She faced him and prepared to launch into the speech she’d rehearsed earlier. The one where she explained in no uncertain terms that she would be dictating the rules of their deal and that she was prepared to walk out the door if he balked at a single one of her demands.

But the moment she saw him in the light of the lantern, the words died on her lips. His hair stood on end, and several days’ worth of stubble covered his jaw. His eyelids were droopy, his cheeks sunken. “Reese,” she said, setting her reticule on the piecrust table between the chairs. “You look awful.”

“I should have made myself presentable.” He touched his chin and winced. “My valet tried, but I can be stubborn.”

“You don’t say.” Sophie crossed her arms. “Have you eaten yet today?”

He stopped to think about this, as if it were a tricky question. “I don’t think so.”

“Then that’s the first order of business,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “There’s a tavern down the block. Go and eat dinner. We’ll talk when you return.”

“You’re not coming with me?” he asked, and Sophie would have sworn she detected a hint of alarm in that deep, rich voice.

She shook her head firmly. “I can’t be seen with you.”

He met her gaze, his eyes wary and wounded. “I’m not hungry,” he countered.

“It’s not open for debate,” she said. “You must eat before we discuss the particulars of our agreement.”

He hesitated. “You’ll wait here?”

She nodded solemnly. “I promise.”

Grudgingly, he grabbed the jacket that was draped over the back of a chair and stuffed his arms into it. “I won’t be long, but lock the door behind me, just to be safe.”

She gave him a placating smile and waved him out the door.

When she was alone, she wandered around the room, eager to have a better look at the shop. Most of the merchandise had been removed from the shelves and counters, but a few pitiful items remained: a single glove, a mismatched pair of socks, a couple of cravats, and a cane.

Behind the counter, she found an assortment of cuff links, buttons, and feathers. But she was more pleased to find an apron and a bottle of dusting oil. Thinking she might as well start cleaning the room prior to next week’s meeting, she slipped the long apron—which she guessed had belonged to Mr. Peabody—over her head and grabbed one of the cravats to use as a rag. She dusted the counter and shelves and even ran her cloth over the leather chairs.