you’re capable of when your dander is up.”

She had no qualm whatsoever about taking up the gauntlet he’d thrown down. “You gave me good enough reason to have my dander up, don’t you think?”

He paused with his fork in midair. “Perhaps, but did you have to come after me with a sword?”

Mr. Knighton nearly choked on his juice. “A sword?”

“Oh, yes, our hostess is quite the swordswoman. Held me at the point of a blade and threatened to slit my gullet—”

“I did no such thing! Now who is being dramatic?” She attacked her eggs. “Besides, it was an honest mistake. I thought you were a thief. After all, I did find you rooting around in Papa’s desk—”

“Looking for cigars. You wouldn’t have assumed otherwise if you didn’t have such a wild imagination, my lady.”

“She does indeed!” Juliet interjected. “Rosalind wants to be an actress, you know.”

“I would never have guessed,” he said dryly. “Although that does explain her tendency to ‘rush in where angels fear to tread.’”

When he continued to eat as if he hadn’t just insulted her, Rosalind bristled. “Mr. Brennan, are you calling me a fool?”

“A fool?” He paused in the act of raising his steaming cup of tea to his lips. “No. Although even you must admit that your attack on me last night was foolhardy, especially in light of what happened afterward. If I’d truly been a thief instead of a—”

“Knave? Blackguard?”

“Rosalind, please don’t be rude,” Juliet pleaded with pink-tinged cheeks, but was ignored by everyone at the table.

Rosalind turned to Mr. Knighton. “Did you know your man of affairs had no sense of gentlemanly propriety whatsoever?”

“Do tell.” Mr. Knighton leaned back in his chair, his eyes twinkling. For some reason, her comment seemed to amuse him.

Not Mr. Brennan, however. “Propriety?” He tossed down his cup with such force that it fell over, and its contents sloshed onto the tablecloth. “You have the audacity to speak of propriety, madam? You can hardly blame me if I don’t know how to react when a woman dressed like a soiled dove comes at me with a sword and shield! I doubt any man would behave with ‘gentlemanly propriety’ under such circumstances!”

A soiled dove! Now he’d done it! She leaned forward, determined to give him a piece of her mind.

“That’s enough of your impudence, Griff,” Mr. Knighton cut in before she could.

Rosalind sat back, a little mollified, though she wondered why it had taken the man so long to bring his insolent employee under control. And why that employee was now regarding his employer with a mixture of shock and annoyance.

“I don’t know what happened between the two of you last night,” Mr. Knighton continued, a little nervously, “but I won’t tolerate rude behavior toward my fair cousins.”

“What? You will not toler—” Mr. Brennan broke off abruptly as if realizing the full extent of his impertinence. With the precise motion of a man striving to govern his temper, he righted his cup. A long moment passed before he spoke again, eyes blazing. “Yes, sir, of course. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Now apologize to Lady Rosalind.”

His gaze shot to Mr. Knighton, and a muscle jerked in his jaw. But he said through gritted teeth, “I beg your pardon, Lady Rosalind. I didn’t intend any insult.”

She might have believed him if not for his tone, which was as insincere as a crocodile’s tears. She glanced at Mr. Knighton, who seemed suddenly to be trying very hard not to laugh.

What on earth could he find amusing in the situation? His man of affairs was glaring at them both with murder in his eyes. Mr. Knighton should take care whom he allowed to conduct his business for him.

She strove to rein in her temper. “Your apology is accepted, Mr. Brennan. After last night I’m accustomed to your manner of speaking, and I’m sure you’ll admit that I…tend to frankness myself.”

When Mr. Brennan turned his hot blue gaze on her, he looked as if he exercised uncommon restraint to hold back a sarcastic reply. Then the beginnings of a smile stole over his lips, provoking her insides to tighten with an unfamiliar tension. She liked him better angry. When he was angry she didn’t feel this strange connection to him, this intoxicating feeling that he understood her better than anyone ever had.

“Well, that’s all right then,” Juliet put in quickly, the peacemaker as always. She dabbed at her lips with her damask napkin, then laid it across her plate with typical feminine delicacy. “Perhaps if you’re all finished with breakfast, we can go to Papa’s room. He’s expecting us.”

“Since I was late to breakfast and am not quite finished,” Mr. Brennan remarked in far too casual a tone, “why don’t the rest of you go on without me?” His gaze swung to his employer. “You won’t need me, will you?”

“No, of course not.”

“I’ll finish here and take a walk about the estate. If that meets with your approval.”

