The Revenge of Lord Eberlin by Julia London Page A

tightly clasped before her.
    “I have some very fine French wine that I brought to England before the French blockade,” he said. “Perhaps you would like a taste of it to calm your nerves.”
    She affixed him with a prim look. “What makes you believe I need to be calmed?”
    “Aha . . . so you do speak after all.” He smiled and nodded at the footman. “Then a glass of wine to warm you.”
    “Nor do I need to be warmed. Your coachman was most attentive and your coach very nicely heated.”
    “I am happy to hear it,” he said with an incline of his head.
    The footman delivered a glass of wine to Lily on a silver tray. “Thank you,” she said softly.
    “Please be seated,” Tobin invited her, gesturing again to the two winged-back chairs before the hearth.
    Lily hesitated, then moved around one chair and perched delicately on the edge of it. She planted both feet firmly on the ground, her back as straight as a ruler. She looked positioned to dart to the door should the need arise.
    But Tobin was not an animal, and he would not take his revenge by force. He much preferred to see her crawling to him, begging for his attention.
    He flipped his tails and sat on the other chair, sinking back and making himself comfortable.
    Lily glanced up, staring curiously at the painting above the mantel. It was a courtly scene in which a young king was the center of attention in a sea of people.
    “Is that a Van Dyke?” she asked.
    Tobin had no idea who the artist was—he’d bought the painting from a failing estate in England. That was the trouble with being a self-made man—he’d missed instruction in the finer aspects of life, such as the names of renowned artists. He could well imagine that Lily had studied art in some tranquil setting at an age when Charity had been emptying chamber pots. “Are you a connoisseur of art?” he asked.
    “Very superficially,” she said. “But my uncle has a pair of Van Dykes, and I thought I recognized the style.” Her shoulders lifted and fell with a small sigh and she looked down at her glass of wine.
    “Do you find the wine to your liking?” Tobin asked wryly.
    She smiled. “Does it matter?”
    “Pardon?”
    Lily put the glass aside and shifted that smile to him. “Forgive me for being frank, but it seems to me, sinceyou have tossed down a gauntlet and I have picked it up, that trivial talk is rather pointless.”
    Surprised by that, Tobin gave her a wry smile. “I would agree. What would you like to discuss that is less trivial?”
    “Actually,” she said, sitting a little straighter if that were even possible, “if you wouldn’t mind terribly, I am brimming with questions.”
    Tobin cocked his head to one side. “About?”
    “About . . . everything. You, of course,” she said and leaned slightly forward.
    Her demeanor reminded him of the girl she’d been, always quite earnest. You must be the king, Tobin. Queens have kings, and you may sit there on the rock if you like. That will be your throne. Your throne is not as big as my throne, but you don’t need a very big one, do you?
    “What about me?” he asked.
    “Well . . . you’ve done very well for yourself.”
    He shrugged indifferently. “Did you expect less?”
    She looked slightly taken aback by his question. “No. I suppose I didn’t expect anything at all.”
    That sounded as if she’d suffered no guilt for what she’d done, that the consequences had not weighed heavily on her heart. Tobin felt a tiny tick in his heart, a warning to remain calm or risk the bloody spell. He silently cursed his body and willed himself to hold it at bay.
    “No?” he asked with a smile. “Surely you do not mean to say you never wondered what became of Joseph Scott’s family . . . do you?”
    “No!” she said, looking appropriately horrified by the suggestion. “I have wondered a great deal about that, naturally. I meant only that you were the last person I would ever expect to see after all this time.”
    “Yet