reside in a house my sisters and I inherited from our uncle.”
“I see.” He frowned as a vague memory prodded. Then he remembered what Bartram Hendslew had revealed about the “odd little chap,” information that contradicted the impression Ned had given so far of having been raised by an uncle. “What of your parents? Does not your father serve in Her Majesty’s government in some capacity?”
The quick lowering of her lashes failed to conceal a flicker of alarm. “That’s true, sir. He is an undersecretary to the chancellor of the exchequer.”
She had spoken those last words as if by rote, prompting Simon to entertain serious doubts about their truth. “Then this uncle of yours . . . ?”
“My mother’s brother. Mother passed away when we were all quite young, and we began spending a good deal of time with Uncle Edward. He was retired, you see, had time to devote to us while business kept Father from home.”
“That would explain your having such extensive access to your uncle’s library.”
“Yes, sir.” She compressed her lips and darted a glance around the laboratory. “The cataloguing, sir. I suppose I should be getting on with it. I assume the substances in question are kept in the armoire?”
He followed her gaze across to the oaken wardrobe whose doors he always kept tightly locked. “No, not in there. Follow me.”
He brought her to a bank of cupboards stacked two high. Upon his opening the first of the doors, a package of powdered resin tumbled out. She moved quickly, catching the bundle before it hit the floor.
“Rather untidy,” she commented brightly, without a hint of complaint. “Shall I restore order as I catalogue?”
“I would appreciate that, Ned. It’s something my wife used to do for me....”
He left the remainder of the thought unfinished, astonished that he had mentioned Aurelia at all. He rarely ever did, and then only in the company of friends who had known her, those whom he most trusted. The topic was still too raw, too painful for casual conversation.
With a nod, “Ned” went to work, leaving Simon with a keen sense of gratitude that she had neither probed him with questions nor bestowed upon him the pitying look he often encountered and so heartily loathed.
Across the room, he put on his spectacles and settled in to make some calculations, but his attention repeatedly wandered to the trim form of his assistant. He wished he knew her real name. Even if he couldn’t address her properly, he would have preferred to think of her in feminine terms, in honest terms.
He again considered whether it would be kinder and wiser to end her deception now. But he lacked the heart to crush her aspirations, especially before she had the chance to accomplish something extraordinary, something she could always look back upon with pride.
In a way, their alliance made perfect sense. Besides her remarkable abilities making her a top-rate assistant, there was also the matter of secrecy, a thing they had in common. Her own need for discretion guaranteed that she would safeguard any revelations he shared with her.
For the foreseeable future, then, he would allow her the benefit of her lie. He would call her Ned, think of her as Ned . . . and maintain a proper physical distance, just as he would if she truly had been Ned.
Coming upon an unlabeled bottle about the size of her smallest finger, Ivy plucked it from the shelf only to have it slip from her fingers. In a sudden panic she snatched at it with her other hand, but it bounced off her palm before her fingers closed around it. The vessel flipped upward, striking her shoulder and then plummeting. She dropped to her knees and somehow managed to capture the tiny bottle with both hands against her waistcoat.
A close call! The very last thing she needed was to be breaking things on her first day in the laboratory. Her fingers quivering, she set the container aside to be identified later, when Lord Harrow was no longer
“I see.” He frowned as a vague memory prodded. Then he remembered what Bartram Hendslew had revealed about the “odd little chap,” information that contradicted the impression Ned had given so far of having been raised by an uncle. “What of your parents? Does not your father serve in Her Majesty’s government in some capacity?”
The quick lowering of her lashes failed to conceal a flicker of alarm. “That’s true, sir. He is an undersecretary to the chancellor of the exchequer.”
She had spoken those last words as if by rote, prompting Simon to entertain serious doubts about their truth. “Then this uncle of yours . . . ?”
“My mother’s brother. Mother passed away when we were all quite young, and we began spending a good deal of time with Uncle Edward. He was retired, you see, had time to devote to us while business kept Father from home.”
“That would explain your having such extensive access to your uncle’s library.”
“Yes, sir.” She compressed her lips and darted a glance around the laboratory. “The cataloguing, sir. I suppose I should be getting on with it. I assume the substances in question are kept in the armoire?”
He followed her gaze across to the oaken wardrobe whose doors he always kept tightly locked. “No, not in there. Follow me.”
He brought her to a bank of cupboards stacked two high. Upon his opening the first of the doors, a package of powdered resin tumbled out. She moved quickly, catching the bundle before it hit the floor.
“Rather untidy,” she commented brightly, without a hint of complaint. “Shall I restore order as I catalogue?”
“I would appreciate that, Ned. It’s something my wife used to do for me....”
He left the remainder of the thought unfinished, astonished that he had mentioned Aurelia at all. He rarely ever did, and then only in the company of friends who had known her, those whom he most trusted. The topic was still too raw, too painful for casual conversation.
With a nod, “Ned” went to work, leaving Simon with a keen sense of gratitude that she had neither probed him with questions nor bestowed upon him the pitying look he often encountered and so heartily loathed.
Across the room, he put on his spectacles and settled in to make some calculations, but his attention repeatedly wandered to the trim form of his assistant. He wished he knew her real name. Even if he couldn’t address her properly, he would have preferred to think of her in feminine terms, in honest terms.
He again considered whether it would be kinder and wiser to end her deception now. But he lacked the heart to crush her aspirations, especially before she had the chance to accomplish something extraordinary, something she could always look back upon with pride.
In a way, their alliance made perfect sense. Besides her remarkable abilities making her a top-rate assistant, there was also the matter of secrecy, a thing they had in common. Her own need for discretion guaranteed that she would safeguard any revelations he shared with her.
For the foreseeable future, then, he would allow her the benefit of her lie. He would call her Ned, think of her as Ned . . . and maintain a proper physical distance, just as he would if she truly had been Ned.
Coming upon an unlabeled bottle about the size of her smallest finger, Ivy plucked it from the shelf only to have it slip from her fingers. In a sudden panic she snatched at it with her other hand, but it bounced off her palm before her fingers closed around it. The vessel flipped upward, striking her shoulder and then plummeting. She dropped to her knees and somehow managed to capture the tiny bottle with both hands against her waistcoat.
A close call! The very last thing she needed was to be breaking things on her first day in the laboratory. Her fingers quivering, she set the container aside to be identified later, when Lord Harrow was no longer
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