Page 11 of Who’s That Earl

“This, I suppose, is the sort of letter to which you are referring?” She held out the offending document but did not glance at it. Those hateful words did not need further opportunity to etch themselves onto her brain or to burrow beneath her skin.

He took it, keeping his eyes on her face for a moment longer than was comfortable before shifting his attention to the letter and reading it slowly through. She watched, reluctantly fascinated by the way the firelight highlighted his strong features. The fatigue she’d noted earlier had given way to a strange sort of animation. He was enjoying this—not the substance of the letter, nor the discomfort it had caused her, but the mystery, the challenge it represented.

When he finished, he turned the sheet over to examine the direction and the broken wax seal. “This was sent to London.”

“Yes, it was delivered to his publisher, Persephone Press, and forwarded on to him here.”

“Do you always open letters addressed to Mr. Ratliff?”

A beat of silence threatened to reveal more than she intended. “I have permission to do so when he is away, yes. So that nothing urgent or important is overlooked.”

“Hmm. Almost like a secretary.” He shifted his attention from the letter to her. “And is he often away?”

Whatever she’d imagined would happen if she ever saw Mr. Sutherland again, this brisk, businesslike questioning had not been it. He was obviously practiced at it. She felt unsettled, which was likely his goal. “Often, yes.”

“And where does he go?”

“It depends.” On how far away I need him to be.

An expression of wry humor etched itself into his face along familiar lines, and he shook his head. “I suppose I’m just unlucky to have missed him.” She permitted herself a little laugh. “When do you expect him to return?”

“I—I couldn’t say.”

Mild surprise greeted her reply, and then he held up the letter again. “Is this it? No second page?”

“No.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. She had not known that skepticism could call up a dimple, the same as a smile. “Mrs. Higginbotham, if I’m going to resolve this matter, I’ll need your cooperation and honesty.”

She tipped her head to the side to acknowledge his point and gave a sweet smile. “Of course. What possible good could come of being dishonest with one another?”

For a long moment, he simply looked at her, poised on the edge of speech but not speaking. She felt certain that the mischievous sparkle in his eyes, the slight play of amusement around his lips were matched by a similar expression on her own face. As if each of them knew that the other was not being entirely truthful but, instead of being dismayed or frustrated by the discovery, was intrigued by it.

What did it say about either of them that the prospect of a cat-and-mouse game was so appealing?

At last, he laughed softly, conceding the round to her. “May I keep this?” he asked, already folding the letter and preparing to slip it inside his coat.

“Of course.” She wanted nothing to do with the thing. She ought to have tossed it into the fire to begin with. Though if she had, would Mr. Sutherland have found some other pretext for staying at Dunnock?

“Are there others in your possession?”

She widened her eyes in pretend shock at the prospect. “Why, no. If there are others, I assumed Mr. Ratliff would’ve given them to you.”

Mr. Sutherland tucked the letter neatly into his breast pocket before favoring her with a lazy smile. “All he had, ma’am.”

All he had...None, in other words. Oh, he was really too good at this, and such a realization ought not to make her pulse race. Or, if it was determined to race, then it ought to be an indicator of fear or distress. Certainly not excitement.

It was just that, well, years of virtual isolation in Scotland could be a trifle dull.

And Mr. Sutherland, for all the frustration she’d felt since the announcement of his arrival, was not dull. Even the first glimpse of him across a muddy street, seven years ago, had been enough to set a foolish young lady’s pulse aflutter. The dashing uniform, the twinkle in his eye, the Scottish brogue...he’d exuded a certain roguish charm, though she’d tried to dismiss it as the effect of her sometimes-wayward imagination.

If anything, the years had improved him as a specimen of masculinity: broader shoulders, a more chiseled jaw. His hazel eyes still twinkled. Now, though, she saw something different in them. She had the distinct impression those eyes had seen things, somber things that made their moments of merriment more precious. There was a ruggedness about him now that drew her, much as she’d been drawn by the ruggedness of Scotland itself.

“Tell me, Mr. Sutherland.” She gestured for him to sit down on the horsehair sofa. “What did you do in the army?”

He was looking down at the cushion where, to her dismay, a good deal of white fur had become interwoven with the upholstery. Athena often preferred the sofa to her place on the hearth. No one else ever sat there.

Still, it could easily be interpreted as failure on the part of the staff, or herself, to keep things orderly. It felt, somehow, like a sign of weakness. Softness.