11

S tephen hurried down the spiral steps, his boots sliding over the worn stone. He was halfway to the ground floor before he remembered he usually went up instead of down. His best telescopes were in the corner turrets. But he had been thinking about kissing, not logic.

Ever since Elizabeth Wynchester had arrived, he'd been at sixes and sevens, his normally orderly mind a jumble. As though his brain were one of his careful, complex machines, and she'd come and taken an axe to it.

There was no sense turning around. McCarthy was striding up the primary corridor toward the staircase, a peevish expression on his wizened face. Most likely because the older man preferred greeting visitors with a warm welcome, and Stephen was spoiling his fun.

"Technically, everything you're vexed about is Densmore's fault," Stephen reminded the butler for the dozenth time. "The door is barred to callers because his lordship ordered it so. I am here in his stead for the same reason."

McCarthy let out a long-suffering sigh, as though everything that had ever been wrong in the world had always been his lordship's fault.

"Miss Oak has come to call," he announced. " Again . Shall I have her thrown in the dungeon?"

"Please don't," said Stephen. "I'm expecting another shipment tomorrow, and caring for a hostage would disrupt the smoothness of the delivery. Just ignore her, as you've been doing."

"No," said Miss Wynchester. "Let her in."

At this impertinent interruption, regal McCarthy looked torn between delight and disdain. Though the butler was appalled to hear a visitor countermand the orders of her host, Miss Wynchester had voted for the exact outcome McCarthy himself wished.

"Granting an audience is pointless," Stephen told Miss Wynchester. "There's no information to impart. We don't have the deed. We didn't find the will. There's no sign of any clues to any puzzle. I could sum up our progress on a single sheet of paper by leaving both sides blank."

"She makes biscuits," said Miss Wynchester. "And she's my client. As soon as she gets what she needs, you get to go home, too. Miss Oak doesn't even know you're here! She thinks her nephew has been ignoring her calls. Can we not spare a quarter hour?"

Stephen never wished to entertain other humans for a single moment, much less fifteen minutes. But Miss Wynchester had proven surprisingly tolerable. She somehow tempted him to act against his better judgment.

"Oh, very well. Just this once." Stephen turned to the butler. "Please escort our guest to the western parlor via the trapdoor, as the dungeon is currently safer than the modified entranceway. The footmen will help you with the rolling staircase."

McCarthy murmured something unintelligible while casting Stephen a disapproving glare, then hurried down the corridor to retrieve the new guest.

Miss Wynchester arched her brows. "How many trapdoors are there? They're not on my map."

"Just one," he answered. "The original owners of medieval castles were serious about fortification. The only entrances are the front door, which leads to what you call the murder room, and a hidden trapdoor on the ground behind the castle, which leads down to the dungeon. Reddington does not appear to know about the latter. The rear of the castle must not be under surveillance."

"Amateur," Miss Wynchester murmured.

"And yet more than dangerous enough." Stephen held out his elbow. "If you'll come with me…"

Miss Wynchester started to take his arm, then hesitated and touched her hip. The slightest wince flickered across her face.

He frowned. "Is everything all right?"

Her guilty gaze sprang to his and she grabbed his elbow firmly. "I was just noticing that I'm not carrying a sword."

"I thought you trusted Miss Oak. Have we invited her in despite misgivings?"

"One can never be too careful." Miss Wynchester's voice held an ominous tone. "Perhaps my blade is meant for you."

"Hmm. Well, if you think it necessary, I can send someone up to your rooms to fetch a weapon."

She brightened. "Would you? Have them bring the sword stick lying on the bed."

"Not the battle-axes?" he asked in surprise.

"Sometimes it's better to carry what looks like a cane."

"Ah." He put it together. "Miss Oak doesn't know you're a sword-wielding berserker."

"That's right," Miss Wynchester said quickly. "Which way to the parlor?"

"Down this corridor." Stephen murmured instructions to a footman, then led Miss Wynchester to a small enclave outfitted with a circular Axminster carpet, bookshelves covered in colorful figurines, an ornate desk and matching tea cabinet with gold-filigree-covered drawers, four bright tangerine armchairs, and a small yellow sofa lined with daffodil-embroidered pillows. The rest of the ceiling and walls were covered in Stephen's contraptions.

