His tense shoulders told her all she needed to know.
“Prepare yourself,” he said, mounting the stairs beside her. “The room is a shambles. The intruder left no stone unturned in his search for your box.”
Part of her wished she had inspected the upper floors last night. Then she would know the face of her tormentor—assuming she had lived to tell the tale.
A whimper escaped her when she peered inside the storeroom and saw the empty shelves. The small tapestry boxes had been tossed aside. Gold and pearl buttons littered the boards like pretty shells on a beach. She stood rigid, gripping the doorframe before her knees buckled and she collapsed in a heap.
“I’m ruined.” The words were a whisper, but they hit her like a punch to the gut. “I pray Emily took the silk for safekeeping. I have no hope of raising the funds to replace what’s lost.”
Mr Chance stood behind her, his warm hand settling on her shoulder. Like a sturdy shelter in a storm, his presence brought a sense of calm.
“Write a list of what’s missing and I shall have it replaced.” His thumb moved in soothing circles on her nape. “You have troubles enough without worrying about bankruptcy.”
“I cannot take your money.”
“You can and you will. I’m to blame for this debacle.”
“You’re to blame for taking my sewing box. You’re not to blame for this. I agreed to play the messenger. My father always said I lacked my mother’s common sense.”
“I imagine he would eat his words if he knew you dressed the most prestigious ladies in London.”
“He would find fault. Nothing was ever good enough. I could never reach the mark.” There was always room for improvement. The beef was never tender. The chunks of apples in the pie were too big. She read too slowly. Ate too quickly. Walked with a sloppy gait.
“Criticism is rooted in insecurity. Perhaps your father blamed you for his own failings. Noting your flaws boosted his own sense of worth.”
Eleanor faced him, confusion and wonder fighting for supremacy. She had been conditioned to believe the problem lay with her.
“You surprise me, Mr Chance. I never expected you to be so—”
“Sensible?”
“Wise.”
“We all play roles, Miss Darrow. How does the youngest of four fearsome men find his own identity?” He answered before she could. “He becomes what his brothers are not. Playful. The jester. The King of Fools. An amusing distraction amid life’s troubles.”
“You do yourself a disservice.”
“I do?”
“You’re a better man than you claim.”
Love for his sister had shone from him like a brilliant beacon. His kindness towards Delphine knew no bounds. He was fiercely loyal. Strong. Dangerous. Unafraid to fight for what he believed.
“You have seen the best and the worst of me, Miss Darrow. You’re one of the few people who knows me as I really am.”
While she still felt the imprint of his teasing fingers, his remark fostered a deeper intimacy. Warmth gathered in her chest, not her loins.
“In a world where most people wear masks, know you can always be yourself with me, Mr Chance.”
His slow smile said he had mischief on his mind. “I’m glad you said that. Veracity is something to be admired. Might you permit a scoundrel to show his gratitude?”
The sudden pounding in her throat made her swallow. “I spoke the truth. There is no need for me to pay a forfeit.”
“This has nothing to do with our game,” he said, wetting his lips. “I cannot concentrate on any task until I’ve paid homage to the only woman who understands me. Consider it my way of saying thank you.”
“You’re referring to a kiss, I trust?”
“I wouldn’t presume to ask for anything more.”
“Very well.” Suppressing a grin, she offered him her cheek. “You may kiss me, Mr Chance. After which, you will pay a forfeit.”
“For what?”
“You don’t want to kiss me out of gratitude. You’ve had the same sinful look in your eyes since you touched me downstairs.”
He laughed and slapped his hand to his heart. “I confess, you have the measure of me, madam, though you’re wrong. I’ve had the same sinful thoughts since our interlude at the theatre.”
That kiss had stayed with her, too.
She had been out of her depth, floundering in a wild sea of emotions. During those amorous seconds, the weight of her burden had lifted. The touch of Mr Chance’s lips had made her feel like someone worth loving.
She would do well to remember it was all an illusion.
A strategic move in his game.
Eleanor pointed to her cheek. “Well? Will you kiss me? We have work to do and cannot dally all day.”
A shiver raced down her spine when his fingers brushed her waist. His mouth was hot on her skin, the pressure light. He didn’t kiss her once but worked his way across her cheek, each featherlike touch lingering a little longer.
