“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“And what am I to say?” He paused, adding, “If I am this Drinkwater fellow you claim.”

She was, unsurprisingly, prepared with an answer. “There’s no need to reinvent the wheel,” she said. “Blunt’s estate is already rumored to be haunted. You need merely expound on the fact with an emphasis on immediacy. You might say ‘the veil between worlds is closing soon’ and that ‘all practitioners of a serious bent should journey North to take advantage of it.’ I’ll do the rest.”

His mouth quirked briefly. She was so confident in her plan. So all-fire determined. It was one of the things he’d used to admire most about her, this unwavering confidence she had in herself. “Have it all planned out, do you?”

“Naturally.” She moved to rise. “All that’s required is for you to do your part. I’ll do the rest.”

“Manage your mother?” His amusement at the situation flickered out as quickly as it had arisen, extinguished by half a decade of bitterness. “Forgive me if I take leave to doubt your capabilities on that score.”

She fixed him with a withering look as she stood, brown eyes sparkling with flecks of gold, like strong spirits ignited by fire.

It brought to mind the game of snapdragon they’d played six and a half years ago, here in this very house, at a Christmas party hosted by his grandfather before he’d left on his 1856 expedition to India. Brandy-soaked raisins and nuts had been set aflame on a silver plate. The young people in attendance had taken turns snatching the sweet treats from the fire.

Anne had been fearless, of course. Heedless of being burned.

And she had been burned.

Hartford had caught hold of her scorched fingers a split second after the flames had licked them. He’d drawn her away from the game, taking her down to the kitchens so that Cook could soothe Anne’s burns with cold butter from the larder.

It was as they were leaving the kitchens that it had happened.

The two of them, alone in the servants’ hallway, the light from a gas wall sconce shimmering in the threads of Anne’s hair. Like spun gold it had been, swept back in a glittering net. He’d felt the silken strands with his fingers as he’d tipped her face to kiss her under the mistletoe. Her voluptuous mouth had trembled beneath his. He’d trembled, too.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” he’d said, rather unsteadily.

There was no use pretending. They both remembered it. And not only that kiss, but everything that had come after it.

Would that he could forget!

“You may say what you like,” she said, “so long as you do what I ask of you.”

He leaned back against the mantelpiece, folding his arms. “Why should I exert myself?”

“Why?” she echoed, her temper visibly rising. “For novelty, if for no other reason. Lord knows you’ve done nothing honorable or responsible in your life.”