Page 79 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

“Last night,” he clarified. “You didn’t come down for dinner. I was … concerned.”

“Yes, thank you,” I said, surprised. “I’m feeling much better now. It was only a headache.”

There was a pause.

“Did you know,” Nick said conversationally, “that in society I am considered something of mystery? I don’t cultivate the appearance on purpose, though it does have its benefits, I suppose. I am simply a more private person than the typical society rattle. I don’t wear my emotions on my sleeve.”

I sat forward too, matching his posture. It seemed we were to talk about something important after all. “I knew that was your reputation,” I said. “It can be difficult to know what you are thinking.”

“And still, compared to you, I feel as if I am an open book.”

“What do you mean?” I asked sharply.

“I mean that I cannot fathom you, I can’t work you out. I thought I was being so clever, hiring someone to help me with a plan that I’ve been waiting years to put into action, and yet I feel as though I am a chess piece myself, being played in a far larger game.” He held up his hand to cut me off when I would have interrupted. “And I find I have no objection to it, really.” He actually looked angry then. “That’s the most damnable thing of all. When I’m so close to doing what I have planned to do, I actually want you to win whatever game you’re playing. But I don’t want to be an unwitting participant any more.” He looked at me, and his expression was quite serious. “I’m asking you to tell me what is going on.”

Panic rose in my chest. It was too much. There had been too many revelations and changes over the last few days. It was impossible to think of confiding it all in another person. Even Cassie only knew half the story and that was because she had recognized me. I hadn’t chosen to involve her.

Looking at Nick now, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, the breeze blowing a loose lock of hair across his forehead, his eyes steady on mine, a part of me wanted to tell him. A part of me wanted to tell him very badly. But another part of me, the older, wiser part of me, wanted to lock everything away. Knew that the only person I could rely upon was myself.

“What if I asked you the same question?” I said. “What if I asked you what was going on. Why are you so intent on destroying Stefan?”

For a moment I thought he was going to say nothing, but then he sighed. “That is a long story.”

“Because if you ask me,” I carried on, reckless in my fear, burning my bridges behind me, “Stefan is a perfectly charming man.”

Nick’s spine stiffened. “Charming?” he repeated.

“Yes. He’s been nothing but sweet and gentlemanly to me. Just look at the maid yesterday morning, he was there trying to help her clean up, he took the time to learn her name, and you – you ordered her away as if she were nothing.”

Something flickered in Nick’s eyes. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Stefan is not the person you think he is.”

“He sits in gardens and writes poetry.” I rolled my eyes. “What a monster.”

“He what?” The look of surprise on Nick’s face was almost comical.

“He’s a poet. He writes poetry,” I said, smoothing my skirts. “I don’t know why you should find that shocking.”

“I find it shocking because Stefan can barely be persuaded to read a book unless it’s a particularly racy one about lusty wenches. The idea of him popping up in a garden and passing himself off as the next Lord Byron is absolutely laughable.”

“Well, it’s true,” I said. “He showed me his notebook.”

“He showed you his poetry,” Nick said slowly. “Poetry that he had written. And you read it?”

“Not exactly,” I admitted.

“Ah, now we come to it. You didn’t read it?”

“I couldn’t read it,” I pointed out crossly. “It wasn’t written in English.”

At this Nick threw his head back and laughed long and loud, as I simmered angrily on my seat.

“Oh,” he said finally, actually wiping tears away from his eyes. “You see what I mean about not being able to work you out. I thought you were street tough, but you’re falling for Stefan’s lines like any other silly innocent.”

“I am not—” I began, “I mean I do not—” I took a deep breath, attempting to calm the flame of temper, flaring up inside me. “Don’t you dare patronize me. I know how to look after myself.”

“I’m sure you do, but I’m also sure that Stefan’s notebook, were it translated, would contain only notes on the next race at Buxton, and the odds on who was favourite to win.”

“He’s sensitive,” I insisted.