Angelika winked. “Ooh. All right, come along, Winnie.”
Clara said, “Edwin will sit and play down here by my feet, and you simply must go and sit with Christopher.”
“But—”
Clara cut her off. “The man’s absolutely desperate for a single glance from you.” Did she just sound very, very angry? Angelika studied her face, but any trace of temper in Clara’s eyes was gone in a blink. “I’m sorry. I’m worried I will fail at this task. Let us talk about an oil or a casket lid once I get through this.”
“She tends to put her faith in people in ways that come with some pressure,” Will told Clara as Angelika left the room. When she glanced back, he was looking down at Edwin. “But we can only do our best.”
Standing alone by the far window, Christopher did a good job at pretending he wasn’t waiting for her. He maintained it for five seconds, then he half jogged the length of the hall to her elbow. “Angelika. How I’ve longed for a moment alone. Are you quite sure you are recovered?”
“I am fine.”
He stepped closer and risked a touch, taking her hand. His was pleasantly warm and dry. “I will find the man who did that to you.”
“When you catch him, please don’t injure him or frighten him.” She winced at how poorly equipped she had been when she approached the man that day, and she reached up automatically to feel in her hair. Some tenderness remained. She also had a pinch in her rib cage and some frightful bruises. “He’s a simple man who doesn’t know his strength.”
Christopher’s temper flared. “Tossing a woman onto the ground like that? And you, of all victims? He’ll be lucky I don’t slit his throat, if the locals don’t find him first. He’s been stealing what he can. The village talks of nothing but the huge beast lurking in the forest. They haven’t decided if he’s a madman or a ghost.”
“Neither. He’s a poor soul who needs help. Just get the ring he took from Will in the least traumatic way possible, and I will compensate him for it. A finder’s fee, if you will.”
“I cannot imagine how you would know such a person. Is this one of the thieves who has been here? Or the man in the orchard who touched your hair? Please explain your connection.”
She ignored the request. “Promise that you will treat him as my personal friend and guest.”
Christopher relented with a nod. “With those eyes you have, I feel like you could make me promise anything. I am sorry I have not been able to court you as you deserve. I have been hard at work, trying to solve the mystery that might clear my path.”
He looked past her at the room they had left. A rare crease appeared on his brow.
She knew his worry. “To be frank, I thought you both had forgotten I exist.”
They began to stroll down the bright, sunlit hall to the drawing room. Victor and Lizzie had vanished, and Angelika prayed they could not hear their mattress from here. Sarah was setting down a tray of tea and interesting miniature cakes, courtesy of the new cook, Mrs. Rumsfield.
“Thank you,” Angelika said to Sarah as she served them both. “Still no sign of Mary? She’s not back in her room?”
Sarah shook her head. “Not at the boardinghouse, either.”
“What is it?” Christopher asked, puzzled, after Sarah left. They made themselves comfortable on opposite ends of the peacock-blue settee. The chair squeak was vaguely lewd. After all that had happened, being alone with a man on a single piece of furniture was enough to boost her pulse?
Angelika replied, “Just having some housekeeping issues with my staff. My oldest servant—and I mean that figuratively as well as literally—has absconded. Possibly with my mother’s emerald brooch, which is now gone from my bedroom.”
“More theft?” Christopher blasted indignantly, but Angelika waved it away, choosing a pretty lilac cake.
“We had such a row that in all honesty, I owe her an emerald. If I see her again and she’s got it pinned on her shawl, I shall not say a word except sorry.”
Angelika played it cool now, but truthfully, when she had noticed the gap in her jewel box, she had temporarily reverted to her most primitive self. Her vision had gone red; she’d snapped her hairbrush in half, pelted a perfume bottle into the fireplace—creating a pungent fireball—and, to finish the tantrum, she’d screamed like a banshee so loud that Will had come running from across the orchard. “You’ve lost an emerald,” he had wheezed, leaning on the doorframe. “Your problems are enviable.”