Miss Wynchester took the sofa, which was farthest from the machines.

Before Stephen could seat himself in the armchair closest to her, McCarthy swept back into the room with a pink-cheeked, salt-and-pepper-haired woman at his side.

"You must be Miss Oak," Stephen said, as though he had not seen her through his telescope on multiple occasions. "I am Stephen Lenox."

"Densmore's cousin?" she said in obvious surprise, then peered at him closely. "Why, I might have thought you were my nephew! You could almost be twins."

"Aren't I lucky," Stephen murmured. He waited for Miss Oak to take a seat before settling into his own chair.

She folded her hands over a cloth satchel in her lap and sighed with obvious frustration. "I'm sorry to bother you. I know that if Miss Wynchester had uncovered the will, she would already have informed me. I was just so hurt to think my nephew opened his door to a stranger and not to his own aunt."

"No one opened it for me, either," said Miss Wynchester. "I had to chop my way in."

Miss Oak looked startled. "You mean that metaphorically?"

"I promise to repair the damage before the children arrive," Elizabeth assured her.

Stephen raised his brows. "Children?"

Miss Oak leaned forward. "I don't know if my nephew or Miss Wynchester already told you, but my sister and I spent decades planning to turn Harbrook into a school and orphanage. Arminia didn't live to see its completion. I don't want to die before realizing our dream, too."

Stephen nodded his understanding. It was not an enemy attack that Miss Oak feared, but time itself. She was more likely to be felled by a bad case of the ague than the blade of a sword.

"When I open the orphanage we planned together," Miss Oak said with determination, "I shall christen the school in my late sister's honor."

"I already adore it," said Miss Wynchester, "and I never adore anything."

"You'll like it much better once Harbrook looks like a proper home and less like…" Miss Oak gestured at the panoply of bits and bobs strung across the parlor. She turned to Stephen. "How long would it take you to clear all these contraptions out?"

"You may keep them," he said magnanimously.

Miss Oak looked horrified.

Miss Wynchester leaned forward to whisper into his ear. "Orphans don't need murder rooms."

"I'll take it with me," he amended. "You'll be able to enter freely through the front door."

"Thank you," Miss Oak said with feeling. A moment passed. She looked at him expectantly.

Damn it. Stephen was dreadful with small talk. Much better not to allow anyone in than to sit in awkward silence.

When he was a child, his school years had been torture. His parents had been glad to be rid of their peculiar little goblin who preferred to lock himself in his nursery with hammers and wires rather than interact with family and neighbors who openly castigated him for not sharing the same interests and behaviors as a "normal" boy.

His schoolmates' scathing opinions had been a hundred times worse. What began as constant insults escalated into physical bullying and the gleeful destruction of whatever Stephen was working on. He'd learned to hide his true self in order to make himself more palatable to others, and when that failed, he'd learned to shutter himself away altogether and never allow anyone in.

His cousin, the Earl of Densmore, was the only exception. The one person who didn't look at Stephen as though he belonged in a circus. Gregarious Densmore was happy to deflect attention away from his awkward cousin.

But Densmore was not here now, and Stephen had absolutely no idea what he was meant to do with the people in his parlor.

Forester, a footman, arrived with Miss Wynchester's sword stick, taking some of the pressure off Stephen. After the cane was delivered, however, Forester melted back against the far wall rather than leave the room.

Stephen wished he could drop to the floor and do some press-ups to relieve his anxiety.

To his relief, both women ignored him completely. Miss Wynchester turned her chair toward her client and asked, "Did you think of something that might aid in the search?"

"I'm not certain." Miss Oak opened her satchel and pulled out a thick pile of correspondence tied with string. "Here is every letter my sister wrote me that includes any mention of the will. If she did leave me a clue… perhaps it's somewhere in there."

Miss Wynchester took possession of the letters eagerly and began to scan their contents at a truly impressive speed.

"Is she really reading that fast?" Stephen whispered to Miss Oak.

"Maybe she can't make out Arminia's horrendous handwriting," Miss Oak whispered back.

