street. "You truly do this for a living?" she shot over her shoulder.
"Well yes."
"Then it is no wonder your cuffs are so threadbare." She sighed. "I named my cat after Miss Darby's dog because I thought they shared the same fierce determination."
Damn her
. It was a reasonable explanation. There were probably hundreds of Ajaxes scampering about England now given the novels' popularity. And even a few Darbys for that matter.
She caught up with another of her pages and scooped down to retrieve it. Tucking it in with the rest of the collection, she hugged them to her chest and stomped back to her desk. "What are you doing here?"
"I would ask the same of you," he replied. "Writing novels, I presume?" He nodded at a page she'd missed that was fluttering into what might have been a knot garden at one time.
"Harrumph." Her brow furrowed as she followed it. "None of your business," she told him as she stuffed a jumble of pages into her traveling desk, snapping the latch shut and turning to face him, her hands on her hips. "If you aren't following me, then what are you doing here?"
"Inspecting the property."
"Shouldn't take you very long," she remarked.
He laughed despite himself. "I suppose not."
"Is this another of your
gentleman's
services?"
"In a manner of speaking. When I prove you are the author of the
Miss Darby
novels"—he paused as she punctuated his sentence with another indignant, and very unladylike snort—"I will be paid with the deed to this house."
Her response was much the same as Lady Finch's. She broke out laughing. "I was right. You can't be very good at what you do if you're willing to take this ruin in payment."
"I don't intend to live here," he told her.
"Not unless you like living in a… a…" Just then a bevy of birds flew out the open attic windows far above them.
"A rookery?" he asked.
This time, they both laughed, and the sudden camaraderie, even if it was only for a few moments left Rafe unsettled. This was a potential suspect. The first rule of investigation was never to get overly chummy with one's quarry. Which definitely included kissing them…
"So you noticed the squatters," she was saying. Her teeth captured her lower lip and she glanced shyly away from him.
Oh, he'd noticed. More than he wanted to.
"Now that I've revealed my purpose for being here," he said, "why don't you tell me what brings you to Bettlesfield Park?" He nodded toward her traveling desk. "Writing love notes or misleading guidebooks to Bramley Hollow's lost attractions?"
She laughed again, and when she smiled her entire face lit up. Perhaps it was the tumbled surroundings or the afternoon light, but the lady had left her spinster armor behind and before him stood an intriguing miss.
Really, what harm was there in one kiss? Perhaps in this case the rules required a little bending, he told himself. All in the line of duty, of course.
He went to step around a tumbled statue blocking his path, to pick up the piece of paper she'd missed, when she called out, "Stop!"
Rafe paused and looked up at her. Her eyes were wide and her mouth open in a wide "O". "I was right," he said. "Must be missives of love or the proof I need to discover your secret identity, Miss Tate." His boot rose to step over the obstacle.
"No!" she warned him. " 'Tis dangerous."
"Dangerous?" he scoffed, ignoring her advice and taking just that step. His boot crunched atop something that creaked, then gave way. Before he could catch himself, he toppled downward.
He bounced once or twice then landed in a heap at the bottom of what must have once been the garden well.
Dirt and debris showered down upon him, and when the dust finally settled he managed to sputter a loud curse. Struggling to his feet, he looked up.
There, high above his head was the concerned visage of Miss Tate.
"Are you
well?
" she called down, her brows arched in jest.
Well?
Was that her idea of a joke? So much for any hope of maidenly concerns for his welfare. In truth, he
"Well yes."
"Then it is no wonder your cuffs are so threadbare." She sighed. "I named my cat after Miss Darby's dog because I thought they shared the same fierce determination."
Damn her
. It was a reasonable explanation. There were probably hundreds of Ajaxes scampering about England now given the novels' popularity. And even a few Darbys for that matter.
She caught up with another of her pages and scooped down to retrieve it. Tucking it in with the rest of the collection, she hugged them to her chest and stomped back to her desk. "What are you doing here?"
"I would ask the same of you," he replied. "Writing novels, I presume?" He nodded at a page she'd missed that was fluttering into what might have been a knot garden at one time.
"Harrumph." Her brow furrowed as she followed it. "None of your business," she told him as she stuffed a jumble of pages into her traveling desk, snapping the latch shut and turning to face him, her hands on her hips. "If you aren't following me, then what are you doing here?"
"Inspecting the property."
"Shouldn't take you very long," she remarked.
He laughed despite himself. "I suppose not."
"Is this another of your
gentleman's
services?"
"In a manner of speaking. When I prove you are the author of the
Miss Darby
novels"—he paused as she punctuated his sentence with another indignant, and very unladylike snort—"I will be paid with the deed to this house."
Her response was much the same as Lady Finch's. She broke out laughing. "I was right. You can't be very good at what you do if you're willing to take this ruin in payment."
"I don't intend to live here," he told her.
"Not unless you like living in a… a…" Just then a bevy of birds flew out the open attic windows far above them.
"A rookery?" he asked.
This time, they both laughed, and the sudden camaraderie, even if it was only for a few moments left Rafe unsettled. This was a potential suspect. The first rule of investigation was never to get overly chummy with one's quarry. Which definitely included kissing them…
"So you noticed the squatters," she was saying. Her teeth captured her lower lip and she glanced shyly away from him.
Oh, he'd noticed. More than he wanted to.
"Now that I've revealed my purpose for being here," he said, "why don't you tell me what brings you to Bettlesfield Park?" He nodded toward her traveling desk. "Writing love notes or misleading guidebooks to Bramley Hollow's lost attractions?"
She laughed again, and when she smiled her entire face lit up. Perhaps it was the tumbled surroundings or the afternoon light, but the lady had left her spinster armor behind and before him stood an intriguing miss.
Really, what harm was there in one kiss? Perhaps in this case the rules required a little bending, he told himself. All in the line of duty, of course.
He went to step around a tumbled statue blocking his path, to pick up the piece of paper she'd missed, when she called out, "Stop!"
Rafe paused and looked up at her. Her eyes were wide and her mouth open in a wide "O". "I was right," he said. "Must be missives of love or the proof I need to discover your secret identity, Miss Tate." His boot rose to step over the obstacle.
"No!" she warned him. " 'Tis dangerous."
"Dangerous?" he scoffed, ignoring her advice and taking just that step. His boot crunched atop something that creaked, then gave way. Before he could catch himself, he toppled downward.
He bounced once or twice then landed in a heap at the bottom of what must have once been the garden well.
Dirt and debris showered down upon him, and when the dust finally settled he managed to sputter a loud curse. Struggling to his feet, he looked up.
There, high above his head was the concerned visage of Miss Tate.
"Are you
well?
" she called down, her brows arched in jest.
Well?
Was that her idea of a joke? So much for any hope of maidenly concerns for his welfare. In truth, he
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