He folded his arms across his chest. “And just how do you propose to go about handling it?”
“Same as you, I imagine,” she replied as if the answer was obvious. “I’ll find the proof of his innocence, or the lack of proof of his guilt, as is more likely to be the case.”
“You wouldn’t know what to look for or even where to look for it.”
“And you would, I suppose? Are you such an expert, then?”
“I’ve some experience with these matters, yes.”
“And why is that?” she asked softly. She tilted her head to the side and looked at him through suspicious chocolate eyes. “How is it Mr. William Fletcher has private knowledge of my uncle’s affairs, and why has he asked you to investigate the matter?”
He reached out to grip her chin in his hand. He tilted it straight again. “That is none of your concern.”
“You can’t command away my memory of to night’s conversation, Whit.”
“No, but I can influence your response.” His hand drifted to brush the lightest of touches along her cheek. “And I could replace it with other, more interesting, memories.”
She knocked his hand away, but not before he saw the flash of heat in her eyes. “That’s insulting to both of us.”
“It wasn’t intended to be,” he said honestly. He wasn’t interested in insulting, he was interested in extracting her from this mess. “I can’t let you have your way in this, Mirabelle.”
“You needn’t let me have anything. My presence at my uncle’s party is required regardless of your feelings, and there’s no point in the both of us sneaking about. There’s no reason for any of this. My uncle a counterfeiter? It’s absurd. Your mother would agree with me, like as not. She’d…” She stopped in her rant to glare at him. “What are you going to tell her? She’d never believe you’ve a sudden itch to better know your neighbor.”
“I’ll tell her that you’ve invited me along.”
“And not her?” she asked with a derisive laugh. “Or Kate or Evie—?”
“To a hunting party?”
“It’s no more ridiculous than my inviting you. It’s not my party, is it?”
“I know how to concoct a believable story when need be,” he informed her.
“You know how to lie, you mean,” she corrected. “Are you in the habit of deceiving your mother about these sorts of things?”
“I am in the habit of keeping her separate from business that need not concern her.”
“As you would me.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Yes.”
“One could argue that as your mother, anything you do concerns her, and I can certainly argue that a plan to spy on a member of my family concerns me.”
“It does concern you,” he said gently. “I’m not attempting to dismiss what a charge of counterfeiting would mean for you. The damage it could cause the family name.”
She blanched, but when he stepped forward with the intent to comfort, she shook her head and changed the subject. “It will never work. Your mother isn’t going to believe for a second I invited you to my uncle’s hunting party, and my uncle isn’t going to believe you’ve taken it into your head to suddenly become neighborly.”
“As I said, I’ll handle it.”
“It makes more sense for you to stay here and let me—”
“To you perhaps.” He cocked his head at her. “Do you know what I think?”
“No,” she ground out, “but I know how rarely and how poorly. It’s something of a biannual event for you, isn’t it?”
“In a good year,” he responded, unwilling to let the argument slip into the old pattern of traded insults. “I think you’re hiding something.”
“Are you accusing me of being a counterfeiter now?” she scoffed.
“You know better than that. Why don’t you want me to go, imp?”
“Because it’s none of your affair,” she snapped quickly.
“It’s more than that,” he said softly. “You haven’t mentioned a single word on your uncle’s behalf except to say he’s incapable of being a criminal. Not a word about his honor.”
“I’m not fond of my uncle, it’s no secret. He is my family, however, and it’s my place, not yours, to clear his name.” She spoke assertively, but her eyes darted away from his, and that telltale sign had his own eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“It’s his place,” he corrected, watching her carefully. “Your hands are shaking.”
“I’m angry.”
“Your hands fist when you’re angry,” he countered. “I should know.” He brought his gaze up to study her face. “You’re more than a little pale, as well.”
“I had too much pudding at dinner.”
He chose to ignore that preposterous excuse entirely. He looked at her instead, long and hard, and what he saw made his chest hurt. “There’s fear in your eyes,” he whispered. Without thought, he reached out to grip her shoulders. “What’s scared you, imp?”
“Nothing,” she answered with a lift of her chin. “I’m not afraid.”