"Bah," said Miss Wynchester. "This is high art after having to decipher my brothers' horrid scrawls. I'm delighted to report that I have good news."

Miss Oak's mouth dropped open. "You do ?"

"And bad news," Miss Wynchester added. "The good news is that your sister did indeed leave behind a clue for you."

"But that's wonderful!" Miss Oak exclaimed.

"The bad news… is that I have no idea what it means."

"You must know," Miss Oak insisted, her eyes shining. "Think about your lice."

Stephen edged his chair away from them both. "Lice?"

"Not mine. Homer's. See what you think." Miss Wynchester handed Stephen the stack of letters. "Blazes! It steams me that I cannot fathom it out. Absolutely boils my brain. Simmering saffron, I thought I was hot on the trail, only for smoke to rise from my ears. This is one hell of a puzzle. Really bakes my breeches."

Stephen blinked slowly. "Are you making heat references on purpose?"

"Yes. So did the countess, in every one of these letters. I haven't the least notion why."

"Surely Arminia wouldn't have stored an important paper document in an oven," Miss Oak fretted. "Or a fireplace. Or inside a teakettle."

"Or on the sun, or between a pair of curling tongs," Stephen agreed. "The references must mean something else."

"Obviously this means something else. It's a clue , not the answer." Miss Wynchester drummed her fingers on her sword stick. "Can I keep these letters?"

"Yes, of course. Whatever you need. I just know you'll find my sister's will." Miss Oak's voice shook. "You must . It's not just me counting upon it, but all the children, too."

"I understand," Miss Wynchester said with surprising gentleness. "I promise we are working to that aim as quickly as we are able. In the meantime, I must beg of you to remain at home for your own safety. Reddington has made credible threats against the castle."

Miss Oak gasped. "You cannot let him harm a single stone!"

"We won't." Miss Wynchester plucked the letters from Stephen's hands and retied the stack with string. "Now, promise me you'll stay safe at home until you hear from me. I won't stop searching, no matter how long it takes. And my family is hunting for your nephew as we speak."

Miss Oak gave a grateful smile and rose to her feet. "Thank you, Miss Wynchester. I knew I was right to come to you."

Stephen instructed Forester to accompany Miss Oak. Once they left, Stephen turned toward Miss Wynchester. Both her hands gripped the handle of her cane, and her brow was furrowed.

"Is something amiss?"

She glanced up with an odd little smile. "Besides all the things that are quite obviously amiss? No. Just my impatience, I'm afraid. It's easy to vow to hold strong ‘as long as it takes'… and much harder to actually wait that long. At this rate, my brother will find Densmore before I follow the clues to the will."

Stephen doubted it. "You're looking for Densmore where, might I ask? I've sent missives to every inn and gaming hell in England—"

"Bah, missives . Try sending spies. What makes you think he'll pause his gameplay to read a letter from his cousin? Particularly when you're doing exactly what he wanted you to do."

Stephen cleared his throat. "Did you just say… I should have sent spies ?"

"Or messenger crows. Those usually get a second glance. Didn't you promise supper? Let's move this conversation to the dining table, shall we?"

"Of course. Our meal should be ready at any moment. If you'll come with me?"

She hauled herself up from the sofa with her sword stick and gave him a winning smile. "I'll follow you anywhere that leads to good food."

"Don't tell Reddington that. He'll know how to lure you from the castle."

"I said follow you , not toddle after any old ordinary scoundrel." She took Stephen's arm. "You, sir, are an extraordinary scoundrel, which happens to be my favorite type of rogue."

"I've never been more bewitched by a berserker," he found himself replying.

What was this inane conversation they were having? Had Miss Wynchester been right from the beginning, and they had been flirting all along? Or was this something new? A corner turned from where they'd been before?

It wouldn't do , Stephen told himself. At the very least, this nonsense couldn't progress beyond idle flirtation. His goal was to resume his cherished, solitary life. Not invite someone else into it.

Besides, once they found Densmore or the will, whichever came first, Miss Wynchester and Stephen would go their separate curmudgeonly ways.

Good. It was better that way. Wasn't it?