Despite Mr. Brennan’s perfectly subservient words, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was issuing an order—and he seemed very comfortable doing so. Their arrangement was peculiar indeed. Of course, if she had a man as…unpredictable as Mr. Brennan working for her, she might be tempted to acquiesce herself for fear he’d murder her in her sleep if she didn’t.

“That’s a fine idea,” Mr. Knighton responded. “We don’t want to overwhelm his lordship by tramping in all together. The ladies and I will go on without you.”

Not a chance, Rosalind thought. She wouldn’t allow that smuggler to do more foraging for Papa’s papers. “Actually, there’s no reason for me to go, either. Papa really does prefer smaller groups of visitors.” She flashed Mr. Brennan a brilliant smile. “I’ll join you, sir. You’ll need help finding your way about the estate.”

His lips tightened into a disapproving line. “Begging your pardon, Lady Rosalind, but I didn’t have a nursemaid when I was three, so I certainly don’t need one now. I’m perfectly capable of navigating an estate alone.”

“I’m sure you are—indeed, you demonstrated a remarkable proficiency for it last night, and in a strange house, too. But you’ll miss much of interest on our grounds without one of us along to point things out. No, it’s imperative that I accompany you.”

With a worried glance at her, Mr. Knighton shifted his bulky frame in the chair that was ill equipped to hold such a Goliath. “I was hoping to have you help me, cousin. Won’t your father like it better if all his daughters join us when he meets me for the first time?”

“Nonsense,” she said gaily. “It’ll be cozier without me. He won’t even notice I’m gone. And Mr. Brennan should certainly have company.”

Mr. Brennan drummed his fingers on the table, probably to keep from using them to throttle her. “Perhaps since you’re so fond of the bard, Lady Rosalind, I can put this in terms even you will understand. ‘I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.’”

As You Like It again. “‘And so had I,’” she quoted back. “However, since Swan Park is still Papa’s estate, and I’m still the one who runs it, I must insist upon acting as your guide. After all, I’d hate it if something happened to you that I could have prevented.”

“What of your reputation, my lady? You shouldn’t walk out alone with a man.”

She laughed. “At twenty-three, I hardly need a chaperone, sir. Besides, this is the country. We don’t observe strict proprieties here, I assure you.” She’d done pretty much as she liked for the last few years, so who would stop her? Certainly not Papa, under the circumstances.

For a moment Mr. Brennan looked as if he might argue more, then resignation seemed to dull his enthusiasm for further argument. “Very well, whatever you wish. Though I warn you I’m a fast walker and can go for hours without any rest.”

“Excellent, so can I. It’s settled then.” She turned to her sister. “Juliet, why don’t you and Mr. Knighton go on? I’ll wait here for Mr. Brennan to finish his breakfast, and then we can embark on our tour of the estate.”

“To be truthful,” Mr. Knighton put in, “I need a word with Griff in private. If you ladies wouldn’t mind waiting for us in the hall…”

“Of course we don’t mind,” Juliet said, rising hastily from her place. “Rosalind?”

Rosalind rose, too, and followed her without a word. Now that she’d won, she could be gracious enough to let the men plot alone for a moment. But their plotting would accomplish nothing. Mr. Brennan would not get at Papa’s papers on her watch.

Once she and Juliet were in the hall, Juliet rounded on her, her face a mixture of admiration and worry. “You didn’t really draw a sword on Mr. Brennan, did you?”

“I certainly did. And you would have, too, if you’d seen what he was doing.”

Juliet peeked back into the dining room, her lashes fluttering like the wings of startled birds. “Not me. He frightens me even more than our cousin. I don’t know how you find the courage to speak to him as you do.”

“No one is born to courage, Juliet. Courage is a habit you develop after cowardice has gotten you nothing.” She squeezed her sister’s shoulder. “You’ll learn it as you grow older, trust me.”

Juliet shook her head. “I’ll never be as brave as you. Or Helena, for that matter.”

It suddenly occurred to Rosalind that her insistence on sticking close to Mr. Brennan would have another unwanted result. “You don’t mind that I’m leaving you alone with Mr. Knighton, do you? You’ll be all right?”

“I’ll be fine. We’re going straight to Papa’s room anyway.” Juliet glanced at her from beneath half-closed eyelids. “You…er…seem very eager to join Mr. Brennan.”

“Not eager.” She peered into the room, wondering what Mr. Brennan was saying to Mr. Knighton with such animation at the other end of the long dining room. “But I must keep an eye on him. I think he’s up to no good.” At Juliet’s drawn-out sigh, she added, “Don’t tell Papa, however—not until I’m sure what he’s planning. I can handle this on my own.”

Oh, yes, she would handle that devious man of affairs. Even if it meant sticking to him like flypaper for the rest of the men’s visit.